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eyes-stuff · 3 months ago

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chapter one ── pest control. the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies

chapter summary. ┆ caleb's worst fear comes true when the two of you are assigned as lab partners, especially after your first experiment together goes horribly wrong in more ways than one.

series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

Most days in Linkon City begin with sirens.

Loud, blaring, unmistakable screeches that cut through the early morning quiet like a blade, carving their way through alleyways and avenues alike. They seep into walls, curl beneath locked doors, and coil around the restless minds of those who have long since stopped flinching at their call.

To them, the inhabitants of this city, it is nothing more than background noise—a city’s heartbeat, rhythmic and ceaseless. But to you, it is a warning. A sign that the world beyond the window of your dorm room is a battlefield, and you, a stranger in its midst, are only beginning to understand the rules of this strange place.

Perhaps, in time, you will grow desensitized as they have. Learn to sleep through the wailing cries, to walk these streets without the ever-present weight of caution pressing against your ribs. In a way, they forbade you from venturing out, instilling a fear within you that if you did, you would be the individual these melodies chased—or worse, the victim they had been called for in the first place.

The entirety of the first semester has passed, and you haven’t even finished unpacking. Your suitcase remains half-full, a tangible reminder that you do not yet belong here. That you still have a choice—to do something before this place sinks its teeth into you, before you become just another soul who mistakes chaos for comfort.

But that choice is an illusion.

Here, people like you make no difference. You are not a hero, nor anything close to it. You are just a student who knows better, one who recognizes that the sirens will always be there, a requiem for the city’s unrest. And the crime will persist, as will the men in uniform who fail to stop it.

Somewhere beyond the blaring wails, beyond the tangled skyline and shadowed alleys, someone is fighting a battle you will never quite understand.

And for now, all you can do is listen.

Yet, in a way, you know that this was exactly where you wanted to be.

Despite its rapidly deteriorating surroundings, Linkon University remained a place of prestige. Young children dreamed of acceptance into its ranks, babbling to their parents about how they, too, would one day make these halls their stomping grounds. Maybe it was naivety that brought you here. Or maybe it was the last remnants of a dream that hadn’t yet died on your tongue.

Or perhaps, it was the medical journalism program—a rare gem, dwindling into obscurity at every other university.

You were lucky to be accepted. But humbly speaking, luck had very little to do with it. Your stats spoke for themselves: a 1540 SAT, a 4.98 weighted GPA, more extracurriculars than you could count on both hands. A smart cookie, as written in the shining letters of recommendation that paved your way here.

And yet, imposter syndrome festered like a quiet disease, creeping into the spaces between your confidence. You have spent your entire life at the top. Always number one.

Here? You were number two.

Number two to whom? You did not know. Not yet, anyway.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb’s perfect life has unraveled in the span of a week and a half, but he positively swears it’s not his fault.

It’s yours.

Ten days ago, at precisely 12:57 PM, he endured the worst torment known to man: his seat in the lecture hall was stolen. A cruel move, truly. Class had been in session for four days, he’d claimed that seat twice—twice—and by the unspoken law of university students everywhere, that granted him full ownership. So why, then, were you sitting in his allotted property?

Looking back, Caleb sees only two possible explanations. The first: you had unknowingly taken the seat after enrolling just before the census date. The second: you were out to get him from the very start.

And personally? He’s convinced it’s the latter.

But alas, he hadn’t made a fuss about it then. It wasn’t like he’d just lost the single best seat in the entire hall—the one with perfect access to the exit, the projector, and the professor’s desk. But hey, he could be cool about this, right? Yeah… totally cool. So cool. The coolest.

Days passed, and everyone seemed to be settling into the spring semester just fine. The weather was getting warmer, flowers on the great lawn were blooming, and Caleb was thriving.

That was, until the unthinkable happened.

Time? 2:19 PM. Class? CHEM 001 AH. Location? The Grand Hall.

Caleb sat directly behind you, having resigned himself to the second best seat in the room, as the sound of pencils scratching against paper filled the otherwise quiet space.

Taking practice exams felt pointless. A waste of time, really. His efforts could be better spent elsewhere—like taking the real exam or absolutely demolishing his roommate Zayne in Apex Legends yet again. But instead, here he was, surrounded by classmates diligently scribbling away as the session inched closer to its eventual end.

And when it did, Caleb would have simply packed up and gone on his merry way—if not for the single most bone-chilling sentence he had ever heard in his entire academic career.

You were chatting with the girl beside you, talking about things he had zero interest in. Your shared biology class at 3 PM, your dorm building, plans to meet up at the dining hall later… blah blah blah. But then—an acronym. A single, horrific acronym triggered him like a sleeper agent.

“My GPA? Oh, it’s… 4.30. I think. To be honest, it’s been a while since I checked.”

His jaw went slack. His eyes widened. The color drained from his face.

A 4.30 GPA? No. No. That couldn’t be real. That could not be real.

But as his gaze flickered between the back of your head and your friend’s, he came to the most horrifying conclusion of all.

You weren’t lying. And if that were true… then that meant you had the same GPA he did.

Which meant that, depending on your course load and how well you performed, you could take his spot as number one in the class rank.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb burst into his dorm room, slinging his backpack onto his mattress before face-planting into it with a sound somewhere between a groan and a hmph.

Across the room, Zayne didn’t even glance up from his desk, fingers tapping away at his mounted laptop. Click, clack. Click, clack. For a stretch of time, that was the only sound in the room—until he finally exhaled, the kind of quiet sigh that could only mean here we go again.

“Rough day?”

Caleb didn’t even hesitate. “The worst day.”

Zayne closed his eyes for a moment, like he was mentally preparing himself, before pushing away from his desk and turning his chair just enough to look at his roommate. “What happened?”

Still face-down on the bed, Caleb let out a long, exaggerated sigh—nowhere near as silent as Zayne’s. “I think I have to take trig next semester. Honors.”

That made Zayne pause. Brow quirked, he leaned back. “Why? Your counselor quite literally said you’re already on track to graduate with honors and as one of the top-ranked students in our year.”

That was the problem, though. Caleb wasn’t satisfied with being one of the best. He wanted to be the best—and now, that source of pride was under attack.

“Well, that was before I found out I’m sharing a GPA with some girl in my chem lecture,” he said, rolling onto his back to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Which means if I don’t get my shit together and pack on a few more honors courses, I’m cooked.”

Zayne laughed. Actually laughed. Shaking his head, he turned back to his desk, plucked his glasses off the mousepad, and slid them on. “You should hear yourself right now.”

Caleb’s head snapped to the side, eyebrows pinching together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just amusing, is all.” Zayne smirked. “I find it endearing that you, Mr. ‘I can skip the final and still pass with a 94%,’ Mr. ‘I think I might take astronomy honors for fun this semester,’—”

“All riiight, I get it,” Caleb cut in. “What’s your point?”

Zayne snickered, amused. “My point is that if you of all people feel threatened by a classmate you hardly know, maybe there’s a reason for that.”

Caleb hated that there was probably some truth to that. Not that he’d ever admit it. Being threatened by a classmate he barely knew? Please. He knew enough. (And yes, he had meticulously sifted through the entire roster of his chemistry class to stalk your Canvas profile. What? It’s… field research.)

“Y’know, you’re terrible at pep talks,” he muttered, folding his hands behind his head.

“I’m not trying to be,” Zayne replied easily. “But if you want my input—take the trig course next semester. Something tells me you’ll need it.”

Caleb rolled onto his side, fishing his laptop from his backpack as the weight of his evening workload settled in.

And maybe Zayne was right.

Maybe he would need all the help he could get.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

It wasn’t until six days later—today—that Caleb knew for certain fate was no longer on his side.

The professor’s voice cut through the shuffle of students packing up their belongings, all of which were currently praying that their first lab of the semester wouldn’t be a complete and utter disaster. It was a well known fact that Dr. Rappaccini was quite the harsh critic, and an even harsher grader. Her score on Rate My Professors was a whopping 2.8/5 for crying out loud.

“Alright, it’s time for you all to receive your lab partners for the semester. Before heading to the lab next door, please check the list of pairings at the front.”

Luckily, Caleb had committed the syllabus to memory and knew that each person was scored individually no matter how their partner performed, but it was recommended that the pair conduct their experiments together to save time and... okay, maybe he hadn’t memorized it as well as he thought, but at least he knew the core details, right?

Scanning the list, his blood ran cold. He squinted, hoping that the prescription of his glasses had failed him, but of course, it was unmistakable. Your name was printed next to his. Emboldened, unignorable, in a perfectly neutral 12 pt Times New Roman font.

The walk to the laboratory was a quiet one, and you were walking a few feet ahead of him without a care in the world. Reaching for the door handle, he twisted the metallic lever and gestured for you to enter ahead of him with a single nod of his head. It was a force of habit. He may not care for you as an academic peer, but you didn't directly wrong him in any way. Not knowingly, that is.

With a curt nod of your own and a sliver of a smile, you entered the class with a quiet “thank you.”

And before he could follow in step behind you, the neverending line of your fellow classmates began to flood into the room, leaving him to stand idle while offering each of them a thin-lipped smile. It felt like an eternity before he was able to step inside of the laboratory too, and his first instinct was to map out the classroom to find the best possible seating arrangement.

To his surprise… you’d already claimed the most optimal lab station, and as he approached, you made the first move to speak.

“I hope you’re okay with sitting here,” you say, fishing out your sleek notebook and a bright blue pencil. “It’s the only lab station with equal access to the exit, the supplies cabinet, and the professor’s desk.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side as bewilderment etches into his features. Were you inside of his brain? He clears his throat, shaking away his confusion as he nods. “Yeah, I’m alright with this spot. Good choice.”

Smiling, you nod too. “Cool.”

A beat of silence passes, and you smooth your hands over the black resin material of the table, a movement that his eyes instinctively follow. Then, your hand raises and extends out to him, forcing him to blink himself out of his state of daydreaming.

