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Chapter Text

“I don’t want to do this,” you say for the third time since you stepped into the carriage. Your father presses his fingers into his temple and tries not to look as worn down as you know he feels. You have that effect on him but - to your credit - you feel bad about it most of the time. But not today. 

“He’s your fiancé. You should want to spend time with him.”

“I barely know the man and you know how I feel about marriage,” you fire back, sticking to your script. Now, your father will bring up your mother and the wonderful marriage they shared before she died ten years ago. He’ll hammer in the point that their marriage was also arranged and how he can’t imagine loving anyone the way he loved her. 

“Your mother and I-”

“Please,” you groan, tipping your face toward the window to catch a bit of breeze. It’s a cool morning, cooler than you’d expect for the time of year. Something heavy hangs in the air. You pray for a storm. “Spare me.”

“Captain Vander is a respectable man. Honorable. His men speak highly of him.” 

“I’m sure that’s all true,” you nod. In fairness, Captain Vander has been nothing but polite and companionable in the handful of hours you’ve spent together under the watchful gazes of chaperones. “But that’s not enough to make me want to marry him.”

“What would you have me do?” The cold note in your father’s voice catches you off guard. “When I’m gone, who is going to provide for you?”

“I’d be able to provide for myself if I inherited the company,” you fire back. Your father built Star Crossed Shipping from nothing. Your childhood memories of him are few and far between since he was always at sea. When your mother died, your father made the bold decision to bring you along on his ventures. Those were the happiest three years of your life. 

You crisscrossed the globe and learned more about the world than you ever could in a finishing school. You were able to grow close to your father in a way you hadn’t been able to before. 

When you came of age and were expected to take your place in society, you didn’t think you’d actually have to return to Piltover. The day your father told you that you were to remain at the family estate to brush up on etiquette and dancing was the second darkest day of your life, after your mother’s death. 

Without your knowledge, your father had arranged for your aunt on your mother’s side to guide you into becoming the lady you’re supposed to be. You weren’t a fool. You knew that being the daughter of a wealthy merchant came with expectations. You were okay with all of those expectations for the first fifteen years of your life. In fact, you actually looked forward to the day you could wear a beautiful gown, twirl around the dance floor with the handsome son of a politician, and fall in love. Life was laid out before you in neat little tiles. 

Then you felt what it was like to sail through the open ocean, to survive storms so brutal you sometimes believed a giant cosmic hand swirled the skies and directed the very lightning, to see colorful ports all over the world, and to taste food so incredible it holds a place in your dreams. Compared to those three years at sea, everything else seemed dull. 

Yet, that isn’t the worst part. You would have been able to accept that you couldn’t spend your life sailing the seas with your father. You understood the expectations placed on you hadn’t gone anywhere just because your mother died and your life took a turn for the unconventional. 

But you were blindsided. No one prepared you. No one bothered to ask what you wanted. You were left behind without warning and everything in your life changed once again. You were betrayed. 

You quickly realized none of the eligible suitors you once would have been glad to know and even marry could ever give you the life you wanted. You became impossible to court, evading invitations and intentions until they lost interest in you.

Last year, just after you turned twenty-five, your father suffered an injury that ensured he would not be able to travel with any of his ships for the foreseeable future. He quickly caught onto your schemes to avoid marriage and put a stop to them. 

Within months, he introduced you to Captain Vander who proudly served in Piltover’s navy. Six months later, there was a ring on your finger, though you only wore it when you absolutely had to. 

“I don’t want that life for you,” your father sighs. “I want you to have a safe, comfortable life. A stable life. Business owners don’t get to have that.”

Guilt shone in his eyes. Guilt for never being around when you were a child. Guilt over the loss of your mother. Guilt over abandoning you at the estate to save himself the pain of actually telling you what was going to happen. 

“I know,” you say, your voice soft. As much as he might deserve to drown in that guilt, you don’t like to see it. You understand he truly thinks he’s doing the right thing. 

You’re jostled as the carriage takes an unexpected turn. You glance out the window once more. “We’re going to the harbor?”

Your father’s face brightens. “Captain Vander thought you might like to see his new ship. The Council just awarded it to him. Word of your engagement has left a positive impression. I’m certain he’ll be promoted within the year.”

“Oh!” You choke out a hollow laugh. “I’m so thrilled to know that my freedom bought someone else a fine new ship. That’s just delightful.”

“Enough,” he sighs. “Spew your venom at me, if you must, but I expect you to treat Captain Vander with the respect he deserves.”

“When have I not?” You challenge. 

“He’s not a dullard. He knows your affections still need to grow.”

“Which has nothing to do with respect,” you point out. “If he’s after my affection, then he’s welcome to earn it.”

You know damn well he won’t be able to. Friendship? Perhaps in time. Affection? Never. Your heart and your mind are the only two things that can’t be bought and bartered by someone else and you plan to keep both well within your control. 

The carriage comes to a halt and a footman scrambles down from his perch beside the driver to open your door.

“Thank you,” you say and make your way to the front of the carriage to give the horses an affectionate pat. You’re only beastly to those who deserve it. 

You silently follow your father down the dock, taking in the comforting sight of so many magnificent ships. Though it’s early in the day, the dock is quiet. Everything exciting happens closer to dawn. Pity. You would have liked to see what goods are going in and out. 

You make a note of the ships that bear the insignia of your father’s company, whether they are ships he owns or ships he’s chartered. There aren’t many, but that doesn’t tell you much. You’ve been kept in the dark about business aspects since you came of age. As far as you know, everything is going well with the company but you still enjoy the details. 

Your father approaches a ship that is, frankly, magnificent. The hull of the heavy frigate boasts a fresh coat of deep blue paint with a brilliant red stripe beneath the closed canon hatches. You count thirteen, meaning twenty-six in total. Enough to reduce any challenging ship to splinters.

Your eyes drift toward the bow where the ship’s name, The Hound, is painted in bold red letters. A completely new ship, then. 

As far as you know, Piltover isn’t at risk of being pulled into a war and the navy is more than equipped to handle any conflicts they might come across at sea. Why build a brand new frigate when there are surely several waiting to be placed back in commission?

The Council must truly favor Captain Vander or they know something you don’t. 

You gather your skirts so you can traverse the gangplank without tripping. As you board, you tip your face up to inspect the three towering masts. The sails are furled, but you can see how pristinely white they are from where you stand. You’re so busy looking at the rigging that you nearly collide with Captain Vander’s broad chest. 

“Quite a sight, isn’t she?” The pride in his voice is unmistakable. 

“She is, indeed.” You don’t even have to fake a smile. The ship truly is spectacular. “You must be happy, Captain.”

“Vander, please,” he dips his head before offering his arm. Knowing your father is watching and you’ve already put his nerves on edge, you take it. You don’t miss the hint of surprise flashing across the Captain’s face. Aside from one dance at a Council ball, you’ve kept your distance from him. 

“Have you taken her out to sea yet, Captain?” You ask, keeping your voice kind but your boundary firm. Captain Vander takes it in stride. 

“Just once to make sure everything works the way it ought to,” he says. “We’ll join the regular patrols later in the week.”

“You’ll be the envy of the armada, no doubt.”

“I don’t know about that,” he chuckles. Again, you feel a twinge of guilt beneath your breastbone. It would be easier to despise him if he weren’t so damn nice. “Tea?”

He ushers you to a small table near the bow, set for three. Two uniformed crew members wait in attendance, every button polished to perfection. 

“How thoughtful,” you smile, though you’re certain the hovering crewmates have better things to do. Surely, this can’t be in their job description. The crewmate closest to you, a young woman with a shock of pink hair and a scar on her upper lip, looks like she’d rather be scraping barnacles off the hull. 

“May I introduce my first mate, Violet?” Captain Vander gestures to the pink-haired woman, who dips forward in a shallow bow. 

“Pleased to meet you.” You allow the tiniest hint of apology to bleed into your smile. You didn’t ask for this. If Violet notices, she doesn’t let on. 

Captain Vander turns his attention to the second crewmate, a young man with a kind face and a quiet demeanor though he was almost twice the size of Violet. “And this is gunnery chief Claggor.”

Claggor bows as well and offers a kind smile. “An honor, my lady.”

“I’m not a lady,” you correct gently, “but the honor is mine. With twenty-six cannons, you must feel quite spoiled.”

“I do,” he grins, relaxing a touch. “The armory isn’t anything to scoff at, either. Of course, I hope we’ll never have to use them in true battle.”

“Of course,” you agree. 

“Where’s Mylo?” Captain Vander asks Violet. 

“Up in the crow’s nest,” she replies. “Wasn’t structurally sound enough for his liking.”

“Ah,” the Captain nods. “I’ll leave him to it. You two may return to your posts. Should Mylo come down, send him this way.”

“Yes, sir,” Violet nods before she and Claggor depart. 

Captain Vander pulls out a seat for you and invites your father to sit as well. Rather than take the last seat, Captain Vander pours the tea. 

“My Quartermaster Benzo is quite fond of the culinary arts,” he explains, gesturing to the elegant trays of tea cakes, finger sandwiches, and delicate confections. “I tell him every week he should have gone to the culinary arts academy instead of joining the navy with me, but he didn’t want to turn a hobby into a job. We’ll hire an actual cook when The Hound is eventually deployed, but Benzo is happy to do it for now.”

“You trained at the naval academy together?” You take a sip of tea. It’s delicious. Rich and sweetly spiced. Nothing like the mild floral teas stocked in your home.

“Oh, yes. We’ve been thick as thieves since we were children. There was quite a merry band of us for a time.” A shadow flickers across his face but it’s gone in an instant. “We graduated together and ensured we were assigned to the same vessels while we were climbing the ranks. We taught at the academy for a spell, too. That’s where we found Vi, Claggor, Mylo, and a few others. Kept them with us ever since. We’ve become something of a family.”

Your cup clatters against your saucer as you realize why Captain Vander invited you aboard his ship. Perhaps he did want to show off The Hound, but this is his way of introducing you to his family. 

You’ve never met his parents. You don’t even know if he has parents. The Piltover Navy is a common refuge for those with limited options, including orphans. It strikes you just how little you know about the man whose ring you wear on your finger. 

This is exactly why you shouldn’t be his, or anyone’s, damn wife. 

You take another sip of tea while you scramble to come up with an appropriate change of subject. 

“It seems such a shame to keep such an incredible ship bobbing against the dock,” you say. “Might I persuade you to take me on a brief voyage?”

Your father murmurs your name with a smile on his face but a warning in his eyes. You elect to ignore him and fix Captain Vander with your most charming smile. 

“I’ve never gotten the chance to see you in your element, Captain,” you say. “And I would think myself a poor guest for not being able to fully admire The Hound’s splendor and the strong bonds of your crew.” 

That does it. He gives you an indulgent smile before rising from his seat and approaching his First Mate. 

“What are you trying to do?” Your father whispers as soon as Captain Vander is out of earshot. 

“I’m doing what you asked,” you reply, all doe-eyes and fluttering lashes. “I’m taking an interest in the man you’ve sold me to.” 

“It’s a marriage agreement, not indentured servitude.” 

“Then walk down the aisle yourself.” 

All around you, the deck has come to life. Getting a ship of this size underway is no small feat. Bringing your tea with you, you step away from the table and wade into the whirlwind of activity, careful to stay out of the way. Before long, those clean white sails are unfurled and the mooring lines are released. 

Captain Vander stands on the weather deck before the helm, surveying the crew. He gives orders to Violet with calm authority and she relays those orders to the rest of the crew, her voice cracking like a whip. 

You make your way up the steps of the weather deck and position yourself at the bow while The Hound glides toward the heart of the harbor. Captain Vander joins you.

“Why do I have the feeling you’re used to getting your way?” He chuckles.

“On the contrary, Captain, I can’t recall the last time something went my way.” You keep your eyes fixed on the open ocean beyond the shelter of the harbor. 

“If you could have anything you want, right this moment, what would it be?”

You nearly say that you’d ask to be released from your engagement, but you can’t quite bring yourself to do it. Blindsiding him like that, on his own ship no less, would be cruel. You can find a way out of the marriage without inflicting unnecessary pain. 

“Take The Hound beyond the harbor,” you say. 

“Out to sea?”

“Not for long. Just a few minutes.”

“You enjoy the sea, don’t you?”

“I do.” That doesn’t even begin to cover it, but you’re not about to clue Captain Vander into the deepest longings of your heart. 

“Alright.”

You turn to look at him. “Seriously?”

“A few unauthorized minutes at sea won’t kill anyone,” he winks before striding away to dispense fresh orders to the crew. 

You grip the railing as the bow shifts until The Hound is headed straight for open water. The wind picks up and you take in greedy lungfuls until the ache you’ve carried in your chest for years starts to lift. 

Within minutes, The Hound is beyond the shelter of the harbor. Nothing but endless blue stretches out before you. For a moment, you forget who you are and where you are. All you let yourself see is the endless possibilities in front of you. Beautiful countries, wonders beyond imagination, and freedom. 

Far too soon, noise crashes through the fantasy you’ve woven for yourself. It takes you a moment too long to realize the noise isn’t just noise, but cries of alarm. You turn away from the bow to see Captain Vander’s crew darting across the deck, preparing the cannons on the port side. 

You lean over the railing to see a sleek little sloop quickly gaining on The Hound. The black painted hull has seen better days. It’s covered in chips and scrapes. Disheveled men stand on the deck, their shouts laced with malice and sinister glee. Most incredibly, the sails of the rundown sloop are unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Bolts of deep red stretch against the wind. The color makes you think of pomegranates and dying roses. 

“Get back and stay out of sight.” Captain Vander appears at your side only to vanish after pushing you toward the galley stairs. Your teacup is abandoned on the nearest surface. 

You don’t go below deck, though you probably should. The idea of not being able to see what’s happening is more than you can handle. Instead, you press yourself against the starboard railing and watch the masts of the approaching ship. 

You quickly realize The Hound’s cannons are positioned too high to deal much damage to the other ship, which veers close enough for you to anticipate a collision. 

You watch the opposite railing, waiting to see barbed hooks dig into the wood as the attacking crew prepares to board The Hound, but that doesn’t happen. You hear them jeering and shouting as Captain Vander orders his riflemen to take their positions. 

Something about this isn’t right, besides the obvious. A small number of your father’s shipments have been pirated over the years. Occupational hazard. You’ve never witnessed piracy in person, but you’ve heard the stories. 

Sleek, rundown ships quickly gaining on heavier ships carrying precious cargo. They sneak up right against their target ship, launch hooks and lines followed by crude gangplanks allowing them to board, and then they wreak havoc.  

You check the masts of the other ship. It’s not flying any colors, not even the black flag. You spy someone in the crow’s nest, a skinny girl who looks several years your junior with brilliant blue braids. You can’t make out what she’s doing. From your vantage point, she seems to just be…enjoying herself. She nearly distracts you from the actual problem at hand. The other ship is in the perfect position to board The Hound, but they make no move to do so. 

While you’re grateful for that, you don’t understand why they aren’t pressing their obvious advantage. Who are they? What do they want?

Captain Vander’s crew fires their weapons. Your gaze shoots back to the girl in the crow’s nest but she’s unbothered. In fact, she’s laughing. None of the shots fired from The Hound appear to be directed at her, as far as you can tell. You hear no screams of pain or agony so you have to assume that the riflemen aren’t hitting their targets on purpose. Even your father has found a spare rifle to carry, though you never see him actually fire it. 

You keep a sharp eye on what you can see of the other ship. As soon as the other crew attempts to board, you’ll scurry below deck. 

A hand clamps around your wrist and pulls it behind your back, setting you off balance. You assume you’re being manhandled by a well-meaning member of Captain Vander’s crew and prepare to politely rectify the situation, but then you hear his voice. 

“Scream for me, pretty one.”

Never in your life have you heard a voice like that. All darkness and silk and deadly secrets. For a split second, you’re too stunned to do anything but marvel at the sound. You quickly snap back to reality, teeth bared and anger snapping. 

“Get your hands off me!” You throw your head back, hoping to collide with a face. Instead, the hand on your wrist wrenches your arm further behind your back, sending pain straight into your joints. You lurch forward in an attempt to escape the pressure only to feel the cold kiss of a blade against your throat. You’re trapped and have no choice but to go still.

“There we go. You’re a proper sweetheart with the right leverage, aren’t you?” His breath tickles your neck and you feel a sharp nose brush against the shell of your ear. You fight off a shudder to avoid nicking your throat on his blade.

“I will put the hangman’s noose around your neck myself,” you hiss through gritted teeth.

Your assailant laughs low in your ear, smooth like rolling thunder. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Now, scream.”

Screaming would be the wise thing to do. Captain Vander and the rest of the crew are still trying to drive off the sloop, which you realize must have been a diversion so the man behind you could sneak aboard. Yet, the foolish part of you that writhes with oil-slick anger absolutely refuses to do anything this man says.

“Do I need to make it hurt, beauty?” The blade at your throat moves lower and twists until the point presses against the swell of your left breast. When you say nothing, he presses the knife harder into your skin. You hold your breath, waiting for the faint stinging sensation to grow into true pain, but that never happens. 

“Interesting,” he murmurs but before you can figure out what he means, he lifts his chin. “Captain Vander!”

Captain Vander goes deadly still before slowly turning around, his face a mask of pure rage until he sees you. 

“Let her go,” he says with that same controlled authority he uses when he gives orders to his crew. The man behind you simply laughs. 

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands.” The knife returns to your throat. 

Several of the crew raise their rifles but Captain Vander signals for them to hold. 

A man similar in size to Vander, wearing a stained apron over his uniform, thunders up the stairs. The Quartermaster, you assume. Unfortunately, his booming footfalls alert your assailant to his presence. You’re swiftly moved farther down the deck, your body acting as a perfect shield. 

The Quartermaster’s eyes land on you, then the man behind you. His eyes fill with not only rage but recognition. 

“Silco?” He snarls before looking at Captain Vander. “How the fuck did he get on board?”

They know the man holding you hostage. You aren’t sure if that makes the situation better or worse. 

“Step back, Benzo,” Captain Vander orders. The Quartermaster reluctantly does as he’s told. Dozens of rifles remain trained on you. Surely, one of them is a fine enough marksman to get you out of this predicament. 

“Someone take the bloody shot!” You shout. Isn’t this crew supposed to be the pride of Piltover’s Navy?

“Hold your fire!” Captain Vander insists before fixing your assailant with a murderous look. “What do you want?”

“Your fiancé knows how to cooperate,” the man, Silco, whispers to you. “Perhaps you could learn something from him.”

You fix your gaze straight ahead and say nothing. 

“I’ve come to negotiate a trade,” Silco says. 

“You have nothing I want,” Captain Vander snarls. 

“Don’t I?” Silco pulls you in tighter, your hands trapped between his abdomen and your lower back. You feel him press into the curve of your backside, sending heat to your cheeks that grows into a fever of anger and humiliation when he moans into your hair. “Vander, you lucky devil.”

“Forget the noose, I’ll kill you myself.” Your nerves mutate what should have been a scathing threat into a pathetic whisper. 

“What do you want, Silco?” Captain Vander repeats. 

“Your little treasure is going to come with me. In that lovely office of yours, you’ll find a note detailing a date, a location, and a sum of money. If you follow my instructions, your fiancée will be returned to you unharmed.”

“And if I refuse?”

The blade presses into your throat hard enough to make you flinch. “You wouldn’t make me slit such a pretty throat, would you?” 

“Do something!” Your father stammers, shaking Captain Vander’s arm. For a moment, you think Captain Vander is going to run at Silco or order his crew to open fire, but then his shoulders sink. 

“If she comes to any harm, even a bruise, I will tear you apart.”

Disgust rolls through you as you look from the useless crewmates to your useless father, and finally your useless fiancé.

“I’m glad we could come to an arrangement. Come along, beauty.” Long fingers wrap around both of your wrists, pinning them together behind your back. 

He lowers his blade and you don’t hesitate to dart forward, wrenching your arms against his grip with all your strength but he’s so strong he might as well have you in irons. Your wrists bark in protest as they’re crushed under the pressure of his grip. He yanks you back again, forcing you to stumble and turn toward him. You slam into his chest, hoping to throw him off balance, but he simply laughs. 

“I admire your spirit. I sincerely hope I won’t have to break it.”

You feel the tip of his blade under your chin, forcing you to look up. Your eyes snap to his and you can’t stop the horrified gasp that tumbles from your lips. 

One eye bores into you, blue-green and as volatile as a stormy sea. The other is something out of a nightmare. Black as the depths with a broken iris of pure hellfire surrounded by ruined flesh and jagged scars that stretch all the way down to his mouth. 

You know this man, though not by the name the others called him. You know him only as The Eye. 

You thought he was just a story, a tall tale used to terrify naughty children. During those years at sea, your father often used that story to usher you below deck when passing through waters he deemed dangerous. Hell, you’ve told horror stories about The Eye to scare a cabin boy or two into behaving. 

Never once did you think there was a speck of truth behind those stories of a cursed ship crewed by men twice damned under the orders of a vile, depraved captain who was more monster than man. A monster with an eye gifted to him by the devil himself.    

Those stories never frightened you, but now you realize they should have. 

The monster is very real and he has you in his clutches. 

Chapter Text

You keep your gaze fixed between your father and your fiancé as The Eye tightens his grip on your already aching wrists. He pulls you flush against him as he walks you both toward the railing. 

You don’t plead. You don’t beg. You don’t scream. You don’t make a sound. 

You just stare at them. They’ve made it clear they aren’t going to do anything. The logical part of your brain accepts that doing nothing might be the smartest move. The Eye has a knife to your throat and, if the stories are to be believed, he wouldn’t hesitate to paint the deck red with your blood. As you’re forcibly turned away from the men who were supposed to protect you, you spot the hooks of a rope ladder embedded in The Hound’s railing. 

Immediately, you feel foolish. The hooks sank into the wood not far from where you stood watching everything unfold. If you’d only heard the sound of the metal digging into the wood, you might have been able to get yourself out of this mess. 

“Move with me, beauty,” Silco urges, swinging a leg over the railing. 

Your dress proves to be a complication. Even if you were more than willing to follow him, which you are not, you simply aren’t able to move the way he does. Between your crinoline and your corset, anything more physically demanding than bending at the waist isn’t going to happen.

“Don’t be difficult,” he warns, his voice a low hiss in your ear. 

“Shows what you know about the latest in lady’s fashions,” you hiss back. 

He glances at your dress and, for a split second, you think he intends to slice through all of your cumbersome garments. The knife he carries can slit your throat with ease but it’s wholly inadequate for slicing through Ionian silk and boning shaped from the horns of a tuskbeast. 

He considers his options for a moment, all the while keeping his blade pressed against your skin so you don’t take advantage of his pause. 

Without warning, the hand clasping your wrists together locks around your waist in a vice grip, eliminating every remaining centimeter of space between you. His thigh slips between your legs as you huff in disgust, doing everything you can to lean away from him. 

With his other hand, he tucks his knife away and swoops his arm behind your legs. Before you fully grasp what’s happening to your body, your legs are flung over the railing. You kick out instinctively, but your foot comes to rest on the wooden rung of a ladder. 

“Struggle if you want, treasure,” Silco says, “but I don’t think you want to fall so far.”

You glance over your shoulder, vaguely aware of the rowboat waiting at the bottom of the ladder. The Hound is a massive ship. Massive enough that a free fall from this height comes with considerable dangers. So, you go deadweight against your captor but you keep your feet on the rung. 

He keeps his grip on you as he hoists himself over the railing. He kicks your feet off the rung to make room for his own. Your stomach drops as your feet dangle over the water, but his iron grip around your waist keeps you from falling into the sea below. 

As he lowers the two of you down the ladder, you glance up. Your father, Captain Vander, and the crew have gathered to watch the kidnapping that they’ve accepted they can’t prevent. 

Your father looks as though his heart is going to give out. A small, mean, spiteful part of you wishes it would. You silence that part of yourself immediately. 

Captain Vander doesn’t look at you at all. He looks only at The Eye, his expression murderous. The rest of the crew oscillates between watching your descent and whispering to each other. 

When Silco is halfway between the railing and the end of the ladder, you start to thrash. You can drop safely from this height. You’re a strong swimmer and you’re certain you can swim underneath The Hound to the other side. What you’ll do when you get to the other side remains to be seen, but it’s your best chance at getting away from this monster of a pirate. 

Silco grunts as you make it as difficult as possible for him to step from one rung to the other. He quickly stops trying altogether and fixes you with a hard glare, though the unscarred corner of his mouth twitches upward in amusement. 

“Suit yourself, beauty.” The arm around your waist disappears and you plummet. 

Devil take you, but you can’t help but scream on the way down. 

You hit the water hard but you start kicking immediately. What you don’t account for is how heavy your dress is in the water. You feel as though you’re trying to swim through gelatin. You’re only a foot or two beneath the surface but your kicks are useless. Your shoes slip off your feet as you claw for the surface. 

A dark shape eclipses most of your vision. Before you can make heads or tails of it, a large, rough hand grabs the back of your dress and yanks you up. The soaked, heavy fabric of your neckline cuts into your skin like a dull blade.

You’re roughly thrown onto the floor of a rowboat, sputtering like a half-drowned cat. As you catch your breath, you look toward the bow of the little vessel to find the largest man you’ve ever seen. 

One hand is drenched with seawater, the hand that must have hauled you up. The other rests leisurely on one of the two oars. His arms, shoulders, and face are covered in thick, black tattoos. Shoulder to shoulder. Chin to chest. Even his shaved head bears inky designs. 

Realizing you’re no longer being held, you scoot as far away from him as you can. He pays you no mind. His attention is on The Hound, or rather her hull where The Eye hangs from the ladder. 

Silco drops into the rowboat with more grace than he has any right to possess. He settles across from the tattooed man before yanking you into the space between his legs. The knife is unsheathed and returned to your throat as Silco casts a dark warning glance to the onlookers of The Hound. 

“Feeling foolish, are we?” He asks, dragging a finger along your cheek. “Drenching yourself in a futile attempt to escape me was hardly necessary.”

“Not at all,” you reply, matching his tone. Cool. Detached. Aloof. “You don’t seriously believe you’re going to live long enough to see tomorrow’s sunrise, do you?”

The Eye looks down at you and you meet his mismatched gaze. That ruined eye truly is abominable but you don’t let it shake you. His expression is unreadable but you refuse to look away, no matter how gruesome the sight. What could have possibly happened to him to make his eye look like… that ? It’s unnatural. Wrong in every sense of the word. 

Silco doesn’t answer. Instead, he drops his hand so his blade skates over the tops of your breasts. His other hand comes up to wrap around your throat. Fingertips press at your jaw, holding you in place so you have to look at him. 

The tattooed man rows on, making his way around the back of The Hound. You hear Captain Vander’s crew moving across the deck to keep an eye on you, but you can’t turn your head to look at them. Silco makes sure you can look only at him, no doubt expecting your resolve to crack. 

You take the chance to study his appearance. Thin face. All sharp angles and deep hollows. Those horrendous scars. A thin mouth that looks as though it was made to sneer and snarl. Dark hair, surprisingly well kept though a few gray-streaked locks fall against his forehead. A sharp, hooked nose. A shiver races down your spine as you recall the sensation of that nose brushing against your ear. 

The rowboat glides around to the port side of the pirate ship. You peer at the bow from the corner of your eye to read the name Zaun’s Revenge, painted in gold lettering. 

The rowboat bumps against the black hull. A much shorter rope ladder is lowered. Silco stands and unceremoniously hauls you to your feet. He nods to the tattooed man who then takes a firm hold of your arm while Silco climbs the ladder. When Silco is solidly aboard his ship, his henchman moves his grip from your arm to your waist. 

“Excuse me!” You shriek as two meaty hands create a second corset around your middle. You’re lifted off your feet and you can’t help but kick out. Your bare feet push against the tattooed man’s legs but it’s like kicking a stone wall. 

“Here you go, Captain,” the tattooed man says as he hoists you up like you’re nothing. Silco wraps his hands around your waist and hauls you onto the deck of the Zaun’s Revenge.

“Stay out of the way and don’t get into trouble,” he says before turning to a mountain of a woman at his side. “Watch her.”

“I’m no babysitter,” the woman snarls. As fearsome as she is on her own, your gaze is drawn to her unusual arm. Far from cosmetic, the mechanical wonder of leather, wood, and metal is a bit of an eyesore. Gears turn and hinges rotate where joints should be but the thick metal hook serving as a hand stops you from displaying anything but a perfectly neutral expression. 

“You are, for the time being,” Silco calls over his shoulder as he makes his way toward the weather deck. “She’s a Piltie. She won’t be too much trouble.”

The woman fixes you with a nasty glare but you don’t allow your composure to break. 

“Keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way,” she growls. 

The tattooed man appears beside you and starts hoisting the rowboat out of the water. The woman helps, her hook working as good as a hand. 

You whirl around to face The Hound. Your father, Captain Vander, and the crew still watch you. 

You look down at the calm waters lapping against the hull. The weight of your dress is an obstacle but now that you know to expect it, you can work around it.

Metal so cold it seeps through the sleeve of your soaked dress hooks around your arm. 

“Don’t even think about it,” the woman snaps, yanking you away from the railing. You stumble over your skirts and end up falling to your knees in front of the entire crew. 

The Eye appears at the woman’s side. 

“I shouldn’t have to tell you our cargo is not to come to any harm, Sevika,” he hisses. 

“Tell your cargo not to be stupid and we won’t have a problem.” The hook is removed from your arm and you stagger to your feet. 

 Silco grabs your chin, forcing you to look him dead in the eye.

“Don’t be foolish, treasure. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to capture you. I’d hate for that effort to go to waste because you lack common sense.”

He releases you and steps away, hands clasped behind his back as he strolls up the deck as if he were taking a stroll in a pavilion. 

As much as every mean, stubborn, argumentative bone in your body screams to fight him, you leash yourself. You stand out of the way and observe. 

Right away, Silco gives orders to head northwest, and the crew springs to action. As much as you hate to admit it, they move like a well-oiled machine as good as any crew in Piltover’s Navy. 

You keep one eye on The Hound, just to see what they’ll do. Your father and Captain Vander have stepped away from the railing. You no longer see them. You watch the cannon hatches, waiting for them to open so The Hound can fire upon the Zaun’s Revenge the moment the sloop moves into range. 

The wine-red sails of the Zaun’s Revenge shift to catch the wind. The vessel lurches forward with such force you need to take hold of something. The ship glides away from The Hound at speeds you’d never thought possible. Piltover’s harbor is left in the mist. If The Hound planned on launching a canon attack, they’d be caught off guard by the speed of the Zaun’s Revenge. 

Deep down, you know Captain Vander would never order cannon fire on a ship he knew you occupied. 

As the Zaun’s Revenge flies with the wind, you watch The Hound shrink against the horizon. As the sloop travels further out to sea, the mist burns away. It must be nearly noon.

You sink into the space between two barrels near the narrow galley stairs. One of the barrels definitely contains something pickled. What, exactly? You aren’t sure you want to know. 

You pull your knees up and hug them to your chest. You’ve found some shade for the time being, but soon there will be nothing to protect you from the afternoon sun. 

The saltwater has turned the delicate silk into a water-stained mess. While the silk feels fine, though it doesn’t look it, your linen underdress and unmentionables feel sodden and rough against your skin.

You ignore the discomfort, forcing yourself to pay attention to what’s happening around you, specifically your captor. 

He glides from crew member to crew member, hands clasped behind his back. His shoulders are relaxed. Every inch of his body radiates control, though something about him strikes you as unusual. 

He’s vile, repulsive, reprehensible, and quite possibly a demon in human skin but you can’t help but notice he carries himself like a gentleman. The way he moves isn’t natural. It’s taught. You know this. You learned how to walk like a lady right alongside gaggles of rowdy boys destined to become key players in Piltover’s future. 

Where could a pirate pick up lessons in deportment?

