His Captive Queen

The Duke of Arles was explaining the intricacies of crop rotation. His lands, he said, produced the hardiest strain of wheat on the continent. His voice was a low, monotonous hum, a sound that was easily lost beneath the clatter of silver on porcelain and the polite, meaningless laughter that echoed in the vaulted dining hall. I watched his mouth move. His lips were thin and pale. I imagined kissing them and felt nothing at all, a complete and perfect void.

I nodded, a gesture I had perfected. It was a princess’s nod: agreeable, attentive, and entirely vacant. “Fascinating,” I said. The word tasted like dust.

To my left, the Baroness de Courville was smiling at the ambassador from the Northern Isles. Her smile did not reach her eyes. The ambassador wanted fishing rights in the Azure Strait; the Baroness wanted her youngest son fostered at the northern court, away from the influence of his degenerate uncle. A simple, if delicate, trade. I traced the lines of the transaction in my mind, a familiar mental exercise. It was how I stayed sane. I mapped the alliances, the debts, the quiet resentments. It was a game of strategy, and I was a very expensive playing piece. My marriage to the Duke would secure our southern border and give my father’s fleet preferential access to his ports. A princess for a port. That was the math of it.

Across the long, candle-lit table, my father caught my gaze. His eyes, the same shade of cool grey as my own, held a silent command. Engage. Please him. It was not a request. It was an inventory check. He was ensuring his asset was performing as expected. I turned back to the Duke and placed my hand near his on the white linen tablecloth, not quite touching. A calculated display of warmth.

“Your father tells me you enjoy falconry,” the Duke said, his attention finally shifting from agriculture.

“I do,” I lied. I hated the way the birds’ hoods made them look like tiny, feathered prisoners.

Later, as the guests began to drift from the hall toward the ballroom, my father’s hand landed on my arm. His grip was firm, proprietary. He steered me into a small alcove, shielded from view by a heavy tapestry depicting a bloody, triumphant battle from our family’s history.

“The Duke seems taken with you,” he said. His voice was low, stripped of the public warmth he wore like a crown.

“He finds my interest in his wheat production compelling.”

My father’s fingers tightened for a second. A warning. “Do not be clever, Giovanna. You are to be his wife. It is your duty to this kingdom, to this family, to see that he is pleased with his arrangement.”

Arrangement. That was what this was. Not a marriage. Not a life. It was an arrangement, a contract for which I was the consideration. He looked at me, his face impassive, and I felt the suffocating weight of the castle, of the title, of the years stretching out ahead of me beside a man who spoke of soil and dogs.

“I understand my duty, Father,” I said. The words were correct. They were what he needed to hear. He gave a curt nod, his part in the transaction complete, and released my arm. He turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the shadow of the violent, victorious dead.

I didn't return to the ballroom. I walked in the opposite direction, my hand trailing along the cold stone of the corridor until I found the small, unmarked door that led to the sea-facing gardens. The air that met me was cool and sharp, tasting of salt and damp earth. It was a relief.

I walked down the gravel path, the sound of my own footsteps a quiet crunching in the night. The orchestra was a faint, muffled pulse from the castle behind me, almost entirely consumed by the rhythmic wash of the waves against the cliffs below. The garden was dark, the moon hidden by a thin veil of cloud. I could smell the night-blooming jasmine, a sweet, heavy perfume that mingled with the brine. I stopped at the stone balustrade and looked down toward the royal docks. A few lanterns swayed on their posts, their light shifting on the black water. For a moment, there was only the sound of the sea.

Then a different sound carried up from the docks. A man’s shout, abruptly cut off. It was followed by a wet, percussive thud. I froze, my fingers tightening on the rough stone of the balustrade. The dock guards were supposed to be vigilant. It could have been anything. A dropped crate, a drunken fight between sailors.

I remained still, listening. Another noise. A low grunt, and the scrape of a boot on wood. It was the sound of effort, of strain. My strategic mind, the one that charted political marriages and trade routes, told me to retreat. To go inside and alert the guard. But my feet stayed planted. I leaned forward, trying to peer through the gloom.

Heavy, hurried footsteps pounded on the stone stairs that cut up the cliff face from the docks to the garden. They were coming this way. They were not the synchronized, leather-shod steps of the King’s guard. This was something else, something frantic and heavy.

I pushed myself back from the balustrade, melting into the deep shadow of a cypress hedge. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. Three figures emerged from the stairwell, large, dark shapes moving with a predatory swiftness. They were dressed in rough, practical clothing that seemed to absorb the dim light. They smelled of the deep sea, of sweat and iron and something acrid, like old tar.

I held my breath, trying to will myself invisible. But one of them stopped. His head turned in my direction. I didn’t know how he could have seen me.

Before I could process the thought, before I could even command my legs to run, he was there. He crossed the ten feet between us in two silent strides. A hand, enormous and rough, slammed over my mouth, stifling my scream before it could form. The smell of him was overwhelming—salt, sweat, and the faint, metallic scent of blood. An arm, corded with muscle and solid as an anchor chain, wrapped around my torso, hoisting me off the ground. My feet left the path. The air rushed out of my lungs in a choked gasp.

I fought. It was a pure, animal instinct. I twisted and kicked, my nails scraping at the arm around my waist. My fists beat against a back that was a wall of solid muscle. It was useless. He held me fast, his grip brutally efficient. Another man grabbed my flailing legs, his grip like a vise around my ankles. The fine silk of my gown tore with a soft, ripping sound. They didn't speak. There was only the sound of my own muffled struggling and their heavy, controlled breathing. The world narrowed to the pressure on my mouth, the unyielding strength pinning me, the terrifying, simple fact of my own powerlessness.

They moved with a brutal economy of motion, carrying me back down the stone steps I had just ascended. The man holding my torso had one arm locked beneath my ribs, and I could feel the hard ridges of his knuckles pressed into my side. The sky was a swatch of dark grey, and the castle, my home, receded above the cliff edge, its familiar silhouette becoming a jagged line against the clouds. My mind, strangely detached, noted the efficiency of it all. No wasted energy, no unnecessary cruelty. Just a job being done.

We reached the docks. The air grew thick with the smell of fish and brine and damp, rotting wood. They carried me along the wharf, past tethered fishing boats that bobbed gently in the black water. At the end of the longest pier, a ship was moored. It was larger than the others, a dark hulk with a single mast that clawed at the sky. There were no royal colors, no livery. It was stark and black, built for speed and nothing else. The name painted on the stern in faded white letters was Sea Serpent.

A rope ladder was slung over the side. One of the men climbed it with unnerving ease. The man holding me passed me upwards, an undignified transfer from one set of strong arms to another. For a moment, I was suspended over the dark, churning water between the pier and the hull. Then I was on the deck.

The wood was rough and damp beneath my thin slippers. The deck was a clutter of ropes, barrels, and coiled chains. Men moved in the shadows, their faces lit intermittently by the swinging lanterns. They were hard-looking men, their expressions ranging from mild curiosity to open appraisal. They looked at my torn silk gown, at my bare arms, at my face. I felt my skin prickle, but I forced my chin up. I would not be livestock for their inspection.

A man stepped out from behind the mast, moving from shadow into the weak lantern light. He was taller than the others, broader. The word ‘large’ was insufficient. He was built on the scale of a landmark, a feature of the landscape. He wore no shirt, only dark, stained trousers. His entire torso, his arms, his neck, were covered in a dense network of black tattoos. Swirling lines that mimicked waves and sea creatures twisted over the hard planes of his muscles.

He stopped a few feet from me. The man who had carried me onto the ship still had a firm grip on my upper arm. The captain—he had to be the captain—looked at me. His eyes were dark, and they held no warmth at all. They assessed me the way my father had assessed the Duke, as a piece in a transaction. His hair was black and thick, tied back from a face that was all harsh angles and weathered skin. A thick, dark beard covered his jaw.

He looked at the man holding my arm. "Leave her."

His voice was low and gravelly, the sound of stones grinding together underwater. The hand on my arm fell away. I stood alone on the deck of his ship, surrounded by his men. I did not move. I met the captain's gaze and held it. Fear was a cold, solid weight in my stomach, but I would not let it show on my face. I had been trained my whole life to mask my feelings behind a veneer of placid royalty. It was the only weapon I had.

He took a step closer. The smell of him was the smell of the ship itself: salt, woodsmoke, and the clean, sharp scent of the open ocean.

"You know who I am," I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected.

A corner of his mouth lifted, a motion that was not a smile. "I know you're the king's daughter."

He looked me up and down, a slow, deliberate inventory. His gaze lingered for a moment on the tear in my dress, then moved back to my face.

"You are on my ship now," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Your father will pay a great deal of money to have you returned. Until he does, you are my prisoner."

His words hung in the damp air. He turned his head slightly and gestured with his chin toward a hatch at the stern. “Take her below.”