You say your name while tilting your head with a smile—this time, a smile with teeth—as you wait for his hand to take yours. “And you’re… Xia?”

Raising his eyebrows, he shakes his head while a chuckle slips through his carefully crafted exterior. “Caleb,” he corrects, his firm grasp enveloping your hand as he gives it a shake. “Caleb Xia.”

“Ah, got it,” you remark, an epiphany dawning on you as you slip your hand from his hold. “Well, I’m going to go get our safety goggles.”

But before leaving, you straightened, eyes glued to him—or rather, his head.

Huffing out a laugh through his nose, Caleb’s lip tugs up in the corner. “What are you doing?”

Tapping your chin, you sigh. “I’m trying to see if you have a big head. If you do, I’ll have to go fight tooth and nail for one of the ones with adjustable straps.”

Rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm, he rests his elbow on the edge of the table before leaning his cheek into his hand. “Well, lay it on me. What’s your diagnosis?”

Humming, you tilt your head back and forth before nodding your head a single time. “Big-head syndrome. I’m positive.”

Caleb’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “I should take that as a compliment. Big head means big brain, you know.”

“Or a big ego,” you retort with a shrug, giving him a once-over with raised brows before whisking away towards the horde of students currently going to war over the remaining pick of the litter.

Yeah, that too, he thinks.

In your absence, he takes the liberty of prepping the lab for the both of you. Beakers? Check. Random substance that the two of you were going to be experimenting on? Check. Hydrochloric acid? Check. Sodium bicarbonate? Check—

“Safety goggles,” you state, plopping down on your stool and handing his pair to him.

Without missing a beat, he speaks. “Check.”

Drawing back slightly, you turn to look at him with an arched eyebrow. “Uh… yeah. Check.”

Faltering, Caleb slides the item onto his face as he stammers through his words. “I was just… never mind, let’s start.”

The class had settled into a low hum—the murmur of newly paired partners, the scribbling of notes, the soft hiss of chemicals reacting.

As the two of you began the experiment, an incredibly prominent conclusion dawned on him: Disliking you as a person wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. As a competitor? You were treacherous. As a lab partner? You were… tolerable. Efficient. Annoyingly easy to work with.

It wasn’t the end result that he was hoping for, if he were to be entirely honest with himself. He wanted you to be difficult to be around, he wanted you to be stuck up, he wanted you to give him a genuine reason to dislike you apart from being the root of his newfound insecurity. But you weren’t, and that was a problem.

“Pass me the baking soda?” you ask.

“The sodium bicarbonate?”

“Yeah. The baking soda.”

Caleb tilts his head with a smile. “Also known as sodium bicarbonate.”

You glance his way, and your eyes met. “Congrats, big guy. You know big words. Now pass it.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Biting back a smile, he hands it over, only to retract it at the last second. “Wait. What’s it called again?”

Your force smile was all teeth. “Sodium bicarbonate.”

Finally relenting, Caleb places the bowl in your orbit with a triumphant grin.

He was smart enough to know that this was a bad idea. Despite how easily the two of you worked together, he knew that he couldn’t entertain this any further. You weren’t just his classmate, his peer—you were his competition. And while he’s heard the saying keep your friends close, but your enemies closer just as many times as the next person, he knows that mixing any ounce of developing friendship with his pursuit for greatness would be wrong.

It would work best that way. You can’t be friends, and that’s okay.

And for the first time in what felt like ages, fate seemed to agree with him.

“Hmm,” Caleb soon rumbles, squinting at the beaker. “This isn’t lookin’ too good. You said you added the sodium bicarbonate, yeah?”

You frown, glancing up from your notes. Your stomach twists at the sight of the clock—barely any time left before the lab ends. The professor would be making her rounds any second now.

“What? I didn’t add it. You said you added it.”

Caleb flits his gaze to the side of your face. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

Your head snaps toward him so fast he was surprised it didn’t snap right off. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You exhale sharply, frustration creeping up your neck. “How are you gonna tell me what I did or didn’t do?”

Your pulse ticks up a bit faster than it naturally should, and your eyes rose up from the glass cylinder. Around the room, students were already wrapping up their conclusions while the two of you hadn’t even finished the experiment. You suck in a breath and push up from your stool.

“Fine. Fine. Can you just pass me the baking soda?”

Caleb nods, handing over the pre-measured bowl of sodium bicarbonate. While you worked to fix the mess, he jotted down a few quick notes. You added just enough of the powder to neutralize the acid—but not smother it completely.

And then? Silence. The two of you sat. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Praying.

Then, miraculously, the beaker decided to behave and the fizzing subsided.

Like clockwork, you both exhaled, shoulders slumping as small, victorious smiles tugged at your mouths—

Until yours vanished entirely. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Caleb falters, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t say thank you.”

“Well, you should have.”

“Why? If I hadn’t pointed out the weird reaction, we’d have been screwed.”

“Oh? If I hadn’t realized neither of us added the sodium bicarbonate—which was your responsibility, by the way—we would’ve actually been screwed.”

Tension thickened between you like a drawn bowstring. You clench your jaw and look away, scribbling down your final observations. Stupid man, you thought to yourself. And here you were, actually believing that this semester wouldn’t be a total shitshow, that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten lucky.

Unfortunately not.

Then, your attention was caught by something out of the ordinary. Your gaze lands on his neck, and your breath hitched. Staring back at you was a small, multi-legged beady eyed monster. Sticking out your pointer finger, you still find yourself instinctively drawing back, as if it were out to get you next. “There’s a spider on—”

But before you could finish your sentence, Caleb winced, his veins tightening as he instinctively flicked the eight-legged menace off. You sucked your teeth, drumming your fingers on the table. So much for your timely warning.

Glancing his way, your brows elevate as you see the already forming bite mark on his neck. “Yikes. It got you good.”

“Did it?” he asks, raising a hand to rub over the mark with narrowed eyes. “Hm. Guess so, yeah.”

Reluctantly, you ask, “Are you okay?”

With a nod, he picks up his pencil once more and works on finishing the last of his lab report. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Sighing airily, you can’t help the smile that tugs on your mouth. “Poor spider, being flicked through the air like that.”

Like routine, Caleb shot a glare your way. “Funny.”

“Thanks.”

With that, you left for the washing station. Meanwhile, Dr. Rappaccini stood from her desk, making her rounds. It was in that moment that a shrill of panic shot up his spine—the stimulation foreign, unfamiliar, and… terrifying.

He could feel his heart rate shooting through the roof, a sweat break on his forehead, and his fingertips flex at his sides—all things that he wasn’t even conscious of. And before he knew it, he was glancing in your direction, noting that you were distracted. Good.

With a quick ease, he snatched up your notepad and erased a few numbers, replacing them with subtle, logicless mistakes. 34? Now a 26. 32 to the power of 5? Not anymore.

It wasn’t his proudest moment. Sabotaging his own lab partner’s work? Definitely not.

Ten seconds. That’s all it took to ruin you just enough. He slid the notepad back into place, brushing away the eraser shavings. Like clockwork, you returned, none the wiser.

Exhaling softly, you turned to him. “Look, I just wanted to say that—”

“Now, you two,” Dr. Rappaccini’s voice cut you off.

You both turned as she scanned and picked up Caleb’s report, making a few marks with her fine-pointed marker before sliding it back into place. You glanced over, making note of his grade. 94.

Then, she picked up yours. A moment later, she handed it back. Your professor held up a roll of stickers, tearing two off before setting them down on the table.

Despite the vibrant designs on the stickers, your stomach dropped. Your grade was big, bold, and unmistakable. 82.

“Wait—Dr. Rappaccini,” you call after her, staring at the page with widened eyes of shock. “I… I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”

“Well, your experiment was solid—your observations were well-written, and your documentation was precise. But your math?” She sighs. “Completely off.” A beat of silence. Then, a smile. “Don’t feel discouraged. You’re a good student as you are—no need to compare your scores to others.”

The implication was clear. She thought you were smart—just not as smart as Caleb.

Huffing, you toss your notebook onto the table, fingers curling against the edge of it.

“You got cut off earlier,” he says casually, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “What were you sayin’?”

Blinking, you tried to retrace your thoughts. “Oh, yeah… I was just saying that…”

Your voice trails, eyes drifting to your lab report. Caleb caught the flicker of realization dawning on you—and when you turned to him, his not-so-hidden grin said it all.

“I was just saying,” you snap, “that you’re an asshole whose handwriting looks like a drunk chicken clawed at my report.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says with a shrug, peeling off his sticker to plaster it onto your shoulder. “Good luck on the exam tomorrow morning”

And with that, he walks out of the lab.

“Yeah, you too,” you murmur, though he was already gone before he could hear the hissed “bitch” that followed.

Irritation pricks at your skin as you stuff—more like shove—your belongings into your backpack. Prick. So much for not knowing the single person you were beneath in the class ranks.

Guilt stirred in his chest as he walked towards his dorm building… but only a little.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

By the time Caleb stumbled back to his dorm, he felt like he’d been hit by a freight train.

He barely managed to push the door open before kicking off his shoes, letting his backpack slump to the floor with a heavy thud. His head swam, his breath uneven as he widened his eyes in a feeble attempt to stay awake. Slapping himself on the cheek, he quickly realized it was no use. His neck stung worse than it had when the spider first bit him, the dull throb pulsing beneath his fingertips as he rubbed over the puncture point.

"Are you drunk?" Zayne’s voice drifts from across the room.

"No," Caleb mutters, face buried in his pillow. "Just… tired. Really tired."

He sank into the thin mattress like dead weight, the springs groaning beneath him. With sluggish hands, he pulled his glasses from his face and tossed them onto the bedside table, missing by an inch. His breathing grew heavier, his skin slick with cold sweat. His pupils—blown wide as saucers—fluttered shut as he barely mustered the strength to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside.