With sharp eyes, you watch various crew members approach him presumably to deliver reports or receive orders. He stands, straight-backed and composed as he delivers curt replies to everyone he speaks to. You can’t make out his low voice over the rush of the wind.

The young woman you saw in the crow's nest, the one with long blue braids, bounds across the deck. Now that you’ve gotten a good look at her, you realize she’s not just a few years your junior. She’s a damn child! She can’t be more than sixteen years old. Seventeen, maybe. 

How did someone so young find herself embedded in a pirate’s crew? Does she have any idea who she takes orders from?

The girl spares you a curious glance before sliding up to Silco. His body language shifts though the shift is subtle. He angles his shoulders toward the girl without turning toward her fully. He dips his chin and tilts his head toward her ever so slightly. His shoulders relax a touch. 

She chatters to him, moving her hands every which way as she talks. She talks to him for far longer than any of the other crew members had. He doesn’t hurry her along or dismiss her, rather he listens with something you’d almost call patience. 

The snarling, sneering villain who kidnapped you from the deck of Piltover’s newest and finest ship is nowhere to be seen. You aren’t sure what to make of the pirate listening carefully to the girl with blue braids. She’s at ease beside him. Either she’s oblivious to the danger she’s in or…she’s simply not in danger. 

How young do pirates start out, anyway?

The girl shoots you a look. The Eye follows her gaze to look at you, narrows his good eye as if you’ve done something to offend him , and mutters something to the girl. You aren’t sure what he says, but it makes her smile. You aren’t sure if that’s a good sign or not. 

  Their attention moves elsewhere and you’re forgotten.

You quickly realize how much of a performance Silco put into your kidnapping and how little of that performance was for your benefit. You weren’t even the focal point of your own kidnapping. 

Anger crackles in your chest. You tuck it back in its box and continue observing your new deck mates. Despite all of the thrilling stories you’ve heard about pirates, this lot is dreadfully boring. The Zaun’s Revenge runs just like any other ship, a never-ending cycle of maintenance and shifting sails. 

Before long, your sliver of shade is gone and you have nowhere to hide from the full brunt of the sun’s heat. You could creep below deck, but you don’t like the idea of putting yourself in an even more enclosed space with pirates. 

You’re under Silco’s protection but can you actually take him at his word? Does his word apply to the entire crew? You’d rather not find out, so you remain where you are even as you start to sweat beneath all of your layers. 

Your underdress grows damp, sticking to your skin as you shift in a desperate but ultimately fruitless attempt to get comfortable. Dehydration leaves your mouth rough and dry as your stomach rumbles. 

You hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning, choosing instead to gorge yourself on anger and a sense of injustice when you thought the most trying thing you’d face today was spending time with your fiancé. You’d ignored the sandwiches and teacakes on The Hound as well. 

The tangy scent of whatever pickled goods in the barrel beside you is mouthwatering and revolting in equal measure. Are you that desperate? 

No. You aren’t. Not yet, at least. 

Your gaze drifts up the deck toward the bow, where Silco stands alone, watching the water. He cuts a dark, dramatic figure against the brilliant blue of the sky. A slash of onyx in a bed of blue satin. 

As much as the sight of him makes your skin crawl, you have to admit he knows how to use his appearance to his advantage. Again, you wonder where he learned to do such a thing. 

He leaves the bow at an unhurried pace, making his way down the deck towards you. You lift your chin and steel yourself, ready for another round of threats, but he pays you no mind. He ducks into the room beneath the weather deck -his cabin, you assume- without so much as a glance your way.

You suppose he has no reason to pay you any mind now that you’re trapped on his ship. That suits you just fine. If he thinks you’re going to linger around until you’re returned to your father and fiancé, he’s got another thing coming. Orchestrating your escape will be much easier if he’s not breathing down your neck. 

Your only viable escape option is the rowboat. Once in the water, you’ll be able to manage the little vessel on your own but the rigging that holds it secure against the hull requires two people to release. From the look of things, you’re going to have to get your hands on something sharp, hack away at the rigging, and hope for the best. 

Locating something sharp isn’t a problem. Every crew member is armed to the teeth with blades. Eventually, someone is going to leave their weapon unattended, and all you’ll have to do is snatch it up without drawing attention. You’ll have to wait for nightfall. 

The scraps of your shoestring plan have a calming effect on you. Scheming has become something of a pastime for you. While none of your schemes have worked, or have even been given the chance to play out, you cling to the illusion of power and control like a lifeline. You grip that lifeline now as the hours tick by. 

The sun bears down on you. Hunger gnaws at your stomach. Your throat burns. The crew go about their duties, never sparing you a glance. Cracks shoot through your resolve and, for a split second, you think you might cry.

You haven’t cried in eight years. Not since the day you were abandoned at the family estate. You cried for weeks. Your aunt wanted to have you hospitalized, out of sight out of mind until you could ‘conduct yourself appropriately. Since then, not a single tear has been shed. It doesn’t bother you. You haven’t wanted to cry since then. 

You pause, waiting to see if tears will well up but they don’t. That’s for the best. You don’t think tears will win you any sympathy with this crew. You’d rather not draw anyone’s attention unless you’re certain you can use it to your advantage. 

“Hi!” a cheery voice says, as someone drops down on top of the barrel beside you. You glance up to see the blue-haired girl. Despite her tone, she looks at you like one would look at a bug under a glass. “You don’t look so good.”

“Thanks,” You croak, your throat aching. “Why are you on a pirate’s ship?”

She tilts her head, allowing one long braid to spill over her shoulder and brush against your knee. “I live here. You look parched. And sweaty. And flushed.”

“I feel parched and sweaty and flushed.”

“Want something to drink?”

“Please.” The word comes out a shaky breath of relief. The girl disappears for a moment and soon returns carrying a tin mug. You take the mug and drink from it without looking, assuming it's water. It is not. 

Warm, bitter liquid glides over your tongue. You’ve had ale before. This drink tastes like ale’s rude, genetically questionable relative. You want to spit it out but your body’s desperation for anything to drink forces you to swallow. That’s when you’re hit with a sickly sweet, almost medicinal aftertaste. 

“What the hell was that?” You sputter, peering into the tin. The opaque liquid has a purplish tinge that looks anything but natural. 

“I don’t think it has a name,” the girl shrugs. “Our doctor makes it, though. People feel better when they drink it.”

“This ship has a doctor?”

“In the loosest sense of the word.”

“Oh, my god.” 

You set the tin aside and look up at the girl. 

“What’s your name?”

“Jinx. What’s yours?”

You give your name and wonder if you might have found yourself a potential ally. “Do you like living here, Jinx?”

“It’s great fun no matter how hard Sevika tries to spoil things,” she grins. “My father always takes my side when she and I fight. That’s even more fun.”

“Your father is on this ship?” You shake your head in disbelief. “Who is he?”

She looks at you as though the answer is obvious. “The Captain, of course.”

Just your luck. Though, that explains the shift in his demeanor when he spoke to her. 

“Of course,” you mutter. “Do you know where the ship is headed?”

“I do,” she nods. 

“Will you tell me?” you ask when she doesn’t offer any more information. 

“Why do you want to know?” She tilts her head and bites down on her bottom lip. For the second time, you feel as though you’re a specimen under her careful study. 

“I don’t wish to cause you alarm or distress,” you say, choosing your words carefully, “but your father has taken me against my will.”

“I know. We’re going to use the money we make off you to get a place to live that’s not riddled with rats and wood rot.”

You don’t know why you’re shocked. Of course, Silco’s daughter would be fine with kidnap and ransom. You file the nugget of information about a real home away for later. You might be able to use that against Silco. 

“I don’t imagine you have any incentive to tell me where we’re going, then?” You ask. 

“None whatsoever.” 

Well, you appreciate her honesty. 

Suddenly, a deep boom vibrates throughout the ship. It feels as though it’s coming from underneath you. The crew freezes. Some look apprehensive while others look downright annoyed. Neither reaction seems appropriate for what you can assume was an explosion somewhere below deck. 

A moment later, Silco appears. His good eye narrows as he spots Jinx. Lips pursed, he approaches. Once again, he ignores your presence. 

“Care to explain that, minnow?” He asks.

“That was something…completely harmless,” she says, clasping her hands behind her back.

“Completely?” He arches his singular brow. 

“Mostly,” she amends. “It’s not corrosive this time. I promise.”

“Clean it up, please.”

She darts off without another word, braids trailing behind her. Once she’s out of sight, Silco turns his attention to you, rather, the tin on the ground beside you.

“What’s that?”

“Your daughter is the only one on this ship with any manners. She offered me a drink,” you explain. 

“Water?”

“Definitely not,” you shudder.

Like a striking snake, he snatches up the tin and examines its contents. His frown deepens before chucking the contents overboard. Without a word, he goes to another barrel positioned halfway up the deck, refills the tin with water, and hands it to you. 

Before you can ask any questions about the original contents of the mug, he returns below deck. 

As much as you want to chug the water, you decide to take stock of yourself. You won’t go as far as to say you feel good or even better, but you feel less awful than you did before you took a sip of whatever the hell was in that cup. 

Besides, Jinx said it made people feel better. If she’s in on the ransom plan, she has no reason to deliberately harm you.

You wait as long as you dare, just in case you start spewing bile or hallucinating, before chugging the water. It’s not enough. You eye the barrel filled with fresh, clean water and get to your feet. 

Your dress is stiff and unforgiving as you walk. When you put it on this morning, you marveled at its lightweight despite its many layers. Now, you refuse to believe it weighs anything less than one hundred pounds. 

No one stops you as you refill your cup, so you refill it twice more before returning to your nook. Before sitting down, you peek into the pickle barrel. It’s filled with eggs. 

At least, you think they’re eggs. They might be some kind of pale vegetable. Or perhaps some kind of root? As hungry as you are, you think you’ll wait until you see someone eat one before tackling this particular mystery. 

You settle against the side of the non-pickling barrel, prepared to wait out the rest of the evening. A short time later, a copper bell rings and new crew members emerge from below deck to take over for the ones who have been working since you arrived. 

Some spare you strange looks, but most ignore you. You have to wonder if you’re not the first kidnapping victim aboard this ship. You recall the stories of The Eye traded by dockworkers, sailors, and bar wenches. None of them mentioned kidnapping but there was plenty about murder, deals with various devils, and devouring the hearts of unsuspecting maiden’s fair. Nothing too unexpected. 

At some point, after the late afternoon heat has sapped all of your energy, you doze off. You’re jostled awake by someone kicking the barrel supporting your back. You scramble to your feet, fists clenched and teeth bared. 

“Easy, princess,” Sevika snorts. “Dinner.”

She holds out a wooden bowl of something not quite liquid, not quite solid, but most certainly gray. 

“No, thank you,” you say, your appetite fleeing at the sight. The sun has just sunk below the horizon leaving behind streaks of brilliant orange, turning the water golden. Directly above you, the sky has darkened to purple and a few stars have made their appearance. 

It’s too soon to spot any constellations. You’ll need to wait longer.

“This is all you’re getting between now and breakfast,” she warns. 

“Noted.”

She stares at you for a moment, lip curling up in disgust. “Must be nice to be so comfortable declining food. I know plenty of folks who will never know that luxury.”

She raises her prosthetic arm. Her hook has been replaced with a regular wooden hand. Around her hips, you spy a utility belt laden with different attachments. Blades of all sizes. Tools of all shapes.

“If you’d like my portion, you’re welcome to it,” you say but that only seems to stoke her annoyance further. 

“I suggest you stay well out of my way for the next two weeks, princess.”

“Two weeks?” You stammer. 

Pure malice gleams in her eyes as she takes in your distress. 

“Better get comfy,” she grins before walking away, leaving the bowl of sludge behind. 

You’re already determined to escape but learning that the price of failure is two weeks aboard the Zaun’s Revenge puts a hard stone of dread in your stomach. 

You go over your plan and all you can think of is how many ways it can fail. You might not get your hands on something sharp enough to cut the rigging. You might not get close enough to the rigging to try anything at all. You don’t know how many crew members are on deck after dark. There’s no port in sight so you assume the Zaun’s Revenge will sail through the night. 

And if by some miracle, you get the rowboat in the water and get yourself in the rowboat, you don’t yet know where you are. 

Your heart slams against your ribs as panic squeezes your lungs. Your breath comes in sharp little gasps worsened only by the tightness of your bodice. You place a hand on your chest only to feel a sharp sting of pain when you remember how your neckline bit into your skin when you were hauled out of the water. 

Everything hurts. No one is coming to save you. 

That thought jars you from your panic. No one is coming to save you so you need to handle it yourself. There isn’t another option. Losing your grip now, after making it through the entire hellish day, is only going to make things worse. 

You suck in a deep breath and hold it until you can feel your individual heartbeats again. You take your fear and your panic and shove them into the box alongside your anger and tuck that box away deep in your mind. 

The horizon eats away the last of the daylight and soon the sky is filled with stars. If you were anywhere else, you’d stop to admire them. You have a good view of the night sky from your balcony at home but Piltover’s light pollution blocks eighty percent of the stars. 

You scan the winking patterns of silver, gold, blue, and even green searching for familiar shapes. Once upon a time, you could name every constellation and read the sky like a book. You let that knowledge slip away in favor of sharpening skills you could capitalize on but could also pass off as nothing more than the expected talents of an accomplished young woman.

The night sky looks like nothing more than glittering splatters. 

Until a shape jumps out at you. A curving line of stars forked at the end. Two-thirds up the curve, three stars shoot out in a straight line. 

The constellation is called Eiredus. It makes up one-half of the Lovers. You’ve seen dozens of paintings of the pair. 

Eiredus walks forward but twists back to look behind him, one arm reaching for his lover. On the opposite side of the world, Vespyra sits among the stars, reaching out for her missing half. 

You recall a silly game you and your friends used to play when you were young. You had to wait for a shooting star, and when you saw one, you had exactly one minute to name at least seven constellations between Eiredus and Vespyra to make a star bridge so they could find their way back to each other. As a reward, you were guaranteed to meet your one true love under a starry sky.

And, like the fool you were, you took that imaginary promise born of a children’s game to heart. Of course, you know better now. 

You can remember that but you can’t remember which goddamn direction Eiredus points. Are you supposed to follow his hand or his foot to get back to Piltover?

“Come on, big hero,” you mutter to the star cluster. “Help a girl out. I made you dozens of star bridges. It’s the least you could do.”

You tear your gaze away from the sky to monitor the crew. The deck is nearly deserted. Someone is at the helm. You hear chatter coming up from below. 

When you stand, no one pays you any mind. Testing the limits, you walk from between the barrels to the railing opposite the rowboat and back. No one does anything. Sevika is nowhere to be seen. You figure she’s your biggest problem. 

You move toward the bow, looking for something to use against the ropes. That’s where your luck falters. You find nothing. Unwilling to surrender just yet, you approach the rowboat with lazy disinterest. There is a lantern hung from the bow of the ship. You spot two more at the stern and one hanging from the tallest mast. The breadth of the deck is left largely in shadow. Good for not drawing attention. Not good for trying to figure out how the rowboat is tied. 

You run your fingertips over the rope in an attempt to figure out the knot. A shape takes place in your mind and you start tugging. Nothing happens. Not a complete surprise considering the brute strength of the pirates who tied them. 

You glance up at Eiredus as your nerves threaten to get away from you again. 

“Listen,” you whisper to the sky. “You owe me. I played the silly game for you and Vespyra. I just want a little bit of help.”

You feel stupid but the hushed chatter is exactly the distraction your brain needs while your fingers work the knot. It might wishful thinking, but you swear you feel the rope starting to slide, just a little. 

“All I’m asking is that you point me in the right direction,” you say. “I don’t even want true love anymore. You’re off the hook for that. Just get me out of here. ” 

“Perhaps, I can lend a hand,” Silco’s voice purrs close to your ear. 

You let out a yelp as your hands move on their own, wrapping around the nearest oar and yanking hard. You whirl around, oar in hand. The paddle cracks against the side of his head hard enough that you feel the impact through your wrist and elbows yet he barely reacts. 

Fury burns equally hot in both eyes as he takes a step closer to you. 

“Don’t you dare!” you snap as he takes hold of the oar and rips it out of your hands, tossing it back into the rowboat. You reel back, realizing too late that you’re trapped between him and the railing. 

“It seems I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you,” he growls and lunges at you. Your hands come up to brace against his shoulders but it does nothing to slow him as his arms wrap around your waist before slinging you over his shoulder. 

Now, you give him the scream he asked for. You slam your fists into his back and kick your legs like your life depends on it. You rock to the side in an attempt to throw him off balance even if it means you’ll go sprawling on the deck. It does nothing. 

He carries you to the door beneath the weather deck and shoves into the room. You catch a glimpse of a wardrobe and a wall rack sporting an assortment of daggers, swords, and pistols before you’re dumped onto a bed. 

His bed. 

The bed itself is pushed into the far corner of the room. With Silco standing between you and the door, you scramble back into the corner. He turns his back on you to lock the door. You take the chance to get on your feet and make a grab for any of the weapons on the wall, but he’s too fast for you. 

His hand locks around your neck, rooting you in place. He squeezes lightly. Not enough to hurt but enough to send ice-cold fear right into your heart. You freeze under his touch. A smile quirks at the corner of his mouth as he walks you back toward the bed. Your knees hit the mattress and it only takes the smallest push from him to send you falling back. 

You put as much distance between him and yourself and gather your strength as you try to come up with some kind of plan. 

“I’ve made a terrible mistake, beauty.” If it weren’t for that ribbon of venom laced through his words, you’d call his voice gentle. “I’ve underestimated you. I won’t make that mistake twice. You won’t get another chance like you did tonight, I promise you.”

He places a knee on the bed and leans forward, caging you in. 

“From this moment until that oaf you call a fiancé places the money in my hand, you will stay by my side. I will not let you out of my sight. Now, go to sleep.” 

Chapter Text

All night, you stare at the bare back of your kidnapper. Every time he shifts or sighs, your body locks up, prepared for the worst. The worst never comes but that doesn’t mean you find any peace. 

To say your dress is uncomfortable is an understatement. Between the salt and sweat-soaked fabric and the unforgiving structure of your corset, you cannot find a comfortable position. You toss and turn, succeeding only in making your skin burn and your misery rise.

Hours pass before the gentle rocking of the ship finally puts you to sleep. 

For all of five minutes. 

Far too soon, an unforgiving morning sun streams in through the wide, deep bay window, illuminating the room in a pale green light. 

The window glass, you realize, is tinted green. The deep brown wood of the lattice is unusual as well. Not perfect straight lines crisscrossing in squares or diamonds, but curves and whorls comprising all manner of shapes that vaguely remind you of cresting waves. It creates a rather lovely backdrop for the little window seat laden with cushions and even a blanket. Anywhere else, it would be quite the cozy little nook. Nothing like that would ever be permitted on a naval vessel nor your father’s ships. In fact, you’ve never seen a window like this on any ship before. 

Did Silco have it specially made?

Through the muddled mess of your sleep-deprived mind, you decide it’s wise to take proper stock of your surroundings. You already know there is a multitude of weapons on display but perhaps you’ll find little clues that will lead you to something more valuable than a weapon. 

Information. 

As tempting as it is to grab a sword off the wall and show him exactly what you think of his hospitality, you rein yourself in. The tether holding your emotions in check is dangerously weak after so little sleep. Your growling stomach doesn’t help matters either. 

Slowly, careful to minimize the rustle of your gown, you sit up. You’re trapped between the wall and Silco. If you were in a quieter garment, you might try to scoot off the end of the bed and make a break for it, but the cabin door is locked. You have no idea where he put the key, not that getting ahold of it will do you much good. The only place you can go is the deck. 

Blinking away the bleariness hanging on your lashes, you study the room. Most of the cabin is taken up by a desk opposite the bed, its surface cluttered with papers. Maps, charts, and ledgers. Behind the desk is a low bookshelf, perhaps hip high. It’s crammed to the gills with books, rolls of paper, writing supplies, and all manner of trinkets from all over the world. 

The chaos of the desk sits in stark contrast to everything else in the cabin. The weapons rack is neat and orderly, everything polished to a perfect shine. The cushions lining the window seat are perfectly arranged, the blanket neatly folded. The wardrobe is closed, but you’re willing to bet the clothing inside is folded as well. 

Between the wardrobe and the shelves is an oddity you would never expect to find aboard a pirate ship. A vanity table, mirror and all. The only imperfection is one crack running the length of the glass. 

Beside you, Silco shifts in his sleep. He rolls onto his back, one arm lifting over his head to bend at the elbow. You spot lines of ink on the underside of his wrist but aren’t at the correct angle to see the full shape, only a curving line and a splotch of blue. 

Your eyes travel down to his face. That hellfire eye remains open and you find yourself wondering if it’s functional. Or if it hurts. 

Your gaze wanders down the collum of his neck to the lean expanse of his chest. You’ve never seen so much of a man’s body before, not even when you turned your charms on a besotted stable hand or footman for a ruinous tumble. Those quick, panting exchanges in shadowy corners never required the removal of clothing. You were in it for a brief escape and a chance to damage your prospects. You assume your partners had their reasons, as well. 

Bragging rights, perhaps. 

As you watch the steady rise and fall of Silco’s chest, you wonder what it might be like to feel someone else’s skin against yours. Slow and deliberate. Not a desperate grab or impersonal gloved hands clasped for a dance at a ball. Something…you can’t quite come up with a word for what you’ve only read exaggerated accounts of in dime novels you trade with your lady’s maid.  

You draw in a sharp breath, slicing through your train of thought. This is not the time to be recounting your past exploits or thinking of certain book passages. Especially, not with Silco stretched out beside you the way he is. 

You would not have expected such well-formed muscles on such a lean frame. Yesterday, you witnessed him pace the deck, posturing like a ruler over a stolen kingdom while his crew toiled away in the searing heat. The body beside you tells a different story, one of labor and hardship. Not to mention, he was able to throw you over his shoulder like you were nothing, dangle you over the open ocean, and barely reacted when you smacked him with an oar. 

That hidden strength is just another deception, a reminder that you can’t take anything about him at face value. 

Another tattoo splays across the right side of his ribs—a sea serpent wound to the point of constriction around a human heart. The fangs of the beast sink deep into the organ, its eyes filled with lifelike rage, maybe even anguish. You lean closer, half expecting the sea serpent to come alive and slither away, dragging the heart with it. 

Engrossed in your study of him, your gaze dips lower still and stops when you see the sharp curve of a hip. Heat streaks through you so quickly, you feel a touch lightheaded. You were aware that he’d stripped off his shirt before climbing into bed beside you, but did he remove any other articles of clothing?

You follow the slice of muscle arcing over his hip leading down…

With a jolt, you remember yourself and drag your eyes back up to safer territory. 

There is…beauty to him. A strange and savage beauty, but beauty nonetheless. Every harsh line reminds you of cliffs battered by an unforgiving sea, affected but indomitable. Even that cursed eye burns with layers of gold and umber. A precious stone set against black velvet.

Devil damn you, the lack of sleep is making you wax poetic about a most unworthy subject. 

You glance at his face once more only to find, to your horror, his dual gaze of ember and ocean fixed on you, a smirk on that infuriating, mocking mouth. 

You look away quickly, too quickly to pretend you hadn’t been looking at all. 

Devil double damn you. 

“Have I captured your interest so quickly?” His voice is thick with sleep, making the rumble of it all the more hypnotic. 

In a grating, annoying, infuriating kind of way. 

“When one is in the lair of a beast, it’s wise to keep an eye on the beast in question.” You smooth your bodice just so you have a reason to look anywhere but at him. 

You feel him move beside you. He flings the covers off his body. Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flick to your peripheral as he gets to his feet. The dark trousers he wore yesterday hang low on his hips. 

You release a breath you weren’t aware you were holding as you redirect your focus to your hands. 

The wardrobe creaks open and you glance up as he pulls a deep red shirt from within. A laugh rises in your chest and passes your lips before you can curb it. 

“What?” There’s a low warning hidden in the growl of his voice that you ignore. Perhaps, it’s foolish to do so but your brain has allocated its remaining dregs of energy to vital functions and bare-bones coherency. 

“Do you dress to match your ship on purpose or does that bad eye come with some color blindness?” You ask, fighting off another giggle. 

“Don’t try my patience,” he groans. “I didn’t sleep a wink because of you.”

“Because of me?” You bark out a laugh. “That’s rich. I didn’t realize I’d been kidnapped by the funny pirate.”

He carries on as if you hadn’t spoken, turning his attention to the cracked mirror as he buttons his shirt. When he’s finished, he places his hands on the vanity surface and leans closer, examining where you struck him with the oar. A tickle of pride swells in your chest. Maybe you dealt more damage than he let on.

“Your ridiculous dress is noisier than you are,” he grumbles. 

“That’s what happens when quality fabrics get wet,” you say as if speaking to a child. 

“You shouldn’t have gotten it wet, then,” he says, matching your tone with a sneer. 

“You dropped me in the ocean!”

“Because you wouldn’t stop thrashing.”

“It’s almost as if I objected to being kidnapped!” What a notion!

“You knew the terms of the arrangement when we started down that ladder.”

“An arrangement ,” you scoff, “that was agreed upon by everyone but me. ” Anger stoked into a blaze, you scramble off the bed to stand, hands on hips, in the middle of the cabin. 

“One doesn’t typically negotiate with the target of a kidnapping.”

“If you negotiated with me, you might have gotten some sleep last night.” 

“Oh?” He looks at you in the mirror. “How do you figure?”

“I wouldn’t fucking be here, for one thing.”

“A lady shouldn’t use such foul language. It’s unbecoming.”

“I’m surprised you know what half of those words mean.”  

“You little-” he snarls as you slip into the space between him and the mirror. He has no qualms invading your space -grabbing you, restraining you, throwing you over his shoulder- so you’re going to invade his right back. His payout is directly tied to your well-being, so he can’t do anything to you.

And if he could, frankly, you’re too damn tired to care. You relish the idea of him raising a hand to you. The tether around your anger grows looser by the second. Not just anger at your current situation, but years of anger you’ve stored away in the spirit of making life easier for everyone but yourself. You dare him to push you just an inch too far.  

“If you’re going to demand a royal’s ransom from my father, I think it’s fair you earn every stolen coin, don’t you?” You ask, leaning close to the mirror. Yesterday’s stretch in the sun has put a tint in your cheeks which only makes the dark circles under your eyes more dramatic. The rest of your complexion looks washed out and dreadful. Your hair is a mess.

“I’m starting to think they’re all relieved I took you. They might pay me extra to keep you just to spare themselves the headache.” 

You whirl around, a barbed retort ready on your tongue, but you miscalculate how close he stands. An ill-planned half-step has you bumping into his chest. You spring back, only to hit the vanity.  

Once again, you find yourself trapped by him as he places both hands on the vanity on either side of your hips. 

“I might accept such an offer,” he purrs. “A little training and you might just make a perfect pet. I do so relish a challenge.”

You bring your knee up, intent on dealing a blow to his most tender spot, but he anticipates your movement. He grabs your leg between your knee and thigh, fingers pressing hard enough to feel through your skirts.

“You’re predictable, treasure.” He gives a slight shake of his head to mark his mocking disapproval. 

“And you’re vile.”

“Is that why you were looking at me so intensely not five minutes ago? Because you find me vile?” 

“No, I’m simply fascinated by how someone can live without a heart. Don’t let the scientists at the Piltover Academy get ahold of you,” you warn. “They’ll put you in a cage and study you in a lab.”

“I didn’t realize I kidnapped the funny heiress. Try to keep those charms to yourself when we make port.”

“What?” You stammer. 

“I have business to attend to in Port Fairna. You are to accompany me.”

“You can’t be serious.” A plea to remain aboard and sleep nearly escapes you, but you don’t want to beg him for anything. 

“Do I strike you as someone who often jokes?” 

“You strike me as a joke if you expect me to accompany you while you do whatever it is pirates do when they make port.” You grab two fistfuls of your skirts and give them a shake. “Especially if you expect me to wear this.” 

He grasps his chin, running a thumb along his bottom lip as his eye rakes over your dress, lingering on the top of your bodice. “Yes, you will stand out too much if you wear that.”

He opens the bottom drawer of his wardrobe and produces a flimsy white blouse, a cheap-looking black corset, and a deep teal skirt. 

“Do you always keep women’s clothing in your cabin?” You ask as he thrusts the bundle of fabrics into your arms. 

“Guests have been known to leave a thing or two behind on certain occasions.” His mismatched gaze glitters with mischief.

With a shriek of disgust, you throw the clothing onto his bed. “If you think for one second I’m going to wear the discarded clothing of your whores, you’re in for a long day.”

“I assume every day is long for those in your company. Put on the clothes or I will put them on for you.”

You bite your tongue before you can dare him to try. 

As you gather up the clothes once more, you realize he makes no move to leave the cabin. 

“Do you mind?” You ask, glancing between him and the door. 

“Mind what?” The cocky tilt to his head tells you he’s playing the fool on purpose. 

“I can’t change with you in the room.”

“I’m not going to leave you alone with enough weapons to stock a small army, not to mention the other valuables,” he scoffs.

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “My monthly bill at the modiste could buy your ship ten times over. I don’t need to rob you of your little knick-knacks. Now turn around.”

“You don’t give the orders here.”

“If you want me to change, you’ll have to turn around. If you don’t turn around, I won’t change. What part of that are you struggling with?”

“Your lack of manners, for one thing.”

“Manners?” You all but cackle. The logical part of your mind wakes up enough to remind you that taunting a notorious pirate isn’t wise, but you’re well past that point now. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Your utter lack of any self-preservation instinct is the only laughable thing here. It would serve you well to remember that you are a prisoner.”

“You’ve trapped me on this ship with you, but it would serve you to remember that you’re also trapped with me ,” you say. “I’ve made a career out of being an insufferable brat when it serves me. How do you think I slipped the collar of engagement as long as I did?”

“I assumed your personality was deterrent enough without any deliberate enhancements.” The cool smugness laced through his voice makes your mind turn murderous. 

Though, you have to admit you walked right into that one. 

You sway on your feet, mistaking the sensation for the natural bob of the ship through the water. Only when you realize nothing else in the room is affected do you make your way back to the bed. You perch on the edge, crossing one leg over the other and folding your arms across your chest. Your mind redirects all of its energy to not fainting or vomiting. You’re not one for sea sickness but the lack of water, food, and sleep is taking a physical toll. 

Anger leaves you in a rush, the rolling righteousness of it is just too much to sustain. You try to pull it back, needing that anger to shield you from the fear you refuse to let take hold of you. The spark doesn’t relight, but fear doesn’t rise up either. You’re left feeling hollow, wrung out. 

“Are you really going to sit there pouting like a petulant child?” Silco asks.

“I’m simply considering all of the ways I can make it look like you’ve broken your word.” You examine your nails as you level your threat, wishing you could summon more venom to your words. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“If my father finds so much as a bruise on my body, Captain Vander will put you down like a dog. I can starve myself to sickness. One careless step could lead to a laceration. I imagine infections are difficult to combat at sea.”

“You’d go that far?” He tilts his head. His gaze holds not annoyance or anger, but curiosity.

“Instead of wondering how fall I’ll go to ruin your plans, consider what you’re risking. It would be a pity for Jinx to lose out on a real home because you’re too stubborn to turn around while I change.”

Your words strike their mark, perhaps harder than you intended. Rage floods his gaze, but not the burning, breathing rage you’ve come to expect from him. What you see is cold enough to suck the life out of the room and the breath from your lungs. 

“You will not speak of my daughter.” His voice is so quiet you barely catch the words but the threat they carry is enough to make you rethink your next statement.

Still, you aren’t going to let him win this little stalemate. Call it pride, call it a habitual loyalty to propriety, or perhaps it’s a death wish in disguise. You’re going to make him turn around. 

It’s worth a shot appealing to his sense of reason. Besides, you aren’t sure you have the energy to make good on your threats to be relentlessly insufferable but you’ll be damned if he calls your bluff. 