The man who had held my arm before stepped forward again. This time, he didn't grab me. He waited. I looked from his impassive face to the captain’s. Leuan’s dark eyes were unreadable. Waiting for me to resist, perhaps. To scream or fight so he could demonstrate his power again. I did not give him the satisfaction. I turned and walked toward the hatch, my torn dress whispering against the rough planks. The pirate followed a step behind me.

The stairs were steep, more like a ladder. I descended into the narrow, dimly lit passageway below deck. The air was close, thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and bilge water. He led me to a door at the end of the passage, the only one that looked solid and well-maintained. He pulled a heavy iron key from his belt, unlocked it, and pushed it open. He gestured for me to enter.

I stepped over the threshold, and he pulled the door shut behind me. The sound of the key turning in the lock was loud and final. I was alone.

I stood still for a full minute, listening. I could hear the muffled sounds of the crew on the deck above, the creak and groan of the ship’s timbers, the gentle slap of water against the hull. I was in the captain’s cabin. It was nothing like I would have imagined. There was no chaotic sprawl of treasure, no silks or furs looted from other ships. It was starkly, surprisingly, orderly.

A narrow cot was built into the hull on one side, its single wool blanket folded with military precision. A small, sturdy table of dark wood was bolted to the floor, a single chair tucked neatly beneath it. On the table, a nautical chart was rolled and tied with a piece of twine, placed next to a brass lantern and a tin cup. Against the far wall sat a heavy, iron-banded sea chest. The floor was scrubbed clean. The room smelled of beeswax and salt, not stale rum. This was the room of a man who valued discipline.

My heart was still a frantic, frightened thing in my chest, but my mind felt cold and clear. Tears were a luxury, and an entirely useless one. I started with the door. I ran my fingers over the heavy oak planks, testing their strength. Solid. The lock was a large, formidable iron mechanism. I pressed my ear against it, but I didn't know what I was listening for. I examined the hinges; they were thick and well-oiled, the bolts driven deep into the frame. There would be no forcing it.

I moved to the single, small porthole. The glass was thick and distorted, showing only a dark, wavering smear of the water outside. The brass frame was sealed shut, the latches rusted tight. Even if I could open it, it was barely wide enough to fit my head through, let alone my shoulders.

My eyes scanned the room again, this time for a weapon. The tin cup was too light. The chair was too heavy to wield effectively in the small space, and bolted down besides. I walked to the table and picked up the rolled chart. It was heavy, the parchment thick and expensive. I slid the twine off and unrolled it. A map of the southern archipelago, detailed with currents and shoals. No use to me now. I put it back.

I knelt by the sea chest. I ran my hands over its surface, feeling the grain of the wood, the cold, rough texture of the iron bands. The lock was smaller than the one on the door, but just as sturdy. I tugged at the lid. It didn't budge. My gaze swept the floor, searching for a loose nail, a splinter of wood I could use to probe the lock. The floorboards were tight and even.

My hands smoothed down the silk of my ruined gown, my mind working. The fabric was fine, but the thread was strong. I thought of the embroidery needles in my chambers at the castle. A hairpin. I had nothing. My hands went to my hair, but the maids had styled it loosely, with only a few simple pins that were long gone, lost in the struggle in the garden.

I stood up and paced the length of the small cabin. Three steps one way, three steps back. The ship gave a sudden, deep lurch, and I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the table. The movement was different now. Not the gentle rocking of a moored vessel, but the purposeful roll of a ship cutting through open water. We were moving. We were leaving.

I stood there, my hand flat on the cool wood of the table, and felt the vibration of the sea through the soles of my slippers. My kingdom, my father, my old life—it was all falling away behind me with every rise and fall of the waves. I was a prisoner. I was a commodity. But I was alive. And my mind, the only part of me they couldn't put in chains, was already searching for a way out.

I woke to grey light filtering through the grimy porthole. The ship was in constant motion, a deep, rhythmic rolling that had become the new foundation of my world. My body ached from the thin mattress and the unfamiliar movement, a dull soreness in my hips and shoulders. I had not slept well, but I had not cried. I had spent the dark hours listening to the ship’s groans and the distant shouts of the men on watch, cataloging the sounds, trying to build a map of this place in my mind.

The sound of the key scraping in the lock was jarringly loud. I sat up, pulling the rough wool blanket to my chin. The door swung inward and he was there, a dark shape against the brighter light of the passageway. He had to duck his head to enter.

It was Leuan. He carried a wooden plate and a tin cup. He closed the door behind him, and the small cabin seemed to shrink by half. In the daylight, I could see him more clearly. The tattoos were an intricate web of black ink, coiling around his thick arms and across the hard expanse of his chest. There were small, pale scars mixed in with the ink—a thin line across his collarbone, a puckered mark on his shoulder. He wore the same dark trousers, and his feet were bare.

He said nothing. He walked to the table and set the plate and cup down. The sound of the tin hitting the wood was sharp. He stepped back, his arms crossed over his chest, and leaned against the wall by the door. His presence was a physical weight in the air.

I looked at the plate. Two large, pale biscuits that looked as hard as stone, and a small pile of shriveled figs. In the cup, there was water. My stomach, which had been a tight knot of fear, gave a small, traitorous pang of hunger. At the palace, my breakfast would have been warm bread, soft cheese, a bowl of fresh berries, and sweetened milk.

I swung my legs off the cot. The floor was cold. I did not look at him as I moved to the table and sat in the chair. I picked up one of the biscuits. It was dense and heavy in my hand. I brought it to my mouth and took a bite. It was as hard as I expected, and completely tasteless. I chewed slowly, deliberately, my jaw working against the unyielding texture. I needed to swallow, but my throat felt tight. I reached for the cup and took a small sip of water. It was cool and tasted faintly of metal.

He was still watching me. I could feel his gaze on the top of my head, on my hands, on the movement of my jaw. The silence was absolute, broken only by the sound of my chewing and the creak of the ship’s timbers. He was waiting for something. For me to complain, perhaps. To weep at this pathetic offering. To show him the delicate princess, broken by a single night of captivity and a piece of hardtack.

I finished the first biscuit. I took another sip of water. Then I picked up a fig and ate it, the concentrated sweetness a strange shock on my tongue. I ate another. When I was done, I placed my hands in my lap. And then, I lifted my head and looked at him.

His dark eyes met mine. They were unreadable, holding no malice, but no kindness either. They were simply watching, observing me as I had been observing my surroundings. A strange sort of parity. I held his gaze. I thought of the endless diplomatic functions, of holding a pleasant expression while a boring old man explained his lineage. I thought of standing beside my father while he negotiated treaties, my face a perfect, placid mask. I knew how to be looked at. I knew how to reveal nothing.

I did not blink. I did not look away. The ship rolled, and he shifted his weight slightly to compensate, a fluid, unconscious movement. His eyes never left my face. I saw a flicker of something in their depths—not surprise, maybe just a recalibration. He was learning something about me, just as I was learning about him. He was not just a brute. He was disciplined, controlled. And he was studying me.

A corner of his mouth moved, the barest hint of the same expression from the night before. It wasn't a smile. It was an acknowledgment. He pushed himself off the wall and turned toward the door. He did not say a word. He unlocked it, stepped out into the passageway, and pulled it shut. The key turned, the heavy bolt sliding home. I was alone again. I looked down at the last biscuit on the plate. I picked it up and began to eat.

An hour later, the key turned. The door opened. He didn't enter this time, just stood in the doorway, blocking the light.

"You can come on deck," he said. His voice was flat. "Stay out of the men's way. Do not speak to anyone."

It was not a request. I rose from the chair, my spine straight. I walked toward him. He stepped back into the narrow passageway to let me pass, and for a moment my shoulder almost brushed his arm. The air around him felt warm. He followed me up the short, steep ladder that led to the deck.

The light was blinding. I had to lift a hand to shield my eyes, blinking against the sudden, shocking brightness of the sun on the water. The wind pulled at my hair, whipping loose strands across my face. It smelled of salt and something sharp, like tar. The deck was a chaotic ballet of activity. Men with bare, sun-darkened backs were hauling on thick ropes, their muscles cording. Another was swabbing the deck with a grim-looking mop. The man at the ship’s wheel stared straight ahead, his hands firm on the spokes.

All of it stopped when I appeared.

The men hauling the rope paused, their hands still gripping the line. The man with the mop stopped swabbing. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to me. They were curious, hostile, some openly leering. I was a creature from another world. My pale blue silk gown, stained now at the hem and wrinkled from a night spent on a cot, was an absurdity here. It was a splash of delicate, useless color in a world of brown, grey, and weathered wood.

I felt their stares like a physical touch, crawling over my skin. I let my hand drop from my eyes and looked straight ahead, my expression placid. I was a princess. I had been stared at my entire life. I knew how to be a symbol.