And within seconds, he was out like a light.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The morning sun sliced through the blinds, painting golden stripes across Caleb’s bare back as he jolted awake.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, erratic breaths, but despite the abruptness of it all, he felt… alert. Fully awake in a way that didn’t exactly make sense.

Blinking rapidly, he reached for his glasses and slid them onto his face with a groggy groan. And then—he froze.

His vision was still blurry.

Frowning, he pulled his glasses off, breathed onto the lenses, and wiped them against his bedsheet. When he slid them back on—blurry again. He pulled them down. Clear. Glasses up. Blurry. Glasses down. Clear.

He stares at them in his hands. “...Weird.”

Setting the frames down, he threw his legs over the bed and staggered toward his closet—only to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

Since when the hell did he have abs?

He flexed instinctively, stomach tensing under his own scrutiny. Then his gaze trailed up—to his arms. His biceps. His shoulders.

Turning, twisting, he inspected every angle of himself like a stranger in his own skin. He’d been in shape before, sure, but this? This was different. He would’ve noticed this.

Knuckles rapped against the door, making him flinch.

“Caleb? Are you awake? I forgot my key.” A pause. Then, “Are you feeling any better? You slept like a log last night—perhaps you’re catching a bug.”

"A bug?" Caleb echoes under his breath, flexing again just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “Holy shit… Uh, yeah, man, I’m good. Just—gimme a sec.”

Turning back toward his desk, he reached for his chair, only meaning to push it aside—but the moment his palm touched the wood, it stuck.

His brows furrow.

He yanks once. Then again.

Nothing.

His heartbeat quickens as he curls his fingers, attempting to lift his hand—and instead, he lifts the entire chair clean off the ground.

“What the—” His stomach drops. He waved his hand. The chair waved with it. Up. Down. Side to side. Still stuck.

“Caleb?” Zayne calls from the other side of the door.

Caleb whips his head toward the sound, panic tightening in his throat. Shit. He bolted across the room—chair still attached to his palm—and somehow managed to unlock the door just as Zayne strode in.

Zayne, clearly in a rush, barely spared him a glance as he grabbed a stack of papers from his desk, clipped them together, and breezed back out with a nod.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Caleb exhaled sharply—only to realize his hand was still stuck… to the doorknob.

Huffing, he gave it a firm tug, expecting it to pop free. Instead, the entire knob wrenched out of the door, hinges snapping with a loud crack.

"Shit."

He barely had time to process before his body betrayed him once again—this time, with a sharp thwip.

A thick strand of silk shot from his wrist, attaching him to his bedpost.

His pulse stuttered.

"What. The. Fuck."

Another sharp tug. Another web. More panic. Before he knew it, his dorm room looked like a crime scene from some horror movie—threads of silk stretching from walls to furniture to the ceiling.

His gaze snapped to the clock on his desk. 12:56 PM.

"Alright," he mutters, inhaling deeply. "Exam starts in four minutes. I’m sticking to everything I touch. I’m half-naked. Cool, cool, cool."

But nothing about this was cool.

If anyone in the history of Linkon University could take an exam like this, it was going to be him.

series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

a/n i could not stop laughing while writing this at 4am bc i was just imagining caleb coming up with an elaborate ass internalized beef with reader and she’s just sitting in her chem lab like:

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eyes-stuff · 6 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖’𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑.

⟢ sylus x fem!reader.

𝐀𝐁𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 night of your engagement ceremony, you suddenly find yourself as the infamous captain sylus’s bargaining chip toward getting back some valued possession of his from your own father. it doesn’t help he’s one maddeningly attractive pirate king, and you’re more than eager to escape from an unwanted marriage. you can only make the most of things on this boat, surrounded by pirates, in the middle of the ocean, and it doesn’t prove too hard with him around.

⟢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 ⨾ slow burn, fluff, humour, rom-com, fantasy + pirate au, 16+.

⟢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⨾ 23.7k.

⟢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⨾ it's here!!! the full pirate sylus fic has arrived!! before we start, though, just a few things: one (1) brief scene of sexual harassment (not by sylus) but sylus is there so you are fine, a lot of pirate slang like wow, (attempts at) humour, i really tried to make this funny because this is to recover from the agony sylus's myth was, reader is kind of an idiot (for sylus) but who isn't, i can't believe i kept this under 30k words & got it out in under a week. anyways, enough yapping, enjoy!!

ao3 ⟢ original drabble here.

You’re not quite sure how you got here.

The bag over your head is moth-eaten, so only the odd sliver of light makes its way through the rough cloth, and it hardly helps you get any more of a grip on your bearings than you already have. Which is very little. And it doesn’t take rocket science to work out what this is.

I am being abducted. Your hands are tied, the person behind you grips the rope binding your wrists as they nudge you forward, and you’re cold. The breeze bites. It’s a bit stifling under this bag, but, mercifully, it doesn’t smell bad. Just a bit dusty. It’s getting harder not to sneeze.

You flinch a little when someone speaks. “Sure this is the one?”

“Yeah,” the person behind you affirms. They sound pretty cheery for a henchman currently kidnapping the innocent daughter of a not-so-innocent nobleman. Perhaps the guy enjoys this kind of thing. “Bit strange, though. She’s not kicking up a fuss.”

You can’t hold it back anymore. Your nose twitches, you gasp in a deep breath, and you sneeze. Loudly.

It’s silent. You’re no longer being nudged forward to keep walking. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, you feel terribly embarrassed. It doesn’t help that your sneeze echoes.

“Sorry,” you apologise, politely.

No one says another word for a few more awkward beats, before you’re being prodded forward again. The dude behind you goes, “See? She’s awfully docile. I don’t get it.”

“Oh, well, makes things easier for everyone, I guess,” his companion replies. You feel like asking them to stop so you can take off these damn heels, but you doubt they’d let you. You kind of wish these two abducted you when you were in a less dolled-up state. They nabbed you just as you were stepping out of the main hall for some fresh air, away from all those gossiping nobles, a refilled flute of champagne in hand—which was subsequently knocked out of your hand upon the bag being shoved over your head. Pretty timely, you idly think. You were sick of that ball. Especially considering what it was celebrating. You’re still smarting over your lost glass of champagne, however.

“The Captain will be pleased if she continues to behave.” You pick up on the subtle warning. “Won’t have to turn her into fish food. Way less mess to clean up.”

Why, thank you, good sir. At least you know now that they don’t really want to kill you, so you suppose your life isn’t in danger at present. Or, yet.

Remaining silent and cooperative and calm isn’t something you chose to do. In any other scenario, you’d probably be kicking and screaming to be let free—and then they’d really have a reason to turn you into fish food—but, right now, you can’t really be bothered trying to run. All the self-defence you know how to do is poking an eye out and sending a heeled foot up into a man’s family jewels, and you doubt it’d work here, now. As far as you can tell, there’s two of them. The other would be on you in a blink, and your hands are also tied. So, all you can really do now is just go with it.

You gulp down the lump in your throat and say, “Um, may I ask where we’re going, gentlemen?”

“Wow, she is terribly calm,” the other guy remarks. “Calm enough to be polite, even!”

The guy behind you shifts and nudges you to turn. That’s when you realise, with an involuntary shiver from the cold, that you’re at the port right now. It’s the night chill of the sea breeze. And there’s a strong odor of fish. Yeah. Had an idea it was pirates.

That’s great. That’s wonderful. Just peachy. Fear is starting to settle in now. You, a woman, defenceless and clad in a stuffy ball gown, about to be trapped alone and helpless on a boat at sea, with only men around for company? Pirates, no less? You press your lips together and try not to think about an incident that spread like wildfire of some poor girl being assaulted and drowned at this very port the year prior. Those responsible were pirates. Are these guys the same crowd?

It’s a little harder to breathe and remain rational. You need to sneeze again. A drop of sweat, despite the cold, trickles down the back of your neck. Oh, gods. What do I do?

“Well, milady, you are presently being escorted by two very fine fellows for the voyage of your lifetime!” The man behind you still sounds pretty merry. “But we can’t tell you what boat, though, no! It’s a surprise.”

“Luke, stop being an idiot,” the other sighs. “It’s not a surprise. Don’t listen to him, miss. My brother’s kinda stupid.”

“I am not!” his brother, Luke, it would seem, exclaims in protest. “What’s wrong with making this a little more exciting for the young lady?” “I wouldn’t exactly call this exciting,” you quip from beneath the bag, more to yourself than anyone else, and you wince at the tell-tale signs of a blister forming on your heel. The Luke fellow huffs. “This is very exciting, actually. Captain hasn’t let us do anything so thrilling in so long!”

“That’s because you accidentally set a match to his warehouse of gunpowder back at the archipelago.”

“How many times do I have to explain myself? I thought it was that Corsair band’s stock!”

“At least it was a cool explosion.”

“Yeah. Looked like fireworks.”

“Excuse me, I still don’t know where we’re going,” you hesitantly interrupt, giving an awkward laugh. “I’d, um, like to know the identity of my kidnapper, at least.”

“You’ll find out soon enough, milady,” Luke says mysteriously. “It’s a surpri—”

“Shut up, Luke. We are taking you to the Onychinus, my lady.”

If you could freeze in your tracks, you would. Your urge to sneeze has now been replaced with the urge to scream. “Uh…Onychinus…?”

“The very one, milady.” Luke sounds subdued, but no less humorous. “Cool, right? The greatest privateers of the Seven Seas, abducting you! Huge honour!”

Yeah, massive. Two more droplets of sweat trail down your back. Just my luck. You must’ve deeply offended your ancestors at some point, to the point where they have been out for your blood since day one. Day one being the day you were betrothed to that grubby old duke some provinces over last year, but you digress.