“Look, Silco-”

“You will address me as Captain or nothing at all.” As soon as the curt demand leaves his lips, he realizes his mistake. 

“Nothing it is, then.”

You fall back into stubborn silence. The truce you nearly offered still lingers on your tongue like a half-dissolved sweet. You can either swallow it down or spit it out. 

Turns out, you won’t have to do either. With a long sigh, Silco turns his back on you. “Be quick about it.”

Hm. This little victory doesn’t taste as sweet as you hoped it would. How disappointing.

Undressing quickly is easier said than done. Under normal circumstances, you’d have a maid to assist with the laborious process of dressing and undressing. The lacings of your overdress provide a challenge, but you manage it with some twisting and a few popped seams. 

You lay the ruined garment on the bed. Heaviness settles in your chest. It seems silly to be sad over a dress considering your present predicament but you’re too tired to tuck the useless emotion away.

Glancing over your shoulder, you make sure Silco isn’t peeking at you. As much as you don’t want him to see you in any state of undress, you don’t want to give him the chance to mock you for mourning your gown even more. Once you confirm his back is still turned, you trail your finger along the embroidery at the hem. It’s beautifully done, except for one section. 

Six inches of the pattern was clearly done by another hand. Yours. The day the dress was delivered, you plucked a section clean and spent hours recreating it until it looked somewhat correct. You don’t have a particular interest in needlework or clothesmaking, but it’s a valuable skill to have in your arsenal. 

While you still cling to a thread of hope that you can make your father see reason before you’re forced down the aisle, you have a contingency plan in place. One you do not want to enact but your options are to lose your freedom through the shackle of marriage or lose everything else to gain your freedom. 

If it comes down to that final hour, you will run. 

You have enough money hidden away to buy passage on a ship and bribe the dockmaster to keep your name off the manifest. Wherever you end up, you’re certain you can find a seamstress desperate enough to take pity on you and offer an apprenticeship. It’s a plan that will lead you to months, maybe even years, of toil and discomfort. It’s a plan that will sever you from what little family you have and ensure you’re cast out of good society for the rest of your days. It’s a last resort but, if the time comes, you know you’ll have the mettle to carry it through.

“I cannot fathom what is taking you so long,” Silco snaps, pulling you back to reality. 

You say nothing and set about removing the rest of your layers. Complications arise when you grasp at the back of your corset. The lacings are stiff with dried saltwater and refuse to cooperate with your clumsy fingers. You can’t get out of it on your own. 

“I…find myself in need of assistance.” You keep your eyes on the floor as you hear Silco turn around. “The corset.”

The sound of his boots on the wood grows closer until you can feel a faint warmth radiating from him. 

“The laces,” you stammer. “If you just-”

“I am more than capable of relieving a woman of her corset.” 

You press your lips together as quick fingers prove his words true. The corset loosens. You press your hands to your chest to keep it from slipping down. You feel exposed enough as it is. You swear you can track the movement of his good eye as he takes in the sight of your exposed arms, shoulders, and nape. 

Something white hot and featherlight slips over your skin and twists in your stomach. Anticipation, you realize. Every nerve is alight as you wait for the brush of fingertips you’re certain will come. 

But they don’t. Sillco’s warmth disappears and his boots retreat. You wait a beat before looking over your shoulder. His back is to you once more, hands clasped behind him in a white-knuckle grip. 

You refuse to read his body language, to understand the meaning between tight shoulders and gripping hands. Instead, you dedicate yourself to the task of pulling on the new clothing while removing the old without leaving any part of your body bare. You examine parts of your body as you go. You’re patterned with raw patches where salt and ruined clothing wrecked your skin, rubbing the top layer to feverish irritation. 

The black corset sinches your waist but only reaches your underbust. The fabric of the borrowed shirt is thin, but after the discomfort of scratching fabrics against your skin, you’re glad for the lack of contact. 

You glance at your discarded underclothes, wondering if you should attempt to wear any of them for the sake of propriety, but you can’t stand the thought of the ruined fabric rubbing your skin even more raw than it already is. You forgo all undergarments, leaving yourself bare beneath your skirt. 

“Will this suffice?” You ask, turning around. 

He turns to face you slowly, his eyes roving over your body. 

“Not quite,” he says, approaching you. 

There is an instinct to move away from him, though you know there is nowhere to go. 

He kneels at your feet, the sight of him bowed before you evokes something you’ve never felt before. You don’t know how to name it. You don’t know how to rationalize it. 

The spell breaks the moment he reaches up your skirt. Your heart clenches though his fingers never actually touch your skin. The urge to kick out grips you, but something else lingers underneath. Curiosity. A tiny shift on your part would bring your leg into contact with his hand. 

Before you can decide, his fingers find a small slip of fabric. He pulls it from under your skirt and secures it to a tiny fabric hook sewn near your hip, leaving a high slit exposing part of your leg.

“Are you insane?” You pull away from him. 

“If you’re going to play the harlot, you’ll need to look the part.”

“Excuse me?” You stumble away from him. “Did you just call me a harlot?”

“Harlots don’t draw attention. Well, except in the usual way.” He rises off bended knee to see the shock written all over your face. His eye narrows, irritation ticking through his features. “Don’t look so scandalized. I’m not going to turn you out. No one will question your presence if you look like this.”

“And if someone mistakes me for an actual harlot?” 

Irritation shifts to dark delight. “Then I’ll have the joy of correcting them. Get some sleep.”

Your brows knit together. “Giving up on your promise to keep me within your sights already?”

“Oh, I’m not leaving this room.” He settles into the chair behind the desk. “I have more than enough to deal with right here.”

“And if I don’t need to sleep?”

“You can barely keep your head up, treasure,” he sighs, his attention diverted to one of his many papers. “Port Fairna will be easier on both of us if you’re not stupid with exhaustion.” 

You glare at the top of his head though you are unable to form an argument or even a final insult to throw at him, just to have the last word. Unfortunately, he’s right about one thing. You want to have your wits about you when you step off the Zaun’s Revenge. Your father has an office in most port towns. If you can get to one, you’ll be free of this nightmare and deprive Silco of your ransom. 

A metallic click followed by a hiss of air sucked through teeth draws your attention back to the desk. Silco holds some kind of device in his hands, like a syringe but not quite. His other hand presses a handkerchief against his ruined eye. Pain pinches at the corners of his mouth.

One deep breath restores his composure. The handkerchief and device are put away and a thin wooden box is produced. He opens the lid and plucks something from inside. 

A cigar, as well as a lighter and cutter. The cigar is snipped and lit with practiced movements. He takes a long drag, letting his head fall back. Your gaze flits to the stretch of his neck but, this time, you look away before he catches you. 

A long, slow exhale fills the cabin with an earthy scent, spiced and dynamic. A high-quality cigar, then. Where does a pirate get the funds and knowledge to be selective about cigars?

“Does it bother you?” He asks, a hint of mischief in his voice. 

“Not at all.” It’s not a lie. Your father prefers to host business meetings in the library of the estate. The rugs, curtains, and upholstery is imbued with the scent of many cigars. It’s almost comforting to you now. You’ve taken many a lazy nap in the library, a book left open in your lap or on your chest. 

Silco offers only a light grunt in response before looking back to his papers. Has piracy always come with so much paperwork? 

The rumple of covers and the promise of a soft pillow is too much for you to ignore. You stretch out on the bed, square in the middle. Above you, footfalls crisscross the deck as the crew sets about their daily tasks. The ship sways and you allow yourself to sink into the motion now that you don’t have to worry about bumping into your unwanted bedfellow. 

You slip your hand under your cheek, annoyed when you feel the scrape of shaped metal and gemstones. 

Your engagement ring. You’d forgotten about it. Obviously, you can’t wear it into Port Fairna. You may as well wear a sign that says come rob me. With a glance at Silco to make sure he’s absorbed in his papers, you slip the ring off your finger and tuck it beneath the mattress close to the corner. 

As soon as the weight of it lifts from your finger, you feel a little better. You settle into the pillows again and inhale the scent of smoke and sea, wood and paper. Tension bleeds from your body as sleep comes for you. 

Chapter Text

It’s late afternoon when the barking of voices rouses you from sleep. Golden-green light fills the room, more vibrant than its meek morning counterpart. 

Silco still sits behind his desk, engrossed in a leger. 

You stretch, a soft sigh escaping you before you can catch it. 

Silco’s head snaps up. 

“Ah.” He closes the leger with a thump and pushes away from the desk. “I was just about to wake you.”

You slide your legs off the side of the bed. Your bare feet come to rest on the wooden floor. 

“I need shoes,” you say through a yawn. 

Silco moves to the door and bends down before chucking one boot toward you, followed by its twin. Knee-high, made of worn black leather that has certainly seen a fair share of rough going, and about your size. 

“What would possess a whore to leave her shoes behind?” You ask. “Besides your general countenance, of course.” 

“Charming even after a nap, I see,” he replies. “Jinx was kind enough to lend you a pair she no longer likes. She thinks they’re too plain.” 

You shove your feet into the boots. It’s a tight fit, but you’ve worn enough pinching heels that the discomfort doesn’t faze you. 

You stand to give your clothing one final inspection only to realize with a sharp gasp that in the rich light, your shirt is nearly transparent. You slap a hand over your chest, cheeks burning. 

“Is something the matter?” There’s that stupid little head tilt and barely-there smirk once again.

“I require a shawl.” You try not to grit your teeth.

“Unfortunately, I’m unable to accommodate that request.”

“A coat, then.”

“Impossible, I’m afraid.”

“A scarf.”

“What use do pirates have for scarves?” He turns away from you to open his wardrobe. At first, you think he’ll pull out a solution to your indecency. Instead, he makes a point of examining not one but three coats. He selects the simplest one, charcoal gray and frayed around the cuffs and hem. The other two are much finer. Fine enough to wear in many of Piltover’s respected establishments. 

“A coat is an impossibility?” You press. 

“If someone spots a harlot wearing a gentleman’s coat, she’ll be presumed a thief,” he explains. “That’s not a risk I’m willing to take on.”

“Yet, you’re willing to take me off the ship where I can scream for help the moment I spot a port authority?”

“You won’t be doing anything of the sort.” It’s not a threat, but a statement. The sky is blue. The ocean is deep. You won’t scream for help. 

You bite back a retort. His certainty that you won’t act out can only help you. 

The ship rocks as it bumps against a dock. 

Silco secures a belt around his waist before selecting a rapier and two pistols. Once weapons are sheathed and holstered, he tugs on the coat. “Ready, treasure?”

You nod, keeping your gaze on the floor as you approach him. He unlocks the cabin door and opens it for you. You step onto the deck, folding your arms across your chest, and hunching forward to make yourself look as small as possible. 

Silco moves ahead of you and you follow him to the gangplank. You even take his offered hand as you disembark. 

As soon as you set foot on the dock, his arm snakes around the small of your back. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, your voice barely more than a whisper. 

“Playing the part,” he says. “You’re meant to be my purchased travel companion. I ought to look like I enjoy your company.”

“Oh.”

You feel his eye studying you. Rather than meet his gaze head-on, like every nerve in your body urges you to do, you stare at your skirts. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, hoping you convey the right image. 

Demure. Compliant. Resigned. You’ve surrendered to your circumstances. You won’t cause trouble. When Silco looks away with a quiet grunt, you think you’ve pulled it off. Now, you just have to keep it up until you can flag down some help or slip away. 

Now that exhaustion no longer clouds your mind, you can accurately assess the opportunity you’ve been presented with. You can enact your last resort plan now. Sneak away, disappear. Hide until you find work. Start a new life. 

Guilt twists in your stomach right alongside a flutter of anticipation. 

You don’t want to believe severing yourself from your family is the only solution. But what if this is the best chance you’re ever going to get to live your life on your own terms?

You walk in quiet contemplation, willing to let Silco guide you through the bustling dock. When wood gives way to dirt paths, you look up. Something isn’t right. Yes, you were deep in thought but not deep enough to miss the expected exchange with a dockmaster. 

You glance over your shoulder. There is no one at the entrance to the dock. Not a single person looks to be in a position of authority. 

Port Fairna. You wrack your brain for any information you can dreg up. During your years at sea, you visited nearly every port between Targon and Ionia, but Port Fairna doesn’t sound familiar at all. 

You look around, determined to keep your breathing even and your expression placid. There isn’t a single flag. No sign of allegiance to any nation. No official presence of any government. 

The pieces click together in your mind. 

A free port. A pirate haven. No wonder he was so certain you wouldn’t call for help. There is no help to be found here. 

“There it is,” Silco’s mouth is at your ear, his voice light and taunting. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Your attempt at ignorance is far from convincing as your mind struggles to rearrange your plans under new circumstances. 

“Did you honestly think I’d fall for your little act?” The tip of his nose brushes your temple. “So subdued and helpless. A perfect damsel in need of a rescuer. You’ll find no such thing here.”

You remain silent, jaw clenched as you’re ushered up the dirt road. Bustling establishments line the street, glowing from within with warm light. Scents of spices, perfume, fried dough, and woodsmoke fill the air, all layered over a persistent sourness. Rot, piss, and poverty. Laughter and music float through the air as well as shouts and arguments.

Brilliant bolts of brightly dyed fabrics stretch between buildings, creating a sort of tunnel over the street. Lanterns of blown glass in an array of colors hang from walls and are suspended from wires overhead. 

You’d like to take in the sights, always thrilled by the prospect of a new place despite the danger, but Silco isn’t finished taunting you.

“Not a bad performance, I’ll admit. That little charade would have fooled a lesser man.”

“Is there a lesser man than you?” You peer up at him, brows drawn and eyes wide. Mockingly innocent. 

Instead of frowning or glaring, he smiles and brings his face closer to yours. 

“Oh, yes. There are many of them. They’re here tonight, pulling whores into dark alleys, pissing in the streets, and spitting out bloody teeth. No doubt, they’re looking at you now.” He brings his free hand up to tug at a loose strand of your hair. “Such a pretty face. Much fairer than anything they’ve seen in weeks. Months, maybe. Do you know what they want to do to a beauty like you?”

You jerk away from his touch, refusing to show the fear his words have injected into your blood. He’s only trying to scare you into behaving. Nothing more. 

“I am your safety in a place like this, treasure. If you decide to forget that, all of the ransom money in the world won’t be able to save you.” 

He straightens up to his full height but keeps his arm around you. 

As you walk, your glance darts between every person you pass on the street. Most are too drunk or drugged to know where they are - let alone take notice of you - but you see enough leering smiles and violent gazes to understand Silco wasn’t just trying to scare you. 

He leads you through the swinging doors of a tavern. Bodies press together around the bar, shouting for drinks. Too many tables are crammed into the poorly lit space and every seat is filled. You can’t take a step without the risk of tripping over limbs or stepping on toes. 

Silco never moves his arm from your back, even when he pauses to greet others. The spaces between the tables are both highways for serving wenches to deliver food and drink as well as alleys for dancing. Women glide through the room, blouses pulled low and corsets pulled tight to display assets. 

You glance at your own outfit. You’d fit right in amongst their ranks. 

Silco moves to an empty wooden booth at the back of the tavern, half bathed in shadow.

You find it odd it’s been left unoccupied even though plenty of patrons appear to be waiting for a place to sit. Has this booth been left open for him, specifically?

He takes a seat near the opening of the booth. You move to slide in from the other opening, but a hand around your wrists stops you. 

“Your seat is right here.” He pats his thigh. 

“You’ve lost your mind.” 

“Look around,” he glances around the room. “Tell me what you see the other working girls doing.”

He keeps his hand around your wrist as you do so. It doesn’t take long for a pattern to emerge. If a girl is on her feet, she’s searching. As soon as she’s found a potential cull for the evening, she settles into their lap even if there is an open seat available. 

“I’m not sitting in your lap,” you hiss. 

“Suit yourself.” He releases you and turns his attention to the room. Before you can say anything, a sweaty man reeking of every sort of vile thing stumbles over to you. He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t say anything as his hand darts forward to grab a fistful of your ass through your skirts. 

“How dare you?” You shriek, your hand flying on its own accord and colliding with the man’s bristly cheek. He stumbles back, confused but his brain is too addled with drink to fully understand what’s just happened to him. 

Beside you, Silco chuckles. 

Not to be deterred, the man comes toward you again. 

“Ugh. Fine.” You plop yourself into Silco’s lap before the stranger can make another grab. 

“Hey! Thassnot fair. I saw ‘er first,” he slurs. 

“The lady is engaged for the evening. I suggest you find your thrills elsewhere.” Silco’s voice is calm, almost pleasant but the threat beneath his words ripples through the air so strongly, even the drunken fool before you can’t ignore it. He stumbles away, muttering incoherently.

You wrestle with the sense of gratitude bubbling in your chest. As you try to find the right words, Silco turns to you. 

“Did we learn a valuable lesson, treasure?”

And, just like that, any inkling of gratitude is gone. 

“I’m not trying to learn anything about how to be a convincing harlot in a pirate’s port,” you bristle, earning a low chuckle from him. You take the opportunity to make yourself comfortable, ensuring you bump and elbow him as much as you can in the process. 

You sit sideways in his lap. He sits forward, facing the table. Your shoulder presses against his chest, facing toward the crowded tavern, your knees pointed toward the entrance. 

When you’ve landed enough little blows to make yourself feel better, you go still. You’re not comfortable at all, but you’ll deal with it. Then, Silco shifts under you. It’s a small movement, little more than a bump, but somehow it slots your body against his like a lock clicking into place. Every curve somehow fits against him. One arm wraps around your back, supporting you. The other reaches forward to rest on the table, creating a barrier between yourself and the rest of the tavern. 

A flick of his wrist summons a serving girl. The moment she sees him, she nods with understanding and rushes off. Within five minutes, two plates are placed before you along with two tankards. You don’t touch the tankard, but you eagerly devour the roasted potatoes and bread on your plate. You don’t even mind having to eat with your hands. 

There is some kind of fatty meat as well, but you can’t identify it. You decide to leave it alone.

Silco eats slowly, barely making a dent in his meal. He pushes his untouched bread to your plate and you don’t hesitate to bite into it. He sips from his tankard and watches the people flooding in and out. 

You aren’t sure what he’s looking for until two men enter the tavern. They approach the booth, ignoring the temptations of food, music, and women. 

“Gentlemen,” Silco nods as they slip into the booth. The conversation that ensues is difficult to follow. They speak of places you’ve never heard of and reference myths and legends as though they are fact. It quickly becomes clear they speak in code to prevent eavesdropping, so you let your attention wander until you realize you’re the object of conversation. 

“And she won’t say a word?” One of the men asks, his voice gruff and his gaze like flint. 

“Her?” Silco’s voice goes soft as he tightens his grip around you. “She’s the sweetest thing under the sun. She’d never hurt a fly, let alone spill secrets that could get someone killed.”

You nearly laugh at the description. No doubt, Silco chose his words to deliver a little dig at you in secret. What you don’t expect is to feel his forehead come to rest against your temple, to feel his nose nudge against your cheek. 

“Isn’t that right, treasure?” He prompts. 

You think quickly and elect to play the fool.

“Hm?” You sit up a little straighter and stifle a false giggle. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. I was listening to the music.” 

“Were you?” His laugh is as forced as your own, but the men across the table seem to buy it. “It’s rather lively, isn’t it? Perhaps, we’ll find a dance hall when I’m finished here. Would you like that?”

The thought of Silco dancing elicits a laugh you can pass off as one of delight. “I would.”

“Where’d you find one like that?” The second man asks. He does not attempt to hide the way he sizes up your body. “She’s high quality.”

“I found her in Piltover, believe it or not,” Silco says. You go tense against him only to feel his fingers press into your back in warning. 

“Piltover?” The first man chuckles. “That’s too rich for my blood. I’m not putting down a month’s wages for a night of fun.”

“I prefer to think of her as an investment.” Silco trails his fingers up your arm. You swallow hard as you fight off the urge to break his fingers. “Besides, Piltover girls are so desperately underfucked they pay for themselves within a week.” 

That pulls a belly laugh from both men as your cheeks burn. You’re doing all you can to keep a leash on your temper when you hear Silco whisper, “isn’t that right?”

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. The men have shifted their attention away from you and back to business. Their conversation quickly concludes and the men see themselves out. 

Once you’re sure you won’t be overhead, you look at Silco. “Underfucked? How dare you?”

“I need to sell a story to explain your presence. Forgive me, if I pull from reality to make it more believable.” He’s baiting you. You know it and you refuse to take it. Instead, you pluck a few potatoes from his plate and stew in silence. When you’re thirsty enough, you take a sip from your tankard. 

Low-quality beer. What else did you expect?

What you wouldn’t give for a glass of sparkling wine or even a sip of rich bourbon. 

The night continues in a similar fashion. Rough-looking men and women slide into the booth to speak with Silco. They speak in code so you quickly give up trying to make heads or tails of what they discuss. Any time your presence is met with suspicion, Silco turns into a most doting keeper, praising your sweetness and your discretion. 

You decide it’s in your best interest to play along. When he nuzzles into your hair, you nuzzle back. If he trails fingers up your arm, you trace mindless patterns over the back of his hand. 

It’s a funny little game of give and take, but it results in a convincing performance. 

“Only one more meeting left,” he says after the booth is vacated once again. You can’t help but notice that he sounds tired. Or, at least, disinterested. 

Before you can say anything, that same stupid drunk from earlier wobbles up to the table. 

“You’ve had ‘er all night and y’haven’t even fucked ‘er.” If possible, he’s even more in his cups than he was before. “Give someone else a turn.”

You shrink away from the drunk, pushing yourself deeper against Silco. His hand splays across your back, his thumb moving in tiny, reassuring strokes. 

“As I said before, the lady is engaged for the evening.”

The drunk pauses, working quite hard to process Silco’s words before shaking his head. “Let her engage in this cock and then you can have her back.”

He juts his hips forward, his shins brushing against your knees. You recoil, tucking your legs under the table. 

The movement sets the drunk off balance. He stumbles forward, catching himself with a splayed hand on your table. 

In a blink, Silco produces a dagger. From where you aren’t certain. You don’t recall him strapping a dagger to his person before you departed the Zaun’s Revenge. You expect Silco to use the knife to emphasize another threat. Instead, Silco plunges the dagger through the drunkard's hand, pinning him to the table.

The drunkard wails and thrashes, which only makes the wound worse. Blood bubbles up where blade meets skin, spilling onto the table’s surface, less than a foot from you. 

This is far from ideal. 

“Do you want to make your request again?” Silco’s voice is as sharp as his blade. 

“N-no,” the drunk whimpers. 

“Do you want to apologize to my companion?” 

“Sorry.” It’s barely audible through his slurring and sobbing. 

“Look her in the eye,” Silco demands.

Slowly, the drunk drags his gaze to meet yours. Sick satisfaction coils in your stomach, purring and pleased with the scene playing out before you. For the first time this evening, your smile is genuine. 

“Apologize,” Silco growls. 

“I’m sorry!” The man’s voice is pleading, desperate. 

Good. 

“Do you forgive him, treasure?” 

You cock your head to the side and take a long moment to consider. After an appropriate amount of time, you shrug as though you couldn’t care less. As though the man’s suffering barely registers in your mind. 

You look over your shoulder at Silco only to find him watching you rather than the man he has pinned. For a split second, you wonder how far you can push this. That pulsing, hot desire to unleash years worth of rage upon the drunken bastard battles against your morals. Your morals win out in the end. Barely. 

“Will you please remove your blade from the poor drunk’s hand?” You ask. 

“Feeling sorry for the lout, treasure?” 

“Not at all.” Your upper lip twitches in disgust. “I just don’t care to have him pinned so close to me. Wasn’t the goal to drive him away?”

“Good point.” With a sharp twist, the knife is removed from the blubbering man’s hand. As soon as he’s no longer pinned in place, you kick out with one leg. You misjudge the distance. What you wished to be a solid kick square to the chest is little more than a tap, but it’s enough to set him off balance. Clutching his hand to his chest, his back crashes into the dirty tavern floor. He’s too drunk and in too much pain to right himself, so he crawls away like the pathetic dog he is. 

“My, my,” Silco’s voice is like a velvet-wrapped blade in your ear. “Does your fiancé know you have a taste for violence?”

“No.” You turn your head toward him causing his nose to brush against the cut of your cheekbone. Why is he always so close? “I didn’t know I had such a taste until I met you.” 

It’s meant to be a scathing insult, but your voice can’t quite summon its usual edge. You hear it. More importantly, he hears it. 

You turn away sharply so you can watch the drunkard’s equally drunken mates attempt to drag him off the floor. The last thing you expect is the gentle brush of Silco’s fingers as he pushes your hair over your shoulder to expose the nape of your neck. A shiver glides over your skin and you suck in a breath to hide it. 

“I didn’t realize I had such an effect on you.” His breath tickles your skin as his fingertips trace a lazy path from the base of your skull, down the curve of your neck, to your shoulder. You fight through another shiver but can do nothing about the goosebumps that spread down your arms. 

“You don’t.” It takes all of your self-control to keep your voice even and unaffected.

“Oh?” His fingers move in gentle circles around your shoulder. You hone in on the sensation only to be caught off guard when his mouth presses into the sensitive spot behind your ear. 

You can’t stop the way your breath hitches in your chest nor can you stop the soft sigh that escapes your lips. 

“Are you certain of that?” 

Insufferable, smug bastard. 

You lean forward and force your back to go ramrod straight.

“Absolutely,” you bristle, cheeks burning. You pray the low lighting of the tavern hides the worst of your blush.

Then, an idea strikes you. 

Admittedly, it’s a stupid idea. A terrible idea, even. But you can’t resist the chance to give him a taste of his own medicine. 

You pretend to notice something amiss with your borrowed boots and lean forward until your chest presses into your thighs. You pretend to correct the imaginary problem, doing all you can to ignore his hand as he grips the soft flesh above your hip. 

Once you’ve spent enough time solving your imagined boot issue, you straighten up again, rolling your hips as you do so. Silco goes stone still. You’re not even sure he’s breathing. Believing you’ve caught him off guard, you roll your hips again. 

Quick as a viper, the hand at your side snakes around your middle and pulls you in tight, locking you in place. That wicked, wicked mouth brushes against your ear. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Finishing what you started.” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. You feel his chuckle more than you hear it.

“Considering the circumstances under which we met, I’m beginning to think you enjoy having me behind you.”

Oh, damn him. 

“I-” you start but your voice fails you as his tongue traces a faint line from the base of your neck to your jaw. Beneath your borrowed shirt, your nipples tighten into sensitive peaks. Every time you draw breath, the fabric brushes against you, only heightening the sensation. 

“What’s that, treasure?” The arm around your middle retracts just enough for his hand to splay partway between your hip and your lower belly. His fingers press into you as his grip tightens, urging you to move against him. “Something about finishing what I started?”

The mocking lilt in his voice stokes something molten deep in your core. You plant a hand on the table, careful to avoid the blood, to push yourself up and away from him. You’d rather walk back to the Zaun’s Revenge alone, dressed like a harlot than admit Silco has the upper hand. 

Before you can even get into a half-seat, slender fingers wrap around your neck while the arm across your middle pulls you back into his lap. 

“What’s the matter? I thought you wanted to play.” When his lips press into your neck once more, you feel the scrape of chipped teeth against your skin. Your body, the traitorous thing, moves of its own accord. Your hips roll again. This time, you feel something pressing into the bottom curve of your ass. 

Now it’s your turn to be smug. You’re getting to him just as much as he’s getting to you. You shift in his lap, just a fraction. When you rock your hips again, you press against him fully. Now, it’s his turn to fail at hiding the hitch in his breath. 

You keep going, rocking back against him as he presses into you. You bite down hard on your bottom lip to suppress a sigh. He’s hard beneath you and you can feel every inch of his length. 

The shatter of breaking glass draws your attention away from your ruinous behavior. You glance around the tavern, terrified you’ll be spotted and branded as a fallen woman but no one pays you any mind. You and Silco may as well be in another realm. No one cares what you’re doing in your shadowy booth in the back of the tavern. 

You let the din surrounding you fade into the back of your mind and allow yourself to relish in the sensation of Silco’s cock rubbing against you through your skirts. 

“I don’t want to play.” You turn your head to whisper in his ear. “I want to win.”

His hand slides from your neck to your sternum. “I’d like to see you try.”

You continue to rock against him, shifting in his lap to ensure you feel as much of him as you can. 

The hand on your chest dips lower, slipping beneath the billowy fabric of your shirt. He cups one breast, thumb grazing over your nipple in a fleeting, teasing movement. 

You swallow your sigh, hoping he’ll try again. No doubt he wants a reaction out of you as much as you want a slower, firmer touch. More kisses are pressed into your neck as his thumb finds your nipple once again. This time, he lingers, swirling gentle circles over the stiff peak. 

Now, you let your sigh escape as your head drops back. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So quick to give in. You want to be obedient, don’t you?”

“It’s not in my nature.”

“Yet, here you are.” He slides his hand over your hip. “Do all of Piltiover’s prized virgins know how to move their hips in such a way?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not among their numbers.”

“Oh?” He pushes up against you. “Has Vander had a taste of his sweet fiancée?”

“Don’t be absurd,” you snap, instantly disappointed in yourself for letting a genuine emotion slip in the middle of your game. 

“Ah.” The rumble of his laughter hums through your bones. “Who has been tasting your honey, if not your fiancé, treasure?”

“How is that any of your business, pirate?” You still your rocking hips only to feel him pull against you in an effort to keep the pressure of your backside against his cock. Warm satisfaction spreads through you as you relish the tiny shred of power you wield over him. A simple, primal power won without skill or strategy, but power nonetheless. “No doubt you’re the sort that believes a woman’s value decreases if she’s been with anyone but her husband.”

“Not at all.” A forefinger joins his thumb to lightly pinch your nipple, pulling a hiss from your mouth. “I care not for being the first. I prefer to dedicate my efforts to being the best.”

“Congratulations. You’re the best pirate to ever grope me in a piss-soaked tavern. How proud you must be.”

“Don’t act all high and mighty, not when we both know what’s to be found beneath those skirts.” The gentle pinch grows to a soft twist before the hand retracts. You nearly whine from the lack of contact, but you’re spared that embarrassment when he moves to your neglected breast, thumb taking up those slow, gentle circles once more. 

“Your arrogance is unmatched.”

The hand on your hip slides to the exposed slice of your leg. 

“Perhaps, I am arrogant,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” 

As his hand moves to your inner thigh, you consider pulling away. The fact you’ve allowed this to go so far is ridiculous. You should stop. 

Then, this stubborn little voice rises inside of you. How many things have you done because it’s what you should do? When was the last time you did something because you wanted to? 

You can’t remember. Knowing it’s only because you shouldn’t want this, you part your legs just a little more. A small rebellion. 

His fingers drag higher before he comes to an abrupt halt. You recall your earlier choice to forgo any kind of undergarment and you’re willing to bet he’s just noticed.

“The Piltlie princess is naughtier than I realized.” His voice is a warm rumble against your neck and his touch slips higher. A thousand sharp remarks and insults fight for dominance on the tip of your tongue but they scatter and fizzle into nothing the moment the tip of his finger drags up the length of your slit. 

You know he feels how wet you are. There’s no denying it’s his doing. When he moans into your hair, you respond by grinding your ass against his cock. 

“Not just naughty,” he groans. “Dirty.”

He makes another long, slow stroke up your center, pulling a shiver from you. You eagerly wait for another, but something has caught his attention. His hand retracts from both your skirt and your top. You bite back a whimper. As much as you wish for the contact to return, you don’t want to be pathetic about it. 

You pull yourself from the haze of your arousal just as two more men settle into the booth across from you. You don’t bother trying to pay attention to the conversation that ensues. You won’t understand a word of it anyway. Silco has made sure of that.

Instead, you focus on getting yourself back under control. You’ve had your fun, but enough is enough. You can’t seriously allow yourself to entertain the notion of…

No, you can’t even bring yourself to think about it. 