Leuan stepped up beside me. He didn't look at the crew, but a low growl seemed to emanate from his chest. "Get back to it," he said, his voice not loud, but carrying a weight that had them all turning back to their tasks instantly. The ballet resumed. The moment was broken.

He indicated a small, clear space near the stern. "Stay here."

I walked to the spot he designated, my slippers feeling thin and inadequate on the rough planks. I stood by the ship's railing, my hands resting lightly on the wood. It was weathered and slightly sticky with salt. From here, I had a clear view of most of the main deck.

I began my work.

There were two longboats lashed to the deck, one on either side. They were secured with a series of heavy ropes and what looked like a complex series of knots. It would take time to release them. It would make noise.

I counted the men I could see. Fourteen. Plus the captain makes fifteen. There were likely more below deck. They worked in small, efficient teams. A group of four managed the sails, responding to orders shouted by a grizzled man with a grey-streaked beard and a permanent scowl. He must be the first mate. He watched me with particular dislike.

I tracked their movements. I noted the path they took to the rigging, the way they coiled the ropes, the location of the hatches leading below. One hatch, near the main mast, seemed to be used more frequently than the others. That was likely the way to the crew's quarters, or the galley.

Leuan had moved to stand near the first mate, their conversation low and tense. The first mate gestured toward me with his chin. Leuan said something that cut the conversation short. He turned his head, and his eyes found mine across the deck. He was always aware of where I am.

I turned my gaze to the ocean. It was a vast, terrifying expanse of deep blue, stretching to a horizon that seemed impossibly far away. There was no land in sight. To escape from here would not just mean getting off the ship. It would mean surviving the sea itself. The thought did not make me despair. It was simply another variable to be entered into the equation.

I watched a group of seabirds circling the mast. I followed their flight as they dipped and wheeled in the wind. To any of the men who might glance my way, I was a captive princess, looking wistfully out at the sea, perhaps thinking of her distant home. They did not see that I was measuring the height of the mast, calculating the distance from the railing to the water, mapping the geography of my prison.

A movement near my elbow made me turn. It was a boy, not much older than twelve or thirteen, with a thin face smudged with dirt and a mop of straw-colored hair that fell into his eyes. He was holding a tin cup, the same kind I’d been given at breakfast, and he held it out to me with a hand that trembled slightly.

“For you, miss,” he said. His voice was a high, uncertain tenor, not yet broken. “Princess.”

I looked from his nervous face to the cup. It was filled with water. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was, standing in the sun. The wind was cool, but the sun was high and hot on my head and shoulders.

“Thank you,” I said. My own voice sounded formal and stiff. I took the cup from him. Our fingers brushed. His were calloused but small.

He did not leave. He lingered, shifting his weight from one bare foot to the other, twisting the hem of his oversized shirt in his hands. He looked at me with wide, curious eyes, the way a child at a festival might look at a performing bear.

“Is it… is it very grand? The castle?” he asked, the words rushing out in a whisper. “Do you have a hundred servants?”

I took a sip of water. It was cool. I thought of the castle. I thought of the endless, polished halls, the silent footmen standing in every doorway, the stifling quiet of a life where every need was met before it was ever felt. It was grand, yes. It was also a cage.

Before I could form an answer, a voice cut through the air, sharp and cold as ice.

“Finn.”

The boy flinched as if he’d been struck. Every bit of color drained from his face. He spun around. Leuan stood not ten feet away, his arms crossed, his expression thunderous. He hadn’t shouted, but his voice had a quality that made the boy freeze in place.

“What are you doing?” Leuan asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

“Just… giving the lady some water, Captain,” Finn stammered, his eyes fixed on the deck planks.

“She is not a lady,” Leuan said, his gaze flicking to me for a cold, dismissive second. “She is cargo. Valuable cargo. You do not speak to the cargo. You do not look at the cargo. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Captain.” The boy’s voice was barely audible.

“Now get back to your duties before I find a new one for you swabbing the bilge.”

“Yes, Captain.” Finn gave a jerky nod and then practically ran, his bare feet slapping against the wood as he scrambled toward the bow of the ship, disappearing behind a stack of barrels.

Leuan did not move. He was not looking at me. His eyes followed the path the boy had taken, and for a long moment, he just stared at the spot where Finn had vanished. The rigid anger in his posture seemed to seep away. The hard line of his jaw softened. He brought a hand up and rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that seemed tired, almost weary. The anger in his eyes was gone, replaced by something else, something complex and shadowed that I could not name. It was not kindness. But it was not cruelty, either. It was the look of a man burdened by a responsibility he had not chosen, but would not relinquish.

Then he seemed to remember I was there. He dropped his hand and his head turned toward me. The mask was back in place, his eyes flat and unreadable. He gave me a single, hard look, a silent warning, before turning on his heel and striding back toward the first mate, leaving me alone by the railing, the boy’s cup still in my hand.

The rest of the day passed in a similar state of supervised isolation. I was eventually sent back to the cabin before sunset, the heavy bolt sliding home with a familiar, definitive sound. The sky had turned a strange, bruised purple, and the wind had a frantic edge to it that it hadn't possessed before.

I lay on the narrow cot, listening to the changing sounds of the ship. The rhythmic, almost gentle creaking of the timbers had been replaced by a chorus of groans and sharp cracks. The sea, which had been a steady rush against the hull, was now a series of violent slaps. I could hear the shouts of the men on deck, the words indistinct but the tone urgent. The floor began to tilt at increasingly severe angles.

It started without any more warning. A tremendous roar, and the entire world dropped out from under me. I was thrown from the cot, landing hard on my hands and knees on the wooden floor. Before I could even register the pain in my palms, the ship heaved in the opposite direction, rolling me into the wall beneath the small, shuttered porthole. My head struck the wood with a dull thud.

Across the small cabin, a heavy wooden crate that had been wedged in a corner broke free. It was the size of a small trunk, and it slid across the tilting floor with a horrifying screech of wood on wood, slamming into the opposite wall. Then, as the ship righted itself for a sickening moment of stillness, it slid back. It was a battering ram loose in my cell.

I scrambled away from it, trying to find purchase on the slick, heaving floor. The lantern, secured to a beam overhead, swung in a wild arc, casting dancing, distorted shadows. The noise was immense—the scream of the wind, the crash of water against the hull, the groaning protest of the ship itself, and the percussive slam of the crate against the walls.

The door flew open. It didn't unlock; it burst inward as if kicked, and Leuan filled the frame. He was drenched, his dark hair plastered to his skull, water running in rivulets down his face and from the hem of his sodden leather vest. He had to brace himself against the doorframe as the ship pitched again, his legs planted wide. His eyes found me on the floor, then darted to the crate as it began another perilous journey across the cabin.

He moved without a word. He seemed to flow into the room, his center of gravity low, his body moving in concert with the violent motion of the ship instead of fighting it. It was a strange, dangerous grace, like a panther’s. He ignored me completely, his entire focus on the crate. He intercepted it as it slid toward the desk, his hands catching it, his legs and back taking the full momentum of its weight. His muscles strained, the tattoos on his arms standing out in sharp relief.

I pushed myself into a sitting position, my back pressed against the wall, trying to stay out of his way. The ship gave a violent shudder, a lurch so profound it felt as if the sea had reached up and shaken the vessel like a toy. I lost my tenuous hold on the floor and was thrown forward, stumbling, my arms flailing for balance.

I fell against him.

My shoulder hit his back, my hands landing on his arm to steady myself. He was like a wall of solid, living rock. The ship tilted again, pressing me into him. His head turned slightly, his jaw tight with effort as he wrestled a length of rope from his belt. My cheek was pressed against the wet fabric of his shirt. I could feel the heat of his skin through it, the solid, unyielding power in the muscles of his back and shoulder. He smelled of rain and salt and something else, something warm and purely his own.

His arm moved, pulling the rope taut around the crate, and his bicep brushed against my side, a long, firm line of contact from my ribs to my hip. A strange, sharp jolt went through me. It was not fear. It was something else entirely, something I had no name for. It was a sudden, shocking awareness of his body against mine, of his strength, of his sheer physical presence in the chaos. For a half-second, we were just two people, braced against each other in the dark, trying not to fall.

He finished the knot, pulling it brutally tight. He gave the crate a hard shove with his shoulder to test it. It held fast. The ship began to settle into a more predictable, if still violent, rhythm. He didn’t push me away. He simply straightened up, and the movement created space between us. I scrambled back, my face hot, my heart beating with a rhythm that had nothing to do with the storm.

He turned to face me. His eyes, dark in the swinging lantern light, held an unreadable expression. He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since he’d entered the cabin. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes. The roar of the storm seemed to fade into the background. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. He just stared, and I stared back, unable to move, my wet hair clinging to my face, the place where his arm had touched me burning like a brand.

