A. M. Dunnewin

New year, new book, new sneak peek!

I’ve been slowly but surely getting A Cursed Age ready for ARC readers, the keyword being slow due to a now month-long migraine (with dizziness, some nausea, the works). While I’m still overcoming it, I thought you lovely readers would like to fill the void before the ARC release to read Chapter One and meet our immortal pirate.

As with the prologue sneak peek, please be aware that there’s still a chance that some minor tweaking may be involved when it comes to the finished version, such as spelling, grammar, cleaner sentences, etc. ✍️ For those who haven’t read the prologue yet, you can read that sneak peek here.

Hope you enjoy your first encounter with Ryland. 🖤

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THE CARIBBEAN SEA 

CHAPTER ONE

Ryland Coldwell would have called himself a simple man—simply tired, simply bored, and, quite frankly, simply over it. 

Until he heard that scream—the panic, the thrashing, the loud wailing just before the water took him. 

Jolting awake, Ryland’s eyes widened, the grey of his irises shrinking as his pupils dilated. He felt the effects of that scream to the point he had to feel around his neck, making sure nothing had twisted itself around him, squeezing tightly as things sucked at his skin, helping the grip stay. 

Tentacles.  

Her. 

He didn’t know who the scream belonged to, but he knew who had caused it. His adrenaline kicked in, his muscles tensing, even as he still laid on the wooden bench. His senses heightened, his body preparing for a long-awaited battle. 

But like all the other times before, nothing happened. Ryland remained where he was, staring up at the wooden ceiling, hearing the creaks of the ship and finally feeling the senseless rocking that had lulled him to sleep. That scream had come from a horror miles away, and even if he knew where it was, he wouldn’t have been able to get there. 

The rumbling of thunder agreed with him, almost shaking the wood as if to make a point. The men on deck were shouting, their mumbled yells secondary to the creaking of the ship that was beginning to roll heavily with the sea. Ryland sat up then, looking out past the iron bars that were keeping him captive. No one else was down there except him; him and a lamp hanging on a post, swinging back and forth, flickering light as it gnawed on an oiled wick. 

“Here we go,” he mumbled, running a hand through his black hair as the latch was pulled back and grey daylight spilled across the distant steps of the staircase. He overheard the pounding of feet before the figure appeared: the first mate to the captain. 

“You’re going to have to throw me overboard,” Ryland called out to him. While he knew it was a French-run crew from the words Le Triomphe painted on the stern, as well as the new tricolor flag they were using, they had already had a few choice words to say to each other to prove that English would suffice. Besides, Ryland really didn’t want to give away that he understood French, considering he had plenty of years to get a good grip on the language. Eavesdropping would be much harder if they all knew he could understand them. 

The mate, who was busy looking for spare rope, rose suddenly when Ryland spoke, startled. “Keep your mad thoughts to yourself, pirate,” he replied in his thick accent. “It’s just a storm.” 

Pirate. Ryland smirked. If only it were that simple. 

“This isn’t just a storm,” Ryland insisted, going as far as to stand up and approach the bars, the closest he could get to the mate. “I know I sound mad. I wouldn’t believe myself either, but if you want to save the men on this ship, you’re going to have to get me out of this cell—” 

“That’s your whole ploy anyway, isn’t it?” The mate grunted as he stood up, spare rope now hanging from his shoulder. “Escape the cell in order to run amok.” 

“It’s not like I’m going to get far,” Ryland replied sarcastically, reminding the man that they were—obviously—on a ship out at sea, that the chances of a normal man surviving such a swim would be improbable. 

Luckily, he wasn’t a normal man, but given how the mate was eyeing him, he already knew that. 

“I saw them shoot you,” the mate pointed out. “I saw you hang, yet here you still stand. I don’t know what is keeping you alive, but I assure you, we’ll find out what it is. We’ll learn your tricks.” 

You’ll learn, alright, Ryland thought, staring at the mate. “Your man missed, and the rope wasn’t positioned right,” he lied. “Maybe you all are just piss-poor at accomplishing your task.” 

The mate said no more, muttering something under his breath while leaving Ryland alone in his cell. The pirate watched as the man slinked past the lamp light, marching back up the stairs. The grey light was wiped out with the sound of a bang as the door was thrown shut. 

Chuckling, Ryland turned away to the bench, sitting down with a huff. Deep down, he wasn’t too sorry for what was going to come next for them. He remembered when the French had come in waves a few short years ago, aiming to re-establish slavery, which they themselves had abolished years before. At least, it didn’t feel all that long ago, but Ryland was finding that the older he became, the more time slipped past him, remembering things that had happened decades ago but seemed like just a couple years. 