You’ve played the part assigned to you. That’s all. 

Business concludes between the three men. When the two strangers leave, you half expect Silco to return his attention to you, but he doesn’t. He signals to the serving wench once more. Moments later, she appears with a paper box. Before you can ask what it contains, a bump of his hip urges you onto your feet. He slides out of the booth and wraps an arm around your waist before leading you out of the tavern.

Night has fallen and the streets have only grown rowdier. 

“Is that all?” You ask.

“Do you want more?” His voice is dark and dangerous, almost enough to make you forget yourself all over again. 

“I’m asking if you’re finished conducting business for the evening if you can even call it that.”

“I am,” he says. “But we both know that’s not what you were asking.”

You say nothing, unwilling to give him even the tiniest inch of satisfaction as he steers you back to the docks. A small part of you wishes to explore the port. To taste the foods hawked by street vendors and dance to music that seems to be interwoven into the very air. But you know it’s not safe to do so in a port like this. 

You’re ushered onto the Zaun’s Revenge . Jinx appears at your side with a hopeful look in her eye. 

“How’d it go?” She asks Silco. 

“Very well,” he replies.

“Anything…interesting?” She leans forward just a touch.

“Interesting?” He feigns confusion. “I don’t know about that, but I did find this.” He holds out the paper box for her, which she quickly plucks from his hand. She nearly shreds it to ribbons in her eagerness to open it, revealing a cluster of sugared sweets that look like little jewels. 

“I haven’t had these in ages,” she sighs, leaning her cheek into his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, minnow,” he says with an indulgent smile. 

Something strange tugs at your heart as Jinx hurries away with her prize. 

As soon as the gangplank is lifted, cutting off any escape you might have had the mind to make, Silco’s arm retracts from your waist. He moves up the deck, issuing commands as his crew hurries to unfurl sails and get underway. 

You make your way to the weather deck in order to get the best view of the port before the Zaun’s Revenge pulls away. It’s a lovely sight from this vantage point, away from the stench and unpleasantness. The streets remind you of stained glass with all of their colored lights. 

The ship pulls away from the dock. You don’t hear Silco approach. He simply appears beside you. 

“You behaved well,” he says. “I’m going to retire to my cabin. You’re welcome to join me or you can remain on deck.”

“You aren’t going to keep an eye on me?” You taunt. 

“Everyone aboard this ship knows to keep an eye on you after last night’s ill-fated escape plan,” he says. “Don’t think you can get away with anything like that again.”

“Does that mean I win?” 

He tilts his head. “Do you think our little game is over?”

“Isn’t it?” You say. “I’m not retiring to your cabin until I intend to sleep. You lose.”

“Oh, how sweet.” He takes a half step closer. “Tell me, what do you think I’d consider a victory?”

You have an answer, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. Fortunately - or unfortunately, you aren’t sure - he answers for you. 

“Just because I’m not carrying you into my cabin to spread your legs, doesn’t mean I’ve lost.”

“Isn’t that exactly what it means?” You match his matter-of-fact tone, holding his gaze. 

“Not at all.” He leans closer. “Perhaps, I won’t get to sink into that eager cunt I felt back

at the tavern. The real victory is knowing how badly you wanted it.”

You pull away from him, an indignant flush heating your face. 

“Don’t deny it, treasure. I felt the proof myself.” With a wink, he leaves you at the bow positively fuming. 

That arrogant, spiteful, infuriating, ridiculous man. You wish you had something to lob at his retreating back. 

Fine, your body may have responded to his touch in a certain way but you felt how hard he was beneath you. He doesn't have the upper hand here. If anything, you’re both humans that enjoy specific aspects of human contact. You can come to terms with that. 

But the fact he thinks he’s won something? Unacceptable. 

You might just sleep on the deck just to make him doubt himself. 

The Zaun’s Revenge drifts out to sea. The lights of Port Fairna fade away within the hour. You look up at the night sky, easily finding Eiredus amongst the glittering pinpricks of light. 

“I ask for help and you give me this?” You mutter. 

“Who are you talking to?” 

You turn to find a sailor stationed at the helm watching you with bleary eyes that point in slightly different directions. 

“The stars,” you answer honestly. 

“Do…do they talk back?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“That’s too bad. I get bored up here by myself.” 

You scan the deck and masts, spotting one crew member up in the crow’s nest and a few clustered together near the bow, deep in conversation. 

“You look tired.” You conjure your softest, tenderest voice. “Have you slept lately?”

“I didn’t sleep well last night. It’s getting to me now.” He yawns as he speaks. 

“Why don’t you take a little nap?” You offer. 

“I have to tend the helm.”

“Is the heading changing anytime soon?” You ask. 

He hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. 

“Take a little nap,” you urge. “I’m not going anywhere for a while. I can handle keeping the wheel straight while you get a little shut-eye.”

“I shouldn’t,” he mumbles, shifting from foot to foot as he fights another yawn. 

“Take half an hour,” you say. “You can’t do your job properly if you’re too tired to see straight.” You wince the second the words are out of your mouth, but the crewmate doesn’t notice your blunder. 

“Good point,” he nods. “Okay. I’ll be right back. Just half an hour.”

“I’ve sailed before,” you assure him. “I know what I’m doing.”

He leaves you in charge. No one clustered at the bow notices the switch. 

You decide to act quickly, just in case someone spots you. You grasp the wheel and turn the ship ever so slightly. You don’t cause a dramatic shift in movement. All you want to do is throw the Zaun’s Revenge off course, just slightly. Just to be petty. Just to create a headache for Silco in a few hours when he realizes his ship isn’t where he wants it to be. A little victory of your own.

A half-hour passes, and the crewmate returns to the helm. He notices nothing out of the ordinary and thanks you for helping him out. With a smile, you take your leave and make your way to the Captain’s cabin. 

Silco sits at his desk, the space illuminated by a single lantern. 

You don’t look at him as you remove your borrowed corset and climb into his bed. 

You aren’t sure how long it’s been when you’re startled awake by a violent boom of

thunder and a harsh rock of the ship. Before you can sit up, the ship rocks again, nearly spilling you onto the floor. 

You look through the window as lightning flashes. The Zaun’s Revenge has been swallowed by a vicious storm. 

Chapter Text

You grasp at anything you can sink your fingers into.

Silco is on his feet, shoving on his boots and buttoning his shirt.

"What's happening?" you ask, knowing it's a stupid question and you'll likely get an insulting answer.

"Storm," he grunts before striding out of the cabin. You hear shouts between crew members and quickly realize the ship isn't facing a simple squall.

You tug on your boots and leave the cabin. 

The deck is in chaos. The lanterns have been extinguished by the storm. The only source of light comes from rapid flashes of lightning. You dart into the fray. You might not be the savviest sailor of the bunch but storm protocols had been drilled into your head as a precaution. 

The crew scurries along the deck and up into the rigging to secure the sails so the Zaun's Revenge doesn't get pulled further into the storm.

You move without thought, grabbing a line and yanking with all your might. The twine digs into your hands as rain pelts your skin but you keep pulling until your line gives way, but yours is one of three that can sheet the sail in question. 

The tattooed man that rowed you aboard yanks on one, but the third seems to be stuck some­where along the mast.

Rain comes down in violent sheets, pelting you hard enough to leave welts on your skin. It hurts to tip your face to the sky but something has to be done about the jammed rigging.

Lightning flashes just as you happen to steal a quick glance at the sails. For a split second, the world is thrown into light and you spot twin streaks of bright blue shimmying across the yard of the foresail.

A dark wave smashes into the port side, sending you reeling back. Even Sevika loses her footing and hits the railing with enough force that the tattooed man has to grab her to keep her from tumbling into the raging sea.

Another bolt of lightning has you glancing up at the foremast. Jinx is nowhere to be seen. 

The ship is thrown into darkness once more. Waves rise and fall on all sides of the Zaun's Revenge , some high enough to blot out the low-hanging stars strung between the horizon and the storm clouds.

Between the rain and waves, you’re caught in a constant downpour. Your clothing sticks to you like a second skin, offering no protection from the biting wind. With great effort, you make it to the base of the foremast. You reach out to steady yourself against the wood only to touch a shoulder instead.

You're struck by bits of metal woven through braids as Jinx spins around.

"Hold this!" she demands before you can process relief that she's not fighting for her life overboard in the dark. She shoves a length of rigging into your hands. "Hold tight and brace your­self."

You wrap your hands around the line but you aren't sure what you're meant to brace for. You're already doing all you can to stay upright as the ship bucks against the sea.

When the next lightning strike hits, Jinx fires a single shot. The line in your hands goes slack. If the line is severed, how can the sail be secured?

"Pull," Jinx instructs, taking up some of the rigging. You pull with her, fully expecting the line to come down around your feet but it doesn't.

Somehow, Jinx fixed the rigging with an impossible shot, using a pistol that still fired after being thoroughly drenched. You don't have time to ponder that mystery. 

A terrible crack rings out over the roar of the storm.

You fear the worst, expecting to see one of the masts fractured, careening toward the deck. Thankfully, that hasn’t happened. One of the remaining unfurled sails has broken loose from the rigging and flaps around like a beast in a trap. 

You turn to Jinx only to find yourself standing alone.

Turning your back to the wind, you drag yourself toward the stern. There is nothing you can do to secure the loose part of the sail, so you fall in line with the rest of the crew working to get it at least mostly furled. The sail will not escape being damaged in the storm, but it also won't catch the wind and drag the Zaun's Revenge further into the heart of the storm. 

You repeat the process over and over, following the lead of the crew members around you. They say nothing to you aside from an occasional correction. Most seem glad to have an extra pair of hands able to fight against the wind.

Your hands sting, burning both from the roughness of the hemp lines and the vicious chill in the air, but you push on until all of the sails are tucked up.

Now, the Zaun's Revenge only has to battle the water. The notion brings you no relief as a cresting wave pours onto the deck, knocking you off your feet.

Sputtering and scrambling, you grapple for purchase and attempt to orient yourself.

You spot an orange glow, an ember in the dark. Lightning splinters across the sky revealing Silco at the helm. Eyes shining and teeth bared, he snarls at the storm as if he would dominate a very force of nature. As if he would succeed in doing so. As if it were a question of pure willpower and nothing else.

And here you are, crumpled on the deck, unable to move, completely and utterly captivated by him.

The trance breaks only when you're roughly hauled to your feet. You aren't sure who pulled you up. Whoever it was is already gone. Remembering yourself, you focus on being useful, lending a hand where you can.

You aren't sure how much time passes when a hand takes hold of your forearm. You don't have to look to know who it is. His touch has already become recognizable to you.

Silco pulls you across the deck, ensuring you stay upright when waves assault the hull. He doesn't look back at you and you can barely make out his shape through the rain.

Above, you think you see slivers of moonlight breaking through the clouds. You consider that a good sign. Perhaps the worst of the storm is over. 

Silco brings you into his quarters, shutting out the storm when you're both inside. The quiet of the room shocks your senses, though it's far from silent. 

The ship creaks and groans as she's thrown about like a child's toy in a bathtub. The wind howls as rain slams into that unusual window. Yet, it's still quiet enough for you to hear Silco's labored breathing as he braces himself against his desk. Your own breathing is far from quiet as well, though adrenaline stops you from feeling the effects of so much physical labor. 

Your heart pounds. You're shocked you can't hear it.

"You shouldn't have been out there," Silco says after regaining much of the composure you've come to expect from him.

"You needed all the help you could get." 

You move toward the desk, deciding the bed isn't solid enough to brace on. If you lie down, you'll never get back up. Once you catch your breath, you have every intention of going back out to help. 

The ship pitches and you can't correct yourself in time. You brace, prepared to crash into something when Silco's arm slips around your waist and pulls you flush against him.

You gaze up at him, lips parted in surprise. Weak moonlight, fighting against the thick storm clouds with all its might, bleeds into the room. Soft green light just barely allows you to see Silco's face in the dark, save for that eye which gives off a faint glow of its own. He looks surprised to find you so close to him though he's the one who pulled you in. 

His good eye dips to your mouth.

Something tightens in your core. You feel the ghosts of his touches in the tavern gliding over your skin. Warmth blooms on your neck exactly where his lips brushed your skin before. Your shirt, made completely translucent by the rain, does nothing to conceal the stiff peaks of your nipples.

The ship rocks again. Your chest brushes against his and a soft sigh escapes your lips.

That's all it takes. That little sound shatters the frost-thin barrier of restraint between you and him. The arm around the small of your back tightens and his free hand grips your jaw.

He kisses you hard, not giving you even a moment to think before taking your bottom lip between his teeth. He bites down hard enough to make you gasp. The tip of his tongue glides over your lip, soothing the small hurt he just inflicted.

The cabin pitches, pulling you backward. 

You grab fistfuls of his shirt with the intention of keeping yourself in place against him but he pushes forward, using the momentum of the ship to direct you to the bed. Between feverish, almost desperate kisses, you take the chance to bite him back, pulling a deep laugh from his chest.

"Little fighter," he murmurs against your mouth right before he pushes you back onto the bed.

Your skirt flares around you, leaving your legs exposed. You gaze up at him from the bed, his figure a dark slash through the moonlit room, eye glowing like a tiny sun.

He runs both hands up your legs as he leans forward. One hand comes up to pinch a nipple through your shirt while the other urges your legs apart. He covers his body with yours, slotting his hips between your thighs. You wind a hand into his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours.

He rocks into you, groaning when you push up into him. You feel him straining against his pants. He pushes, you push back. You grab at him, he grabs at you. You match every bite and tug and pull, inflicting yourselves on each other until he pulls away just enough to look at you.

You know you must look a sight. Chest heaving beneath your soaked-through shirt. Lips swollen from violent kisses. Cheeks flushed and hair fanned out around you in a messy halo.

You expect him to look undone too if the fierceness behind his kisses and the hard press of him against you is anything to go by. Except he doesn't. At all. 

He looks at you the same way he looked at the storm. Like you're a force to be dominated and he relishes the challenge.

The way he watches you stirs something in your chest, something beyond a simple desire for carnal pleasure. You swallow it down before lifting your head, eager to wipe out every thought with more kisses.

He doesn't let you kiss him. Delight glitters in his good eye as he denies you. The corner of his mouth lifts into something between a smirk and a sneer.

"For such a mean little creature, you're very needy."

Anger stokes inside you, creating a twin flame to your desire.

"For someone so above it all," you say with as much disdain as you can muster, "you're awfully desperate."

A hollow chuckle tears from the hard set of his mouth. His beryl eye narrows as he studies you, searching for something.

No, not searching, you soon realize. Waiting.

A breath before you start squirming under his scrutiny, a long-fingered hand binds your wrists together and pins them over your head. The movement is so fast and fluid you don't have a chance to react until it's too late. He has you pinned.

His free hand drags up your thigh and higher still. A sharp, stuttering gasp rips from your throat as he drags an icy finger through the slick heat at the apex of your thighs.

"Are you wet for me again, treasure? Or are you wet for me still?"

That infernal smugness, that damn self-assuredness, makes your blood boil.

"I could ask you the same question, pirate," you snarl, remembering who you are. You arch against him, pressing yourself against his length. "Have you been aching and hard since the tavern or do I have that strong of an effect on you?" 

"You're asking the wrong question," he murmurs.

"What question should I be asking?" 

"Not how hard you make me." He removes his hand from between your thighs to press himself into you. "But if you want it"

You open your mouth to answer only to stop yourself by digging your teeth into your bottom lip.

"Don't go quiet on me now," he taunts. "That bratty little mouth of yours must have plenty to say."

You clench your teeth, unwilling to bend your pride so quickly. 

"Come on, treasure," he purrs. "Do you want it?"

"Yes," the word bubbles from your lips before you can rein yourself in. But why should you rein yourself in? You want him. You want him so badly, you could bottle your desire and sell it to fools and romantics alike.

Fabric bristles as he frees himself from the constricting fit of his trousers. You wiggle your hips in an ineffective attempt to get your skirt out of the way. He lowers himself, the head of his cock brushes against your center. Every nerve in your body hones in on that little point of forbidden contact.

Your gaze flicks up to his, your eyes meet, and the world seems to go still and quiet. The ship ceases her rocking. The wind silences its ravenous howl.

Then the ocean's chaos ignites once more. Lightning flashes, bright and blinding, as he slides into you. Roaring, booming thunder cracks through the world, masking the cry that rips from your throat as he buries himself to the hilt.

While it's been several years since you'd been intimate with anyone, no amount of practice could have prepared you for this.

For him.

Thick, throbbing, and hard as steel, you struggle to take him. He isn't gentle or slow as he plunges into you again and again, yet you relish the shocks of pain deliciously woven into the pleasure.

His head drops, his mouth finding the tender spot he lavished tiny, teasing kisses upon only hours ago. You expect more of those kisses now only to cry out once again as he sinks his teeth into you.

"Too rough for the soft, pretty heiress?" he laughs against your skin, content to give you those feather-light kisses now. Arms still pinned above you, the only thing you can do is turn your head toward him. Your lips brush his ear. The moan that escapes him is a gravelly echo of the thunder rumbling all around you. You do it again and again until you find his earlobe...

And bite . 

Your canine punctures delicate skin. Silco's breath hitches as he pulls back.

Surprise, shock even, simmers behind that burning eye and lingers in the twitch of his upper lip. You enjoy it, both the sight and the knowledge that you can catch him off guard even when you're on your back, hands pinned and thighs spread.

Even with his cock buried inside of you, pulling your mind deeper into a haze of pleasure with every punishing thrust, you are not outmatched. 

Free from the confines of your world, a world of rules and expectations forever keeping you off-balance - your poor imitation of peace as fragile as an eggshell - you can go head-to-head with the most fearsome pirate in the realm and catch him off guard.

Now that you've had that little taste of power, you want more. You want it as badly as you want Silco's next thrust or bite or kiss.

"Rough enough for you, pirate?" Now it's your turn to laugh, to let him see you mock him.

His snarl sharpens as he brings his face closer to yours, the glow of his eye casting faint firelight on your cheek. Perhaps he intends to intimidate you but you're long past that. You lift your head as though you might kiss him only to run your tongue over his expectant lips before snapping your teeth as though you would bite him again.

A low growl reverberates through his chest, humming through your skin, deep into your bones.

"Not nearly," he speaks in the lowest murmur.

His words should have been swallowed by the screaming storm, but his voice is the clearest sound to you. The hand grasping your wrists vanishes, finding a home in a loose grip around your neck while the other slips behind your knee to drape your leg over his shoulder. 

His next thrust sinks deeper. New sensations, new pleasures unlike anything you've ever felt before shoot sparks through your body.

The ship rocks suddenly, so violently you find yourself tilting at nearly a ninety-degree angle.

Silco stumbles back, leaving you spread on the bed as he catches himself on the desk. Now that your hands are free, you push yourself up, ready to yank Silco back to you, until you spot a chance you cannot pass up. You're on your feet in half a heartbeat. When he sees you standing, he moves toward you.

You could let him catch you. Pin you down again. Dominate you. You could let yourself drown in him. A considerable part of you wants that, but a bigger, hungrier part wants to make him drown in you . 

The rocking of the ship works in your favor. You collide with him, pushing him back toward the cushioned alcove.

Between the surprise of your advance and the unpredictable movement of the ocean, he can’t overpower you. He's at your mercy as you use every advantage to send him tumbling back against the cushioned seat.

Instinct moves your hand faster than the rest of your body. You cup the back of his head as he falls back. You can't have him cracking his skull on the lovely lattice of his strange green window.

His back hits the cushion and his head comes to rest on one of the many plush pillows. You use the momentum of the rocking ship to propel yourself forward so you're straddling him.

Once he realizes he's pinned beneath you, he glares up at you. Snarling and furious. You can only laugh as you lean forward, brushing your lips against his ear as you lift your hips.

"Looks like I've won our little game." You pull away to watch his face as you place both hands on his shoulders to pin him in place. You know he's stronger than you. He has not hesitated to prove that at every opportunity and you don't want to lose your advantage, this delicious upper hand.

His hand shoots up as if he means to grab for your throat but you're faster. You lower yourself, taking him inside of you once more. The fury in his eyes flickers out. His ocean eye flutters closed as his head falls back. Chipped teeth sink into his bottom lip as you ride him with excruciating slowness.

"You think this is your victory?" What begins as a taunting laugh melts into a groan as you sink down once more.

Hands grip your hips, fingertips digging hard into your skin.

"Isn't it? I've got the Eye on his back."

"And I have a silver spoon heiress riding me like I paid for her. Seems like I'm the victorious one."

"And if I should stop?" You go still above him, the head of his cock just barely inside of you. Cutting yourself off from the pleasure is painful, but worth it if it means depriving him.

"Do you want to stop?" he asks, peering up at you as another flash of lightning slashes through the storm clouds.

You shake your head, unable to voice the truth of it, that you'd sink much lower than you already have if it meant you could keep playing this game.

"And if I were to take control?" Just like that, the game is on once more. Your smile returns, laced with mockery and spite to mask the true, untempered desire writhing just beneath your skin.

"You aren't in a position to take anything unless I give it to you."

"Oh," he grins. "Is that what you think?"

You open your mouth, a sharp parry ready on the tip of your tongue, but those words never get the chance to pass your lips.

Silco's hands slide from your hips to the narrow of your waist. His grip promises a constellation of bruises on the morrow. You attempt to lower yourself again, certain you can regain control if you can just take him within you once more. He doesn't allow you to move an inch. You try to pull back, but you're unsuccessful.

"What's the matter, little treasure?" He thrusts up slowly, inflicting the same torturous pace on you as you did on him. A low, pleading whine rips from your throat, equal parts begging and anger.

You never had the upper hand over him. Perhaps, you caught him by surprise when you pressed your advantage but he knew exactly how he'd play this the moment his back hit the cushion. You may be on top of him but he has control.

"You don't need to fight so hard," His voice is gentle and warm. Another one of his many deceptions. Does he have anything that resembles a true self? Or is he just layer upon layer of masks, tricks, and farces?

He sits up, pulling you deeper into the seat of his lap. Your knees slot against his sides as he buries his face in your neck. Hands still around your waist, he holds you suspended, refusing to enter you fully.

"So lovely, yet so stubborn," he purrs. "Don't you want to feel good, treasure?"

You do. Damn you to the frozen abyss, but you want every little drop of pleasure he offers. You'll lick it off his fingers and drink it from his lips. You can admit that to yourself. Admitting it to him is an entirely different beast.

"Yield to me."

Something fractures in you. You cave under the weight of always wanting what you can't have and always fighting for a scrap of control you never had a chance of holding in the first place. 

You relax into his hands, allowing him to hold you up.

"Good girl," he hums into your skin, holding you as he fucks you in earnest. "I'm going to take good care of you." 

One hand leaves your waist, traveling to the low neckline of your sea-soaked blouse. One sharp tug rips the fabric. It hangs useless against your sides as Silco marks a trail of nips and kisses from your neck to your breasts.

You suck in a breath and wait for the scrape and bite of teeth, eagerly anticipating pain to mix in with pleasure. When it doesn't come, you wait for whatever tease he has planned. Surely, he has something planned to get back at you for trying to turn the tables on him.

The tip of his tongue glides over your nipple in a soft, slow lick. He does it over and over again, the sensation starkly contrasting the powerful thrusts of his hips.

His mouth, fiery hot against the chill of your skin, closes around your nipple. Each gentle, honey-sweet suck of his mouth makes you whimper. You want to beg, but you aren't sure what you'd beg for.

Every time his cock brushes against a certain spot deep within you, something you never knew existed before now, the burning coil tightens low in your belly. Yet the tender ministrations of his mouth have you floating on soft clouds. The dueling sensations are almost too much to handle but if he were to stop, you fear you'd die of want on the spot.

How dare he reduce you to a wet, whimpering mess? How dare you enjoy it so much?

You hate him.

You hate him.

You hate him... and he's going to make you cum. That coil inside of you is going to spring loose. You clench around his cock, earning an appreciative groan that vibrates over the nipple in his mouth.

Your gaze lifts to the whorling window lattice just in time to see a wave slam into the glass. It does not break, but the force of the wave's impact pitches the ship. You fly backward, smacking hard into the desk. 

Silco staggers to his feet, reaching for you. You grasp at his forearms, aching for him and furious that the storm robbed you of your release.

You look at Silco as bolts of lightning illuminate the cabin. You could scramble to gain an advantage over him again. No doubt similar thoughts are running through his mind as he stares at you.

Another rough wave has you both scrambling for balance. The realization hits you both simultaneously.

You could spend hours fighting each other for dominance but the sea can rip you apart whenever it pleases. While fighting each other is fun and frustrating in equal measure, you could work together to take your respective pleasures despite the storm's fury.

"The desk is bolted in place," he says. "Find a way to take hold."

One look at the desk tells you the only option is to bend over the surface and grip the edge. You do so without a second thought.

Silco is right behind you, lifting your skirts and circling a fingertip over that sensitive bundle of nerves before you've had a chance to grip the wood of the desk.

He slides into you with a grunt and leans forward, his chest against your back. His hands find yours, guiding them to the edge of the desk.

"Hold tight, beauty. I won't be ripped from you again."

You nod and curl your fingers around the lip of the desk.

"So good," he murmurs, his mouth at your ear. "So tight and wet and perfect."

You arch and push your hips against him, urging him deeper with every buck of his sharp hips. You flip one hand, turning it palm up against his. He laces his fingers through yours and still manages to keep hold of the desk.

"Do you know what I'm thinking about, little treasure?" he groans.

"I can guess," you reply, swallowing your own moan to do so.

"I'm thinking about your wedding night." 

Oh. No, you could not have guessed that. 

"Why?" is all you can muster in response as each push of his cock winds that coil inside of you ever tighter.

"Because when you fall back on your honeymoon bed, you won't be thinking of your new husband."

"Oh?" That coil winds ever tighter, growing hotter by the second.

"You'll be thinking of me," he murmurs. "When you lie back for him you'll hear my voice in your head. You'll see my face when you close your eyes. And when you cum, it will be my name that spills from those pretty lips."

Indignation lights up your blood but you can't hide the way the very thought makes you clench around him.

"You like that, don't you?" he chuckles as one of his hands leaves the desk to slip between your thighs. He strokes you as he fucks you, sending you hurtling toward your release. "Say my name and I'll make you cum sweeter than you ever have before."

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, unwilling to give him the satisfaction even though you've given him everything else.

"Still fighting against your own desires?" His laugh is a dark, mean blade that slices through your thoughts. "Poor darling."

He bucks into you, each thrust pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

You're close. So painfully, exquisitely close. All you have to do is say one little word. Two syllables. That's it.

"I want to feel you when you come undone," he sighs. "Just say my name, little treasure."

"Silco," you whisper into the wooden surface of the desk.

"Louder, beauty. I can't hear you." His breath hitches in his chest as his thrusts quicken.

"Silco!” you cry. 

A moment later, the combination of his skillful fingers and relentless cock shatter you. You don't bother hiding the sounds that tumble from your mouth as you cum. He buries himself inside of you, throbbing with his release, as violent as the storm surrounding you.

A shudder rips through you when he pulls out. You expect him to leave you where you are, legs trembling as you grapple with the pleasure fog that coats your mind.

Instead, his hands find their way to your middle. He coaxes you upright, catching you against his chest when you can't quite manage to stand tall.

"You've impressed me, treasure," he says. 

"Thank goodness. I don't know how I'd survive if you didn't think I was good in bed,” you scoff. 

"I'd hoped you'd be so pleasure-addled, your natural venom wouldn't return right away," he chuckles.

"Hope is for fools, pirate." 

The ship rocks again. You'd be on your ass if Silco weren't holding you up.

"How is it that you are more cynical after drowning in carnal bliss?" He asks. "Do you need me to drown you again?"

Yes. Yes. Yes. More. You want more. You don't care if your body can’t handle it. You want him to turn your brain off and rip you from reality.

"Come along, little treasure." He urges you to step forward, supporting you as you move. Another rock of the ship has you clinging to him like a lifeline.

"You're so much more docile when you're cock-drunk," he murmurs.

"Yet, you're still an ass when you're cunt-struck."

He falters for a moment before barking out a laugh with a toss of his head.

"Oh, that's unfortunate," he chuckles, leading you to the bed. He guides you as you crash into the mattress. Your legs still feel wobbly beneath you and the thrashing ship has now become a hindrance rather than an advantage. 

"What is?" You roll onto your back as he lifts your legs onto the bed.

"I think I'm starting to like you, treasure." 

Your mind is too thick with pleasure, adrenaline, and fatigue to come up with anything clever to say in response.

You look in the direction of his voice only to find he's no longer there.

Figures.

You settle into bed, face turned toward the ceiling. Something lands beside you with a soft whomp . Before you can figure out what it was, a hand grasps beneath your knee and opens your legs.

A little thrill runs through you though you aren't sure you can take him again. Not so soon. Not when you're still so sensitive. Not when every nerve is still alight.

Instead, something cool and damp presses against your center, soothing the burn and the ache. It moves in soft, gentle circles. You lift your head to find Silco bent over you, a hand up your skirt while the other holds your legs open.

Understanding washes over you. He's cleaning you. He's tending to you. You almost can't believe the gentle touch you feel now comes from the same man who just pushed your body to its limit, leaving a map of bruises and bite marks in his wake.

"You-" you stammer but you can't quite find the words. Your confusion must come through in your voice, for Silco's gaze snaps to yours as he removes the cloth.

"I'm not as monstrous as you think me to be."

A flash of lightning illuminates the cabin and the sharp lines of his face. Something lingers beneath his expression, bleeding through the neutrality he wears as one of his many masks. The cabin is thrown into darkness once more before you have a chance to decipher it.

"Besides," when he speaks again, his voice carries its usual lilt, controlled but with a hint of amusement. "If I don't take care of my playthings, they break before I can use them again."

You turn away from him with a scoff and he releases your leg.

"I've put dry clothes on the bed," he says, standing up and stepping away. "You may change when you're ready, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't completely soak my bedding."

"Are you staying in your wet clothes?" you ask, lifting your head.

"It wouldn't be very smart of me to change only to soak them through again the moment I step outside."

"You're going back out there?" 

"It's my ship that's getting tossed about. My crew battling the elements. Of course, I'm going back out there."

"So am I." You lift your head but can't seem to do much else.

"You are to remain here," he says. "I can’t be worried about you causing trouble or falling overboard."

"Here? With all these pretty, shiny blades?" 

He's hovering over you in an instant, so close his nose brushes against yours.

"By all means, help yourself," he challenges. "You'll be restrained and searched. Thoroughly." 

"You shouldn't make your threats sound like promises," you smirk and force an edge into your voice. You want to go back to familiar territory. Barbed words and uncloaked disdain. You know how to handle that.

He chuckles as he pulls away but says nothing else as he makes for the door. He pries it open, allowing the storm's chaos to spill into the cabin. Biting wind slices at your exposed skin, making you curl onto your side in an attempt to escape it. 

A harsh, needy instinct grips you. A need for warmth, for contact. To be held and sheltered.

The cabin door slams shut. The wind stops. You're able to push those silly needs out of your mind long enough to change into dry clothes.

Silco provided you with only a shirt. One of his. Long enough to keep you covered but not very warm. You burrow into the driest parts of the bedding hoping the rest will dry soon so you can wrap yourself thoroughly against the chill.

The room is cold, obviously, but it's so much colder without Silco sharing the space. You tell yourself that's how rooms work. Rooms are warmer when they contain more sources of heat. People, in this case.

You don't want Silco, you just want warmth. You repeat that thought every time a shiver shakes your body. Every time your teeth chatter.

The longing for contact only grows but you ignore it. You'll warm up soon and those unhelpful feelings will go away. They always do.

********

When you next open your eyes, the sea is calm and quiet. Unnervingly so after last night's violence. Pretty green-gold light fills the room.

Footfalls thunder overhead. It doesn't strike you as unusual until you hear shouting. Not the normal shouts of a crew relaying information but shouts of anger and alarm.