Then he shook his head, a small, sharp motion. He turned, strode out of the cabin without a word, and pulled the splintered door shut behind him. I heard the scrape of something heavy being dragged in front of it from the other side. I was alone again, but the small space no longer felt empty. It felt charged, filled with the memory of his heat, and the unsettling pulse of my own blood.

The storm passed. The violent lurching of the ship subsided into a deep, rhythmic roll, the groans of the timber softening to familiar creaks. I remained on the floor for a long time, my back against the wall. My dress was damp and cold against my skin. The air in the cabin was thick with the lingering scent of him, salt and rain and warm skin. I kept feeling the pressure of his arm against my side, a phantom sensation that made my stomach feel hollow.

My mind felt useless, turning over the same moment again and again. The way he had looked at me. The way the chaos of the storm had vanished, leaving only the small, dark space between us. I had been his prisoner for days, and in that time he had been a brute, a captain, a silhouette of power. But for that brief moment, pressed together in the dark, he had been only a man. The realization was more frightening than the storm.

I needed to do something. I needed a problem to solve, a task to occupy the part of my mind that was now fixated on the heat of his skin through a wet shirt. My eyes fell on the small, iron-banded sea chest tucked beside his desk. It was the one thing in the room, besides myself, that was locked.

I crawled over to it. The lock was simple, a heavy iron plate with a keyhole. It was likely where he kept his charts, or his money, or whatever a man like him considered valuable. I sat on my heels before it, studying it in the dim, steady light of the lantern.

My dress, the one I had been wearing since the night of my capture, was made of fine silk brocade. It was ruined now, stained with grime and salt water, the hem frayed. Near the cuff of my sleeve, a gold thread had come loose from the intricate embroidery. It was thicker than a normal thread, stiff. I worked it free with my fingernails, a long, shimmering strand. It was probably useless. But it was something.

I knelt, pressing my ear to the cold iron of the lock plate, as I had once seen a locksmith do in the castle. I inserted the tip of the golden thread into the keyhole. It was clumsy. I had no idea what I was doing, only a vague, theoretical knowledge gleaned from books. I tried to feel for the tumblers, the inner workings of the mechanism. The thread was too pliable, bending against the slightest resistance.

For what felt like an hour, I worked at it. My back ached. My fingers were numb. The thread bent and kinked. I would pull it out, straighten it as best I could, and begin again. It was a stupid, pointless exercise. But with every minute I spent focused on the tiny, intricate space inside the lock, the memory of his body against mine receded. My world shrank to the tip of a golden thread and the stubborn refusal of a pin to move. Click. A tiny, almost imperceptible sound. I froze, holding my breath. I pushed the thread forward again, gently. Nothing.

The scraping sound from outside the door made me jolt so violently I dropped the thread. It was the sound of the heavy object he’d used as a barricade being dragged away. I scrambled back from the chest, my heart hammering against my ribs, and tried to look as if I had been doing nothing at all. I sat on the edge of the cot, folding my hands in my lap.

The door opened. Leuan stood there, holding a wooden plate with a piece of bread and some dried meat on it. He looked tired. His hair was still damp, but he had changed into a dry linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He said nothing, simply stepped inside and placed the plate on the small desk. His eyes scanned the room, noting the secured crate, and then they landed on me.

He looked at me, then at the sea chest, then back at me. A long, silent moment passed. I felt my cheeks grow hot. I was certain he could see the guilt on my face. His gaze dropped to the floor beside the chest. I followed his eyes and saw it. The glint of gold against the dark wood. The thread.

I expected him to yell. I expected him to grab me, to punish me for my defiance. I braced myself for it.

He did not move. He just looked at the thread, and then at my face. The corner of his mouth twitched, a barely-there movement. It wasn't a smile. But it was something close to amusement. He seemed to find the entire situation—me, my fine dress, my pathetic attempt at espionage with a piece of embroidery—ridiculous.

He reached to his belt and unhooked a small knife from a leather sheath. It was a simple thing, the blade no longer than my palm, the handle wrapped in worn leather. He held it for a second, then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed it.

It spun through the air, end over end, and landed on the cot beside me with a soft thud. The metal was dark and oiled.

I stared at it, then up at him, confused.

“That’ll work better,” he said. His voice was low, matter-of-fact.

He turned and walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar. I was not locked in. I was left alone with a plate of food, a locked chest, and a knife. I picked it up. The handle was smooth from use, the weight of it solid and real in my hand. It was a tool. It was a weapon. And he had just given it to me.

I sat with the knife on my lap for a long time. The weight of it was unfamiliar. I ate the bread, which was hard, and the salted meat, which was tough. I drank the water he’d left in the canteen. I did all this while looking at the knife. It was a strange sort of gift. A strange sort of threat. The door remained open by a few inches, a slice of the grey, busy world outside. It was not an invitation, but a statement. I could leave the cabin. I was not barricaded in. I did not know what that meant.

I heard voices. Leuan’s, a low rumble, and another, older and rougher, like rocks grinding together. I slid off the cot, the knife still in my hand. I held it with the blade pointing up my forearm, the way I'd seen the castle guards hold their daggers. I moved silently to the door, pressing my cheek against the cool wood, peering through the narrow gap.

Leuan stood with his back to me, his shoulders blocking most of the view. Facing him was a man with a beard that was more grey than black and a face so weathered it looked like a map of difficult coastlines. He was shorter than Leuan but broader, his arms thick with muscle and faded, blue-black tattoos. This must be Rhys, the first mate I had seen barking orders at the other men.

“It’s a mistake,” Rhys said. His voice was quiet, but it carried a hard edge. “The men see it. A highborn woman in the captain’s cabin. It’s not right.”

Leuan didn’t move. “She is a prisoner.”

“She is a princess,” Rhys countered. “And you leave her in your cabin, with the door unlocked. You give her a knife.” He must have seen the exchange. His eyes, small and dark, flickered toward the cabin door, and I pulled back instinctively, my heart suddenly loud in my ears.

“I gave her a tool to occupy her hands,” Leuan said. His voice was flat. “Her hands are clever. It is better than having her pick my locks with a thread from her dress.”

“It’s a weapon.”

“It’s a knife,” Leuan said, turning his head slightly. I could see his profile now, the hard line of his jaw. “Are you worried she will overpower the entire crew with it?”

“I’m worried you’ve lost your sense,” Rhys said, his voice dropping lower. “She’s a distraction. We have a route to plan, a fortune to make. Instead, the men whisper about the captain and his prize. It breeds resentment. It makes you look…” He paused.

“Go on, Rhys,” Leuan said. The words were soft, almost a murmur, but they held a stillness that was more menacing than any shout. “Tell me what I look like.”

The first mate’s jaw worked. He looked past Leuan, out at the grey sea. “It’s a needless risk. Put her in the hold with the other cargo. Let her be what she is: a means to an end.”

A long silence stretched between them. The only sounds were the creak of the mast and the distant call of a seabird. I held my breath. I felt like a line in a ledger, a commodity being discussed.

Then Leuan turned his body fully toward Rhys. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t make any sudden moves. He simply looked at his first mate. “The hold is wet and filled with rats. She is not a sack of grain. She is my prisoner. She will stay in my cabin. She will be treated with respect. I gave her the knife, and she remains my prisoner. I left the door open, and she remains in the cabin. My decisions have kept this ship afloat and your pockets full for ten years. Are you questioning them now?”

“I’m questioning this one,” Rhys said, his stubbornness evident in the set of his shoulders.

“Then question it silently,” Leuan said. His voice was ice. “Because the next time I hear you question me in front of my crew, or outside my cabin door, I will cut out your tongue and see if your loyalty improves. She stays. That is the end of it.”

Rhys stared at him for a moment longer. I saw the fight go out of him, replaced by a sullen, hard-won obedience. He gave a short, sharp nod. He did not look at Leuan’s face. He turned and walked away without another word.

Leuan remained where he was for a full minute, staring at the spot where his first mate had stood. Then he, too, turned and walked away, his heavy boots echoing on the deck, leaving me alone in the sudden silence. I stepped back from the door and slid down to the floor, my back against the wall. I looked at the knife in my hand. It was not a gift. It was a symbol of his ownership. I was his, to do with as he pleased, to defend or discard on a whim. And his whim, for now, was to keep me.

I stayed on the floor for a long time, the knife growing heavy in my palm. The ship moved beneath me, a constant, living thing. I could hear the crew calling to one another, the snap of canvas, the rhythm of work that excluded me entirely. I was a foreign object lodged in the heart of their world. His world.

Later in the day, a new kind of noise broke the routine. A hurried shuffling of feet on the deck, voices raised in concern. I heard Finn’s name. The boy who had offered me water. I went to the door again, cracking it open just enough to see. A small group was gathered near the mainmast. The ship’s cook, a stout man with flour dusting his beard, was shaking his head. Leuan stood over someone lying on a pile of coiled rope. It was Finn. The boy’s face was flushed a blotchy red, and he was shivering despite the mild air.