Since ten minutes ago, you had much preferred this little debacle over the prospect of your impending doom (marriage) to some fat noble you met only three hours ago. And since two minutes ago, you have greatly entertained the thought of being diced up into neat little fish food cubes for said fish and dumped into an underwater sea trench somewhere, miles away. At least, then, you wouldn’t have to deal with either dreaded fates before you right now.

“Don’t scare her, Luke. Everyone knows that being abducted by Onychinus isn’t exactly exciting news.”

Thank you. It seems Luke’s brother is the only one with a brain out of the two. But, despite his apparently understanding nature, you still feel awfully apprehensive. What on earth could the Captain of the Onychinus Fleet have to do with me?

Yes, you are a marquess’ daughter, and he isn’t the most agreeable fellow on earth—but you would never have expected him to have potentially incited the attention of the greatest, most notorious, most infamous and most violent armada of pirates in the world. Onychinus, at that. Which meant him, the nefarious Captain Sylus.

Great. Amazing. An impromptu vacation with a couple of bloodthirsty privateers who will probably slit my throat by sunrise is all I’ve ever wanted! Forget your ancestors, it’s probably the gods who have been after you now!

“Does, um, my father have…unresolved business with your Captain, perchance?”

“You will have to ask the Captain himself that question, I’m afraid, milady.” Well, that’s a fat load of help. You feel so assured. Just splendid. I know next to nothing about my father’s internal and industrial affairs! Due to this, the Captain would soon deem you ineffective toward his presumed objectives involving father dearest and, thus, a burden onboard. Then he’d probably make you walk the plank. It feels like you already are.

“Oh, well, alright.” Best remain calm, as you have been so far, for now. You’re not exactly thrilled by the idea of a watery grave, but you suppose your fate’s already sealed. You are helpless against its oncoming whims now.

You are most assuredly at the port, for the hem of your dress has grown damp from the puddles scattered about beneath your feet. It’s getting progressively uncomfortable to continue walking in these heels, too, and you can only hope you can sit down soon. Perhaps even request just one final flute of champagne before Captain Sylus feeds you to his pet sharks or something.

“Alrighty, milady, time to take this old bag off you now!” And with a tug, you can breathe again. You glance over and spot the other boy you didn’t catch the name of. Is that…a crow mask? You blink. Well, it’s fitting, you suppose. Onychinus’ logo is a raven. I guess rumours that the Captain has a pet crow, instead of a parrot, is true.

However, you have only about two-or-so seconds to enjoy the cool, fresh sea air filling your lungs and curiously study the kid before your frame is wracked with another sneeze. You shudder from the cold, and you can already feel a chill coming on. Good grief. Can things get any worse?

You look up and ahead after gathering yourself. You’re being elbowed forward again. But the moon and stars are blotted out by one thing: this utter monstrosity of a ship looming above you, casting a wide shadow across the entire concrete dock it is anchored before.

“Woah,” you breathe, and the kid behind you hums in pleased agreement. “I know, right? Absolutely colossal! Spectacular! Captain Sylus is so cool.”

“Uh-huh,” you absently concur. That is one mammoth of a ship.

The flagship, it would appear. You swallow. No wonder everyone’s always going on about how much of a force he and his crew are to be reckoned with. And it’s also no wonder the emperor’s men have, no matter how hard they’ve tried, never been able to tear the fleet of Onychinus apart. Not once has Captain Sylus been defeated.

He rules the seas, the people murmur about the streets. He is the uncrowned king of the briny deep.

If he hasn’t already, he will go down in history for centuries. Become a legendary figure: the privateer who commanded most maritime trade with an iron fist. Already, bards strum songs of a fearsome marauder sailing the blue horizon with a crow emblazoned upon a blood-red flag. A flag that flaps strongly in the wind, distinct and eye-catching from miles away, striking fear into the hearts of any lesser bands of buccaneers, and even the imperial navy itself.

If this was one of his methods of intimidation, then it was a damn good one. A ship of this size, painted black, the main sail a scarlet so deep, it’s like he splashed the canvass with blood? You gulped. I can only imagine what the man himself is like.

“This way, milady,” Luke guides, gesturing to the gangway of the boat. “Watch your step.”

You’ve heard rumours of his appearance, and it always varies, despite the handsome man the wanted posters, that are plastered everywhere, depict. They say those who cross paths with Captain Sylus are rarely seen again, and hardly anyone has lived to tell the tale of his ‘true’ features. Some profess he is a horror, with a bulbous nose, double chin and a tattered eye patch. He is fat and unpleasant, one who holds a sick love for the sight of spilled blood. And his trusty pet crow, Mephisto, sits contentedly upon his shoulder and pecks the eyes of its victims out for fun.

While others say he is a beauty, one with silver hair reminiscent of the moon’s glow upon the calm nighttime sea, and eyes red as garnets, piercing and cold. A terribly prosaic exaggeration of what the wanted poster, again, depicts, but who can stop the airheads giggling like a gaggle of turkeys during a tea party? Whispers of his alleged tall frame, broad shoulders, and sharp jaw are exchanged among the young debutantes thirsty for the thrill of a forbidden, passionate love affair—and who is better than the mysterious head of Onychinus himself, in all his over-romanticised, illusory charm?

Well, we’ll just have to wait and see which of the two is correct. Not that you really want to find out. What you’d really like to do is go home. Perhaps, if you ask him politely enough, he will let you.

What an idiot. You think a pirate’s going to let you go just because you ask him to? You pick your way up the gangway rather stiffly, feet sore from the heels, and you try to keep balanced. You would very much like to not take a tumble into the ice-cold water below, where your heavy dress would drag you down. You’re smarter than that!

Once the three of you are finally aboard the ship, the two crow-masked siblings begin to lead you along the floorboards and you ascend some steps to the upper deck, passing by the helm. At least, you thought it was the upper deck—they lead you up some more stairs, along another upper deck, some more stairs, then another flight, and then, finally, with your thighs burning and lungs screaming in the confines of your corset, you all stop outside a door.

A double door. It’s oak, the wood garnished to bring out the beauty of its patterned grain, and the knobs are pure gold. Engraved into the centre of each is the Onychinus crest: as expected, a crow.

This guy really likes crows, it would seem. Apparently, the people say “the crow is in flight!” whenever illicit trade has been established between another faction or something. “The crow has landed” states that he has docked at a port, and everyone outside of the crew must be on their guard. “The crow is rallying” means he, or another ship, is surrounding a target, and is preparing to attack. There are many more sayings you can’t quite remember at present, because you suddenly need to relieve yourself very badly.

“May I use the powder room?” you nervously hiss, hopping from foot to foot in urgency. “I need to go!”

“Oh, crap—” The duo look at each other, hesitate, and then Luke hastily unties your hands. “Follow me! We need to hurry; we’ve kept him waiting for a while. Don’t try anything funny!”

“I won’t!” Because you don’t have much to lose either way. If your life wasn’t at risk here, you might’ve been glad for this sudden abduction. Your life would be taken from you, one way or the other.

It takes another ten-or-so minutes before you and Luke are hurrying back from the restroom (a terribly clean one for a pirate ship, too; you were surprised) and are finally in front of the double doors again.

Luke wastes no time in dealing three knocks to one of the doors. It’s silent for a pause; you all exchange jittery glances, you fiddle with your (retied) hands, and then, finally: “Come in.”

A chill slithers down your spine at the deep, muffled voice. Luke’s brother releases a breath and he twists the doorknob, easing the door open, and he enters. Luke silently gestures for you to follow, and you hesitate one more time before reluctantly heading in.

The room is well-lit: warm tones of orange candlelight send flickering shadows across the walls—walls that are lined with maps, paintings, cabinets, tapestries and antiques. They vary from looking very old to relatively new, and all have one thing in common: they are priceless artefacts. Plundered ones, too, almost assuredly.

As you make your way further into the room, the dangling crystal chandelier proves as the interior’s primary source of light, and it glitters exquisitely. Immediately, you know that this Captain has taste.

And then there’s the desk. Evidently crafted from invaluable mahogany, it fits into the cosy design of the study flawlessly, with a large hide rug of a bear—that would have been massive if alive—splayed between the two sofas at the centre of the room, off by the windows looking out to sea. Its head remains intact to it, maw open wide in a snarl, and appears well-kept. You expected the room to stink of rum and tobacco and a man who badly needs a shower, but it has a rather pleasant smell of scented candles, whiskey, and cologne.

You’re led to sit down upon one of the couches. It’s plush and leather, situated to be kept out of the sun to prevent fading, with woollen throws and tassled cushions spread tastefully across its triple seats. The coffee table in front of you, separating you from the sofa opposite, is made of walnut, and has a crystal whiskey decanter upon it, along with two crystal shot glasses, and a vase of flowers. Also, a piece of paper, including an ink pot with a fountain pen inside.

Your eyes finally lift to rest upon the man himself.

You don’t really know what you were expecting. A missing hand, a hook in its place, perhaps? A flamboyant tricorne hat, with the bright feathers of exotic birds sewn into its satin sash? Maybe a greatcoat with flared cuffs and ornate embroidery? An eyepatch, like the rumours? Ebony curls, greasy with gel and rare washes, spilling out from beneath his hat and across his shoulders?

No such thing. Instead of ebony curls, he has short-cropped ivory locks, falling over his right eye. Eyes as scarlet as a ruby, penetrating and sharp, lidded and calculating, framed with long, silver lashes. He wears no hat, he wears no eyepatch, and he wears no greatcoat. His lips are full and pink and shapely, curled up at the corners, and his right hand is not replaced with a hook. In his right hand, in fact, is a folder, its leather worn and cracked, the clasp hanging on by a thread. And the man’s shoulders are broad, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing the beginnings of a sculpted chest, skin-kissed skin, and strong collarbones. A silver pendant rests upon his sternum, just beneath his clavicle, glinting in the light. His slacks are ironed, tight across his sturdy thighs, and he sits in a languid manspread. Big hands, long fingers, veiny forearms, his cuffs neatly buttoned at the elbows. His sleeves strain against his biceps. It takes a lot to not let your eyes pop out of your head.