Dread pools in your belly as the shouts grow louder and the footfalls more erratic.

Logic tells you to stay put but what if The Hound has found you? If this was a rescue, surely you should get on deck quickly.

You scramble out of bed only to remember your state of dress. You can't leave this room in nothing more than one of Silco's shirts. You rub the deep green fabric of his sleeve between your fingers as your gaze settles on the wardrobe.

You grab at the skirt you left discarded on the cabin floor. It's still damp. Heavy and cold. You decide to rifle through the wardrobe in search of garments discarded by... previous guests.

Something sour twists in your stomach as you realize you've added yourself to Silco's no doubt lengthy list of conquests.

It shouldn't bother you. You didn't do everything you did last night because you thought it meant something. You're not a fool in that regard, at least.

You find a pair of fitted black breeches. They don't look like Silco's but they don't seem like they've been worn, either. You hold them against your hips. They should fit. It's not like it has to be perfect. You just need to be decent.

You wiggle into the pants and pull on your borrowed boots before pulling on the cabin door. You half-expect it to be locked but it opens easily.

Briefly, you wonder if the unlocked door is some kind of test. He didn't say as much but surely Silco expected you to stay put until he returned. He didn't want you out in the storm. 

In fairness, you didn't particularly want to go back into the storm. But the storm is over. There's no reason he should expect you to stay in the cabin now that the weather is fair. If he does, it's his own fault for not voicing his expectations.

Not that you would have heeded him. Just because you allowed him to take control last night doesn't mean it carried over into this morning.

That decides it. You pull open the door only to find Silco at the top of the short flight of stairs leading to the deck, his back to you.

You move quietly, listening intently. The shouts have quieted, which is less than helpful.

"You should return to your ship while I allow you to do so," Silco's voice is cold and deadly under the guise of a gentleman's speech.

"You will not listen to my offer?" An unfamiliar accented voice speaks, as cool and languid as Silco’s though not nearly as effective. It’s as if the stranger is trying to mimic Silco but doesn't have the skill or power to do so.

"No." Silco's answer is absolute. 

"Terrible business practice," the stranger tuts.

You crouch low as you move, peeking around Silco's legs. You're definitely not getting rescued.

The stranger wears an ostentatious golden coat, leaving his chest bare to display an array of detailed tattoos. Your gaze ticks to his face and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from gasping.

The tattoo of a realistic human jawbone, teeth and all, over his fully flesh jaw, is jarring enough, but... his eyes. Catlike. Reptilian. You aren't sure which.

It's not the inhumanness of his eyes that puts you off. You'd been looking at Silco for two days, after all. His molten eye is far more dramatic than the eyes of the stranger, but the stranger's eyes are much colder. Meaner.

You can't put your finger on it, but the stranger scares you more than Silco ever has.

You sink down a step, fully out of sight. You don't know who that man is or what he wants but you want nothing to do with him. 

You should have stayed in the cabin.

"Are you dissatisfied with business of late?" Silco asks. "Don't tell me you've already spent the coin from your share of the Montras fang payout?"

Montras? Your brain snags on the name. A childhood fairytale leaps to the forefront of your mind. A legendary, immortal creature of the deep. A whale of sorts, though it doesn't truly fit into that category. Its teeth are said to have life-extending properties.

Silco spoke of several mythical beasts and artifacts in the tavern. You'd assumed he spoke in code but now you were less sure.

"It's not your concern," the stranger says. "But kidnapping an heiress and keeping the money and glory all to yourself is my concern."

Silco chuckles. "You feel entitled to a cut of a job you didn't plan and didn't execute? Come now, Finn. You're not that stupid."

The stranger, Finn, chuckles. "Of course not. That's why I've taken this most serendipitous meeting to make an offer."

"I'm listening."

Your blood goes cold. You make another attempt to scoot down the stairs, but you slip. You hit the next step down with a thunk. It's not loud, but loud enough for Silco to hear. His head twitches to the side as if he means to look at you, but he catches himself.

"Is that where you're keeping her?" Finn asks. "Let's see the pretty heiress, hm?"

Silco looks over his shoulder, fixing you under the gaze of his good eye. You can't get a read on his expression.

"Come here, treasure," he says, his voice equal parts coaxing and commanding.

You shake your head. You don't want Finn to see you. You don't trust the slime oozing through his voice. You don't trust those reptilian eyes.

"Nothing is going to happen to you," Silco assures you. “Come here."

You could bolt back into the cabin now that you don't have to be worried about stealth. But what good would that do? There's nowhere to run, whether you stay put or try to hide in the cabin. 

You weigh your options though, if you're being honest, you have none. 

You pull yourself to your feet and climb the stairs. Silco extends an arm, guiding you to stand at his side. He drapes that arm around your shoulders, an obvious display of dominance, ownership even. But this display isn't a stunt to keep you in line, but a signal to Finn.

Realizing this, you allow yourself to nestle against his side. Your hand takes a secret, but fierce grip on the back of his coat. This is just another game, you assure yourself, like the one you played in the tavern. 

"You'll be fine," he whispers before jerking his chin at Finn. "Here's the heiress. What's your proposition?"

"You hold her for ransom, yes?" Finn asks. 

"No, I'm giving her a pleasure tour of the far isles." Silco's annoyance bleeds into the air. "Of course, I've organized a ransom."

"Say you are set upon by a band of corsairs," Finn says, "You give her up to save your own hide. Return to her father and offer your expensive tracking services. You make more than the original ransom and your fleet gets a cut for their cooperation. A win across the board."

Fleet? Silco has a fleet? Since when do pirates organize fleets?

Silco looks over your head to Sevika, who looks as though she's about to keel over with boredom. Today, she wears a tri-forked blade attachment instead of a hook or wooden hand.

"Am I wrong or has Finn grown stupider since we saw him last?" Silco asks her. 

"He's definitely stupider," Sevika snorts. "What should we do about it?"

"I could always take her," Finn says, pushing his coat aside to reveal a pistol. "Claim the ransom myself. Get what I'm owed."

"Owed?" Silco chuckles. "Tell me, what are you owed?"

"I wait with the others for orders," he sneers. "We go weeks, sometimes months without word from you."

"I didn't realize I prevented you from supporting yourself between assignments. Sevika?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Did I issue a command that prevents any of the Sea Barons from providing for themselves while I search for work?"

"No, Captain."

"That's what I thought." Silco looks at the deck as he makes a show of thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "I know what you want, Finn."

"The riches promised to me when I joined your fleet."

"Perhaps," Silco nods. "But more importantly, you want to sit on your ass on a ship I provided you, surrounded by a crew I provided, and rake in a cut of the profits regardless of whether or not you contributed."

"I-" Finn starts but Silco doesn't allow him the chance to get a word in.

"You want a slice of the prize my little heiress will net." His grip tightens on you. "Tell me, where does she live?"

"Piltover.”

"More specifically," Silco prompts. He waits a moment. When Finn doesn't answer, he presses on. "What is her father's annual income? How much is the ransom? Where will the exchange take place? Who is her fiancé? Can you even tell me her name?" 

Finn remains silent.

Silco scoffs. "You board my ship and demand I alter a plan that has been in motion for months so you can weasel out a cut."

Months? No, that's impossible. You would have noticed something amiss, that you were being watched. Targeted. Wouldn't you?

"As I said. My crew and I have been without work for far too long. We are prepared to relieve you of the heiress."

Only now do you notice that not everyone on deck is part of Silco's crew. Many of the faces you look upon aren't familiar to you, but nearly a dozen sailors draw weapons on Finn's order.

Silco doesn't seem worried, even with an arsenal of weapons pointed at his chest.

With a snarl, Sevika draws her pistol and raises her arm, letting her triple blade catch the sunlight. The tattooed man draws two formidable axes. Everyone on deck besides you and Silco have weapons drawn.

You shrink behind him though you don't take your eyes off Finn until you see a blue head appear from the galley stairs.

Jinx takes in the tense situation with a curious frown. The moment she spots Finn, her sapphire eyes narrow, and her upper lip curls in disgust.

"What's going on?" she asks, weaving through the deck, taking time to size up every pirate that doesn't belong on the Zaun's Revenge.

"Nothing more than a boy throwing a tantrum while masquerading as a man," Silco spits.

Finn glances at two of his crewmates, the two closest to Jinx.

Finn gives a single nod. From there, everything happens too quickly for you to process.

Silco leaves your side right as Jinx's gaze snaps to Finn's crew members. Fast as a whip, Jinx draws two pistols and fires perfect shots clean through the skulls of the two crewmen advancing on her.

Finn draws his pistol and aims for Jinx. A cry claws at your throat but Finn never fires. Silco is upon him before he gets the chance, plunging a blade through his chest.

You stagger back, hands clamped over your mouth to muffle your scream as Finn's chest turns red, blood pouring thick enough to cover his tattoos. He crumples, lifeless, his blood seeping into the deck.

Silco cuts through another one of Finn's men. You watch Sevika cut down three of them without hesitation.

Jinx scrambles away from the thick of the fight, wild-eyed as she watches Silco. Her fingers never leave the triggers of her firearms.

Within a minute, it's all over. Every one of Finn's crew members lay dead.

Silco wipes his bloodied blade on a nearby body before sheathing it.

Jinx still stands, pistols drawn. Her breath comes in jagged puffs. Silco moves toward her, hands out.

"It's over, minnow," he says gently. 

Her eyes snap to his. After a moment her breathing evens out. She lowers her weapons. Only then does she seem to take in the bodies strewn across the deck.

"Did I... do this?" she asks, her voice pinched.

“You only did what was necessary,” Silco insists. “Those fools sealed their fates the moment they followed Finn onto our ship."

She nods, though she still looks a little... frantic.

"Why don't you work on one of your projects for a time, hm?" Silco suggests. "I'm rather curious about the magnetic cannon balls."

Magnetic what now?

"I don't have a working prototype yet," Jinx mumbles, looking at her feet.

"That's of no matter. Genius takes time," he reassures her. "I'll check on you later. Perhaps, we can puzzle through it together, yes?"

Jinx nods and offers him a half smile before slinking back down below deck.

As soon as she's out of sight, Silco turns to Sevika. "Dump the bodies overboard then blast Finn's ship to splinters."

Bodies are lifted and tossed while you linger on the steps between the deck and the captain's cabin. The urge to hide grips you, but you can't make yourself move. You curl up on the stairs, your eyes glued to the deep red stains left behind by bodies sent to the sea.

The Zaun's Revenge turns about and prepares their cannons. You sit, numb, as Silco orders cannon fire on the other ship. You hear shouts when the first round hits its mark. Shouts quickly turn to confused, pleading screams, wood splinters with a crack as loud as last night's thunder. A part of you wants to see it all unfold, but you don't think you can stomach it so you stay put.

You'd never seen death before. Not like this.

When your mother died, it was gentle and quiet. No blood. No horror. Just sorrow and loss and grief and anger. So much anger.

Today, you feel as though you've seen death's true form. Ruthless and quick. Blood and horror.

You think of your father, your aunt, and everyone else who tried to convince you that death and peace were one and the same. You never believed it. You heard what your mother's doctor said. She was in agony even if she didn't show it. She was strong for you.

Perhaps the men that died today got the better end of the deal. Their deaths were quick, for the most part.

Nausea rolls through you but you keep it at bay. You won't be sick here. It's shallow and small of you, but your pride won't allow it. You breathe through it.

"Who manned the helm last night?” Silco asks, his voice low and dangerous. 

Your throat constricts as the sailor you tricked slowly raises his hand, keeping his head bowed.

"I appreciate your honesty," Silco says. "You will receive five lashes, rather than ten."

"Thank you, Captain," the poor helmsman mumbles.

A thank you? For five lashes? Silco can't possibly mean to -

"Sevika. Fetch the whip," Silco commands. As Sevika disappears to retrieve the instrument of torture, you find your legs again. You march right up to Silco, putting yourself between him and the helmsman.

"You cannot punish him," you say, holding your chin high and your back straight even as your legs tremble beneath you.

"Can't I?" Silco arches his singular brow. "We have drifted off course into not one, but two dangers. I cannot allow that to go unpunished."

"Then punish me," you say.

"I beg your pardon?" His good eye narrows. 

"I took the helm last night," you say, "for one half hour."

Sileo whirls on the helmsman, eyes blazing. "You abdicated your duties to our hostage?"

"I-" the helmsman stammers.

"I convinced him!" You speak up, wedging yourself once more between Silco and his target. "I tricked him!"

"And he failed his duties," Silco counters. "Ten lashes. Five for his failure. Five for his foolishness."

"Don't you dare," you snap. "I set the ship off course. On purpose. I never imagined we'd run into that awful storm. For that, I'm sorry, but the fault is entirely my own."

Silco fixes you with a stare so intense, you nearly take back your declaration. You've just seen him take several lives and now you're putting yourself at his mercy.

But the helmsman doesn't deserve to be punished for your stupid, rash mistake.

Sevika returns with a coiled whip of fine leather. Silco takes it, running elegant fingers along the braiding.

"Those ten lashes belong to me," you say, loudly enough for the entire crew to hear, "I am at fault and accept full responsibility."

Silco's glare is positively murderous as the crew murmurs amongst themselves. You know he can't put you to the whip, not if he wants your father's money.

"Do you think the terms I struck with your fiancé will keep you safe?' Silco asks, tilting his head to the side. You’re reminded of a bird of prey. 

"Will you dole out an unjust punishment to assure your profit?" you challenge.

He stares at you for a long while before throwing the whip to the ground.

"No," he snarls, "I can punish you without flaying your pretty skin."

He takes you by the elbow and yanks you toward his cabin. Your mind scrambles in an attempt to anticipate what he'll do. You can't predict anything. You've been aboard less than three days, you don’t know how things work here. 

If Sevika was telling the truth about your exchange day happening two weeks from the day you were snatched from The Hound , Silco can do quite a lot to you.

A bruise can fade in a week. Why did you think his word to do you no harm meant anything? How did you allow yourself to believe for even a second that he is anything other than a greedy, murderous pirate?

He can hurt you.

The same man who tended to you after fucking you so thoroughly, the same man who put a blade through someone's hand for getting too close to you, can hurt you. Will hurt you. 

You've been fooled by another one of his masks.

You're thrown into the cabin with enough force to make you stumble but you manage to right yourself before you fall.

Silco slams the door before locking it. 

"Are you telling the truth?" he asks without looking at you. "Are you the one who set the ship off course?"

"I am," you say without hesitation. 

"You put my crew in danger," he says. 

"I know."

"You damaged my ship." 

"I know."

"Because of you, we had that lovely little run-in with The Slickjaw's crew. And now, they're dead."

"I didn't make you kill anyone. I didn't make you fire upon that ship," you snap.

"Should I have let Finn take you instead?" he asks, stalking closer. "Do you think he would have treated you kindly?"

"Do you think I would have acted as I did if I'd known the dangers?" you challenge. 

"If you didn't understand the dangers, then you're a fool. But I wouldn't expect anything else from a Piltie heiress." 

"Then what is my punishment?" you ask, holding your chin high.

Your question catches him off-guard. You want to relish in your ability to continuously surprise him but fear blocks your smugness.

He can hurt you. He wants to hurt you. 

"Let me think," he taunts, moving away from the door to advance on you. You hold your ground, unwilling to yield to him twice in the span of twelve hours. "I can't mark you up too badly, can I treasure?"

"Do your worst, pirate," you spit back. You aren't willing to let him know how much he rattles you.

His arm wraps around the small of your back and pulls you tight against him.

"I can't hurt you. Not really," he murmurs into your hair. "But I believe I can make you suffer."

He pulls away so quickly you stumble forward. Silco grabs his desk chair and hauls it into the center of the room before taking a seat. He may as well be a king sitting on a grand throne.

"Lay across my lap," he says.

"I beg your pardon?" 

"Get on your knees and lay across my lap," he repeats, his voice as cold and as hard as iron. "I'll make you if I have to."

You don't wish to be manhandled again. Briefly, you consider diving for one of the many weapons in the room but decide against it. If you injure him, his crew won't be kind about it.

So, you straighten your back and hold your chin high. You approach him with the grace and composure of a queen.

When you reach his chair, you sink to your knees and lay yourself over his lap.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" His fingers stroke through your hair, deceptively gentle but that doesn't stop you from enjoying the touch. Had anyone ever run their fingers through your hair before?

You don't think so.

You like it.

His hand trails through your hair, over your back, to the curve of your ass.

"Seems you've helped yourself to the contents of my wardrobe," he says. One hand slides between the sharp of your hip and his thigh. Quick, clever fingers have your borrowed trousers tugged down to your mid-thighs leaving your ass completely bare. “Funny. If you stayed in here, unclothed, you would have avoided your punishment.”

“Get on with it,” you mutter in a show of bravado. 

“Where is the enthusiasm you showed last night?” He asks, his voice dripping with mockery. “You sang my name so sweetly. You yielded so perfectly. Where is the sweet treasure I fucked?”

“She washed away with the storm.”

“Pity.” He traces his fingers in slow, tormenting circles over the curve of your ass. “She might have been spared ten lashes.”

You realize what he’s about to do to you. Anger flares in your chest but it’s not strong enough to make you wiggle away from him. It’s also not the strongest emotion swirling within you. Anticipation takes that prize. 

“Utter a single word, make a single sound, and the count will reset,” he threatens. 

You press your lips together in a hard line, not to stop words but to stop a smile. He has no idea how accustomed you are to holding your tongue. If he expects you to crack and give him the chance to deal more than ten lashes , he’s doomed to be disappointed. 

He gives no warning when his palm collides with your skin. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip as stinging pain radiates from the point of contact. He smooths a hand over your skin. You feel every callus that marks his palm. 

You’re better prepared for the second strike and the third. He takes his time, letting the sting fully spread through your body to color your skin. Heat and pleasure tingle through you. By the fifth strike, you know you’re soaked. By the tenth, you nearly let loose a whimper but manage to keep yourself under control. 

“Hm,” he murmurs. “You did well. How disappointing. I should have liked to punish you further.”

A shudder passes over you, one you can’t contain. He sees it. He feels it just as you feel the hard length of him pressing against your side. You slowly start to writhe, rubbing against him as much as you can. Your punishment has been dealt. Surely that means something more playful is in order. 

You’ve become uncomfortably tethered to reality since last night’s storm. Surely, Silco can take you back to that place of mindless, fucked out bliss. You much prefer that state of mind over your current predicament. 

You never pretended to be a virgin, but you did very much sleep with another man while engaged. It’s not guilt you feel, exactly. You didn’t agree to the engagement. You don’t want to get married at all, but you are still bound by an agreement. Last night, you dishonored that promise. 

Despite your prickly nature and that certain wildness your family longs to stamp out, you view yourself as an honorable person. Captain Vander doesn’t deserve to be dishonored by his future wife. 

Or does he? He made an agreement with your father knowing full well you weren’t looking to marry anytime soon. Yes, it’s how things are done but does that excuse putting your clear objections aside? No, but if a respectable marriage is the only way he can secure a prestigious promotion, then he’s as caught in the net of social expectations and rules as you are. He clearly benefits from it more than you do, however. 

Resentment rolls through you, doubling your desire to be removed from your own mind. 

You were ordered to remain quiet through the lashings and you did so. You are under no orders to remain quiet now, so you allow a pleading whimper to break past your lips. 

“What’s that, treasure?” Silco murmurs. His fingers trace a lazy pattern over your ass and up the small of your back before doubling back again. “If you want something, you need to use your words.”

Arousal and shame sting your cheeks. Are you really going to voice your depraved desires to a man who has no issue using them against you? Pride and longing wage war within you. Pride wins and you go silent. 

“I think I may know what you want,” he says, his hands roving around the curve of your ass to trace along the backs of your thighs. “Pity you can’t tell me, otherwise I might indulge you.”

Deep need twists through your veins. Your tongue takes command of itself to whisper, “Touch me, please.”

“Please?” Silco chuckles. “Are those Piltie manners finally showing themselves?”

He’s toying with you and you know it. Devil damn you, you’re enjoying it. He doesn’t have all the power, but he has most of it. You like the way he leverages that power against you. 

It makes your head spin. People have been using their power against you your entire life, forcing you to play the part of a pretty Piltovian socialite, forcing you into an engagement you don’t want, forcing you into a life you’re not suited for. Yet when he uses his power against you, you feel only an aching need that isn’t going to go away on its own. 

His fingers move toward your needy cunt but stop just short of actually touching you the way you need to be touched. 

You let out a frustrated whine because you can’t bear to beg. Apparently, you’re willing to bend your pride but not that far. 

“It’s always the pretty, perfect society girls who have the darkest desires lying in wait just beneath their skin.”

“How do you know what perfect society girls are like?” You ask, realizing too late that you’ve let jealousy bleed into your voice. 

“Surely you’re not unaware of the rumors that surround the most devilish of pirates?” His chuckle is the most infuriating sound in the world. 

“You aren’t most pirates,” you spit. 

“True,” he says. “But I am still a pirate, nonetheless.”

“So, you make a sport of ruining highborn girls?” 

“No, pet,” he says. “But I am most happy to ruin you. Don’t pretend you don’t want it. A ruined girl can’t be allowed to marry a respected navy man. Let me ruin you.”

That’s all you want, though you loathe to admit it. It seems that Captain Silco holds the keys to your prison. 

“Then what are you waiting for?” You challenge. “I said please.”

“So you did,” you hear the grin in his voice. “That was so very nice of you.”

A single finger trails up the length of your slit. You feel his cock twitch against your ribs. He presses his fingertip against your clit. Gods help you, you let out a deep, earnest moan as you arch your back and part your thighs so he can have more ease of access. 

“Do you want my fingers inside of you?” He asks as he strokes you gently. 

“Yes,” you sigh. 

“That’s too bad.”

You go stone still in his lap. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he chuckles. The sound is cold and mirthless. “Did you think you’re finished with your punishment?”

“I-,” you stammer, but you aren’t sure what to say. “I took the ten lashes.”

“Little taps, nothing more,” he scoffs. “But now that I know what you want and how badly you want it, I can deny you.”

Oh, that bastard. You realize now that you’ve fallen into a trap. 

“Do you want to cum, sweet girl?” He asks. 

You hesitate. You could lie, but even your most convincing performance won’t fool him. He’s already felt your dripping cunt. He knows what you want. There is no point in playing the fool. 

“Yes,” you sigh. 

His fingers oblige. He strokes you with one hand while the other winds into your hair and pulls your head back so you have to look him in the eye. 

“Tell me when you’re close,” he whispers. You can barely manage a nod as your brain goes haywire. Your hips twitch, eager to force more contact but he doesn’t allow it. Your whimpers and moans grow until you feel yourself rapidly approaching your peak.

“I’m close,” you shudder. “So close.”

“Good girl,” he purrs before retracting his hand. A horrible whimper tears from your lips as you arch your back, desperate to feel his touch again. 

“Please,” you say so softly you aren’t sure he can hear you.

He bends low so his mouth can rest beside your ear. “Those lashes weren’t your true punishment, pet. This is.” 

“What?” You whisper, still arching and writhing in an attempt to bring his touch back to you. 

“You will not find that sweet release unless I allow it.”

“You forget that I have fingers and an active imagination,” you grumble. 

“Do you think I’ll let you be alone long enough to pleasure yourself?” His laugh is wicked and cold. “The next time you cum, dear treasure, will be because I allow it. Remember that.”

“I’ve gone years without release before,” you say. “Your punishment won’t be an issue.”

“Oh, it’s not just a lack of release I have in store for you,” he says. “Blood was spilled on your account, so you will be the one to clean it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is that not fair?” He asks as he pulls your stolen trousers into place. “If you had not made yourself known, I could have sent Finn and his crew on their way. You owe a life debt and I’ve decided you can pay it by scrubbing.”

“You think scrubbing is worth a life?”

“The lives that were taken today are worth little,” he snarls. “But when you leave this room, you will report to Sevika. She will put you to work and through that, you will be able to pay your blood debt.”

“You’re not serious.” A laugh bubbles up in your throat but you shove it back down. There is no humor in his face. Not a single trace of the man you glimpsed during the storm. He has put his mask back in place. 

“I’m always serious, treasure.

Chapter Text

You flee the cabin immediately without another word. Your entire body hums, rages, cries, and begs for release and you know you will not find it in that room. Something stings and burns in your chest, wrapping around your heart and squeezing tight. You’re reminded of Silco’s sea serpent tattoo but immediately shake the thought away. His body is the last thing you want to think about right now. 

Especially since the ache between your legs only grows with each step. You briefly entertain the idea of finding a dark, shadowy corner of the ship to bring the relief denied you, but that thought flies out of your mind the moment you see the crew standing idle on the deck, their faces all turned toward the short stairwell you’ve just climbed. You freeze on the last step.

Before Silco dragged you back down to the cabin, you’d passionately declared for all to hear that you were the reason they had to spend the night fighting a violent storm and why thick pools of drying blood now stain the deck.
No doubt you’ve made an enemy of yourself to every single person staring at you now. 

You could return to the cabin but the thought of being enclosed with Silco is unbearable. You are caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Almost literally. 

Luckily, you aren’t trapped in your frozen state for long. Jinx darts into your field of vision, her eyes wide and frantic. 

“You look awful ,” she says, cupping your face in her dainty hands. The coolness of her skin alerts you to just how scorching your face is. No doubt flushed, too. “I hope he wasn’t too harsh with you.”

Harsh certainly isn’t the word you’d choose to describe what just happened in his cabin.
“I received the punishment I deserved for my error,” You say, hoping to avoid bringing up any particulars of that punishment, not when your ass still stung in the shape of his hand. Before Jinx can ask another question, you make your way across the deck to the poor crewmate you tricked. 

“I owe you an apology.” You speak to him with the same grace and dignity you would reserve for a noble. “Tricking you wasn’t just wrong, it was cruel. If I thought for even one minute that things would turn out the way they did, I never would have done it but that does not make it acceptable.” 

You bow your head and sink into a half-curtsy. 

“Please, accept my sincerest apologies.”

The walleyed crewmember says nothing at first. Your cheeks grow red from embarrassment as you try to figure out what you ought to do next. He saves you from your discomfort when he lets out a loud, cawing laugh.

“All those fancy words for me, miss?” He guffaws. “In all me days I never thought a lady would speak so pretty to me.” He throws an arm around you in a friendly, but rough, manner and you straighten up to avoid falling over altogether.

“So, am I forgiven?”

“Ya ran a bad scheme and it bit us all in the ass. We’ve all done it,” he assures her. “But it’s nice to know you aren’t too high and mighty to take the consequences.”

Relief floods you as the other crewmates circle around. They give you approving nods, though you won’t go as far as to say they look upon you with trust or friendliness. 

“Surely, the Captain requested more than just an apology,” Sevika says with a suspicious glint in her eyes. 

“The apology was my own doing,” you say as you approach her. “His punishment dictates that I am to report to you. I am to clean the deck.”
Her eyebrows twitch as the corners of her mouth quiver like she’s trying not to laugh. 

“I wouldn’t trust someone so soft-handed with the care of my deck but if the Captain insists…”

She trails off as she walks away. You realize you are meant to follow and hurry after her. She doesn’t offer anything by way of instruction. She tosses a bucket and a thick bristled brush towards you, which you fail to catch. The items clatter onto the floor. Your cheeks burn when you hear chuckles behind you.

“Get to it,” Sevika grunts.

You look at the empty bucket, noticing that it’s…well, empty. 

“Where would I find water?” As soon as the words are out of your mouth, you realize your mistake. Everyone who heard begins to laugh. 

“I think you can figure that one out on your own, princess,” Sevika smirks before heading below deck. 

Jinx appears at your side, silent as a ghost but with the energy of a toddler who has had nothing but sweets all day. 

“I rigged up a pulley system so you can fill your bucket. I’ll show you.” 

She loops her arm through yours and pulls you across the deck. You fill your bucket with saltwater and approach one of the more gruesome remnants of the morning’s violence. Your stomach heaves as you spot something that might very well be a skull fragment. 

Determined not to look foolish or weak, you get on your knees and scrub. You work diligently and without complaint, even when your arms start to ache and the wood remains stained despite your efforts. 

It isn’t the approval of the crew you want, exactly. But you are going to be trapped on this ship for two weeks. While you aren’t looking to make friends with your captors, you also don’t want to find your throat slit in a moment of anger. 

“How long are you going to keep doing that?” Jinx materializes by your side. Her braids fall into the puddle you’ve created with your scrubbing efforts. She doesn't seem to mind that she might be getting blood in her long hair. 

“Is this a trick question?”

“No.”

You lift your head to find wide blue eyes staring at you with curiosity. 

“I will keep doing this until the deck is clean.”

She barks out a laugh. “You’re never going to remove all the gross stuff with just water. Didn’t you know that?”

“I don’t often find myself in positions where I am scrubbing up gross stuff ,” you reply. “What else am I supposed to use?”

“Did Sevika not tell you?” Her brows knit together in a mix of concern and confusion. 

“Tell me what?”

Jinx studies you for a moment longer before giggling. “Oh, I get it. Sevika’s having a go at you. Don’t worry. Everyone knows you’ll work without kicking up a fuss. I’ll be right back.”

She bounds off, leaving you confused. You take a moment to give your aching arms a break. You are aware of eyes on you, though the crewmates scattered around the deck do a decent job of not staring at you directly. You know this is some kind of test, one you’re determined to pass with flying colors even if the reward is earning the respect of pirates. 

Jinx returns with a small tin. 

“Watch this.” With a grin, she opens the tin to reveal vibrant purple powder. She sprinkles a little over the blood-soaked wood. “Pour a little water on that.”

You do as she instructs. With wide eyes, you watch the water hiss and bubble. It takes on a pale purple hue as it spreads. It eats away at the blood but leaves the wood unblemished. 

“More water,” Jinx instructs. You comply. The bubbles wash away leaving behind smooth, clean wood. 

“What is that?” You ask, eyeing the purple power. 

“We’re still working on a name. I have several ideas but they always get shot down,” she says as she replaces the lid and tucks the tin into one of her many pockets. 

“We?”

“The ship’s doctor. He likes to experiment.”

“This is the same doctor you got that strange drink from before, when I was first brought aboard?” You press. 

“Yup!” Jinx beams. 

“Well, the Captain tore that drink from my hands and threw it overboard before giving me water. What was wrong with it?”
You shudder at the thought of drinking a substance that is capable of dissolving blood and chunks of brain matter being served to you in a cup. 

“Nothing!” Jinx raises her hands, palms facing you. “Sometimes it has side effects, but usually it’s completely safe.”

“Usually?” You arch a brow. 

“Sometimes it makes your veins swell and glow and you can occasionally develop abnormal growths on your body,” she explains. “But that’s only if the batch is made wrong or you take way too much.” 

“None of the words coming from your mouth are bringing me comfort.”

“It’s science! It’s all about trial and error,” she shrugs. “If I thought it would hurt you I wouldn’t have given it to you.” 

Despite everything, you believe her. You haven’t seen a hint of malice in her since you were brought aboard. 

“But you still haven’t told me what it is,” you press. 

“It’s…a tool,” she says with thoughtful consideration. “Depending on how we process it, it can do a lot of things. It can be medicine and poison at the same time. It can clean wood with gentle precision but also dissolve bone. A tricky thing, it is. Truly fascinating.” 

“Interesting,” you murmur as your mind wanders to a person who possesses that same versatility. Another tricky thing. 

You see Silco’s face in your mind’s eye but quickly shake his image away. You don’t want to think about the Captain right now. You’re still cross from the way he teased you and denied you. You’re even more cross knowing how much you would have begged for your pleasure had he not chosen to punish you the way he did. “Thank you for the help. Can I have some of that powder to help me clean?”

Jinx almost seems like she’s going to agree but she holds back. “I’ll just stay with you. We can talk and I’ll sprinkle a little whenever you need it.”

“That works for me.” You offer her a warm smile, a genuine one. She smiles back and settles between two crates to keep you company as you clean.