“It’s the sea fever,” the cook said, his voice loud enough for me to hear. “Got him fast. We can try to sweat it out, but we’ve no willow bark left. Nothing to bring it down.”

Leuan said nothing. He knelt and placed the back of his hand against the boy’s forehead. Even from a distance, I could see the tension in his shoulders. It was the same stillness he’d had before, when he was facing down Rhys, but this was different. It was laced with a helplessness that seemed alien on a man so large and commanding.

My tutor, a stern woman named Elspeth, had insisted on my education in herbology. “A queen must know how to heal as well as rule,” she’d said, rapping my knuckles when I confused nightshade for belladonna. “You never know when you will be the only one with the knowledge to save a life.” The memory was so clear it was almost painful. Another life, another world.

I pushed the door open and stepped out onto the deck. The men near me went silent, turning to stare. I ignored them, my eyes fixed on Leuan and the sick boy. I kept the knife in my hand, held loosely at my side.

I stopped a few feet away. Leuan looked up, his expression hardening when he saw me. He started to rise, as if to order me back inside.

“He needs a poultice to draw the heat, and a diaphoretic tea to make him sweat,” I said. My voice sounded thin in the open air, but it was steady.

Leuan stared at me. The cook grunted. “A what tea? We’re out of remedies, princess.”

I addressed Leuan directly, ignoring the cook. “Do you have onions? Garlic? And rum, or another strong spirit?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes searched my face, a flicker of suspicion in their depths. He was trying to understand the angle, the trick.

“He will get worse if the fever isn’t broken,” I said, looking from Leuan to the boy, who had started to cough, a dry, racking sound.

“We have them,” Leuan said finally, his voice a low rumble.

“Good. I need several onions, chopped very fine. A head of garlic, crushed. Mix them together. Soak two cloths in the strongest spirit you have and then use them to bind the onion and garlic mixture to the soles of his feet.”

The cook let out a disbelieving laugh. “On his feet? What good will that do?”

“It will draw the fever down from his head,” I said, my patience fraying. I looked back at Leuan. “It works. For the tea, I need hot water. Do you have yarrow? Peppermint? Even ginger root?”

“We have ginger,” Leuan said, his gaze unwavering. He seemed to be looking at me for the first time, not as a woman or a captive, but as something else he couldn't yet categorize. He stood up. “Cook. Get her what she needs.”

The cook grumbled but lumbered off toward the galley. Leuan did not move. He watched me as I knelt beside Finn, my silk dress pooling in the grime of the deck. I gently brushed a stray lock of damp hair from the boy’s forehead. His skin was shockingly hot. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy.

“The water needs to be boiling,” I said, without looking up at Leuan. “And I’ll need a clean cup and something to grate the ginger with.”

He was silent for a moment. I thought he might have walked away.

“I’ll get it,” he said.

I heard his boots stride away across the deck. I stayed there, my hand on the boy’s forehead, the small, useless knife still clutched in my other hand. The crew kept their distance, watching me in a wary circle. I was no longer just the captain’s prize. I was something new, something they didn’t understand. And for the first time since being dragged onto this ship, I felt something other than fear or anger. I felt a flicker of purpose.

Leuan returned, carrying a steaming kettle in one hand and a small wooden crate in the other. He set them down on the deck beside me without a word. Inside the crate was a knob of ginger root, a metal grater, and a tin cup. He didn’t leave. He crouched down on the other side of Finn, his large frame creating a solid wall against the wind and the curious eyes of his crew.

The cook arrived moments later, holding a wooden bowl filled with a pungent mash of onion and garlic. He also had two strips of sailcloth reeking of rum. He placed them on the deck and backed away, wiping his hands on his apron as if ridding himself of a bad omen.

I took the grater and the ginger. The metal was cool against my palm. I began to work, scraping the fibrous root against the sharp holes. The familiar, spicy scent rose into the air, a clean smell that cut through the ship’s miasma of tar and salt. The work was awkward in my fine dress, my knees pressing into the gritty planks, but my hands were steady. I focused on the task, on the growing pile of pale yellow pulp. Leuan watched my fingers, his gaze intent.

When I had enough, I steeped the shavings in the hot water he’d brought, the cup warming my cold hands. Then I turned to the poultice. I took the cloths, heavy and damp with spirit, and spread the stinking onion paste onto them. Finn moaned, his body twitching.

“Hold his leg,” I said to Leuan.

He looked at me, then down at the boy. He complied, his hand, broad and calloused, closing gently around Finn’s ankle. I knelt by the boy’s feet, untying the laces of his worn boots and pulling them off. His feet were thin and dirty. I worked quickly, wrapping one cloth around the sole of each foot and securing them tightly. The smell was overpowering.

“Now the tea,” I said, sitting back on my heels. “We need to get him to drink it.”

Leuan shifted, moving to lift the boy. He slid one arm under Finn’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees, raising him into a sitting position and cradling him against his chest. The boy’s head lolled against Leuan’s shoulder, his feverish breath fogging the dark fabric of his captain’s shirt.

I moved closer, bringing the tin cup with me. I was wedged between Leuan’s knees, my hip brushing against his thigh. I could feel the heat of his body, smell the lingering scent of soot and sweat from the morning’s work. I reached out and tilted Finn’s head back, my fingers against his jaw.

“Finn,” I said, my voice low. “You need to drink this.”

His eyes opened a fraction, but they didn’t see me. I brought the cup to his lips and tipped it slowly. A thin trickle of the hot liquid ran into his mouth. He coughed, and some of it spilled down his chin. Leuan’s arm tightened around him.

“Easy,” Leuan murmured. It wasn’t clear if he was speaking to me or to the boy.

I tried again, pouring the tea in slower this time. I kept talking to Finn, a steady, meaningless stream of words, the way I’d once spoken to a frightened horse in the royal stables. He swallowed. Then again. We managed to get half the cup into him before he turned his head away, his body going limp against Leuan’s chest.

“It’s enough,” I said.

Leuan gently lowered him back onto the pile of rope. He took a rough wool blanket from a nearby sailor and spread it over the boy, tucking it carefully around his shoulders.

For a moment, we both just knelt there, one on either side of the sick boy, the space between us charged with the lingering intimacy of our shared task. The crew was silent, watching. I looked down at my hands. They were grimy, smelling of ginger and onion. My silk dress was ruined, stained and snagged.

I pushed myself to my feet, my joints aching. Leuan stood as well, unfolding to his full, intimidating height. He wasn't looking at Finn anymore. He was looking at me. His face was unreadable, but the cold assessment was gone from his eyes. He looked at my face, then my hands, then back to my face. It felt as though he were seeing me for the first time, a person separate from the title and the ransom. A person with hands that could do more than gesture elegantly.

He said nothing. He simply held my gaze for a long moment. Then he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, not to me, but toward the door of his cabin. It wasn’t an order. It was a suggestion. Permission.

I turned and walked away. The men parted for me, their expressions a mixture of confusion and a new, grudging respect. I didn’t look at any of them. I went back into the cabin and closed the heavy wooden door behind me, the latch clicking softly into place. Leaning against it, I looked at my own hands, really looked at them, and felt the phantom weight of a tin cup, the rough texture of a ginger root. I had done something. Here, in this world of men and violence, I had made a space for myself, however small.

The next morning, the door was not locked. I noticed it when Leuan brought my breakfast, the usual plate of dried meat and a slightly bruised apple. He set it on the table and turned to leave, but he did not slide the heavy bolt into place. He simply pulled the door closed, and the latch clicked. I waited, listening for the familiar scrape of metal, but it never came.

I ate the apple slowly, turning it over in my hands. It was a simple thing, a change so small it could have been an oversight. But I knew it wasn't. It was a message.

After I finished, I pushed the door open and stepped outside. The morning sun was bright, making the sea a brilliant, painful blue. The air was cool and carried the scent of salt and damp wood. A handful of men were on deck, swabbing the planks in a rhythmic, practiced motion. They looked up as I emerged. One or two of them gave a short, jerky nod. Most just held my gaze for a second before turning back to their work. The open hostility was gone, replaced by a wary curiosity.

I saw Finn near the main mast, coiling a length of rope. He was pale and moved with a careful slowness, but he was on his feet. The fever had broken. He saw me looking and offered a shy, hesitant smile. I nodded back.

Leuan was on the quarterdeck, speaking with Rhys. His back was to me, but I felt his awareness of me as a physical presence, like the heat from a fire. He did not turn around. He had given me a length of rope, and now he was waiting to see what I would do with it.