What. The. Hell. Who knew those gossiping, man-obsessed, still-wet-behind-the-ears debutantes would be so close in their depiction of Captain Sylus? The wanted posters do not do him any justice. If those airheads saw him now, they’d all drop to the ground in a faint, one by one, like a domino effect.

“Um…” you croak, mouth suddenly very dry. “Hello.”

“Greetings.” Oh, gods, his voice is hot too. What is this? Some third-rate swashbuckling romance novel? He certainly looks like he just walked right out of one. One not at all for children. One filled with scenes of a man, as devilish as him, entangled with a woman far more beautiful than you. And he’s taking his sweet time to look you over too, just as you did, with a hooded gaze far more intense than it needs to be. You feel your entire body flush with heat, and you hastily look away, clearing your throat, fidgeting with your thumbs. Your hands are still tied, rested neatly on your lap, and you suddenly feel very self-conscious.

The man closes his legs (about damn time!) and slings his right one over his left. He throws the folder he had in-hand down upon the coffee table with a resounding smack! and he settles an elbow against the armrest to his right. In your periphery, you see him smile at you, but it’s more of a smirk. “How are you, my lady?”

“Er, quite fine,” you reply automatically, and you’re too busy worrying about how much of a mess your hair must be (it had been previously woven into a gorgeous updo before a bag was rammed over your head) to think about how to appropriately speak to this man. “I can’t say I was prepared for such an, um, inadvertent evening adventure.”

The Captain chuckles, and it’s a silky, rumbling sound that floods you with even more heat. You risk a glance up, and he’s tilting his head at you, jaw as sharp as the rumours professed, smirk both simultaneously infuriating and tantalising. Scarlet eyes pin you to your seat, and you quickly drop your own as he speaks. “I am glad you are taking this little escapade well. But, of course, any anger or explosive tantrums on your part would be justifiable.”

“You’d kill me quicker if I screamed and cried,” you blurt, before you click your mouth shut. You idiot! Are you trying to meet your maker as fast as you can?

“Kill?” the Captain echoes, and he sounds almost surprised. “Oh, no, my lady, I won’t be killing you.”

That makes you look up. “You…won’t?”

“No,” he affirms, and he leans forward, picking up the piece of paper you’d noticed earlier. He extends it to you, before his eyes drop to your bound hands. The man glances over to the duo standing nearby. Well, lounging nearby, actually. “You can relieve her of those ropes now, you two. Is this any way to treat a guest?”

Guest? You rub the tender skin of your wrists after one of them slices through your binds and steps away with them. You give a wary glance at the man sitting opposite you. What’s going on?

Said man extends the paper to you once again, and you finally accept it, cautious. He speaks as you read over it. “You see, my lady, your father and I have a little bit of a history.”

Ah. Just as you expected. Of course this has something to do with your father. And of course he’d stoop so low as to be involved with pirates. But, just what has he done to piss off the most savage one of them all?

“I see.” You bob your head in understanding. The piece of paper outlines it pretty well. This guy is awfully sophisticated for a pillaging, ruthless, disgustingly wealthy pirate king. It almost feels like he’s asking you to sign a contract. “So, erm, in exchange for…whatever it is this document is referring to, you will hand me back to my father?”

Captain Sylus smiles at you. “Correct.”

“I see,” you say again. “In short, he has to pay a ransom for my return.”

“It’s nothing personal, my lady. Believe me when I say I wish I didn’t have to resort to kidnapping a lovely young woman such as yourself.”

Liar. One look at his smug, gorgeous, cold face, even a blind man could tell he hardly cares at all for how low he has to stoop for things. He’d probably raze the marquisate to the ground, with everyone in it, just to obtain whatever it is he wishes.

“Hm.” You glance back down at the paper. “Alright.”

“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated,” he says pleasantly. “It makes things far easier for myself, and far safer for you.”

“So, you will be sending this…letter to my father?” You breeze over his subtle warning and force yourself to meet his eyes again. It really does feel like he could burn two holes into where your eyes are thanks to the sheer intensity of his stare. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” the Captain affirms, and you place the paper back down on the coffee table before the trembling of your hands can get too obvious. The man maintains his relaxed posture, which succeeds in both aggravating you and proving to be excellent eye candy. “Surely, your father will go to untold lengths to have his beloved only daughter returned to him?” You almost snort. If it weren’t for my betrothal to that duke, he’d probably send the pre-written reply he has an entire stock of back to this guy, thanking him for his letter. Your father dislikes having to read and personally pen a response to a letter, which bore the idea of scribbling out a couple hundred pre-authored, enveloped and sealed answers to be automatically delivered by the butler himself. And then, if it hasn’t been already, it would really be the Grim Reaper’s crest being stamped onto your death certificate.

“Yes, um, well…” You don’t quite know how to correct the man on that, without possibly having your throat slit right here in the process. You awkwardly scratch your cheek and look away. “It might, erm, take a while.”

“No matter.” He leans forward, picks up the whiskey decanter, and pours two glasses of it. He outstretches one to you, and you have to physically restrain yourself from gulping the liquor down once you accept it. The man has a sip of his own, gazing at you from above the rim of his own glass. “We have a long voyage ahead.”

Just great. It’s one thing to be kidnapped, but it’s another to be stuck on a boat with only the most crooked pirate captain of them all, in the middle of the ocean, without a speck of land in sight, as the daughter of a noble who would not frantically search for his daughter if she wasn’t a vital chess piece in his wider political game. And you’re only vital because marriage to a duke would elevate his status and wealth and reputation overnight.

Too bad you weren’t born a boy. Too bad your mother died during childbirth. Too bad your father never married, and has no male heirs. Too bad the only purpose you’ve ever really had was being sold off to an old duke your father’s age. Too bad you had to be abducted on the very night your engagement ceremony was in full swing.

Your grip tightens around the whiskey glass in your right hand. Too bad, indeed.

Your father’s true origins are common, and he has spent most of his noble life fighting tooth and nail to improve his reputation among the age-old aristocratic families which look down on him, and you, for said commoner origins. Apparently, he earned favour with the Emperor for doing something requested of all citizens: turn in any Evolver they come across. Rewards for such a deed is great—like being granted a title.

Evols and Evolvers—an ancient power and people abolished by the Empire five hundred years ago. Those few who inherit its gene are hunted down and slaughtered without exception, and rewards are generous for those who turn wielders in. And rumour has it that this very man in front of you, is one himself.

It’s only a rumour, though. It’s unconfirmed. If it is true, then that raises a whole lot of other questions.

You’re still not exactly sure what you think of this man. So you decide to test the waters a bit. “Sir, if I am to be staying here, I’d at least like a comfortable room.”

His silver brows lift in mild surprise. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Perhaps the two glasses of champagne you had at the ball and this whiskey here is making you a little more courageous than what’s ideal, even though you’re not that much of a lightweight. There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity. “I am the daughter of a marquess. Who you just kidnapped. It’s the least you can do.”

“Goodness.” The man brushes a free hand across his grinning mouth, giving you a long, assessing look. “Well. I do suppose you’re right. I must extend some kind of welcome and thank-you for remaining so calm in such a…stressful situation for a nobleman’s daughter.”

“Stressful, indeed.” You stare into the amber liquid in your glass. You don’t have it in you to be sarcastic back right now. “I don’t really mind all this, just as long as I have food and water.”

“My lady.” Your head snaps up and you look at him as he uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his seat, gazing at you. “I have a question for you.”

You blink. “Uh. What is it?”

Captain Sylus doesn’t continue for a brief pause—he just continues to stare at you, and then his eyes narrow. “You are terribly unfazed by all this. May I ask why?”

“Oh…” You reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Um, well, you see, your…henchmen here choose quite the opportune time to seize me.”

He only hums in response, wordlessly urging you to continue. You drop your eyes again. “Tonight is the celebration of my engagement.”

The man takes a sip of his drink. “I know.”

Surprised, you look up at him again. “Oh, you do?”

“Of course. I have had this planned out for a good long while. Naturally, your engagement ceremony was the convenient date to apprehend you.”

Yes, naturally. You chew on the inside of your bottom lip. Your lipstick’s probably smudged. “I see.”

The Captain relaxes back in his chair again. “But I did not expect you to call it ‘opportune’.” He doesn’t ask any further questions to that, though, much to your relief. He has another sip of his whiskey. “Once that letter is delivered, we set sail. In one hour.”

“Okay.” You don’t really know what to think of how he’s ‘had this planned out for a good long while’. You suppose it’s just protocol. Nothing personal, as he’d said—but it sounds pretty borderline personal to you.

“May I just add one thing?” you tentatively ask, giving him a hesitant glance. The man inclines his head toward you in one tilt, staring at you from beneath his lashes. You take that as a yes. “Er, well, you probably already know this, but—my father isn’t the most agreeable of people.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So…what I’m saying is…” And then you realise something: if you divulge all the details of your father (most of which this man will probably already be privy to), he could decide you’re not a useful tool toward obtaining the ransom and thus dispose of you. That’s when you quickly decide to fake a yawn and rub your left eye tiredly. Your finger comes away blackened with mascara and eyeliner. Oops. You probably look like you got punched now. “Never mind! He’s just—well, he’s a handful, haha.”

“Mm.” The Captain’s finger taps against his knee. “Understood.”

Then, apparently deeming the conversation over, he lifts a hand and beckons the brothers over. “I presume you’ve already been introduced, but this is Luke and Kieran. They will escort you to your cabin.”

You make sure you try not to sigh in relief too loudly. “Oh, well, thank you very much, Mister Sylus. Your hospitality is appreciated.” As if you aren’t presently being held here against your will.

“You are welcome.” The man looks immensely amused. “Enjoy your stay, my lady.”