********


Though you finish cleaning the blood and gore from the deck the very day they were spilled, Sevika isn’t shy about giving you extra tasks. She never gives you anything too difficult though you know it’s not out of consideration for you, but for the ship. 

You’ve scrubbed the deck twice a day for three days. When you aren’t scrubbing, you put your sewing skills to use mending sails. The thick material is hard to work with and the needles are little more than scraps of half-rusted metal but you make do. 

With the help of quick hands, fast learning, and the strange purple powder Jinx offers you soon have far too much idle time on your hands. 

You aren’t particularly fond of aimlessly pacing the deck. The Captain’s cabin is always open to you, but you spend as little time there as you can manage.

Despite Captain Silco’s demanding schedule, he always manages to be in the cabin whenever you are. The room is small enough as it is, but when you are in there together, the very air seems to struggle for space. You don’t speak to him. You don’t look at him unless you can help it. Yet, he never misses a chance to brush close to you. You feel his eyes on you, always. Even when you sleep. 

Sharing his bed is a necessity but you keep your limbs tucked close to you and your body curled toward the cabin wall. He never touches you, which brings both relief and unimaginable frustration.

On the third night, you lay wide awake. Your entire body hums with pressure from the release that was denied days ago. The longing never went away but tonight it’s nearly unbearable. 

You listen in the dark. Silco sleeps beside you. His breathing is deep and even. Though there is a soft glow from the ember of his ruined eye, you know he’s asleep.

Slowly, very slowly, you shift onto your back. You wear only a borrowed shirt to sleep in. Your legs are left bare and your undergarments never recovered from your unexpected dip in the ocean. Tonight, it’s an advantage. 

With great care, you slowly lift the long hem of your shirt until you feel the skin of your lower belly. You part your legs only an inch or two before letting your hand slowly wander between your legs beneath the shared blankets. 

You listen intently as you move. Silco’s breathing never changes and you keep the rustling of bedsheets to a minimum. 

You find it safe to assume that Silco is a heavy sleeper. Between the winds and rocking of the ship, it would be difficult for a finicky sleeper to find peace here. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. As sound as your logic may be, logic is not what drives you at this moment. 

The sensation of your fingertips against your skin is enough to make you shiver. You freeze, silently admonishing your lack of self-control before making another attempt. You don’t need much. Just a few light, indulgent touches. Just enough to remove the biting edge of desire that has taken up permanent residence in the back of your mind since Silco bent you over his knee.
The pad of a single fingertip brushes against that sensitive, soaked bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hard enough to hurt. The pain is necessary if it keeps you from making even the softest of sounds. 

You wait for a moment, listening to Silco’s breathing. When you are certain there is no change, you allow another slow drag of your fingertip. Then another. And another. Pleasure spins through your mind and soothes the needy ache you’ve carried in your core for days. 

Fragmented images from the night of the storm slip through your mind. The memory of Silco’s soft groan when you rode him so slowly sends another ripple of warmth through your body. You can recall the exact sensation of his tongue as he teased your nipples. You can feel the way he throbbed inside of you when you drove each other to maddening releases. 

Yet, somehow, you manage to keep your movements minimal, discrete, and silent. Even as your blood heats up and your heart pounds, you have enough self-control to keep yourself quiet as you relieve your desires. 

An intoxicating sense of smugness adds another layer to your pleasure. Though it was memories of Silco that fueled that pleasure, he remains asleep beside you. Completely oblivious. 

His ability to consistently underestimate you was truly something-

“What do we have here?” His velvet voice slides through the darkness and wraps around you as his hand finds yours. You’re grateful for the pitch blackness of the cabin so he cannot see the redness of your cheeks. Your mind, still caught in the haze of pleasure from your fingertip, struggles to come up with any sort of explanation. 

There is nothing you can say for yourself. You’ve been caught. 

His hand, still covering your hand, moves. He presses down on your fingers, forcing you to tease yourself. You push your hips down into the mattress to avoid the pressure of your own touch.

“Oh, now you wish to follow the rules?” He taunts lightly. 

You roll so that your back is to him. You tell yourself that you remain silent because you will not sink so low as to dignify his taunts with a response. Yet, deep in your belly where that spring of desire sits tightly coiled, you know that you cannot trust your own tongue right now. If you open your mouth to slice him with scathing words, there is a chance you’ll simply end up begging for pleasure. 

Hatred blooms within the blush on your cheeks. How dare he toy with you in such a way? How dare you struggle so much to keep yourself in control around him? What happened that night, within the violence of the storm, was about control more than it was about pleasure. 

But now? You have your hand between your legs, sneaking pleasure when you’ve always been able to go without when it suited you. 

He’s made you desperate. 

You remove your hand from between your legs and tuck both arms against your chest. You clamp your thighs together and pray that the sweet ache between them fades soon. 

“If I catch you doing that again, I will not hesitate to bind your hands behind your back.” Silco’s voice comes through the darkness once more before he falls silent. You continue to say nothing.

When the sun rises, you dress as quickly as you can and flee the cabin. Silco sits at his desk and you do not even have to look at him to know there is a smug smile on his mouth. Embarrassment and irritation propel you through your daily tasks in record time. It is not yet midday when you find that you have nothing to do. 

The rest of the crew mill about at a comfortable pace. They don’t seem to be in any particular rush. Jinx is nowhere to be found. You assume she’s below decks with the strange doctor you have yet to meet. Disappointment flutters in your chest. As strange as it is, your favorite parts of the past few days were when she would perch near you ask you worked, and ramble on about everything and nothing. She often jumped from topic to topic without rhyme or reason and rarely bothered to make sure you had the proper context to understand anything she said, but you enjoyed listening. She helped you keep your mind busy. 

When your mind is not busy, even for the briefest of moments, your thoughts always turn to Silco. More specifically Silcos’s hands. Or his mouth. Or his voice or his cock or his insufferable personality. Without care, it’s so easy for you to lose yourself in a whirlpool of obsessive, never-ending thoughts about that ridiculous, despicable, revolting pirate bastard. 

Prickles of pure fury ripple over your skin. With a soft snarl of annoyance, you scan the deck for Sevika. You find her near the bow, watching the calm sea. 

“I need something else to do,” you say. 

She initially seems as though she does not hear you, but you’ve come to realize that it’s part of the game she plays. She makes you wait before turning slowly and looking at you as though you’re a piece of flotsam. 

“Mend the sails,” she says. 

“They’re all mended.” Despite their somewhat worn-down appearance, the sails are of remarkable quality. Even after that vicious beast of a storm, little mending was needed. 

“And the deck?”

“As spotless as it can be with all of the wood rot.” 

“And the spare line?”

“In perfect condition. It may as well be coils of silk.” 

“How many pickled eggs are in the barrel?”

“Two-hundred and seventy-three.”

Her thick, dark brows shoot up. “You’re kidding.”

“If you want to double-check, you’re more than welcome but please give me something to do first before I throw myself overboard.” 

Several emotions fight for dominance on Sevika’s stern face. You see flashes of surprise, humor, annoyance, and perhaps a little bit of respect though that might have been a trick of the light. 

“Arlo is doing one of his big cooking hauls today,” Sevika says. “I’m sure he can use an extra set of hands.” 

You had yet to venture below deck to meet the ship’s cook and see the mess deck. Jinx preferred to eat in the open air and had taken it upon herself to bring an extra serving for you at mealtimes. 

You find the meal offerings of the Zaun’s Revenge to be, frankly, repulsive. At first, you assumed it was because your palate was used to Piltover’s fresh vegetables, vibrant spices, and choice cuts of meat. But you’d seen the way others look at their meals with disgust and longing and you knew you weren’t alone in your dislike of the cuisine. 

Of course, could you truly expect to find something tasty aboard a pirate’s ship?

Sevika does not wait for you to answer. She turns away as though you are not there and focuses her gaze on the sea once more. You wonder if she’s looking for something or simply pondering. It’s not hard to imagine that those aboard this ship have had difficult lives filled with strife. You have more than most ever will, despite your losses, and you often need to take a moment to deal with the weight of it all by gazing at a soothing view. It clears the mind. 

You make your way below deck, passing the crammed tables of the mess deck. 

Arlo isn’t difficult to find. The mess deck and the kitchen are one and the same. A heavy-set man covered in a light sheen of sweat frantically tosses…something in a wide pan over a massive flame. The air carries a scent of burnt food and vinegar. Arlo watches the pan as though he believes the contents will jump out and bite him. To be fair, that doesn’t seem impossible. 

“Hello?” You call softly, over the violent sizzle of the ill-fated meal. 

Arlo looks over his shoulder and sets the pan aside, looking relieved to do so before a stern expression overtakes his somewhat doughy features. You can’t help but notice the red tinge to his watery grey eyes, irritated by the fumes of cooking such a creation. 

“No early meals. You should know the rules by now, princess.”

“Oh, no,” you shake your head. “I’m not here to beg for food. Sevika suggested you might need an extra hand. She said you were doing some kind of…food haul?” While you understand what each of those words mean separately, you are unsure of the combined meaning of them in this context. 

“Aye?” He sniffs as he brings the corner of his apron up to rub at his eyes. “I like to cook big batches of things all at once and preserve them so it is easy to handle mealtimes. This lot is hard to feed.” 

“Preserve them?” You ask. “You have enough salt for such a task?” 

“Of a sort,” he says. “The good doctor below decks whipped up a preserving powder that works wonders. It tastes like nothing.” 

Arlo jerks his chin towards a bowl sitting on one of the stained, cluttered counters. The bowl is filled with a grainy substance the same vibrant shade of purple as the powder that helped you get blood out of the deck. 

“What is it?” You ask, leaning forward just a little. 

“Beats me,” Arlo shrugs. “It’s not my place to ask questions, especially not when I’m given something helpful for free.” 

“I can understand that,” you nod. “Do you need help with your food haul?” 

“I won’t say no. Can you cook?”

You hesitate for a moment. “No. But if you have a recipe I can look at, I can surely figure it out.” You’ve always been a quick learner. And so many people know how to cook so how hard can it truly be? You doubt whatever concoctions Arlo makes take much skill. 

“I don’t waste my time with recipes.”

“Then how do you cook?” You ask, unsure if you want to know the answer. 

“I do what feels right.”

What feels right often leads to grey foods that are both mushy and crunchy at the same time. 

“Did you study somewhere to become a cook?” Your training in polite conversation rears its head before you can stop it. Of course, he didn’t train anywhere. He’s a bloody pirate. 

“People are trained to be cooks?” He looks at you with utter confusion. 

“They prefer to be called chefs, but yes.”

“Ach,” he waves her off. “I’m no chef and I do not pretend to be. I just do my best to use whatever isn’t rotting or foul to keep the crew fed.”

Well, at least Arlo seems to have some sort of self-awareness.
“Were you not able to gather more ingredients when we stopped at Port Fairna?” You ask. You vividly remember plenty of spice sellers and bakers lining the dirt streets. 

“No,” Arlo answers sharply. “I do not mess about with such things.”

You tilt your head in confusion. “You do not manage your own stock?”

“No.” Came another curt reply. The cook avoids your gaze, choosing instead to look at his own hands. 

You decide not to push the matter and instead, turn your attention to the shelves of the well-stocked scullery. Unfortunately, your confusion only deepens. The shelves are lined with rich spices from all over the world that look untouched. You spy garlic, onions, potatoes, carrots, and all manner of staple ingredients labeled and stored with heaps of the purple preservative. 

“What are all of these?” You ask. 

Arlo looks at the shelves you point to but quickly looks away. “Don’t know. Never seen ‘em before. Don’t know how to cook with ‘em so I don’t use them.”

“But it says what they are right on the containers,” you point out. “Surely, you’ve heard of garlic and potatoes even if you’ve never had them. Right?” 

Arlo goes quiet for a moment and you briefly wonder if you’ve made some unforgivable error in an innocent question. “Aye. Yes, I’ve heard of them but I did not know we had them.”

“But they’re labeled. Did you not label them yourself?” He controls the kitchen, does he not?

Arlo’s cheeks turn a patchy red color that is not from the fumes or heat. “No, no I didn’t. I…can’t.”

You stare in confusion before shame and embarrassment creep into your gut. “You do not know how to write?”

“Or read.”

Arlo can’t meet your gaze. He seems frozen in place. Though he is nearly the side of the large, tattooed crewmember that once pulled you from the sea, he looks like a small child. 

“Oh,” you say softly. It’s clearly a point of tenderness for Arlo. You don’t wish to upset him even more. “Well, then this seems like a perfect arrangement.”

He lifts his head and looks at you with a quizzical expression. “What?”

“I can read but I cannot cook. You can cook but cannot read. It seems like an ideal pairing to me.” You offer him a smile. 

For a brief moment, you wonder at your own actions. You’d never go out of your way to be unkind to someone who did not deserve it and you always try to do what’s right, but you know yourself. You have a temper and a spiteful streak that prevent you from ever calling yourself a nice person, though you like to think you are kind in all of the ways that matter.. Arlo is a pirate. Arlo likely knew of the plan to kidnap you and hold you for ransom. Arlo is one of Silco’s men and, therefore, cannot possibly be a good person. 

Yet, you find it easy to be nice to him. Natural, even. He doesn’t seem like a scowling, sneering member of a villainous pirate crew determined to put you through hell before returning you to your father and fiance. 

He’s just…a person. 

So is Jinx. 

You are surrounded by people. Just people. 

You shake away the thought. Yes, the crew of the Zaun’s Revenge are people but they are people who willingly follow a terrible man capable of terrible things. There are no innocent people aboard this ship and you cannot allow sentimentality and loneliness to cloud that fact. 

Still, if a little teamwork can yield some decent food, you’re willing to give it a go. 

With Arlo’s approving nod, you push into the scullery and examine what you have to work with. The stock aboard this half-rotted ship rivals your larder back home. You gather up ingredients you know work well together and read the labels to Arlo. His eyes light up with inspiration. 

“If I had known we had such things, I would have used them ages ago,” he says with an excited smile. 

“No one helped you until now?” You press. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly a helpful bunch. We handle our own responsibilities and we don’t gripe to anyone else. No one wants to be seen as a weak link in the chainmail. Weak links don’t last long. Asking for help would mean dumping some of my responsibilities on someone else’s lap. It’s just not done, you see?” 

“No, not really,” you answer. “Asking for help is not a weakness.”

“We can agree to disagree on that but let me ask you something.” Arlo took a head of garlic and began peeling and mincing the cloves with speed and precision. “When was the last time you answered a call for help?”

You open your mouth to answer but falter. You cannot remember a time you were last approached by someone in need of help. 

“Well, no one has asked me for help in recent memory so I cannot say,” you answer. 

“And that automatically means that no one around you needed help?” 

“I-” you stammer. “I don’t know.”

“I bet you live in a big, fancy house. Yeah?”

“Yes,” you say, your cheeks coloring with embarrassment as you pass a vial of dried green herbs to Arlo. 

“And lots of people get paid to be in that house and make your life easier?”

“Yes,” you repeat. 

“And you don’t think those people have struggles that you could probably help with?”

You want to say no. You want to believe that everyone working for your family is happy and content with their job as well as their personal lives but you are not that naive. 

Except…perhaps, you are. 

“I never thought about it,” you admit. 

“And they never asked because that’s not how it’s done. Their burdens are their own. My burdens are my own. It is the way of things.” 

You let his words sit heavy on your chest as you rummage through the scullery. You’re almost grateful when you smell the thick stench of rot from ingredients kept too long. You clear out everything that doesn’t look right and shove it into a bin to be disposed of later. 

You think of your lady’s maid and realize you know little about her. You do not know if she has siblings, a lover, a best friend, or even if her parents are alive. You have no idea why she applied for a position with your family. As much as you’d like to think your family are good employers, you know it’s foolish to believe her greatest joy in life is tightening your corset and brushing your hair. 

“Would this be a tasty addition?” Arlo calls, bringing you out of your thoughts as he holds up a jar of dried peppers. You read the label and wince. 

“Are spicy dishes popular among the crew?” You ask. “Just one of those would set your mouth on fire.”

“Better leave it for another day, then,” he shrugs. “I don’t want to overwhelm anyone with too many new flavors.” 

Though Arlo never had any training, his instincts as a cook come to life the moment he fully realizes just what he has to take advantage of. Vegetables are minced and sauteed quickly. You find some bone broth tucked away in the scullery. There is no shortage of fishmeat to choose from. You read the labels to Arlo who looks on in wonder. 

“I thought this was bass and this was carp,” he says, pointing to two containers of preserved fishmeat. “I never knew that was eel. It all looks so different when it’s sliced up and skinned.”

“Who does the fishing?”

“A few crewmembers have a knack for it. All of Sevika’s gadgets make her the obvious choice for skinning, deboning, and filleting,” Arlo explains. “It’s brought to me all packaged up like this.” 

It seems odd to you that the systems around food are so sloppy, especially since Silco seems to thrive on order. Upon further reflection, you realize you haven’t actually seen him eat. He left his plate untouched at the tavern. He let you eat his bread and potatoes. You saw him drink from his tankard but you cannot recall him taking a bite of his food. 

Surely, he must eat. Though he is a pirate, he’s displayed a sense of elegance and taste on more than one occasion. You simply cannot see him eating the food prepared by his illiterate cook. 

But why does it matter to you? He’s obviously eating enough to keep himself alive. Why would you care what he eats? 

You don’t care. And you don’t want to think about him. You have an important task on hand that is, truthfully, quite fun. You’ve come across many of the spices and herbs stored in the scullery during your travels. Smelling them brings pleasant memories. While you do not know how to cook, you know how to describe what things taste like. In the event Arlo knows nothing about an ingredient, you are sometimes able to provide some knowledge. It’s a strange system, but it somehow works. 

Arlo keeps your mind busy. He even teaches you how to chop a few things. Your hands are clumsy but you make it work. Within an hour, you are dutifully stirring a massive pot of fish stew. While it’s not something you’d choose for yourself, it’s an improvement on whatever Arlo made before.

“It’s strange to be a cook on a pirate ship in the middle of the ocean and have access to things I never even knew existed growing up,” Arlo says, holding a potato in his hands. 

“You never had a potato until joining this crew?” You itch to ask why he joined in the first place but you allow him to reveal information about himself at his own pace. 

“Potatoes grow from the earth, yeah?” He asks. You nod. “Which means they need something in order to grow.” He gives you an expectant look. You know you’re being tested again but potatoes are a safer topic than the unknown personal lives of your staff.
“Sunshine, water, and fertilizer, I presume.” 

“There is no sunshine where I come from,” Arlo says. “Water can’t be wasted on plants but even if it could, there is no earth. You can’t grow something of the earth if there is no earth for growing.” 

“Oh,” you murmur softly. “You’re from the Undercity, then?” 

“Almost all of us are,” Arlo says. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“Well, I haven’t been in a very social mood as of late. Being kidnapped tends to do that.” You offer a small smirk, which Arlo returns. 

“Fair enough,” he nods. “You seem like a decent sort for a spoiled heiress.”

“You seem like a decent sort for a pirate who can’t read.” 

Arlo barks out a laugh. “Perhaps, your ransom money will buy me a tutor.” 

You can’t help but laugh at that as you continue to stir the stew. With a little thrill of accomplishment, you realize that you’ve not only assisted in the preparation of a meal but you’ve done so without thinking of Silco for more than a few moments. He’s hardly entered your mind at all. 

Footfalls thump on the wooden stairs leading to the deck. You spot tall, well-kept boots wrapped around slender legs. 

It is as if your thoughts - or lack thereof - summoned him like some kind of devilish moth to a flame that would prefer to be left unbothered.
“Ah, there you are,” Silco says as he enters the mess deck. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Working,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the stew. 

“I did not assign you to the kitchen.”

“You told me to take orders from Sevika. Sevika sent me here. Arlo and I are getting along brilliantly, aren’t we?” You look over your shoulder at the cook who glances between you and Silco with a look of panicked confusion. Eventually, his gaze stops on Silco. 

“I didn’t know you didn’t want her working in the kitchen, Captain,” he says quickly. His voice trembles with nerves and you feel anger flickering to life in your stomach. 

“I should warn you, Arlo,” Silco speaks as though the cook said nothing. “Our prisoner does not have a talent for following directions. She can be sneaky and disobedient if she believes she can get away with it.”

Your cheeks burn as you understand exactly what he means. 

Before you can stop yourself, you pull the wooden spoon from the stew and chuck it at Silco. He dodges, but barely. His good eye widens in surprise as you search for something else to launch at him. Perhaps a nice sharp butcher’s knife. Instead, you find a whisk. You throw it without hesitation. 

“Have you gone mad?” Silco snaps, dodging the second projectile. How can someone with one working eye be so good at dodging and judging distance? Although, you don’t know for certain if the ruined eye still has a vision. Could that be possible?

You let out a frustrated groan as your mind tries to give in to your curiosity about the infuriating pirate before you. 

“Oh, I see,” Silco chuckles. “You’re just upset I won’t let you cu-” 

He is silenced by a spatula spinning through the air as it hurtles toward him. He dodges once more. 

“I have plenty of things to throw at you,” you warn him. “And if I have gone mad, it’s entirely your fault so I will not feel bad if I crack your nose with a rolling pin.”

“I don’t have one of those,” Arlo murmurs softly. 

“Temper, temper,” Silco tuts before backing up toward the stairs. “Don’t let her poison me, Arlo. I don’t put it past her to try.”

Arlo gives you a concerned look as Silco vanishes. 

“Don’t worry,” you say with a bitter note in your voice. “I won’t poison anyone.”

“It’s not that, though I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “But you just threw things at the Captain. Have you lost your bleeding senses, woman?”

“Most likely.” You find another spoon to stir the stew with and continue on as though Silco did not interrupt your work. 

“Just be careful,” Arlo warns. “The Captain is not to be trifled with.”

“Neither am I.”



********


The stew is well received, but that’s not a surprise. Even if it still tastes off to you, it’s a massive improvement. The mess deck is packed with crewmembers licking their bowls clean and sniffing out second helpings. You and Arlo made enough stew to last several meals but it is all gone in the span of an hour. Arlo frets about rationing ingredients but his worries are soon put to rest from an overflow of praise. Even Sevika cracks a smile as she sips her broth. 

Silco does not eat with the crew, but that doesn’t surprise you. A spiteful part of you is glad that he will miss out on such a delightful meal. It serves him right for being so…so…

Him. 

As night falls, the crew settles into a leisurely state. 

You get to work scrubbing the dirty dishes, eager to have a task that will keep you out of the Captain’s chambers for as long as possible. 

“Ach, leave it to me,” Arlo says. “You’ve done enough.”

“I don’t mind,” you protest, even though dishwashing is not an appealing task after seeing the way the pirates eat. “I should be helping.”

“Come have a drink with us,” comes the deep voice of the tattoo-covered man. After listening to the conversation during mealtimes, you gleaned that his name is Locke. 

“Oh, I-” You stammer, surprised by the invitation. A slender crewmember with dark choppy hair moves to Locke’s side. You’re fairly certain they go by Ran. 

“Come on,” they urge. “You’ve worked hard enough. And none of us have given you proper credit for taking Walley’s punishment the other day. It took nerve to speak up like that. Most of us wouldn’t have done that.” 

You look back at Arlo, who gives a nod of approval. Your gaze returns to Locke and Ran. Though they do not look as intimidating as they did when you first came aboard, you wouldn’t call their demeanors friendly, either but that’s something you’ve come to expect. Everyone on this ship comes from a rough place. It makes sense that even kindness looks abrasive in your eyes. 
“Okay,” you nod. A part of your mind begins to scheme. If you can befriend some of the crew, perhaps you can pull off an escape after all. The other part of your mind is simply glad you have a reason to stay out of the Captain’s cabin. Besides, it will surely irritate Silco that his crew is being so welcoming to you. That’s a lovely bonus to this situation. 

You follow Locke and Ran to the main deck where quite a few members of the crew including Jinx and Sevika stand around a cluster of torches bound together in a damp barrel. It doesn’t seem like the safest arrangement, but you don’t say as much.
You move to Jinx’s side. She beams when she sees you and throws a playful, but rough, arm over your shoulder. 

“It’s about time you started being social,” she says with a glint of mischief in her eyes. You almost want to remind her that you are a prisoner, a captive. Socializing is not a priority. You decide against it. She’s just a kid. She’s happy and she’s aware of the situation. You’ll leave well enough alone. 

“Here, princess.” Sevika presses a tin into your hand. You can smell the alcohol even though the tin is nowhere near your face. 

“What is it?” You ask. 

“The finest vintage imported from uppityland courtesy of Star Crossed Shipping,” Sevika snorts before taking a gulp of her own drink. You try not to bristle at the mention of your father’s company. 

“Seriously, what is it?” You whisper to Jinx. 

“I don’t know. I only drink coralberry juice,” she shrugs. “Nothing else is sweet enough.” 

You’ve never heard of coralberries or their juice. It’s entirely possible that Jinx is making up a random drink for the fun of it. Either way, your cup is filled with something dark and pungent. It is only when you notice that many crewmembers are watching you with curious and expectant looks that you realize they’re waiting for you to drink. They probably expect you to choke and sputter, proving that you’re too soft and fragile compared to them. 

You don’t know why the idea bothers you, but it does. You brace yourself and take a drink. 

And it is awful. 

If you had to guess, you’d say it was some kind of spiced rum but that doesn’t make the burn any easier to bear as you swallow it down. Your eyes water so much that everyone blurs together in a smudgy mess. For a moment, you think you’re going to be sick. Or that your skin is going to melt off. It’s hard to know for sure. 

Even when you swallow the liquid down and the feeling passes, your tongue feels numb. Surely, that’s nothing to worry about. Right?

You are rewarded with approving glances but never any outright praise. Not that it matters. Why would you want the praise of a bunch of pirates? Why would you want praise for choking down something that tastes like it was made in a boot? 

You shudder as you realize that it likely was made in a boot or something equally foul. 

Thankfully, attention moves away from you as everyone settles down to swap stories. Jinx pulls two crates together and urges you to sit on one. 

“Every word of these stories is utter shit, but they’re entertaining,” Jinx whispers to you. “I hope Locke tells about the time he caught a deep sea spineshark with nothing more than a stick and some fishing line.” 

You listen to the stories and Jinx’s words ring true. It quickly becomes clear that the purpose is not to share experiences, but to outdo each other with fictional feats of glory. Though, when Sevika speaks of punching a ravenous whale right in the eye, you feel as though there is a measure of truth in her words. Especially if that punch was done by her three-pronged attachment. 

“I wonder who is going shout liar first,” Jinx murmurs as her eyes scan the faces of those around her. 

“What?” You ask. 

“Eventually, someone tells a story that’s so impossible, so unbelievable, that someone else calls them a lair. Then they fight over it.” 

“Fight? As in, fight ?” You shake your head. How is this considered a fun activity? 

“Yup!” Jinx’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “It’s the best part.” 

“If you say so,” you shrug and continue to listen. 

Sure enough, a skinny sailor with sunken eyes and a permanent scowl tells a tale that is just a little bit too farfetched and it sends Locke over the edge. 

“Lair!” Locke booms, spilling some of his drink. 

“You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you in the ass,” the other sailor snarls. 

“This is going to be a boring fight,” Jinx mumbles. “No one will throw a punch at Locke and Locke is too honorable to punch someone smaller than him.”

Never in a thousand years would you have looked at Locke and thought the word honorable applies to him. But Jinx’s prediction rings true. The two sailors shout and swear at each other for a little while but they do not come to blows. 

“At least I am a decent shot,” Locke grumbles as the argument reaches its head. 

“My nan is a better shot than you are and she’s fuckin’ blind,” the other man snarls, earning a round of snickers from the rest of the crew. 

“Your nan died three years ago, you twat.”

“Yeah! And she can’t see for shit!” 

You nearly spit out your tentative sip of likely-rum at that. You try to rein in your laughter when you realize everyone else is doing the opposite, especially Jinx. 

“Bring me a rifle,” Locke snaps. “We’ll settle this now.”

“You don’t have any targets to aim for, you buffoon,” Ran quips as they drain their cup. 

“That don’t matter,” the skinny sailor says with a dismissive wave. “I’m so drunk I can see just about as well as my nan.” 

“Then how are we going to settle our little disagreement?” Locke demands. “By proxy?”

“Sure, I’ll choose a proxy to defend my honor,” the sailor scoffs. His bleary eyes scan his surroundings before his gaze lands on you. “I bet the little heiress can outshoot you.”

Locke rolls his eyes and your cheeks flush red. 

“I’ll bet my life’s earning she’s never even held a firearm before,” Locke mutters. 

“Yet she can still outshoot you,” the sailor slurs. 

Your apprehension melts away as you realize everything is said in good fun. For reasons you are unsure of, you decide to join in. 

“I’ve never held a firearm but I’m certain Locke has never danced a waltz,” you say. 

Locke levels you with a hard stare, one brow arched. “Who needs waltzing?”

“Who needs to be a good shot in alone in the middle of the ocean?” You point out. 

“Good marksmanship is very useful in piracy,” Locke says. “Waltzing is not.” 

“Waltzing requires grace, balance, self-awareness, spatial awareness, and the ability to read those around you. You don’t have only your partner to worry about but other pairs around you. Can the same be said for shooting?” 

“Yes!” Jinx exclaims. “Well, maybe not the bit about a partner but that’s all true.”

“What a load of shit,” Locke grumbles. 

“It’s true,” Sevika chimes in. Her word seems to make all the difference even if she only speaks up for the sake of her own entertainment. 

You look at Locke who still seems to be struggling with the idea that a waltz and a rifleman use the same skillset. “I propose a challenge.” 

That gets everyone’s attention. 

“If I can shoot better than Locke can waltz, I win,” you say. 

“Win what?” Locke asks. 

“Bragging rights?” You suggest. You don’t want to trade away any chores since you need them in order to avoid being alone with Silco. 

“Done,” Locke nods with a smirk. Despite his menacing appearance, he looks almost…giddy. Like he’s happy to take part in something that’s truly ridiculous. “Come take your shot.” 

You stand and approach Locke as Ran brings a rifle to him. 

“Do you have any idea how to shoot this at all?” Locke asks. 

“Nope,” you admit. 

“In the spirit of good sportsmanship, I’ll show you just enough to keep you from hurting yourself,” he says. 

“How gallant.” 

He shows you how to hold the rifle, which is far heavier than you imagined. As per instruction, you keep the barrel pointed toward the open ocean at all times. As you hold it, your arms start to tremble. Locke prepares the rifle for firing and you suspect he’s taking longer than necessary just to see you struggle. 

“If there is no target, how can we know whether I’ve made a good shot or not?” You ask. 

“Don’t worry. That won’t matter.” 

“But my part of the challenge is a test of marksmanship,” you protest only to be met with a chuckle. 

“Okay, princess. Go ahead and fire.” Locke gives you a nod and you gently tap your finger against the trigger. Aiming at the endless, empty expanse of the black ocean, you pull the trigger fully. You expect the loud boom but you do not expect to feel the entire rifle revolt against your grip, slamming into your shoulder. You stumble back with a small yelp, much to the enjoyment of the spectators around you. 

Locke tosses his head back and laughs, his shoulders shaking. 

“What the hell was that?” You stammer. Ran takes the rifle from you, freeing your hands to rub at your shoulder. 

“Recoil. To be honest, I expected to you land on your ass,” Locke chuckles.

“You might have given me some warning.”

“Where is the fun in that?” The pirate says. 

“Well, once I confirm that my shoulder hasn’t been launched from its socket, I’m going to make you waltz and we’ll see how you do,” You mutter, still testing the soreness in your arm and shoulder. “If you complete the waltz without tripping, you’ll win. Is that fair?” That seems fair to you since Locke expected the rifle’s recoil to send you to the ground. 

“Easy enough,” he agrees. 

“Good. Stand here.” You direct him to stand in front of you. “Watch my feet.”

With a phantom partner, you demonstrate the basic steps of a waltz before returning to Locke. 