So I walked. I kept to the edge of the deck, out of the way of the men working. I watched them mend a tear in one of the smaller sails, their needles flashing in the sun. I watched the cook, the same man who had laughed at my instructions, gutting a fish with a grim efficiency, tossing the entrails into a bucket. This was the rhythm of their lives. Constant, necessary work. There was no time for the calculated pleasantries of a diplomatic dinner, no energy for the carefully constructed boredom of an afternoon at court. Here, a task was done because it needed to be done. A sail was mended so the ship would catch the wind. A fish was gutted so the crew would eat. It was a brutal, simple honesty I had never known. My life had been a collection of meaningless rituals designed to pass the time between one political transaction and the next.

A sailor with a thick, graying beard showed Finn how to tie a knot I didn't recognize, his gnarled fingers moving with surprising dexterity. Finn’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he tried to copy the intricate loops. The older man’s name was Taran, I learned, when another man called out to him for help with a jammed pulley. The men had names. They were not just a faceless, threatening mass anymore. They were Taran, and Rhys, and the cook, whose name I still didn't know.

I spent most of the day on deck. No one spoke to me directly, but I was no longer treated like a ghost or a piece of cargo. I was an object of observation, just as they were to me. I learned the patterns of the watches, the way the men moved around each other in the confined space, an unspoken choreography of shared purpose.

Leuan was always there. He was a fixed point in the shifting landscape of the deck. Sometimes he was at the helm, his large hands resting lightly on the wheel. Sometimes he was leaning against the railing, watching the horizon. But his attention was never fully on the sea. I would feel his eyes on me, and when I looked up, his gaze would meet mine for a beat before he looked away. It was no longer the look of a captor. It was something more complicated, something searching. He was watching me exist in the world he commanded, and I think he was as unsure of what to do with me as I was of him.

In the late afternoon, as the sun began to dip lower, Finn approached me. He held out a tin cup.

“Cook said you might be thirsty,” he mumbled, not quite meeting my eyes. It was fresh water, cool and clean.

“Thank you, Finn,” I said, taking the cup. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he said. “Thank you.”

He lingered for a moment, as if wanting to say more, but then he seemed to feel the weight of the captain’s gaze from across the deck and scurried away. I drank the water, leaning against the rail. The ship rose and fell on a gentle swell, a constant, living motion beneath my feet. I was a prisoner on a pirate ship, a thousand leagues from everything I had ever known. But as I looked out at the endless expanse of water, the gilded bars of my old life felt more like a cage than this salt-stained deck ever had.

Later that day, he found me by the stern, watching the ship’s wake churn the dark water into white foam. He stopped a few feet away, his presence a sudden weight in the air. I did not turn. I kept my eyes on the water.

“I have a chart,” he said. His voice was low, rough-edged. It wasn’t a command, but it wasn’t a request either. It was a statement of fact that required my participation.

I finally turned to look at him. His expression was neutral, but there was a tension in his jaw. I gave a small nod, and he turned, leading the way back to his cabin.

The room was the same. The narrow bunk, the solid table, the single chair. But my being there felt different. I was not a captive being returned to her cell. I was an invited guest, of a sort. He had not pulled the door shut behind us, leaving it slightly ajar. A sliver of late afternoon light cut across the floorboards.

He went to the large sea chest at the foot of his bunk—the one I had once tried to pick open—and lifted the lid. He pulled out a rolled tube of vellum, tied with a leather cord. He laid it on the table and untied the knot, his thick fingers surprisingly nimble. The chart uncurled with a dry whisper, its edges curling back up. He used a small ink pot and a spyglass to weigh down the corners.

It was a map of a chain of islands I did not recognize, beautifully rendered. The coastlines were drawn with a fine, steady hand, the shoals and reefs marked with delicate cross-hatching. But it was the notes that filled the margins and crowded the empty spaces of the sea that he was interested in. They were written in a looping, elegant script.

“I can read the bearings,” he said, his voice quiet in the small space. He tapped a large finger on a compass rose. “And the soundings.” He moved his finger to a series of numbers along the coast. “But this…” His finger hovered over a dense block of text near a cluster of islands. “The script is too fine.”

He did not say, I cannot read this. He did not have to. It was a stark admission, a chink in the armor of the fearsome captain. He was showing me a weakness.

I moved to stand beside him at the table, my shoulder almost brushing his arm. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, salt, and him. It was a clean, masculine scent, like leather and wind. I leaned closer to the chart, my hair falling forward over my shoulder.

“‘The currents through this strait are treacherous, especially during the spring tides,’” I read aloud. My voice sounded strange, too formal for the small cabin. “‘They run north to south, and can pull a ship onto the Black Fang reefs if the helmsman is not vigilant. Safe anchorage can be found in the lee of the largest island, in a cove marked by a single, dead tree.’”

I traced the words with my finger as I read, the vellum smooth and cool beneath my skin. Leuan leaned in, his head bent close to mine, his eyes following my finger’s path. I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His breathing was a slow, steady presence beside my ear.

“And here?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. He pointed to another section, his finger landing next to mine. His finger was twice the width of my own, the nail blunt and clean, the skin calloused and scarred. The contrast between our hands was stark.

I leaned further over the map, my hip now pressing against his thigh. “‘The natives of these islands are not hostile,’” I read, “‘but they are wary. They trade pearls and dried fruits for iron and cloth. Do not attempt to land on the smallest island. It is their sacred ground.’”

I continued to decipher the notes, my voice the only sound in the cabin besides the gentle creak of the ship’s timbers and our shared breathing. I was intensely aware of him, of the solid wall of his chest and shoulder so close to me, of the way his dark hair curled just behind his ear. He was completely still, listening. He was not just hearing the words; he was absorbing them, committing them to memory. He was letting me be his eyes, translating the world for him.

When I finished the last of the notes, a silence settled over us. I did not move my hand from the chart. He did not move away. I could feel my own heart beating, a steady, heavy rhythm in my chest. I finally lifted my head, turning to look at him. His face was only inches from mine. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, were fixed on my mouth. The air grew thin, charged with something unspoken and dangerous.

He broke the moment first. He straightened up, stepping back from the table and creating a sudden, cool space between us. He cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” he said. The words were formal, stiff. He began to roll the chart, his movements precise and economical, as if the last few minutes had not happened at all. As if he had not just looked at me like he was starving and I was a feast.

I watched him tie the leather cord and place the vellum tube back into the chest, closing the lid with a soft thud. He did not look at me again. The charged energy dissipated, leaving a strange emptiness in its wake. He had opened a door, shown me a glimpse of something, and then closed it just as quickly.

That evening, the air on deck was cool and smelled of salt and tar. Most of the crew were gathered midship, a lantern casting a pool of swaying yellow light on their faces. They were playing cards, the slap of the worn pasteboard on a wooden crate punctuated by grunts and low laughter. They passed a bottle of rum, its dark contents glinting in the lamplight.

Leuan had not sent me to the cabin. He had eaten his meal of salted fish and bread on deck, and I had been given a plate as well, which I ate sitting on a coil of rope. He sat on a crate nearby, not speaking, but his presence was a clear boundary that none of the other men crossed. Now, he leaned against the main mast, just outside the circle of light, watching the game. I remained where I was, an observer on the periphery. It was a strange kind of freedom.

The rum made the men louder. A man named Bram, with a red, fleshy face and small eyes, threw his cards down in disgust.

“Another loss,” he grumbled, grabbing the bottle from the man next to him. He took a long swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes found me in the shadows. A slow, unpleasant smile spread across his face.

“At least the captain’s got his prize,” he said, his voice thick with drink. “What’s the ransom for a night with a princess, eh? I’d wager more than this pot.”

The laughter from the other men was nervous and died out quickly. The air went still.

Before I could even process the insult, before the hot flush of shame could fully rise in my cheeks, there was a sound that cut through the night. It was not loud, but it was utterly final. Leuan had moved from the mast to the crate. His hand was flat on the wood, and the cards had jumped into the air. The lantern flame trembled.

No one moved. No one breathed. Bram’s smile was frozen on his face, his eyes wide with sudden, sober fear.

Leuan did not raise his voice. When he spoke, it was a low, cold sound that carried more menace than any shout. “Her name is Giovanna.”

He looked at Bram, and I saw the pirate physically shrink. The man’s face had gone pale, slick with sweat in the lantern light.

“You will not speak it,” Leuan continued, his voice dropping even lower. “You will not look at her. You will not think of her. She is under my protection. Any man on this ship who shows her anything less than respect will answer to me. Do you understand?”

Bram could only manage a jerky nod, his throat working.

Leuan’s gaze swept over the other men, his face a mask of cold fury. One by one, they dropped their eyes, looking at their hands, at the deck, at anything but him. The silence was absolute, broken only by the creak of the ship and the gentle slap of water against the hull.

The game was over. Quietly, the men began to gather their things. Bram scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the darkness toward the forecastle. The others followed, melting away without a word, leaving the circle of light empty.