“Haha, of course.” It’s muscle memory, the way you quickly bob a curtsy once you’ve gotten to your feet, bowing your head. “Um, and I apologise on my father’s behalf.” What the hell are you doing, you idiot? Why on earth would thank him and apologise for your father—the one who, essentially, got you into this mess? You’re just asking to become fish food, aren’t you? “Please don’t hold a grudge against me.” Save him the time and jump off the ship yourself already, you fool!

“Like I said, my lady.” He gets to his feet also and steps forward, full lips curled up at the corners, and it’s suddenly a little harder to breathe. Captain Sylus is tall, towering over you, chest wider than you’d initially gambled. He reaches forward, takes your hand, and brings it to his lips. He has garnets for eyes, you think, and his right one is, strangely, a little more intense than the other. I suppose the rumours aren’t as inaccurate as I thought. “It’s nothing personal.”

You gulp and give a wobbly smile in response. Yeah, I think I should jump as soon as I’m out of this office. “Well, thank goodness for that.”

You did not, in fact, end up jumping.

The bed is comfortable, if a little cramped. As expected on a ship—despite its colossal size, and the ample room it does appear to have, your cabin is more befitting a crew member, or a commoner, than a noblewoman.

But it’s not like you can complain, or have expected anything more. You got what you asked for. And you are a hostage here.

However, your room, regardless of its dinginess, is rather quaint. It’s not dirty or unkempt; it is in need of a bit of dusting, but you don’t mind. Its mullioned window is circular, with a direct view out to sea, and its frame is lifted higher than the bed so as to avoid one’s weight potentially breaking through the glass, and into the water below, despite it being plenty thick. Said bed is tucked into a little nook against the window, which is something you especially like, for your room back at the manor never had a view of the ocean. Now, you can see both the sunset and the stars as clear as day from where you sleep now.

Once you were led to your room, you didn’t see another soul for the night, nor into late morning. It was afternoon when someone finally tapped on your door—and you hardly got a chance to say “come in” before they shoved open the door and waltzed in.

“Clothes and a meal for the lady.” It was a female pirate, tall and lithe and dark-skinned. Her glossy raven hair was gathered up into an afro puff, a colourfully patterned bandana wrapped around her head, tied down at the back of her neck, behind her ears. She flashed a bright, good-natured grin and strolled over, relieving her arms of the bundle of clothing and platter of food. “The Captain said to treat ya well, missy. These clothes’ll be comfortabler than that stuffy costume yer got there.”

“Oh, thank you.” You gladly accepted the garments, returning the woman’s smile. “Please extend my gratitude to the cook and the Captain.”

“My!” she exclaimed mirthfully. “Never thought I’d see the day a noble’s nice to me! You rich folk usually turn yer noses up at the likes of us.”

You shrugged, placing the platter on your lap, stomach tightening in hunger. As a young child and teen, you used to sneak out of the estate and go play with the commoner children, pretending to be one yourself. They’d never have looked at you the same, or let you join them, if you didn’t. “You’ve brought me food and clothing, ma’am. The least I can do is thank you.”

“Kieran was right,” she laughed, hooking her thumbs on the baldric surrounding her waist in an insouciant pose. “You ain’t no brat, as far as I can tell. They said you wasn’t even bothered by bein’ kidnapped! If it were me, I woulda kicked and screamed and rammed them up the gonads with me boot before they could say knife.”

You chuckled, slicing through the roast chicken on your plate. “Those two grabbed me at the right time. I’m actually thankful.”

“Oh?” The woman looked rather taken aback, no less humorous. “Why’s that, missy?”

“Last night was my engagement ceremony.” You brought a piece of chicken up to your mouth, but paused to finish your sentence before eating it. “To a man I’m old enough to be the daughter of.”

“Ah.” She nodded, reaching up a hand to scratch at the back of her nape. “Gotcha. Well, I dunno much about you nobles and yer arranged marriages, but it does sound like y’all are a right miserable bunch. Guess yer glad?”

“Guess so.” You offered her a grin. Spending the night sitting in here and staring at the ceiling gave you plenty of time to think about the pros and cons of this. And, eventually, you found that the pros outweighed the cons. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

She chortled, and turned for the door. “Henrietta, but everyone calls me Henry—and no need to call me ma’am! Just glad yer a real one. I’ll leave ya to it now, missy. Will be back later for yer dishes!”

You are, at least, glad for the unexpectedly warm welcome, and the female crew members. You had initially been worried about Captain Sylus’s lackeys onboard being all-male, and thus you would be exposed to the danger of men who have been at sea for too long, been exposed to too much sun, haven’t felt the touch of a woman in years (or ever), and thus their true, ruthless depravity. You have heard far too many tales of the atrocities committed by pirates toward the people in their path of destruction and marauding—and many of them usually involved the young ladies they captured for the very same reasons as the Captain with the likes of you, or even just for entertainment.

You shudder at the thought, despite the cabin’s rather warm temperature, struggling with untying your corset fifteen minutes after you finished up your meal. Your maids last night had tightened the corset as much as they possibly could get away with, all to give you that damned cinched-waist look, leaving you practically gasping for air like a dying old chain smoker for most of the evening. Beats you how you bore with it the entire night—and even managed to get about two hours of sleep in that bodice from hell.

Oh, to blazes with it. With a forceful tug, you snap the strings holding it fast around your middle, and shimmy out of the rest of the garment, breathing a massive sigh of relief once it’s off. Now left in your underthings, you swiftly put on the rather tattered pair of trousers and breezy poet blouse provided for you, and stoop to gather up your gown, skirt hoop and corset. Then you proceed to pull open the tiny closet across the room, ball up the vestments best you can, and haphazardly shove the dirty clothes inside.

Out of sight, out of mind. You don’t want to see the damn things again. You don’t mind dresses, but ones with punishingly tight corsets and ridiculously wide skirt hoops are not your cup of tea. Having this airy, wide-sleeved and baggy shirt on feels terribly freeing.

Then you slump back down onto your bed after letting out your hair, scrubbing off the rest of your makeup best you can in the basin of (cold) water you’d been provided just before you turned in last night, and pull the curtain over the window again. That’s when you curl in on your side, and let sleep take you.

He leans against the door frame, arms crossed, top buttons of his shirt undone, smirk lazy. It appears to be a recurring thing of his: a signature, maybe—always providing everyone a permanent, full view of his sculpted chest, showing off his bulging biceps, and sending people mad with his provocative smirk. Provocative in what way? You’re still working that one out.

“Made yourself at home, have you, my lady?”

This is the beginning of your second-ever conversation with him, and he’s already being sarcastic. You had most certainly not expected a visit from him today; it’s been half a week since you first met him, and you feel subconscious all over again. You resist the urge to subtly fix your hair and smooth down the sun dress you’re wearing this evening. It’s rather disconcerting, how you suddenly feel like you wish you cared more about men’s opinions beforehand so you’d know what to do right now. “Uh, yes, I have.”

The Captain, mercifully, appears to be one who appreciates your unintended, awkward honesty, for he lets out a velvety chuckle. “Well, that’s wonderful news. Have you adjusted well to the seafaring life?”

“Well…” Not really, because you haven’t ventured out any further than just down the hall. They don’t lock your door, but you always opt to remain confined to your cabin anyway, because you’re shy. Embarrassingly so, in fact—one of the most prized attributes of a noblewoman is her grace, poise, and dexterity at being a sociable friend and host. Something that, if you hadn’t been kidnapped and the wedding still went through, you would’ve had to master quick—especially as a duchess-to-be. An eloquent title, sought after by all noblewomen in their right mind, and one you never asked for. So, clearly, you aren’t in your right mind. And you’ve long owned up to that, seeing this man and all.

Also, the ship’s constant bobbing and rocking on the waves is taking some getting used to. Sealegs don’t come instantly, it would seem—and more than once you have had to dash to the bathroom, hand over your mouth and complexion green, your guts apparently more than eager to spill out of you. Maybe going up on deck would help, but you don’t know how well you’d get along with the rest of the crew. Chances are, they would be averse to your company, for your affluent roots and defined upbringing would clash against their brash and boorish and foul-mouthed mannerisms. You’d like to make friends, and the twins and Henry are nice enough, but you’re far too unsure about the rest.

Best act as if I’m just not here, you’d decided a few nights ago. Nothing’s changed, really—for them, or for me.

You fidget with your thumbs and avert your eyes. “It’s been…a gradual adjustment.”

“Understandable,” he genially says. “You will get used to it eventually.” Then the man uncrosses his arms, straightens, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “However, my reason for visiting you is to ask something of you.”

Here we go. You’re torn between being on your guard and feeling rather excited. Damn the man for being so attractive! Why, of all times, do you have to be weak to a man’s charm now? Trying not to freak out, you offer a rather unsteady smile. “…Of course. What is it?”

“Join me for dinner tonight, my lady,” the Captain replies in that suave tone of his. “No need to dress up. It’ll just be a friendly chat over a meal and some wine.”

“Ah.” You look down at your lap. It’d be nice to have control over your blood pressure right now, because you feel like exploding. We’re actually supposed to hate this guy, you know. He kidnapped us!

Those old women who warned you, as a girl, about handsome men and their charm were right, you suddenly find. He is probably the most handsome man you’ve ever come across—all the most-sought-after bachelors in high society have got nothing on this guy. You never thought they were all that much to write home about, anyway, but you rest your case. And this man’s looks aren’t pretty or beautiful or pure in nature—no, he’s devilish, maddening, and hot. A less polite term, something that would make you clutch at your pearls if you had any, at any other time—but it’s no less a fact.

And not a very fun one right now. You’d like to dislike this man, to have a reason to take away his ability to have children, but it’s strangely difficult. His condescending tone does grate on you, though.