“Got it?” You ask. 

“Yes,” Locke nods though he does not seem very confident. 

“Good. Remember, if you trip, I win.” You place his hands in the correct positions and do the same for yourself. He’s much taller and broader than anyone you’ve ever danced with. Your arms feel suspended in an awkward way that almost makes you laugh. 

“I don’t suppose we have any music?” 

“Depends. Can one play a waltz on the side of a barrel?” Jinx asks. 

“Likely not,” you chuckle. “It’s no matter. I will count out the beat. That won’t be too difficult for you, will it?” You taunt Locke who only nods. 

You begin to count, but nothing happens. Locke stands stock still. 

“You’re the man. You’re supposed to lead,” you prompt him. 

“Right. Naturally,” he grumbles and waits for you to begin your count. When you do, he steps forward instead of backward, trampling your foot. You hold in your laughter as you shake your head. 

“I didn’t think you’d stumble on the very first step,” you tease. “Had I known such a game would be so easy to win I would have joined the fun sooner.”

“I’ve never done any of that fancy Piltover dancing before. Let me try again,” Locke mutters. “It’s a stupid dance. It’s not that hard.”

“If you say so,” you shrug before taking up position again. You begin to count once more. To Locke’s credit, he manages two steps before stumbling, earning a round of laughter from the crew. 

“What is the meaning of this?” A voice like a burst of cold wind blew over the deck. Silco stood at the top of the stairs leading to his cabin. The laughter amongst the crew faded into nothing. Only Jinx looked unaffected by the Captain’s sudden presence. 

“A friendly challenge,” you explain. “Nothing more.”

“I can see that,” Silco says as he steps closer to the cluster of burning torches. The firelight casts his face in harsh shadows that make him look even more inhuman than he already does. “But I cannot allow the crew of the Zaun’s Revenge to look incompetent. Locke, step aside.”

“Aye, Captain.” The confusion is clear in his voice as he stumbles back. You are unable to fully hide your confusion as well, especially when Silco steps before you and takes your hand. 

“The honor of the Zaun’s Revenge is at stake. You will not leave this ship under the misbelief that no one here can execute a decent waltz.” 

Well, that’s an unexpected development. 

“Do what you are able,” you reply with a note of challenge in your voice that does not go unnoticed by your new partner. You bring your hand to rest on his shoulder as you prepare to dance.

“One more thing,” he says before looking to his crew. “Walley, do you still have that old fiddle?” 

“Aye, Captain.” 

“Fetch it.”

The crewmember scurried away and quickly returned with the promised fiddle. 

“Play Across a Sea so Clear and Blue, ” Silco orders before looking down at you. “I doubt you know it but it will suffice for a waltz. Surely, you can adapt.”

“Surely,” you bristle. 

Walley beings to play his fiddle. Though you do not know the song, the time signature is well-suited for a waltz. You wait for Silco to lead you into the dance, expecting him to miscount or falter but he doesn’t. The pair of you move across the deck as though you’ve done this a hundred times before and plan to do it a hundred times more. 

You quickly adjust to each other’s movements and soon he leaves room for you to add flourishes to the simple steps, which you do without hesitation. Your movements are slow and precise. As you dance with him, you cannot help but think of how different this is from the passion you shared during the storm. Silco leads you through the dance expertly, trusting you to be a competent partner. This isn’t a show of dominance or power but a display of grace and unity. Two bodies moving as one to create something elegant and lovely. 

The song ends far too soon, as does the dance. You feel breathless even though the dance was not at all physically demanding. You’re speechless even as your body moves you through the motions of curtsying to your partner. 

Thankfully, Jinx appears at your side. She’s nearly vibrating with excitement. 

“How did you do that? You looked like you were floating!” She says, looking between you and Silco. Her question is a good one. 

Where does a pirate learn how to waltz, let alone waltz so well? 

“I…” You start only to trail off. “I need a drink.”

You move away from Silco, back to your abandoned cup. You force yourself to take a sip and you are grateful that it goes down easier this time. The alcohol settles in your belly and dulls the unwanted feelings swirling through you. 

Jinx joins you soon and within minutes, the crew is back to swapping stories and boasting as though the waltz never happened. 

Your gaze wanders to the bow. Though that part of the ship is kept in darkness, Silco’s figure is even darker and you can see him easily. 

Curiosity and something deeper that you do not wish to think about tugs at you. You do your best to ignore it for as long as you are able, but it’s like a persistent buzzing fly hovering around your head. 

With a resigned sigh, you get up and move toward the bow. No one stops you or questions you. 

You reach Silco’s side and stand quietly in the darkness for a moment. You can hear the gentle lap of the water against the ship’s hull and you can see the sparkling array of stars above, but everything else is black. 

“If you’ve come to beg for another dance, I’m afraid I will disappoint you,” Silco says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, as though he does not wish the stars to overhear him. 

“I wasn’t going to,” you say. “But I was going to ask where you learned to dance like that.”

“It does not take much to learn how to waltz,” he says. Though you cannot see his face, save for the glow of his ruined eye, you get the sense that he’s avoiding something. 

“It’s not just that,” you say. “You dance like a gentleman. You carry yourself like a gentleman. You speak like a gentleman, for the most part. Yet, you’re…”

“A pirate? A sea hound? A scoundrel? A criminal?”

“You could have stopped at pirate but yes,” you nod, earning a soft chuckle from Silco. “But even still, you’re nothing like the pirates my father has encountered.” 

“I’ll admit to that,” he says. “I am not like any other pirate roaming the seas. I have no wish to scavenge from trade ships. If I wished to fight for scraps with a thousand other desperate fools, I would have stayed in the Undercity.” 

Silco does not need to see your face to know his words have thrown you. 

“Is it more believable that a pirate can carry himself well than it is to believe a gutter rat can do the same?” 

“I have not known what to believe for several days now,” you say. “I’d be willing to believe almost anything.” 

The chuckle that leaves Silco’s throat is dry and humorless. “The Piltover Naval Academy loves bottomfeeders with a sad story.” 

Your eyes widen in the darkness. 

Of course, that makes perfect sense. He wasn’t daunted by the storm. He runs his ship with precision and discipline one would not attribute to ordinary pirates. He’s managed to instill a sense of both fear and loyalty in his crew. And those who attend the academy are taught etiquette, dance, deportment, and anything else that can shape them into shining jewels of society. 

Your mind snaps back to the day you were kidnapped, before everything went to hell. Captain Vander spoke of the academy briefly. There was a moment when a shadow fell over his features as he spoke of his past. And he knew Silco. As did Quartermaster Benzo. 

“Did you know Captain Vander?” You ask softly, unsure if you wish to know the answer or not. 

Silence stretches out between you and Silco. Even though you are within arms reach of him, you feel as though you may as well be an ocean away. 

“Yes.” His voice is soft yet somehow still harsh. Bitter but sad. 

“Were you…close?” you ask, unsure if there is a better way to phrase it. The way Captain Vander looked at Silco aboard The Hound went beyond normal anger. There was history there. 

“For a time,” Silco replies. 

You’re shocked that he gave you any kind of real answer. 

“What happened?” You press, wanting to see how far you can take your questions. 

“Professional differences,” Silco mutters. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.” 

Silco turns to look at you as silence falls once more. Though you can barely make out his features, you can see he is fighting some kind of war within himself. You are about to take the high road and apologize for prying, as the rules of polite conversation demand, when the ship suddenly heaves hard to one side. 

Unable to right yourself in time, you start to fall. Silco’s arm snakes around your waist as he pulls you to him, allowing you to use his body to steady yourself. Farther down the deck, the crew voices their confusion amongst themselves, unsettled by the sudden jolt. 

“What was that?” You ask, turning your gaze to the sky as though you expect another terrible storm to blow in out of nowhere. But the skies are perfectly clear and the wind is calm. The ocean, however, tells a different story. The faint light of the torches reaches the water closest to the ship. Instead of the calm, docile sea, the Zaun’s Revenge glided on only moments ago, the water was as violent as a bubbling cauldron. 

“Get back,” Silco urges, guiding you away from the railing. 

“What is it?” You repeat. 

Silco does not get a chance to answer. In the blink of an eye, the sea erupts. At first, you fear the ship has nudged some kind of explosive. You can think of nothing else that would explain the towering column of water rising just off the starboard bow. 

The water crashes back down to the ocean’s surface except that it doesn’t. Water rolls off the form of something huge, something that also looks like water. You blink over and over, trying to make sense of what you are seeing. 

You spot two glowing orbs that shine brilliant blue, brighter than any star in the sky. They look like glowing stones that are somehow perfectly round.
Your stomach drops as the crew leaps to action around you and more torches are quickly illuminated. The glowing stones are not stones at all. 

They are eyes. 

Glowing, unnatural eyes deeply set into a massive head made entirely of living water. The head boasts a long snout. Water vapor floated like smoke from what you believe to be nostrils. Its long, curving neck ripples as the water that made up its body somehow managed to keep its shape. Its serpentine body vanishes into the sea as its proud head takes in the sight of the ship.
Its watery jaw opens revealing long, sharp teeth that look deadly despite also being made of water. 

The creature let out a shriek that makes your vision go blurry for a moment. Your mind still grapples with what your eyes attempt to understand but there is one thing you know for certain. You are not safe. 

The water monster shrieks once more and dives toward the deck with open jaws. 

Chapter Text

You stand in place, still staring up at the towering monster of living water. A part of your mind understands that it is about to snap at the ship like a wild animal but the thought is simply too impossible to comprehend. 

“Torches!” Sevika shouts sharply enough to drag your attention back to the deck and crew. You are not the only one frozen with fear and disbelief. Most of the crew cannot seem to believe their eyes either. 

“ Torches! ” Sevika snarls and shoves the nearest crewmember. This sends them scurrying off to illuminate the ship as much as possible. Your gaze drags back up the column of water to the beastly head and glowing eyes. Its neck reminds you somewhat of a snake, coiled to strike. 

When its head darts forward toward the deck, you at least have the good sense to brace yourself. The beast thuds against the ship as though it is made of pure, solid matter. You are knocked clean off your feet, unable to stop yourself from colliding with the railing. Breath leaves your lungs in a sharp gust just in time for a rush of water to slam against your body. 

Gasping, sputtering, and dazed, the only thing you can think to do is look for Silco but you don’t see him. An unexpected stab of pain blooms in your chest that has nothing to do with the physical blows your body just experienced. 

He left you to fend for yourself. 

You should not be surprised. Why would you expect anything different? So what if he danced with you and briefly participated in a conversation that didn’t consist of throwing insults at each other? That does not change the fact that you are a prisoner. Less than that, even. You’re a stolen commodity. 

A lump rises in your throat and you tell yourself it’s because the pain in your right side is growing more intense by the moment. No other reason. 

You know why you are here. You know where you stand. 

The water creature lets out another shrill roar as its glowing eyes scan the deck. Your eyes follow the serpentine curve of its neck to where its body meets the deck and continues, rising over the railing, not unlike the way a snake’s body slides over a branch. Yet, as water pours off of its form, it never changes size. 

It strikes again, aiming at Locke who manages to dive out of the way. Like before, the brace of its impact rocks the ship. This time, you are able to see the way water bursts from its body and rolls across the deck the way a rogue wave would roll across a calm sea. 

What in the hell is it? 

“Princess, you either need to get moving or get fighting. I don’t care which one you do. Just don’t get in the way.” Sevika brushes by you with a vicious look in her eyes as she attaches what looks to be some kind of miniature harpoon to the end of her mechanical arm. 

You nod, though Sevika has already moved her attention back to the water creature. 

“Bring its head down!” She barks at whoever is within earshot. 

You try to make yourself move in any direction for any purpose but you simply can’t. Your mind is racing and grappling with the reality in front of you, leaving your body stuck in a state of awe and terror. It is only when a crewmate, the same one who nearly came to blows with Locke, crashes against the deck in front of you that you snap out of your stunned state. 

“Fuckin’ waterwyrms,” he grumbles as he scrambles to his feet just in time to avoid another wave rolling off the body of the beast.

A waterwyrm. An apt name that scratches along the outer edge of your frazzled memory. You cannot chase after it just now. 

The clatter of metal pulls your attention and you realize a thick dagger has fallen from the belt of the swearing crewmate. You call out for him, realizing too late that you never learned his name. Not that it matters. You can’t see him anymore. 

You reach for the dagger, figuring it’s better to arm yourself in one way or another while you decide what you’re going to do. 

The storm the other day was frightening but familiar. You’d sailed through storms before. You knew what to do to an extent, and when you didn’t, the crew was there to set you right. But that isn’t the case now. 

Only a handful of the crewmates crisscrossing the deck seem to know what they’re dealing with. The rest wear expressions you imagine are similar to the one on your face right now. You are not the only one out of your depth with this. 

The dagger is heavier than you expected and, truth be told, you do not know how to wield it. The closest thing you’ve held to this is an engraved letter opener that you keep on your bedside table at home, just in case. 

You struggle to decide whether or not to keep the dagger or discard it but you cannot remain rooted in place like this. You are completely unprotected. Once you find a bit of shelter, you can organize your thoughts and pull yourself together. 

A flickering instinct tugs at your mind. It whispers to you, urging you to find Captain Silco. He’s supposed to keep you from harm until you are returned safely to your father and fiancé. That was the agreement. 

A cruel stab of logic reminds you that not even Silco could offer absolute protection against a creature of myth and magic, especially not one that is determined to flood the ship with its watery form. Besides, Silco did not hesitate to abandon you once the waterwyrm rose from the black sea. 

Another flash of hurt sears into your chest and you quickly replace the hurt with anger, unwilling to allow your ego to be bruised by that man more than it already has. Enough is enough. The familiar clarity of anger awakens the part of your mind that had gone hazy with shock at the sight of the waterwyrm. 

You need to get to a safe place. Quickly. You flee, heading toward the stern, nearly tripping with every step as you do so. As much as you do not want to look at it, you keep your eyes fixed on the waterwyrm. Perhaps, if you were seeing it in a painting or sketch, you would find it beautiful but not here. Not when it’s real and dangerous and hell-bent on fracturing your reality. Things like this only exist in stories. 

Then again, you thought Silco only existed in stories, and look how that has panned out for you. 

With a soft groan, you keep moving forward. Even in the most dire of situations, the Captain still manages to snake his way to the forefront of your mind. The thought stokes your anger even more and you cling to it as you navigate around the scrambling crewmates and thrashing waterwyrm. It has slithered around to the port side of the ship, an equal distance from the bow and stern. This would be a good thing if you didn’t feel a spray of water coming from behind you. You look over your shoulder to see its watery, snake-like tail rising on the opposite side of the ship. 

You’ve seen plenty of sketches of mythical krakens wrapping their tentacles around ships to squeeze them into splitters. Could a waterwyrm do such a thing? 

The tail swings like a whip, heading right toward you. You dive forward, evading the tail but you’ve realized you’re now scrambling to find your footing right beside the great neck of the beast. You gaze up, tipping your face all the way back to look at its head. Its attention is drawn elsewhere, for the moment. Instead of moving away, like a sensible person would, your mind hones in on the weight of the dagger in your hand. 

You look at the rippling, translucent body of the waterwyrm. Surely, if it is solid enough to perch on the deck as it wreaks havoc, it is solid enough to feel the pierce of a blade. Without thinking twice, you lift the dagger and stab it into the side of the waterwyrm. The dagger pieces its watery hide like a hot knife through butter.

It does…nothing. 

No, that isn’t quite true. It’s done something . It’s gotten the beast's attention. The waterwyrm’s serpentine neck swivels and bends, bringing its head down until it is looking you right in the eye. Those blue orbs glow and shine like wild fire. It has no pupils but you know it’s looking right at you, into you. 

With a low, gurgling hiss, it opens its mouth. 

The anger that propelled you forward evaporates, leaving you with nothing but a cold, hollow sense of fear. You cannot move. You are vaguely aware that the dagger has slipped from your hand and has clattered onto the deck. 

Every inch of your skin, every drop of blood, every bone screams at you to run but you can’t. You can’t look away from the waterwyrm’s eyes. Now you see the beauty of such a creature, though the notion is far from soothing. 

You will be swallowed up by its hungry maw. 

You wonder if it will kill you by drowning or if its teeth are more solid than they appear. You wonder which you’d prefer. Probably the latter. You’ve never seen someone drown, but enough of your father’s men have had close brushes with such a watery death that you know it’s unpleasant.

It occurs to you that this is the first time you’ve pondered your own death. It always seemed like such a faraway thing. An inevitable thing, like a candle blowing out. You would be here and then you would be gone. You never gave much thought to what happened in between. The act of dying itself. 

A crack rings out and it doesn’t fully register with you that something has happened before the waterwyrm’s head reels back. It snarls and snaps, howling with rage. Something bright and sparkling falls in front of your face. 

“Yes!” Jinx’s delighted laugh is out of place with everything happening around you as she appears by your side. She scoops up the bright, shining thing. With a slow blink, you realize it’s one of the waterwyrm’s eyes. She slips it into her pocket. Its glow is so intense it shines through the fabric of her pants. 

“You should probably move,” Jinx says, putting a hand on your shoulder and tugging you back toward the weather deck. “I just made that thing really angry and I still need the other eye.”

She turns you a little and gives you a small shove in the direction of the weather deck. There, at the top of the steps, you see Silco with a rifle in hand. As always, he looks eerily still amongst the chaos. His ocean eye is bright and focused as he watches the waterwyrm.

You dart forward and start to climb the stairs, but your legs have gone wobbly. You stumble near the top, reaching out and catching yourself on his pantleg to keep yourself from sliding down the steep steps. 

“You’re alright, treasure.” You feel a large, gentle hand on the back of your head. “Stay right there. This will be over and done with soon.”

Several words leap into your mouth but none of them make it past your tongue. You find that you can do nothing but cling to his leg and hope his words ring true. 

“Line it up for me, minnow,” Silco orders. You see a flash of blue as Jinx scrambles up the nearest mast and begins to wave and shout at the waterwyrm. The half-blind beast whips its head around, teeth bared and snarling with fury. You close your eyes, not wanting to look upon it anymore but that is worse. The moment you close your eyes, all you see is the waterwyrm bearing down on you, ready to devour you. Your eyes snap back open just as the waterwyrm strikes at Jinx. Its head moves into the perfect position for Silco to take the shot, and he does. Another crack rings out, shooting right into your bones. The second glowing eye comes loose. This time, Jinx is able to catch it before it hits the deck. 

And then, you aren’t fully sure what happens. The waterwyrm moans weakly, its head swaying as it struggles to keep itself upright. It begins to collapse, as though it’s been mortally wounded rather than blinded. You cling harder to Silco’s leg, bracing for an impact that could be severe enough to damage the ship. Just before the waterwyrm’s limp body hits the deck, it melts into pure, normal water. Thick droplets of seawater smash into the surface of the deck like a vicious rain, but that’s all that happens. 

Your brow furrows with confusion before you look up at Silco. He sets the rifle aside before reaching down to help you to your feet. Around you, the crew checks for damage to the ship. Some look exhausted and annoyed. Most look as confused as you feel. Sevika looks as though she’s just eaten a whole lemon. You briefly wonder what she must have seen in her life for something like the waterwyrm to be considered little more than an inconvenience. 

“Those glowing stones gave life to the water,” Silco explains, his voice gentle and filled with patience that makes something hurt inside of your chest. “Remove the stones, remove the problem. The stones are very valuable as well, as you can probably imagine.”

You nod, though it’s a jerky, automatic response to his words. You hear them. You know what you saw. But your mind just refuses to accept that something like that can exist in your world. 

“Are you hurt?” Silco keeps speaking to you in that low, gentle voice. You hate it. You don’t want to see that softness in him. You don’t want it to steady you or soothe you. 

“I’m fine,” you manage, though you’re not certain that’s the truth. You feel like you are going to keel over at any second. 

“You’re bleeding.” Jinx glides up to your side, ever the helpful little wraith, and lightly touches your arm. Sure enough, there is a gash stretching nearly from elbow to wrist on the underside of your forearm. You can’t even feel it, though you decide that’s a good thing for now. 

“Get her down to the doctor, minnow.” Silco’s good eye fills with something you refuse to acknowledge as regret, possibly even worry, when he looks at the wound on your arm. 

“So much for not allowing damage to your cargo,” you mutter as you let Jinx lead you below deck. She takes you to the bottom level of the ship. You pass dozens of hammocks strung up and layered over each other as well as an assortment of trunks and personal belongings. 

“Do you sleep down here?” You ask her. 

“I bunk on my own,” Jinx explains, but does not offer more details.  

You pass three iron cells, each fitted with several pairs of shackles. They are all empty and, thankfully, look as though they’ve been empty for a while. You briefly wonder if you were meant to occupy one of the cells. Why did Silco insist on watching over you so closely when he could have thrown you down here and been done with it?

Just past the cells is a solid wall made from spare bits of wood. Though it looks sturdy enough, it’s quite slapdash. Gaps between planks allow you to see glimpses into the room beyond. The wood bulges and indents in strange ways. With a small start, you realize the wall is made of pieces of other ships. Perhaps, ships the Zaun’s Revenge attacked and scuttled while looking for goods.

There are two crude doors set into the makeshift wall. 

“I sleep there.” Jinx points to one of the doors. Its placement against the wall implies that it’s the smaller of the two rooms. She points to the other door. “That leads to the laboratory. It’s best if you wait for me or the Captain to bring you down here if you ever have a need to see the doctor.”

“Oh?”

“He’s nice, usually,” Jinx shrugs. “But he gets very annoyed if his work is interrupted. He’ll always help you if you need it, though.”

Jinx raps her knuckles against the door. Through the gaps in the slats, you see warm candlelight but also some kind of glowing, purplish light you cannot source. There is no answer from inside the laboratory but that doesn’t stop Jinx from pushing in. 

The room is small, though the curved hull of the ship that makes up one wall allows for a little extra space. All manner of indistinguishable items have been cleverly stored where the room comes together to form the underside of the bow.

Tucked against the curved wall is a desk cast in shadow by a tall, thin figure whose black coat seems to eat the light around him. Shelves fitted to the curve of the hull contain jar after jar of that strange purple powder. The jars glow faintly in the darkness of the room. 

The man does not look up from his desk nor does he acknowledge the presence of two new people in the cramped space. 

“This is where I work on projects.” Jinx taps a cluttered workbench stocked to the point of overflowing with metal bits and bobs, screws, nuts, bolts, and plenty more objects that you can’t identify. The walls around her workbench are covered in sketches, schematics, and designs of mechanical nature. You spot a page with the words ‘ MAGNETIC CANNONBALL’ scrawled across the top in big, messy letters surrounded by complex equations you can’t ever hope to untangle. The sight makes you smile a little. 

“Mr. Doctor, we are in need of your assistance,” Jinx chirps and taps on the boney shoulder of the man. He glances back at her with a foggy look that is somehow both dazed and focused. He wears a cloth tied around the lower half of his face in some kind of makeshift mask. 

“Hm,” he grunts softly before turning around to face you fully. You bite the inside of your cheek so you do not react to the severe burns covering the previously hidden side of his face. His other eye is surrounded by scar tissue so thick he can barely open it, which doesn’t seem to matter since the eye itself is a pale, milky green color. Despite that, you can still make out dark hollows under both of his eyes. 

His functional eye quickly examines your body, spotting the laceration on your arm. 

“What happened there?”

You open your mouth to explain, but you aren’t actually sure how you injured yourself. “I’m not sure. I fell a few times during the waterwyrm’s attack.”

The doctor’s nonexistent eyebrows shift upward. “Waterwyrm?” 

“Yes, one just gave us a hell of a fight.” Jinx’s eyes spark with pride. “Nothing we couldn’t handle though. It looks like everything held up in here just fine.”

She looks toward the shelves and she’s right. Despite the viciousness of the waterwyrm’s attack, not even a single pen looks as if it’s rolled out of place. 

“Good, good,” he nods, taking a step forward on spindly legs. “Come into the light, please.”

You do as you are asked, holding out your arm for him to examine. His long fingers wrap around your wrist and put the icy grip of the reaper to shame with their coldness. 

“You truly did not notice that the ship was under attack Mr…Doctor?” 

“I have learned how to maintain focus in even the most unlikely situations. Besides, the Captain and crew are more than capable of handling any dangers the sea flings at us.” He chuckles softly, the sound reminiscent of scraping bones, before speaking again. “Singed. Only the little one calls me Mr. Doctor.”

Singed. Surely, that is not his true name. You find yourself staring at the ruin of his face until you remember yourself and force your eyes down. 

“It’s quite alright,” Singed says as he moves to one of the heavily stocked shelves and retrieves squares of pristine white cloth and two glass vials each the size of your thumb. “For all of my faults, vanity was never one of them.” 

He holds up the first vial filled with clear liquid. “Clean your wound with this first and wait for the bleeding to stop.” He holds up the second vial, half filled with liquid the same color as the vibrant purple powder. “This will encourage healing. I suggest you ask the Captain for assistance. It is most potent in its liquid form.”

“But what is it?” You ask softly, taking both of the vials as well as the scraps of clean cloth. 

“Have you received advanced education in biology, chemistry, anatomy, pathology, and alchemy?”

Your eyes widen. “I have not.”

“Then all you need to know is that this is something that will help you.” There is a slightly condescending tone in the doctor’s voice but you don’t have the energy to let it pinch your pride.

“We call it shimmer,” Jinx says with a helpful smile. 

“ You call it shimmer,” Singed corrects, turning his attention back to his desk. “That is an inaccurate and purely cosmetic name.” 

“It’s catching on with the crew so you should get used to it,” Jinx shrugs before ushering you out of the cramped laboratory. 

“Thank you,” you call over your shoulder but Singed is already engrossed in his work once more. You follow Jinx above deck, staring at the little vial of glowing purple liquid. The crew has mostly recovered from dealing with the waterwyrm. Considering the violence of the attack, it did little damage to the ship.

“Oh, rats!” Jinx groans softly, lightly placing her fingers over the glowing stones in her pocket. “I forgot to give these to Mr. Doctor.” She hurries back below deck, leaving you alone. You aren’t sure if you’re grateful for the solitude or not. 

Your mind still feels caught, stretched thin over the gap between what you thought you knew and what you now know to be true. You move toward the captain’s cabin without thinking about it.  

There are stones that somehow bring water to life. You grew up listening to myths and legends from all corners of the world. While many were soaked in magic and impossibility, you also knew the ocean still held many secrets and mysteries. You just didn’t think the secrets would be so close to the myths. 

Desperate for something to occupy your mind, you dig through your memories for scraps of any myth containing the waterwyrm. Nothing comes to mind. Frustrated, you push into the captain’s cabin to find it empty. Both relief and disappointment settle like stones on your chest. You toss the stone of disappointment away and will yourself to be happy for a moment to tend to your wounds alone. 

While the bed looks welcoming, you choose to perch on the desk instead. You briefly consider sitting in Silco’s chair but you can’t bring yourself to do it. 

It’s…his. 

Somehow, sitting in that chair feels more intimate than sharing a bed. 

You place the vials and the cloth on an empty part of the desk, away from the sprawl of maps and papers. Your fingertips brush the edge of the desk. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks as the image of your hands intertwined with his, bent over the desk as he took you from behind fills your mind. Something tugs deep in your belly as the need for a distraction attempts to disguise itself as desire. 

Your upper lip curls in forced disgust, but you cannot summon any anger behind the motion. You call your anger over and over, wishing to wrap yourself in it to shield yourself from the strange feelings fighting to form within you. It does not come. 

With a slow, deep breath, you turn your attention to the clean cloth squares and the first vial of clear liquid. You open it and take a sniff. It’s nothing more than a simple disinfectant if your nose is to be trusted. 

Singed instructed you to ask the Captain for help with the shimmer. Even if the idea of asking Silco for help was palatable, you aren’t sure you want to put shimmer anywhere near an open wound without a better understanding of what it is. 

You soak one of the cloths in a small amount of disinfectant and brace yourself as you press it to your wound. The stinging pain rips through you, far worse than the pain of the injury itself. 

Tears prick at the backs of your eyes and you go stone still, keeping the cloth pressed to your wound. The threat of tears has allowed a tiny spark of anger to rise. You clutch those sparks hard and throw them against the feeling your tears wish to bring forth. The sting grows until you can’t stand it anymore. 

Just as you remove the cloth from your wound with a small sound of frustration and anguish, the cabin door opens. 

“There you are.” Silco steps into the room and lets the door swing shut behind him. He locks it with mindless movements as his eye focuses on the sight of you sitting on the edge of his desk. Worry flickers behind his ocean eye. “What are you doing?”

“The kind doctor gave me something to patch myself up with.” You hold up the cloth as though it’s obvious. “The experience has been less than pleasant.”

“Have you ever had to tend to a wound like that before?” He asks, that horrible softness returning to his voice as he approaches you. 

“I think you know the answer to that.” You try to put a little bite in your voice but fail to do so. 

“Perhaps, but I’ve learned several times now that underestimating you is a foolish thing to do.” He takes the cloth from your hand without a word and frowns. “Did you dilute this at all?”

Your cheeks feel hot. “The doctor didn’t mention that I’d need to do so.”

Silco removes the seal on the water pitcher near the vanity and wets the cloth before adding a drop or two of the disinfectant. “This will get the job done and sting far, far less.”

You hold out your hand to take the cloth but he ignores it. He moves close once more and holds your injured arm in his free hand before gently cleaning the rest of the gash. The sting is still there, but its bite is far less vicious. You find that you are able to breathe with some normalcy again, though something heavy still sits on your chest. 

“Ah,” Silco murmurs as he spots the vial of shimmer. “Excellent.”

“I don’t want…whatever that is,” you say quickly. 

“It’s perfectly safe when administered correctly, I assure you.” He opens the vial and the cabin is soon filled with a sweet, medicinal scent that makes your nose tingle. “I use it every day.”

You tilt your head. “You do?”

He meets your gaze before bringing his fingertips to the scars around his ruined eye. “It is the only thing that keeps the infection from progressing. It dulls the pain as well. I wouldn’t be fit to man a rowboat let alone captain a vessel without it.”

“Oh.” Your gaze dips to the vial in his hand before falling silent. 

Silco leans forward, bending down a little so his face is level with yours. “What, no quips? Surely, you can think of some remark to make about such a substance turning me inhuman.”

You say nothing. 

“Not even a little jab at my charming personality and wonderful temperament?” There is a teasing lilt to his voice but that softness still remains. 

You shake your head. You aren’t in the mood to trade barbed remarks, not that your mind would cooperate with you if you were. 

Silco sighs softly and returns his attention to the shimmer vial. He moves away from you for a moment to fish something out of one of the desk drawers. You hear something clinking and glance over from the corner of your eye. He holds a small glass eyedropper, which he cleans thoroughly with the remaining disinfectant. 

“This will make it easier,” he explains. “You really won’t need more than a drop or two.”

“Will…?” You start to ask but you swallow your question down, hoping he’ll be gracious enough to pretend you hadn’t spoken at all. 

“Will what, treasure?” He finishes cleaning the eyedropper and dries it off before giving you an expectant look. 

“Will it hurt?” The sting of the disinfectant nearly brought you to tears. Another strike of pain would be too much for you to fight through and you were not going to cry. Certainly, not in front of Silco. 

“Yes, but it’s an unusual sort of pain,” he explains. “It’s intense, but it’s quick. A bit like someone flashing a bright light in your eyes unexpectedly. Your senses will feel scrambled but, like I said, it’s quick.”

He loads up the eyedropper with just two drops of the violent purple liquid and takes hold of your arm once more. He looks at you, waiting for permission. You nod. 

A single shining drop falls from the end of the eyedropper onto your wound. You feel a tingling sensation for a fraction of a moment before something unlike anything you’ve ever felt before wracks through your body. Too much air is crammed into your lungs yet it also feels as though the wind has been knocked from your chest. Your veins feel as though they widening and narrowing, wriggling beneath your skin. It’s unbearable. 