Soon it was just the two of us on the deck, the abandoned lantern casting long, dancing shadows. Leuan still stood by the crate, his hand no longer on it, but clenched into a fist at his side. He was staring out into the blackness of the sea, his jaw tight. He hadn’t looked at me once. He had defended me with a terrifying ferocity, and now he was acting as if I wasn’t even there.

I left the lantern where it was and walked toward the bow. The ship was dark now, the moon a pale sliver that gave little light. The stars, however, were brilliant. They felt close enough to touch, scattered across the black sky like spilled salt. He was standing at the very prow, his large frame a silhouette against the heavens. He gripped the railing, his knuckles white even in the dimness. He was looking up.

I stopped a few feet behind him. The sea hissed and whispered below us. For a long time, I just stood there, watching the rigid line of his back. The anger had not left him. It was a physical thing, radiating from him like heat. I should have gone back to the cabin. I should have left him alone.

I took a step forward. The deck groaned softly under my weight, and he knew I was there, though he did not turn.

“Thank you,” I said. My voice was small against the vastness of the sea and sky.

He didn't answer for a moment. I thought perhaps he would ignore me completely.

“He was out of line,” he said finally, his voice flat. It was not an apology or an explanation. It was a statement of fact.

“Yes.” I moved to stand beside him at the rail, leaving a careful space between us. I looked up at the sky, at the overwhelming number of stars. At the palace, the lights from the city always washed them out. “You can see them so much more clearly out here.”

He followed my gaze. “That’s the North Star,” he said, lifting a hand to point. “Always there. Everything else moves, but it stays.”

“Polaris,” I said, almost to myself. “My tutor had a chart. He taught me the constellations. The stories behind them.”

Leuan grunted, a low sound in his chest. “I don’t know the stories. I know the directions. That band of stars there”—he traced a line in the air with his finger—“that’s the Serpent’s Spine. We follow it south in the winter.”

“Cassiopeia,” I said, recognizing the ‘W’ shape. “A vain queen, banished to the heavens to circle the celestial pole forever. A punishment for her pride.”

He was quiet for a moment. I could feel him looking at me, his head turned in the darkness. I kept my eyes on the stars, my cheeks feeling warm despite the cool sea air.

“And that one?” he asked, his voice different now. Less rigid. He pointed to a bright trio of stars.

“The Summer Triangle,” I said. “Altair, Deneb, and Vega. They tell a story about two lovers, a weaver girl and a herdsman, allowed to meet only once a year by crossing a bridge of magpies over the celestial river.”

I chanced a look at him. He was not looking at the sky anymore. His eyes were on my face, his expression unreadable in the faint starlight. The space between us felt smaller, the air warmer.

“My father taught me the stars,” he said, his voice low. “He was a fisherman. He didn't know any queens or lovers. He just knew how to get home.”

He turned his gaze back to the sea, to the dark horizon where the water met the sky. The anger was gone from his posture. The tension had bled out of his shoulders, replaced by a quiet weariness.

“It seems a more useful thing to know,” I said softly.

“Maybe.”

We stood in silence then, side-by-side, watching the stars. He did not move away, and I did not retreat. The ship rose and fell on the gentle swell of the ocean, a steady, rocking rhythm. His arm was inches from mine. I could feel the warmth of his body, a solid and reassuring presence in the immense darkness. It was peaceful. For the first time since I was dragged onto this ship, I felt a sense of peace. He was a pirate, a captor, a man who had terrified me. But here, in the quiet of the night, he was just a man who knew the way home by looking at the stars.

The peace did not last. Morning brought a gray sky and a return to the familiar distance between us. When Leuan appeared on deck, his face was set in the same hard lines as always. He gave his orders for the day’s work, his voice carrying across the deck with an authority that left no room for the man who had spoken of his fisherman father under the stars. He did not look at me. It was as if our conversation had been a dream, and now, in the flat light of day, we were back to our established roles. He was the captain. I was the cargo. I felt a small, sharp pang of disappointment, which I quickly suppressed. It was foolish to have expected anything else.

I spent the morning near the stern, watching the churn of the water in the ship’s wake, keeping out of the way of the swabbing and rope-mending. The air was heavy, humid. It felt like waiting for a storm.

The cry came from the crow’s nest shortly before midday. “Sail off the starboard bow!”

Every man on deck froze. The rhythmic work stopped. Heads snapped up, turning to the east. I stood, my hand gripping the railing, and squinted toward the horizon. At first, I saw nothing but the endless gray line where the sea met the sky. Then, a speck. A dark shape, small with distance.

Rhys was already handing Leuan a spyglass. Leuan raised it to his eye, his body utterly still. The silence on the ship was absolute, a held breath. I watched his face. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping near his ear. He lowered the spyglass slowly, his knuckles white where he gripped the brass.

“It’s him,” he said. The words were quiet, but they cut through the air like a blade.

Rhys spat on the deck. “The Reaper. Kaelen.”

The name meant nothing to me, but the reaction it caused was immediate and visceral. A low murmur went through the crew, a ripple of something that was not quite fear, but a grim, tense readiness. Men straightened their shoulders, their eyes going to their knives, to the racks of cutlasses lashed to the main mast. The easy rhythm of the morning was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory energy.

Leuan collapsed the spyglass with a sharp snap. He turned, and his eyes swept the deck, missing nothing. He was no longer a man; he was a commander.

“Battle stations,” he roared, and the voice was not the one that had pointed out the North Star. It was a raw, powerful sound that vibrated through the planks of the deck. “Lookouts to the rigging! Gunners to the cannons! Bram, you take the swivel guns. Rhys, with me.”

The deck exploded into controlled chaos. Men ran to their posts, their movements economical and practiced. The lethargy of the morning was burned away by adrenaline. They moved with the terrifying grace of men who had done this many times before. The heavy canvas covers were stripped from the cannons, the dark iron mouths revealed. Barrels of black powder were rolled into position. The air filled with the sounds of shouted orders, the thud of bare feet on wood, the metallic rasp of steel being drawn.

In the midst of it all, Leuan’s eyes found me. He strode across the deck, his purpose a tangible force that parted the chaos around him. He stopped in front of me, his shadow falling over me. His face was a mask of cold focus, his eyes narrowed on the approaching ship.

“You will go to the cabin,” he said. It was not a request. “You will stay there until I come for you.”

He did not wait for my reply. His hand closed around my upper arm, his grip firm and impersonal. He pulled me along behind him, his long strides forcing me into a near run to keep up. He all but shoved me through the door to his cabin and turned to leave.

“Leuan,” I said, his name tasting strange on my tongue.

He paused in the doorway, his back to me. He did not turn, but I saw his shoulders tense.

“Stay away from the walls,” he said, his voice rough. “Lie on the floor if you must.”

Then he was gone, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The sound of the thick iron bolt sliding into place was deafening in the sudden quiet. I was a prisoner again.

I stood in the center of the cabin, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. I could hear the muffled shouts from the deck, the heavy, rhythmic thud of the cannons being loaded. The ship was turning, tilting as it maneuvered into position. I could hear Leuan’s voice, a deep, commanding roar that was only partially obscured by the thick wood of the door.

A tremor ran through the ship, a deep shudder that I felt in my bones. It was followed by a deafening boom that made the small cabin seem to shrink around me. The first cannon shot. Theirs or ours, I didn’t know. Another followed, and then another. The battle had begun.

I pressed my hands over my ears, but the sound was too deep to be blocked. It was a physical thing, a vibration that shook the very air I was breathing. I stumbled as the ship lurched violently to one side. A crash from the deck, the splintering of wood. A scream, high and thin, cut short. The smell of gunpowder began to seep through the cracks in the door, acrid and sharp.

I did as he said, moving to the center of the floor, away from the walls. I sank down onto the rug, wrapping my arms around my knees, making myself small. The sounds were louder now, closer. The dull roar of the cannons was punctuated by the sharp crack of smaller arms and the unmistakable, sickening clang of sword against sword. It was happening right above my head. I could hear the frantic running of feet, the grunts and shouts of men fighting. Something heavy slammed against the roof of the cabin, and I flinched, a cry catching in my throat. The world had dissolved into a chaos of noise and violent motion. There was nothing but the rocking of the ship and the sounds of death outside my door.

Then came a sound unlike the others. Not a boom, but a high, thin whistle that cut through the deeper din. It grew louder, a piercing shriek that seemed to be aimed directly at me. I squeezed my eyes shut.

The world exploded.

It was not a sound, but a force. A violent, physical blow that threw me across the floor. My head struck the leg of the heavy desk. The air was sucked from my lungs, replaced by a storm of dust and splinters. For a moment, there was only a ringing silence and the sensation of falling.