“I, well…” It’s probably for the best that I decline. Becoming friendly with your abductor (despite your rather relaxed take on all this) is probably something you want to avoid. “I—I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Impose?” Captain Sylus lifts a silver brow at you. “It isn’t imposing when you have been invited, my lady.” One half of his full mouth quirks up into a roguish little grin. “Besides, you are a noble. It’s only manners to provide a woman such as yourself a meal befitting of your status.”

“I don’t think…status really matters here,” you reply, now fidgeting with a loose thread of your dress, not looking at him anymore. “I’m not exactly a guest.” And you jump to add, “But—I am terribly grateful for your courtesy thus far! The clothing, bedding, and food is much appreciated.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” You stiffen at the abrupt nickname. And you’re afraid he noticed it, because the Captain’s smirk widens, his eyes a hooded scarlet. “Like I said, none of this is personal. It’s your father I have a vendetta against, not you.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Oh, well, that’s reassuring.”

He insouciantly leans his weight on one foot, and he tilts his head at you, smile far more impish than before. “Aw, don’t tell me I am getting turned down by the most beautiful woman on this boat right now, hm?”

“Oh, no, of course not!” You jump to your feet, heart in your mouth, suddenly very afraid you just signed the dotted line for an appointment with the ship’s plank. And his pet sharks, if he has any. Then that word registers. “…Sorry, did you say ‘beautiful’?” “I did,” the Captain affirms smoothly. Then the man gives you a slow once over. “Am I wrong? I don’t think I am.” “I—” You flush from head to toe. “That’s…That’s very, erm, kind of you.”

“Well, then.” He lifts a hand from a pocket and outstretches it to you. “Shall we?” I guess I don’t get a choice in this. You are feeling rather peckish, anyway, so you reluctantly nod and approach him, taking the Captain’s arm. Let’s just hope he hasn’t poisoned my wine or anything.

He leads you down the corridor outside your cabin, up the steps, and to the main deck, where you can finally get a full panoramic view of the ocean, and the rest of the ship.

There is no land in sight, only an endless stretch of dusk-hued blue in every direction, sparkling with whites and yellows from the gradually setting sun. It’s high summer, and the voyage thus far has been speedy and undisturbed and sweltering, the sun’s ray barrelling down upon the boat and making your room awfully stuffy, even if you open the latched window just below the top of its frame. Onychinus pirates are bustling about the ship, chatting away, or even humming age-old folk songs in unexpectedly glorious harmonies. And you notice that people from all stretches of life and ethnicity and gender merrily go about their duties here, even shouting crass, but jovial, greetings to their Captain as he passes by, you on his arm.

“Evenin’, cap’n!” one calls, lifting a hand in a wave. The man, like most of the crew onboard, is bronzed from the sun, cheery and robust. And then the pirate even tips his hat to you. “Milady.”

You lift your hand in an awkward wave. “Oh, hello, good sir.”

Captain Sylus returns the pirate’s greeting, nodding to the musket in the man’s hands. “That engraving’s looking good, Clive.”

“Aw, thanks, cap’n!” Clive’s words are a little muffled from the puffing cigar in his mouth. “Almost done, yer know! Can’t believe ya scored such a beauty back on the mainland. This oughta be worth a fortune.”

“What are you engraving?” Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you’ve blurted the words out before you can remember your place. “Er, apologies, I don’t mean to be nosy, you just look very skilled, sir.”

“Blimey!” The pirate fixes the Captain with an awed look. “Ain’t ever been called ‘sir’ before, ’specially by a dame. You really scored this time, cap’n!”

The man beside you lifts a brow. “Just answer the lady, Clive.”

“Yessir.” Clive tips his hat in apology and extends the weapon out to you, showing you the intricately-detailed etchings of what is a half-finished boat on the ocean. “I like to carve the odd picture into guns ’n swords, milady.” He taps his graver against the steel side of the musket. “Just a hobby, yer know? Passes the time. Once I finish me duties for the day, I sit here and chip away.”

“You’re very talented!” you exclaim in wonder, admiring the realism and sheer detail of the imprinted scene even on such a small piece of metal. “I knew a gunsmith downtown who took on commissions to occasionally engrave weapons, like this! You’re even better than him!”

“Aw, goodness me, milady,” Clive says rather bashfully. “Yer gonna make me blush! I s’pose if you think it’s good, it must be.” Then he tips his hat to you again. “Much obliged, miss.”

“Not at all!” You beam. “I just think it’s very commendable, achieving such a level of detail, with only a chisel and a few picks.” You glance up at the Captain. “Your ship is full of surprises, sir.”

And, to your amazement, the man gives you a small smile. “That reminds me—you haven’t had a tour yet, nor have I introduced you to the crew.” Then the man gestures to the jolly pirate before you both. “This is Clive, the boatswain.”

You politely curtsy out of simple muscle memory. “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Clive.”

“By me beard!” Clive exclaims, even though he doesn’t have a beard, “you really did score with her, didn’t cha, cap’n!”

“Well, we’d best get going.” Captain Sylus takes your arm again and swiftly begins to steer you away. “Dinner awaits us.”

You let out a small, disappointed noise, and send a wave over your shoulder back to Clive. “Have a good evening, Mister Clive!”

The man chortles and returns the farewell, and you follow after the Captain as he leads you to ascend about three hundred sets of stairs again.

You’re quite tired afterward. “You…huff…sure have a lot of steps for a, haa, boat.”

The man beside you chuckles smoothly. “Let’s say it provides a good bit of extra fitness for the crew, and makes enemy personnel’s trek up to my office a little harder.”

“Um, very strategic,” you offer, not quite sure what to say, and still panting. “Not sure if you know, but your intellect is, uh, renowned, sir.”

“Call me Sylus, sweetheart.” He pushes open the door, steps aside to let you through first, smirking down at you in that way of his. “No need for such formalities.”

“But…” You continue following after him as he leads you further into his study, which apparently will also act as the dining room for the evening. “I’m not a guest, sir. I’m a hostage. And I know this is a strange thing for a hostage to say, but aren’t you supposed to keep me locked away beneath the ship completely?”

“My lady, I may be a scumbag of a pirate captain,” Sylus begins, and he doesn’t sound apologetic in the least, considering that roguish grin of his, “but I do have manners. I run a tight ship. We plunder and pillage and thieve, yes, as pirates do, but I know how to treat a lady. Especially…” That’s when he pauses, faces you, and gently grabs your hand, placing a charming kiss to the top of it. “One as lovely and amenable as yourself.”

Steam’s probably drifting off the top of your head, with how hot you suddenly feel. “O-Oh, my. Well, um…” Those crimson hues, as cheesy as this sounds, are far too deep and intense for you to hold without (probably) melting into a puddle right in front of him. Oh, this is really not good! “Thank—Thank you. Very much. I’ve never been complimented by such a handsome man as yourself before.”

“Handsome?” Idiot! You just had to go ahead and let the h-word slip, didn’t you? Why not get on one knee and ask him to marry you while you’re at it, you buffoon! And that devilish smirk widens, like he knows, damn him, and he coyly tilts his head at you. “You think I’m handsome?”

This is the second time you’ve actually spoken, you inwardly seethe at yourself, trying to keep a straight face and not burst into embarrassed tears, and it’s like you’re desperate to be either a) thrown off the edge of the boat or b) chained to him for good! But, well, even you can admit either-or is better than being carted off back to your father.

No! You can’t let yourself go down that rabbit hole. That’s something where you would choose to be chopped up into fish food other than having something so dreadful happen to you. Remember, we don’t really know this guy! And he kidnapped you!

Right. You’re a captive right now, held against your will, and you’re supposed to be incensed. You should probably be acting bratty and trashing your cabin and sneaking into his room to slit his throat at night or something. But you can’t. You don’t know why, but you can’t.

Because this is better than marrying that old duke. That you know, and have accepted, deep down. And this is better than having to endure the cold, empty, and lifeless halls of your father’s estate and his austere attitude toward you by far.

If Captain Sylus was ugly like the rumours professed, perhaps hating him would be easier. Which just shows how shallow you really are inside. I’m no better than those boy-crazed debutantes.

But he’s not ugly—he is, in fact, the very opposite of ugly—which is annoying all on its own. Because right now he’s rendered you speechless with his question, and you’re itching to run and take a swim with his pet sharks yourself. “Erm, uh, well, I-I…suppose so.”

Sylus’s full mouth curls up at the corners a little bit more, maddeningly smug. “You suppose so?” “I—I was just returning the compliment!” you insist, removing your (sweaty) hand from his grip, clutching it to your chest. “I, um, I apologise. I never really quite know what to say when I am praised.”

“A shame,” he hums, turning to continue leading you into his office, and you both finally stop before the dining table. The Captain pulls out a chair, and gestures for you to sit. “Perhaps I shall just have to compliment you more often, then.” “Oh, please don’t.” You take the seat and hide behind your hair. I’ll combust if you do! “It’s really not necessary.”

He remains standing, and lifts a bottle of wine. “But I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t. Wine?”

Just what I need. You refrain from snatching the bottle and guzzling it all down in one go. “Uh, yes, please, Mister Sylus.”

“Just Sylus is fine.” The Captain pours the wine into your glass and then fills his own, before taking a seat. That’s when you have a good look at all the food laid out for you.

Well, certainly a feast befitting a wealthy pirate king and a captive noblewoman, I suppose. You can’t say you’re exactly fond of using your status as leverage, but this is like a meal you’d expect at a formal gathering between repulsively rich aristocrats. Except, the man before you now is not an aristocrat. He’s a pirate. The same pirate who abducted you. The same pirate who’s out to get your father. And the same pirate you’ve been having a very difficult time not slamming against the wall like this is some brainless romance novel. Get a grip, you blockhead. Closest you’ll ever get to being pinned against the wall is when he’s using you as a makeshift dartboard. Which will very probably happen if it turns out your father really couldn’t care less about you and never coughs up the ransom fee.