And then it’s gone. 

You gasp hard and brace on the desk. 

“Easy, treasure,” Silco’s voice tethers you to reality. 

Your mind scrambles to right itself. You feel exposed, vulnerable. Your anger has failed you so you fight to call forth anything else that will shield you from the terrible weight on your chest and the tightness in your throat.

His quick hands wrap your forearm in soft, clean bandages before you have a chance to see what your wound looks like now. Already, you note the absence of physical pain. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” His hand comes to rest in the middle of your back. You feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of your shirt. Tears spring forth but you quickly scoot off the desk to stand in the middle of the room, out of his reach. 

“I’m rather tired.” You keep your back to him as you blink and blink and blink. 

“I imagine so.” His boots thud against the wooden floor as he moves to stand behind you but he does not try to touch you again. “You’ve had quite a fright.”

Once again, you feel a tiny spark of your anger ignite but it’s not enough to catch fire and burn away the terrible feeling that creeps in around you. You are not yet in control of your emotions enough to speak, to deny his words. 

“Most of the crew is in the same boat as you are, so to speak,” he says. “Waterwyrms are incredibly rare. I’ve only seen three, myself. Seeing something like that for the first time can be rattling.”

“I am not rattled, ” you hiss. You clench your hands into fists to hide how much they shake as you move toward the bed. You sit down and fumble with the lacings of your boots until you’re able to shuck them off. “I’m tired. ” 

For a moment, Silco looks as though he’s going to press the matter. A small part of you, one that you’d like to squash beneath your heel, wishes he would. 

He takes a half step back and nods. “Get some sleep, then. You’ve earned it.”

He takes a seat at his desk and goes through the motions of clipping and lighting a fresh cigar. The warm, spiced smell of it banishes the lingering scent of disinfectant and shimmer from the cabin. Something in your chest loosens, but you’re not sure if it’s a good thing. 

You slip out of your breeches and crawl under the covers, pressing yourself as close to the wall as you can with your back to Silco. The only sounds in the room are the faint scratching of his pen across parchment and his soft exhales whenever he takes a puff of his cigar. It’s not enough to hold your focus. 

Your mind begins to spin again. Your heart slams against your ribs but you tell yourself it’s nothing more than your body responding to the shimmer. 

You are not rattled. You are not frightened. You can handle this. You have handled everything life has flung cruelly into your path and you will continue to do so. You will remain in control, just as you always have. 

But you know that’s not true. The words float through your mind like a lullaby despite the threat they pose to your quickly fracturing resolve. It’s never been true. 

It becomes harder to keep your breathing slow and even. That horrible feeling continues to tighten its grip around your throat, growing stronger and stronger until you fear you won’t be able to break loose. You won’t be able to keep it at bay. You’ll have to feel it and know the truth of it. 

You are not rattled. You are not frightened. 

You’re terrified. 

And the moment you let yourself feel that terror, you’ll be lost.

Fear claws at your throat and sits on your chest, prepared to suffocate you. Already, you can feel it seeping through your skin and stealing your breath. 

Fear has come for you before, but you fought it off. It pounced on you the day your mother died but you evaded it, letting grief shield you. It tried to ambush you again the day your father abandoned you at the family estate but your anger was so great and so fierce that fear could not touch you. 

Now, your grief was a quiet, content creature resting near your heart alongside the memory of your mother. And your anger…where was it? How could it have abandoned you and left you so vulnerable?

There had to be something you could do. Fear would not reach you this time. It never had and it never will. 

Not true. Not true. Not true. The words skitter across your brain, less gentle than they were before. 

You fight the urge to scream, choosing to bite the inside of your cheek instead. It's no use. The truth has started to seep through the cracks of your mind and you have nowhere left to run. No place to hide.   

How close will you allow yourself to come to madness for the sake of clinging to such a fragile illusion? 

You only believed yourself to be capable because you had never faced a true challenge. Now that you had, now that you stared the waterwyrm in the eyes and saw death, you can no longer hide from what you are. A small, scared, stupid girl who doesn’t know a single thing about the world. 

You do not have the strength or skills to survive on your own without your father’s money and protection. If you flee your engagement, you might as well forfeit your life. If you allowed yourself to be caged within the gilded bars of marriage and societal expectations, you would never feel alive again. 

One way or another, death surrounds you. It does not matter if it’s a death of your body or a death of your spirit. Both are equally devastating in your eyes. There is no escape. 

You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood as you keep fighting the cold sense of fear that tries to wrap you in its embrace. You can’t give in to it. You can’t allow yourself to feel it. You’d never be able to pull yourself out if you did. You don’t bother trying to call on your anger to help you keep fear at bay. You realize now that it did not abandon you. You’ve simply burned it all up. 

Only the faintest scrap of pride allows you to hold yourself together. If you are going to fall apart, it will not be on this damned ship surrounded by these damned pirates. 

You are so caught up in your own mind that you do not realize Silco has moved until you feel the bed shift beside you. You stay still, pretending to be asleep, not that it matters. Aside from your failed attempt to bring yourself some relief last night, Silco keeps his distance from you in bed. 

He shifts and rolls a bit before he seems to settle. Thinking he has fallen asleep, you allow your mind to resume its heavy task of stopping your fears from consuming you. 

A hand presses against your back. Your breath catches in your throat and it takes every bit of your frayed self-control to keep up the act of pretending to sleep. 

“Brave girl,” comes Silco’s soft whisper, so quiet you are unsure if you were meant to hear those words or not. 

Warmth spreads across your back, radiating from his palm. If you focus, you can feel the shape of every long, thin finger. It may be exhaustion, the shimmer, or the fact that you had your toe over the line of madness just a moment ago but you swear you feel him pressing against your back with every breath you take. His movements, if he’s moving at all, are slow and faint. When you feel him press, you extend your exhale. When he lightens the pressure, you inhale. Over and over until your breathing slows and your heart calms.

The urge to check if he’s awake or say his name gently pulls at you, but you let it pass. The peace of this moment is a fragile, hard-won thing that you aren’t ready to give up. Besides, if he actually is asleep and this is all in your head, you’d rather keep that to yourself. You continue to breathe slowly, focused on the way his hand feels against your back, and eventually allow sleep to take you. 

********

When you wake, you roll over to find an empty bed. You open your eyes, expecting to see Silco sitting at his desk like he usually does but he isn’t there. A small amount of relief fills you. You’re spared from confronting him after…whatever that was last night. 

Maybe you sent yourself into such a deep state of distress that you imagined it. But then that means that you imagined him for comfort, which might be worse. 

Your mind still feels clouded and sluggish as you dress and leave the cabin. Above deck, the air is still and there is not a cloud in the sky. The Zaun’s Revenge bobs gently on a calm sea. To the west, you spot a strip of land but no distinguishing landmarks that might tell you where you are. Your eyes scan the deck for Silco, but you do not see him. There does not seem to be any work to be done so you head below deck to the galley.

Arlo has already started preparing for the evening meal, causing you to realize just how late you’ve slept in. You offer to help, he accepts. Soon, you are chopping onions. Your eyes burn and your mincing skills leave much to be desired, but your mind is occupied. Plus, you are learning something new. That always makes you feel better, more in control of yourself. 

“You seem a bit out of sorts,” Arlo says. “Something on your mind?”

“That waterwyrm has rudely forced me to reexamine my understanding of the world and my place in it,” you answer. “It’s been horribly inconvenient.”
“Oh, I see. That happened to me the first time I saw something like that. It wasn’t a waterwyrm, though. The carcass of an ushkya floated to the surface. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“A what?” You hope you won’t regret asking. 

“An ushkya . Merfolk use them similar to the way humans use horses. They’re actually quite gentle by nature. I’ve seen a few wild ones before. Their fangs make them look scarier than they are. I’d go as far as to say they’re more docile than horses.”

Your mouth drops open. You regret asking. “I am not in a position to take in that information.”

“Fair. How are you getting along with those onions?”

“Badly, I’m afraid.” You dab at your onion tears with the back of your hand. “I hope you like a bit of a rough chop.”

“It’ll do just fine. You aren’t cooking for the Council,” he chuckles and rests an affirming hand on your shoulder. “Keep at it. I have plenty of work for you when you’re done.”

Time ticks by in the kitchen as you and Arlo take turns teaching each other things. It will be a while before he can read properly, but he knows how certain words look written down, which is an excellent start. The two of you make a plan to redo all of the labels in the scullery. Having a plan like that makes you smile. It’ll keep you occupied during the day and will hopefully make your imprisonment pass quicker. 

“Ah, so is this where I can expect to find you when you vanish from the cabin?” At the sound of Silco’s voice, you are flooded with memories of his hand on your back. You can feel the pressure between your shoulders as you turn around to face him. 

“If I say yes, does that mean the longboats will be left unattended?” You fire back.   

“Glad to see the stress of last night has not dulled your wit. You’re going to need it.”

“Why?”

“We’re going ashore. I have to meet with an associate of mine and I know better than to leave you to your own devices.” A small smirk twitches in the corner of his mouth but it is not accompanied by the usual mean glint in his eye. 

“Scared I’ll ambush you with another oar attack, pirate?” You say, moving out of the kitchen with an indifferent look though you are glad to be back in the familiar territory of banter and quick remarks. 

“If I remember correctly, I was the one who snuck up on you,” he says. 

“But my first instinct was still to give you a good whack,” you point out, earning a quiet chuckle from him. 

“True.”

Silco starts to lead you out of the galley but you pause and look over your shoulder. 

“Will you get on without me, Arlo?” you ask. 

“I’ll be fine. We can start our labeling project when you return if you’re up for it.” Arlo’s gaze darts to Silco and his face pales a little bit. “With the captain’s permission, of course.”

You turn your head and look up at Silco, arching a brow. 

“Hm,” he mutters before ushering you above deck. He lowers his head so his mouth is close to your ear. “Should I be concerned by how well you are ingratiating yourself with my crew?”

“Probably,” you shrug. “Do I need to put on that beloved harlot costume again?”

“Beloved indeed,” he chuckles lowly. “But no. Port Squawkfeather is not quite as…colorful as Port Fairna. You are perfectly fine as you are. Unless, of course, you secretly liked playing the harlot and wish to do so again.”

“Hold your breath and find out.” You smile sweetly before turning your attention to the port in question. 

“Ever the charmer.” Silco stands by your side as the Zaun’s Revenge docks and the gangplank is lowered.

Despite its unusual name, Port Squawkfeather looks orderly and clean for a pirate haven. From what you can see, there is some form of authority patrolling the docks and the shore. They bear a discreet insignia that looks strikingly similar to a waterwyrm.

The small port town is clustered on a spit of land between a narrow, pebbly beach and sandstone rock formations that vary in height. A few structures stand on plateaus scattered across the cliff faces, but most of the buildings appear to be concentrated around the mouth of the port. 

“What business do you have here?” You ask, glancing at Silco from the corner of your eye. You don’t expect an answer but you can’t help but ask. Silco is certainly making quite a few stops for someone with a valuable hostage underfoot. 

“I’m sure you recall the blue stones that served as the waterwyrm’s eyes. I plan to sell them. They are extremely valuable,” he replies. “Even more valuable than you.”

“I am worth less than a pair of glowing rocks?” You scoff. 

“These are not just rocks. The power they contain is unlike anything else in the world. Those stones contain pure arcane energy.”

“And you would sell them to the highest bidder?” You arch a brow. 

“Of course. I do not have the resources to harness their power myself so I may as well make a profit from them.”

He offers his arm, which you take, and the two of you disembark. 

“Are you going to make me sit in your lap in a dingy tavern again?” You ask. 

“No,” he replies. “You aren’t wearing a skirt. I won’t be able to have any fun.”

His words bring a hot blush to your cheeks. You fix your gaze straight ahead and hope he does not notice. Once more, you feel the ghost of his hand on your back, guiding you through your breaths. 

The entrance of the docks feeds into a well-maintained dirt road that leads right to a lively market. Instead of walking down that road, Silco cuts to the left and walks along the shore for a time.

“I hope you can handle a small climb, treasure,” he says before turning off the path onto a thin trail that snakes up the side of a sandstone formation. “I won’t carry you if you feel faint.”

“I’d rather be left in the dust than rely on you to carry me,” you reply, though a touch of worry reaches your heart. You nibbled on a few things while assisting Arlo, but you haven’t had a proper meal since last night’s dinner. 

The trail isn’t steep but it snakes back and forth along the side of the cliff, carrying you higher and higher with each twist. The trail dips into a valley dotted with scraggly bushes before traveling up the side of another sandstone formation. 

Sweat breaks out across your forehead and your throat feels scratchy and dry, but you don’t say anything. Silco doesn’t seem to be any worse for wear. It’s unlikely he has anything on his person that can relieve your discomfort so there is no point in opening yourself up to ridicule, especially after he saw you in such a vulnerable state last night. 

It is a hot day and the air is dry. Your legs ache from walking at an incline for so long, however slight it may be. As much as you want to ask Silco for a moment to stop and catch your breath, you push onward.

Each step gives you a frail sense of reassurance. 

You aren’t weak. You aren’t helpless. You’re capable. 

Even as your lungs burn and sparks tease the corners of your vision, you take comfort in your ability to keep pushing. 

You are resilient. 

The panic brought on by the waterwyrm was a fluke. A perfectly reasonable lapse in judgment, all things considered. 

You are fine. You have always been fine. You will continue to be fine. 

Is there not something better than fine? That wicked little voice whispers to you but you shut it out. Now is not the time. You must focus all of your energy on not collapsing on this forsaken trail.

“Steady now, treasure. Our destination is atop the plateau, just there.” Silco seems a little out of breath himself when he gestures to where the path curves just up ahead. 

“I’m perfectly fine,” you reply, ignoring the slight wheeze in your voice as you speak. If Silco noticed, he has enough grace to refrain from commenting on it. 

You round the bend and the land flattens. Straight ahead, the path extends onto a flat stretch that overlooks the port below and the ocean beyond. To the left, there is a small, slapdash house that looks to be made of driftwood, thatch, and other salvaged materials but that isn’t what captures your attention. The trees surrounding the home are filled with brilliant-colored parrots. Their feathers are a deep ruby shade that almost seems unnatural. They chitter and squawk as you and Silco approach. They fix you in their beady gazes but do nothing. 

Now you know how Port Squawkfeather got its name.

“Who, exactly, are we meeting?” You ask, moving a little closer to Silco. 

“An old associate of mine,” Silco says. 

Just before he knocks on the door, another parrot flutters over and perches on a specially-made stand near the door. Unlike the others, this parrot is a deep azure, blue as the sea. 

“Oooh, visitors!” It screeches as it flaps its wings. “Get your ass out here, ya drunk!”

“Good heavens,” you chuckle softly at the bird. “I wonder where he learned to say such a thing.”

“You’re about to find out, treasure.”

The door to the driftwood cabin flings open and in the doorway stands the oddest man you have ever seen. Spindly legs support a bloated belly that leads to narrow shoulders and skinny arms. He wears a shirt of bold coral splashed with an assortment of random, vibrant colors that resemble tropical blooms. A hat of woven straw sits atop his head, blocking the sun from a leathery face and brilliant blue eyes, so pale they are almost white. He also wears trousers shorn choppily to knee-length. On his feet are sandals that look to be made of the same material as his hat. 

“Captain Jimmy,” Silco says with a sense of familiarity and a warm smile. “You haven’t aged a day.”

“Damn right, I haven’t!” The man cackles. When Silco extends his hand for a shake, Captain Jimmy pulls him into a tight hug. “Glad to see you aren’t dead, my lad!” 

You bite back a laugh at the display. Silco looks like a cat that has just been doused with cold water. 

“I could say the same to you.” His discomfort is palpable and you see no reason to intervene. The azure parrot makes a squawking noise that sounds like a human chuckle. You glance at the bird with a fond smile. It looks back at you as if it can read your thoughts. Its gaze is so intense that you find yourself looking away. 

Silco has managed to extract himself from the eccentric man’s embrace. “I’m not here on a social call, I’m afraid. I have something for you.”

“Oh?” Captain Jimmy raises a bushy grey brow before sliding his gaze over to you. “Well, she’s pretty but I don’t deal in that sort of trade. You know that.”

“Oh! No,” Silco shakes his head and stammers. “Not her. She’s a different sort of investment.”

You huff with indignation at his choice of words but say nothing. 

“I’d prefer to discuss this inside,” Silco presses. 

“Shady deal! Shady deal!” The azure parrot screeches. 

“Hush now, Barnaby!” Captain Jimmy snaps. “I know damn well Captain Silco brings me nothing but shady deals. You needn’t insult me by stating the obvious.”

The parrot looks abashed. You did not know a parrot could convey such an expression. 

“Come in,” Captain Jimmy steps to the side and ushers you and Silco into his home. 

The inside of the small home reminds you of Silco’s cabin. It is crammed to the gills with interesting baubles, trinkets, and artifacts. 

You try to hide your surprise when Captain Jimmy waits for the blue parrot, Barnaby, to fly into the sitting room. The parrot settles on a perch in the corner of the room. 

“You look thirsty, lass,” Captain Jimmy says to you. “May I offer you a refreshment?”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” you say, summoning your most charming smile. Once Captain Jimmy has moved out of sight, you turn to Silco. “You should take notes in regards to manners.”

“Oh, I think I’ve been more than generous with you, treasure,” he murmurs with a glimmer in his eye. “At least, that’s the impression I got when you screamed my name-”

“Hush!” You snap just before Captain Jimmy returns carrying two hollowed-out coconuts. 

“One for you and one for me, lass,” he grins, showing off several missing teeth. 

“You’re too kind,” you say as you take in the fruity fragrances of the drink he offered. You take a sip and can’t help but sigh at the sensation of sweet flavors exploding on your tongue. “Oh, this is lovely! What is it?”

“A carefully curated and blended assortment of fruit juices from the surrounding land. Though it looks rather barren, this place is a treasure trove of natural wonder.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” you nod as you take another deep sip of the delicious juice. “I can’t imagine those parrots would stick around otherwise.”
Through the window, you can see clusters of ruby-red parrots chirping at each other and fluttering their striking wings. 

“True enough!” Captain Jimmy cackles. “Shame I can’t get rid of this one.” He jerks a thumb toward Barnaby, who fluffs up his feathers as though he’s heard every word. 

“Old bastard,” Barnaby croaks. 

“Waste of poultry,” Captain Jimmy fires back. 

Before you can comment on the odd exchange, Silco speaks up. 

“As much as I’d like to chat, I am here for a reason.” He reaches into his coat pocket and produces a pouch. You recognize the faint blue glow bleeding through the fabric.
“What sort of trouble have you brought me now?” Captain Jimmy grumbles as he sets down his hollow coconut. You sip at your drink while Silco spills the two glowing blue stones into his palm. 

“We ran into a waterwyrm and got these for our trouble,” he says. “Any chance you can give me gold in exchange for them?”

Captain Jimmy thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “No gold but I have a decent trade, I believe. Let me see.” He gets to his feet and walks toward an empty wall before pulling down a sheet of canvas covered in writing. There is so much information and you struggle to understand what you read. 

You see names of creatures listed out in a neat collum, the waterwyrm among them. When it is all laid out in front of you, you understand. The night in the tavern at Port Fairna, you believed Silco and his associates to be speaking in code. Now, you realize you were mistaken. Every mythical creature you heard mentioned that night is plastered on the canvas in front of you. If the waterwyrm is real, you cannot deny that the others must be real, too.
So, what does that make Silco? Is he a pirate? Does he poach creatures of myth for money? Is he more than that? Is he less than that?

“They’re all real?” You murmur softly, more to yourself than either of the men as you take another refreshing sip of the sweet juice. 

“All these?” Captain Jimmy responds, rapping his bony knuckles against the canvas sheet. “Of course!” He shoots Silco a withering look. “Have you taught her nothing?”

“She has a talent for learning things on her own,” Silco replies.

You are too caught up in reading the list of creatures to throw a verbal barb back at Silco. At first, you’re pleased that you recognize most of the creatures listed from studying various mythologies but you quickly withdraw your enthusiasm. 

After witnessing the waterwyrm, nothing should give you much of a shock but seeing just how many fairytales are actually true makes you feel uneasy. That horrible feeling of uncertainty and imbalance squeezes at your throat again. Your breath comes a little quicker but you hide it by taking quick sips of your drink. You feel lightheaded but you are determined to breathe through it. 

“Would you like another drink, lass?” Captain Jimmy offers. 

“Yes, thank you,” you say. “It is quite a trek to get to your hidden abode.”

Captain Jimmy takes your hollow coconut to refill it. When he’s out of sight, Silco places his hand over yours. 

“Are you alright?” He asks. 

“Just tired. Out of breath. I’m not used to walking over such challenging terrain,” you say. Silco’s good eye narrows just a touch and you can tell he doesn’t fully believe you. Before he can press the matter, Captain Jimmy returns. 

“Here you are, lass. Careful now,” he cautions. “Few can handle more than three servings of my juice.”

“Why is that?” You ask before taking a long sip, allowing the sweetness to settle your nerves. 

“Well, I mix it with the most potent rum found west of Ionia,” he replies. “It’s not for the faint of heart nor drink.”

You swallow your last swig and summon a smile. “Is that so? I can’t taste anything other than fruit juice.”

“That’s the trick of it,” Captain Jimmy lets out a wheezing laugh. “It sneaks up on you.”

“May we return to business, please?” Silco cuts in, a soft snarl in his voice. You fall silent, more than happy to let the attention move away from you. 

Barnaby flutters over, his wings creating small gusts that send your loose hair flying. 

“Drink up, pretty one,” he chitters. “Drink up!”

“You are a very clever bird,” you murmur to him. “Do you like to be pet?”

“Pretty lady pet pretty bird.”

“Oh, I see,” you chuckle softly and run a fingertip over Barnaby’s sapphire head. He rumbles softly as you lavish affection upon him.

“I don’t have enough gold to buy a mermaid’s wish, but I can arrange a trade.”

At the word mermaid, you return your attention to the conversation between Captain Jimmy and Silco. Silco’s upper lip twitches as he shakes his head. 

“I need gold, Jimmy. I can’t go through the trouble of trade after trade,” he says. 

Captain Jimmy frowns. “Then I can’t help you today, old friend. I can check up on some old contacts but you know that will take time.”

Silco goes silent for a moment. He looks at his hands as he appears to be lost in thought. After a while, he looks up. “No trades, but I will leave one wish with you and see if I can’t put the other to use.”

“Wish?” You blurt without thinking. 

Silco turns to you with an expression of annoyance. “I’ll explain it later, treasure. Finish your drink. There is no reason to linger here.”

“Are you sure?” Captain Jimmy says. “You look like you could use a drink, Silco.”

“You aren’t wrong, but now that you’ve given my companion two servings of your special juice, I need to ensure she gets back to the ship safely.”

“I’m fine!” You protest with a frown. 

“Oh? Stand up for me,” Silco challenges.

With a haughty sigh, you do as he asks. The moment you are standing tall, the world spins. You wobble and make several futile attempts to right yourself before Silco reaches out to steady you. 

You are thoroughly drunk. That damn juice was more deceptive than your captor. 

“What is it with pirates and their inability to offer any drinks that aren’t spiked with something or other?” You grumble as you finish off the last of your drink. You’re already sauced. There is no sense in letting it go to waste. You do not wish to be a rude guest. 

“Why do you keep drinking things without checking to see what’s in them? That seems like the better question from where I stand,” Silco says. 

“I never had to think about that until now,” you huff. 

“She’s a bit of a mess, isn’t she?” Barnaby asks, looking at Captain Jimmy with an almost human level of intelligence. 

“What did that bird just say?” you whisper to Silco. The rum obviously had more of an effect on you than you realized.

“You’re a mess,” the blue parrot repeats.

“Now, see here-”

“Treasure, you do realize you’re about to argue with a parrot, right?” Silco gently takes hold of your chin and redirects your gaze so you are looking into his eyes. 

“Right,” you stammer, giving your head a little shake. “You’re right. I apologize.”

“You’re fine, lass. The rum is strong and Barnaby likes to provoke,” Captain Jimmy says before turning to Silco. “I’ll contact you if I get any gold for your mermaid’s wish. Don’t hold your breath, though. Very few have that kind of gold.”

“You know me, Jimmy. I always have to try,” Silco says. “Besides, I still have the other one. I can make something of this.”

“If anyone can, it’s you. Heading out, I suppose?”

“I should get this one to a place where she can’t get into trouble,” Silco says, giving you a gentle nudge. 

“Let the pretty mess stay,” Barnaby squawks before landing close to you. You reach out and gently pet his head. He blinks slowly and leans into your touch. 

“We have to catch the tide,” Silco says. “I’ll be in touch, Captain.” 

“Of course!”

Captain Jimmy waves you off with a flourish as Silco helps you down the trail leading away from the slapdash homestead. 

“Is it just me or is something off about that parrot?” You whisper as you lean on Silco, allowing him to guide you. 

He looks over his shoulder and takes a few more steps before whispering back to you, “Just between you and me, I think Barnaby is a man trapped in a parrot’s body.”

You look up at him with wide eyes. “You’re joking, surely.”

“He’s always been more vocal than the other parrots and he doesn’t seem to mimic phrases. Captain Jimmy specializes in trading rare goods. A parrot with the intelligence of a man would fall into that category.”

“Oh, that makes me uneasy.” 

The sandstone landscape pitches and you cling to Silco to keep yourself upright. “Why didn’t you warn me about the juice?”

“Honestly? I figured you needed a drink after your ordeal last night. I didn’t think you’d gulp it down and asked for seconds. That’s not very heiress-like of you.”

“I was parched after the trek up here!” You protest. “Of course, I was thirsty.”

Silco chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re right. I miscalculated. I should have said something. But how do you feel?”

You go still and pay attention to your body. Your limbs feel loose and your mind is pleasantly fuzzy. You know there are many things you should feel stressed about but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

“This is a nice respite from coherent thought, I won’t lie,” you admit. 

It is later in the day that you initially realized. The late afternoon sun has broken through a thin patch of clouds and now shines on the ocean, turning the water into liquid gold. You move toward the light, forcing Silco to follow you. You do not even notice the edge of the plateau until he prevents you from moving forward and pulls you closer to him. 

“I would prefer it if you didn’t fall to your death, treasure,” he says, his voice low and velvety. 

“How gallant,” you murmur back. Your gaze settles on the dark silhouette of the Zaun’s Revenge, bobbing peacefully against the dock. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Are you sure? Last time I brought up this particular subject I’m certain you envisioned all the ways you could end my life.”

“Now you’ve made me truly curious. Out with it.”

What you thought was a confident question evaporates on your tongue and you’re left scrambling for words through a fruity rum haze.

“The life you’ve given Jinx is a life I would kill to have. You, and those serving on your ship, have the freedom that so many dream of. Why would you work against that in search of what you think is a real home?”

Silco stiffens at your words and you worry you’ve pinched a nerve but he eventually lets out a long sigh. 

“Why do you think we are free?” He asks.

“I spent many years at sea with my father. During those years, I felt the most free. I felt like my true self.”

“But during those years, did you not have an estate you could return to whenever you pleased?”

“Well, yes,” you answer. “But I do not like the family estate.”

“Whether you like it or not is irrelevant.” A sharp edge sneaks into his voice. “When you played at being a seafarer, there was always a safe option. You could return to a plush home filled with luxuries.”

“But I didn’t want to,” you reiterate.

“But you were also never in real danger,” Silco points out. “Jinx has no other home. She has nowhere to flee if things become too dangerous. If something happens to me, no one will go out of their way to make sure she’s okay. We need to have a place away from the ship, away from everything we do. I need to give her a home that can never be taken from her, even if something happens to me.”

A horrible sense of guilt fills you. Shame colors your cheeks as you watch the golden water dance. 

“I didn’t think of it that way. I’m sorry,” you say. When Silco says nothing for a long while, a horrible feeling makes your stomach twist up in knots. “It’s good of you to want Jinx to have a safe haven to flee to. Will my ransom go toward that?”

Your question seems to catch him off guard. 

“In a way,” he answers. “There are some debts to be paid and some investments to be made, but yes. Your ransom will put us closer to a safe home.”

“And the stone eye from the waterwyrm? What will that do for you?” You ask. 

“Eventually, Captain Jimmy will find someone prepared to pay its worth in gold. I expect that will take months, even years. But those profits will go towards making a safe haven for me and mine.”

“But there are two stones. What will you do with the other one?”

Silco looks down at you with a faint smile. “I think you’ve had a little bit too much rum to worry about my trade. We need to head back to the ship. We already docked far later in the day than I would have liked.”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“Yes, I am,” he grins as he guides you back down the trail. He keeps you close as you navigate the winding path, hugging the sandstone formation. You wobble and trip over your own feet often but he never gives you grief for it. At most, he chuckles and tucks you under his arm more securely. 

“Why did you call those glowing stones mermaid’s wishes ?” You ask. 

“Just focus on putting one foot in front of the other, treasure,” Silco urges. “I can’t have you tumbling down a canyon. It’s bad enough you were injured when the waterwyrm made its appearance.” 

“Oh, do you care about me, pirate?” You taunt.

“If I have to trek through a valley to find you when you fall victim to your carelessness, I’ll have to carry you back to the ship. If I have to do that, I’ll miss the opportunity to scope the market. That’s bad for business. I dislike practices that are bad for business.” 

“Lucky for you, I enjoy exploring markets more than I enjoy falling into valleys,” you say, though you need his constant support as you navigate the thin trail toward Port Squawkfeather.

The sun is just barely kissing the horizon when you and Silco reach the market. He browses silently with a look of deep concentration nestled between his furrowed brows. You stay quiet, not wishing to interrupt him as you take in your surroundings.

As you pass a table filled with exotic fruits, Silco stops. He picks up a pomegranate and inspects it as though he were assessing a diamond. 

“One crate, please,” he says to the shopkeeper, who looks both shocked and delighted at such a request. They quickly set about packaging an entire crate of pomegranates while you stare at the one Silco holds in his hand. 

Pomegranates are your favorite. Your rum-addled mind can’t conjure a more enticing prize than the fruit he holds in his elegant hand. 

“Here, treasure.” Silco tosses the pomegranate to you and you manage to catch it. You bring it to your chest like some greedy little scavenger as he gives the vendor the information they need. 

You marvel at the color of the fruit like it’s some kind of precious jewel. You are so absorbed in your examination that your mind barely registers the flash of pink in the corner of your eye. 

You go still. You lift your gaze. You turn your head slowly until you spot someone familiar.

Violet. Captain Vander’s first mate. You recognize her hair and her steely demeanor. She does not face you directly, but she is clearly searching the market for signs of you. She must have seen the Zaun’s Revenge docked and idle. 

Beside her is a slender young woman with a shiny sheet of deep blue hair. She clutches a pristine rifle in her hands as she scans the market with sharp eyes. 

For a split second, you prepare to call out to them. They can take you back to Vander, back to your father. But the words get stuck in your throat. 

You look at Silco as he arranges for the crate of pomegranates to be delivered to his ship. You hear his words about wanting a safe place for Jinx echo through your mind. Your ransom will help with that. 

“Captain,” you murmur softly. Your tongue feels like lead as you tug on his sleeve. 

“Treasure?” He looks at you, arching a brow. 

“I…feel ill from that juice. I’d like to return to the ship, please.”

His ocean eye fills with sympathy before he gives you a quick nod. He gives instructions to the fruit seller before tucking you under his arm and guiding you back toward the docks.

“I shouldn’t have let you have that second drink,” he says quietly. 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” you say. “Perhaps Arlo can funnel some solid food into my system and give me some water.”

“I’m sure he can,” Silco nods.

You are returned to the ship and quickly disappear below deck. You flee to the galley under the guise of helping Arlo, as you promised. You do just that, but as you work on making new labels for everything in the scullery, you can’t help but wonder if you made a mistake not seizing your chance to escape. Worse than that, you wonder why you didn’t want to seize such a chance in the first place.