When sound returned, it was with a roar. The cabin was open to the battle. The thick oak door had been blasted from its hinges, and now hung in jagged, splintered pieces. Gray light and the acrid smoke of battle poured in. I could see the chaos on the deck, a flashing glimpse of men clashing, of a body falling.

A sharp, searing pain bloomed in my left arm. I looked down. A long, wicked shard of wood, dark and slick, was embedded in the flesh above my elbow. Blood, shockingly red, was already soaking the sleeve of my dress, dripping onto the floorboards. I stared at it, my mind unable to process the sight. The wood in my arm. My blood on the floor of his cabin.

A figure filled the ruined doorway, blocking the terrible view of the deck. It was Leuan. He was barely recognizable. His face was a mask of soot and what I knew was blood. A fresh cut ran from his temple into his hairline. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, revealing the swirling tattoos on his skin, slick with sweat. In his hand, he held a cutlass, its edge dark with gore. His eyes were wide, alight with a terrifying, feral energy. He looked like a god of war, a creature born of the violence that raged around us.

His gaze swept the ruined cabin, searching. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving. The sounds of the battle seemed to fade into a dull roar behind him as he took a step inside, his boots crunching on the debris. Then his eyes found me.

He saw me on the floor, my back against the desk. He saw the blood. His gaze dropped to my arm, to the splinter of wood protruding from my flesh.

And everything about him changed.

The wildness in his eyes vanished, extinguished as if by a sudden gust of wind. The brutal lines of his face slackened. The hand holding the cutlass lowered slightly. The warrior’s fury, the terrifying energy that had radiated from him, collapsed inward. It was replaced by something else, something raw and focused entirely on me. His jaw was still tight, but the aggression was gone. In its place was a stark, naked concern that was somehow more unnerving than his rage had been. He took another step toward me, his eyes never leaving the wound.

“Out,” he said, his voice a low command that cut through the ringing in my ears. He took another step, his boots crunching on the splintered wood that littered the floor. He ignored his fallen cutlass. “We have to get you out.”

He knelt in front of me, the movement jarringly gentle for a man of his size. His knees landed in the debris beside my legs. For a moment, he simply looked at the wound, his dark eyes narrowed in a way that was purely analytical. His large, blood-smeared hands hovered near my arm, not touching, as if he was afraid his very proximity would cause more damage. The air between us was thick with smoke and the metallic smell of blood, his and mine.

Without another word, he slid one arm under my knees and the other behind my back. He lifted me from the floor as if I weighed nothing at all. The sudden movement sent a fresh spike of pain through my arm, and I gasped, my head falling against his shoulder. His body was a wall of heat and solid muscle, tense with exertion. I could feel the rough texture of his leather vest against my cheek, the dampness of his torn shirt beneath. He smelled of gunpowder, sweat, and the open sea.

He turned and carried me out through the ruined doorway, back into the bedlam.

The deck was a nightmare of flashing steel and desperate, grunting men. The air was a thick soup of smoke that burned my throat. I saw Rhys, his face a grimace of effort, parry a blow from a pirate whose tunic was soaked in red. I saw a body lying near the mast, unmoving. Leuan moved through it all with a brutal, focused purpose. He held me tightly against his chest, his body a shield between me and the fighting. Men, his and the enemy’s, seemed to part before him, scrambling out of the path of their furious captain and his burden. He shouted something at a man near the hatchway, an order I couldn’t decipher over the din.

My world shrank to the circle of his arms. I pressed my face into the curve of his neck, trying to hide from the terrible sights and sounds. All I could feel was the solid, unyielding reality of him. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, powerful rhythm that I felt through my own body. It was a wild, vital beat in the center of the chaos, a point of life in the midst of so much death. The strength in his arms was absolute. He did not stumble, did not falter, even as the deck shifted violently beneath his feet. He was the only steady thing in a world that had come apart.

He reached a hatch and, with a grunt, kicked it open. He navigated the steep ladder to the lower deck with a terrifying, sure-footed ease, holding me with one arm pressed to his side while the other gripped the rung. The sounds of the battle above became muffled, a dull, percussive thunder.

Down below, the air was hot and close, thick with the smell of tar and unwashed bodies. A few wounded men were propped against barrels, their faces pale in the dim light from the gratings. Leuan strode past them, his eyes scanning the space until he found a relatively clear spot against the inner hull, beside a stack of folded sails.

He lowered me carefully, his movements slow and deliberate, until I was sitting on the dusty canvas. He crouched before me, his hands resting on his knees. The fury was gone from his face, leaving behind an exhaustion that seemed to settle deep in his bones. But his eyes, when they met mine, were still fiercely alert, fixed on me with an intensity that left no room for anything else. The thunder of the battle continued above our heads, a constant, violent drumming.

The drumming from above began to subside, replaced by scattered shouts that sounded less like fighting and more like orders being given. A ragged cheer went up, loud and triumphant, but Leuan didn’t look away from me. He didn’t seem to hear it. His world had contracted to this small, dusty space on the lower deck.

“I have to take it out,” he said. His voice was low and gravelly, stripped of its usual command. He was just stating a fact.

He rose and went to a small, latched cabinet I hadn't noticed before, rummaging inside. He came back with a dark bottle of rum and a length of what looked like clean linen. He knelt before me again, placing the items on the deck beside him. The faint light from the gratings caught the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the drying streak of blood at his temple.

“This will hurt,” he said. His gaze held mine, and there was no apology in it, only a warning.

I gave a small, stiff nod. I braced myself, my good hand gripping a fold of the canvas beneath me.

His left hand came to my arm, circling my bicep. His fingers were thick and calloused, the skin rough against mine, but his grip was steadying, not crushing. With his right hand, he took hold of the end of the wooden splinter. It was a dark, ugly thing protruding from my own flesh. His knuckles were scraped and bloody. For a second, he hesitated, his eyes fixed on the task. Then he pulled.

It was a sharp, searing agony that ripped a gasp from my throat. My vision went white at the edges. I felt the horrid, deep scrape of the wood as it was drawn from the muscle. He tossed the bloody shard aside. It clattered against a barrel.

“Alright,” he murmured, his voice tight. “Alright.”

He uncorked the rum with his teeth and soaked a piece of the linen. The sharp, sweet smell of it filled the air, cutting through the stench of smoke and sweat. He brought the wet cloth to the wound.

“Hold still.”

The alcohol met my open flesh and I hissed, my whole body jerking with the violent, clean fire of it. His hand tightened on my bicep, holding me steady. He began to clean the gash, his movements methodical and surprisingly deft. His thumb rested on the uninjured part of my arm, his touch firm. I watched his face. He was completely absorbed, his brow furrowed in concentration. The fierce pirate captain was gone, replaced by this focused, careful man whose large, blood-stained fingers were working with such precision on my skin. He blotted away the blood that continued to well up, his expression grim.

When he was satisfied, he took the dry length of linen and began to wrap it around my arm. He worked quickly, binding it tight enough to staunch the bleeding. His knuckles brushed against my side as he circled my arm, his proximity a heavy, tangible thing. The battle, the chaos, it all felt distant, a muffled echo from another world. Here, there was only the heat of his body, the pressure of his hands, the intensity of his focus.

He finished the knot, his fingers lingering for a second on the bandage. He finally looked up from his work, his gaze lifting from my arm to my face. The air, which had been full of noise and action, was suddenly still. The only sound was the creak of the ship’s timbers and the distant, muffled sounds of the crew on the deck above. His eyes, dark and unreadable, searched my face. They were so close I could see the flecks of gold in the brown, the soot clinging to his lashes. He was still breathing hard, and I could smell the rum on his breath, mixed with salt and something else, something metallic and uniquely him.

The intensity in his stare was overwhelming. It was more than concern, more than the focus of a man tending a wound. It was something raw and unguarded, something he had kept hidden behind his pirate’s bluster. I saw the day’s violence reflected there, the nearness of death, and a desperate, possessive need that was aimed entirely at me. My own heart was beating a frantic, unsteady rhythm against my ribs.

He leaned in. It wasn’t a slow, considered movement. It was sudden, born of the day’s terror and chaos. His free hand came up to my jaw, his thumb pressing into the hollow beneath my ear, holding me in place. And then his mouth was on mine.

It was a rough, desperate kiss. His lips were firm, chapped, and tasted of rum and blood. There was no tenderness in it, only a consuming, frantic pressure. He wasn’t asking, he was taking, his mouth moving against mine with a hunger that spoke of battles and survival. I felt his other hand leave my arm and slide around my back, pulling me hard against his chest. I could feel the solid wall of his muscles, the frantic thud of his heart. My fingers uncurled from the canvas and clutched at the torn, damp fabric of his shirt. His tongue pushed against my lips, demanding entry, and I parted them, a silent, involuntary surrender. The kiss deepened, becoming a hot, wet exploration that left me breathless. It was overwhelming, a drowning. It was the only thing that felt real.