It was when he saw those ships that he had heard the name Napoleon Bonaparte for the first time—the great general, the mastermind from some revolution that had sprung up in France. A deadly one, he had heard, but one that hadn’t quite affected him, given his current placement. Ryland had rolled his eyes at the mention of the man, knowing so many men who had thought themselves important, but then the Haitian Revolution happened, and the aftermath made him laugh. The same people that Napoleon’s France were trying to re-enslave had won. The French vessels had departed with their tails between their legs while the self-liberating slaves had declared their independence. 

Ryland had lived through big moments before, but that revolution had been important; historical, even. He wasn’t sure how the story would have been told on the mainland—people often told history wrong anyway—but it was nice to think that maybe some of the truths had passed on accurately. Maybe enough would be told that it would spark something later on that the world would need… or need to be reminded of. 

Some general. Just thinking back on it, Ryland couldn’t help the side of his lip from curling into a smirk. 

That’s why being captured hadn’t been such a big deal to him. Had he been in Haiti during some of the battles? Of course, no man of action would have missed it. Did they charge him properly for crimes of being a turncoat? Sure, if he was French and had actually fought with them. But given the fact he had been recognized by some of the surviving soldiers had cemented his fate nonetheless, and when they attempted to execute him, they learned very quickly that he was a hard one to kill. 

If only they knew what was in store for them once they reached the deep ocean. 

Feeling the swaying of the ship, Ryland rested his elbows on his knees, allowing his hair to fall around his face, not bothering to move it. 

Pirate, he thought again, smirking. 

They had asked him who he was, which he had flippantly replied with, “Don’t worry about it.” A typical response for a man who knew his interaction with them would be brief enough. But if they had pried further, they would have learned he was Captain Ryland Coldwell, once a British privateer turned rogue pirate. While his own ship and crew were long gone, he still had the clothes on his back: black breeches, brown boots, and plain linen tunic covered by a long black coat. His long sword had been confiscated and his hat long gone and never recovered, but he had the knowledge of at least twelve Spanish ships that were buried in these waters, containing enough gold that he could buy a country for himself. He was once deemed a handsome man, but all those people were gone now, and he hadn’t been close enough to anyone to know if it were still true, though a few pointed looks from women and a couple of men throughout the years had told him quietly that it was. However, he assumed those looks were quickly forgotten, much like everything else from his past. That’s why it was important he didn’t forget himself; he was all he had left. 

But he couldn’t forget her either.  

As the storm loomed outside of the hold and he anticipated what was coming, Ryland felt around his neck again, imagining the slender limb squeezing the air from him. But for a brief second, it hadn’t felt like a tentacle—it felt like her hand, squeezing at his throat as she bared a smile at him, that same pressure applied whenever they were intimate. 

Dropping his hand, he forced the memory from his mind, not wanting to relive it. Besides, it was more fitting that it was tentacles, given the octopus tattoo decorating his skin. The black ink overtook his shoulder, tendril patterns stretching down his arm, across his chest and back, and up the side of his neck. Despite having some scars that nicked away at the ink, it was still a beautiful piece of art, and for a moment he wished he had paid the artist better, a fellow pirate he had met back in his younger days. It had been in homage to his favorite sea creature, finding their cleverness and elegant movements hypnotizing. When he heard the tales in Norway of a giant octopus-like sea monster—the kraken—it only solidified his adoration for the creature. 

So, of course she would use tentacles as her signature. She had taken another thing he loved and ruined it. 

“Gwenifer,” he breathed out, closing his eyes and instantly remembering her image. That dark, red hair and milky skin; those pouty lips and curves. Those teal eyes; that flaring temper. Even in the beginning, their affair had been volatile, yet the excitement it aroused had been his addiction. How hot it had run in the beginning also burned with the same fury when it ended. Only now, it wasn’t passion that made him think of her. It was rage. 

I’ll find you, witch, he thought, feeling his jaw clench. Be ready. 

There was a roll of thunder, as if laughing at his quiet threat. 

Knowing the current situation was out of his hands, Ryland leaned back against the wall, his leg propped up as he tried to make himself comfortable. The ship continued to creak around him, swaying harder as he sat there, watching the lamp swing, waiting for the end to come. 

Except, the end never came for him. 

Death never came to those who were cursed to be immortal. 

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Hope you enjoyed, lovelies! 🖤

If you liked what you read, please add A Cursed Age to your wish lists and/or Goodreads reading lists. It’s also available for pre-order. 📖 Your support means the world to me! 🥰

As always, stay safe and stay reading! 💞

(Psst! I do not own the above image of the delicious mystery man in the water. I found him on Pinterest. 😅 Creative rights belong to the owner, whoever they may be. Cohabiting rights, however, may need to be discussed…)