You take a shaky sip of wine, and, nice as it is, it doesn’t succeed in immediately soothing your frayed nerves. Which, in your opinion, completely defeats the point of wine, but you make do for now. You just hope you can at least stomach some food.

“Well, this is quite the feast,” you awkwardly say, managing out something like a laugh. It sounds more like a cry for help. “I’m very honoured…Sylus.”

You swear he looks pleased when you finally address him by first name. There are no servants, which is fine by you, and your mood gradually improves as you go about placing some boiled potatoes and rotisserie chicken and fresh green salad on your plate. It all smells divine. The Captain gives a grin. “It’s the least I can do for you, my lady. I have to thank you for being so tolerant of this…what did you call it?” He places the platter of boiled potatoes you’d handed him down back in their place, and lifts his glass of wine to his lips. And he’s gazing at you from over the rim of it. “Ah, yes—an inadvertent evening adventure.”

Heat creeps up your neck, and you look down at your plate. I can’t believe he remembers that! “Haha, um, yes. Quite so. Y-You know, you don’t have to call me by such a formal title.” You place your glass down and pick up your knife and fork. “Just my name is fine. If you know it, that is.”

“Of course I know your name.” He calmly goes about cutting up his chicken, giving you a glance without moving his head, from beneath his brow. The man always tends to execute such gestures in such a way that leaves you feeling a little breathless, and you always look away quickly. And you feel like an idiot. Since when did I allow a man to have such an effect on me? Absolutely beats you.

“Ah, I see.” He doubtlessly did his research on you before you were abducted. Oh, well. You chew away on a piece of lettuce. Just makes this whole thing so much easier to know I’ve been watched this entire time.

You hold back a sigh. Nothing personal, but nonetheless disconcerting.

And the evening carries on rather peacefully—a stark, and almost embarrassing, contrast to your constant inward chaos. You deeply dislike how self-conscious the man makes you, while he just sits there, all relaxed and eternally smug and composed, while you’re barely hanging onto your sanity. I’d best make myself scarce now!

“Well!” you announce, once you’ve finished off your plate and wine, attempting a beam of a smile. “That was a lovely meal. I’m so full! I must return to my quarters now. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

“You won’t stay for dessert?” The Captain lifts a brow at you, putting his (refilled) wine glass down.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” You’re already standing and pushing your chair in, smoothing down your dress. “The main course was more than enough, I assure you. Besides! I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer, me being a hostage and all.” You swiftly curtsy and turn for the door. “Again, thank you.”

“Well, then, allow me to escort you back to your cabin.” He, too, gets to his feet, rounding the table and approaching you. “It’s dark out now, and I doubt you know the way.”

“Oh, I know the way,” you lie, and you sheepishly drop your eyes when he arches a brow at you again. “Sort of.”

“That so,” he says, and then he extends his arm for you to take like the perfect gentleman again. “Well, as you insist on returning, let us go.”

“Ah! Thank you.” You, with an enthusiasm you curse yourself for having, accept his arm, and you begin your walk with the Captain back to your cabin. “I didn’t expect such kindness.”

That smirk looks more like an accommodating smile than something smug this time. “How can I not, when I have such a lovely lady on my arm?” You almost smack him playfully, and instead roll your eyes. “Oh, enough of that.”

Once you both stop outside your room, you give him another curtsy and turn to open your door. “Goodnight, sir—uh, I mean, Sylus.”

The man takes your hand again, placing a peck to the top of it, and that look in his eye really does almost have you shoving him against the wall. Such a notion has you fumbling to open the door and hide away, and he smirks. “Goodnight, my lady.” He looks a little too good in the shadows like this, and you would probably be wise to be afraid. He finally releases your hand. “I enjoyed our time tonight.”

“As did I!” you squeak, avoiding his eyes, smile stiff. Oh, you’re an idiot! Utter idiot! Maybe, at the next stop this ship has, you should take that chance to run. In a flash, you’re peeking out from behind your cabin door. “Goodnight!”

And the last thing you see is his smug little grin you really feel like both smacking and kissing off his face. You wait until his footsteps have faded before screaming into your pillow. Oh, yes, you are an idiot.

Over the next few weeks of the voyage, Sylus takes it upon himself to give you a full tour of the boat and the crew onboard. He introduces them to you, and their attitudes, like Clive and Henry and the twins, are mostly positive toward you. You voice this surprise to the captain.

“Oh, I gave them a talking-to,” he explains, looking very pleased with himself, “the day after you arrived.”

You blink. “Ah. I see.”

And as you continue on your tour of the ship, a sudden call from high above you makes you jump. “Land-ho!”

Everyone drops what they were doing and gathers at the bow of the ship, hands to their foreheads to block out the sun, squinting in the direction which the watchman is pointing.

Far more calmly, the captain leads you to the front of the boat, and the crew parts the way for him, while you stay behind. Someone hands him a spyglass, which he extends and holds up to his right eye. You can’t see anything, for most of the crowd gathered is blocking your view, and eventually Sylus lowers the telescope from his eye, hands it back to one of the female pirates he’d accepted it from, and turns to face everyone. His hands are shoved languidly into his pockets, coat hanging off his broad shoulders, and his silver hair gleams in the sun. “We’re heading due west, right for Othlan, at present. We’ll reach its port city of Othelm in about two days.”

The crew begin chatting amongst themselves, parting the way again for their captain to pass through, and you continue to try and spot the speck of land sighted over the top of the excited crowd. The floppy hat you’d donned earlier after Henry said the sun is “merciless” this time of year doesn’t help much, and you finally give up once he’s returned to your side.

You, with a hand on top of your hat to keep the breeze from blowing it off, blink up at him. “I’ve never been to Othlan before.”

“It isn’t the most interesting of places.” And nor is it the friendliest with the mainland, your country, Rosmon. There’s more of an uneasy, shaky truce between the nations, but as pirates are not strictly allied with anyone in particular, Onychinus will be able to pass through without much of a fuss. You hope.

“Oh,” you say, giving one last glance out to sea, for the crew members are dispersing and going back to their duties now. “Alright.”

“Did you want to see?” Sylus stops in his tracks and half-faces you. “It’s hard to see from this distance. It was only spotted because the watchman”—He points upwards, to the top of the mast—“has the eyes of a hawk.”

“I see.” You squint into the skyline, and you can only just make out the tiniest dark dot, sitting just above the blue horizon, but the sun is blaring down and bouncing off the water, almost blinding you. “It is hard to see, but—look! I can only just spot it.” You point. “Very far away.”

“Yes.” From where you both stand, you can even see the curvature of the planet, and it’s a view you can’t quite get used to. And the man next to you is part of that. You quickly look away before you can start ogling just how exquisite he looks with the breeze softly brushing his hair to the side, out of his eyes, nose and jaw and frame something mighty, as he looks out to sea. Without any doubt, he fits the role as a sea captain and pirate king seamlessly.

“What will we be doing once we arrive?” you ask, brushing some stray strands of hair out of your eyes.

Sylus does not face you, but he tilts his head in your direction, eyes flicking down to you. It’s a motion that’s, as usual, unfairly attractive, and you almost click your tongue in annoyance. “Ideally, my informants stationed there would have received a letter from your father agreeing to the exchange for your return, as my intended destinations never seem to be something I can keep under wraps. So, doubtlessly, the letter would have been sent to Othelm.”

It’s stupid, the little prick of disappointment that’s dealt to that equally stupid muscle in your ribcage by his words. Ideally. Yes, you are, essentially, both a bargaining chip and liability. Extra resources are wasted on you, really—and you should also be eager to get back, but you’re not. You’d like to be, but you’re not.

The smile you give in response succeeds in hiding your disillusionment, however. “Yes, let’s hope so! Fingers crossed my father already has a ship docked there for my boarding.”

“Yes.” He stares at you. “Fingers crossed.”

The next two days fly by like the wind in the sails, and soon, Othelm is directly in sight. Many ships of varying sizes and shapes sit berthed in their respective docks at the port, and people bustle about the area, securing ropes and anchors and carting barrels and crates of goods around.

But everyone, even you, knows the true nature of this port city. Othelm, in all its renowned trading glory, is a thriving pirate hub.

Ruled by Sylus, unquestioningly. The very vessel you’re on right now had drawn the attention of the lookouts and sailors hurrying about the port long ago, as the Onychinus’ flagship approaches with its night-black hull and its signature jolly roger of a red flag and crow in the centre. The Captain’s men stationed here would be fully prepared for his arrival now, and you suddenly feel a sense of foreboding.

Will I be alright? You, a woman, and a captive one, at that, would assuredly be unsafe in such a crime-riddled place as this. You can’t spot a single woman—there would, certainly, be ones, but they would either be brothel workers or female pirates themselves. And you are no safer with a hostile female pirate than you are with a male one, as sad as that makes you. The difference between them is, a female pirate wouldn’t try to violate you in an alley before finally putting you out of your misery. You’d far prefer a woman’s dagger to your jugular than a man’s vicious, bruising grasp, in all potential scenarios.

A knife is a knife. It can be used to slit throats or cut bonds. In this context, your throat is quicker to be sliced open than your escape successful and smooth, regardless of the wielder’s identity.

“I should probably stay down in my cabin, huh?” you comment, veiling your anxiety, keeping Henry company as she goes about readying the anchor for casting. “I have no place wandering around this city.”

“Well, milady,” she begins in reply, straightening and wiping her sweaty brow, “it’s good to see ya so wise and with a rational head here, but I’m afraid ya won’t have a choice.”

You swallow and nervously smile. “Um, how do you mean?”

“I mean, the captain here’ll prob’ly make ya tag along.” She turns to grab a nearby rope. “To make sure ya don’t escape ’n all.”

“What about just…locking me in the cabin?” Is having to follow him around really necessary?

“To be honest, milady, I’m not entirely sure meself, but I presume that’s what’s gonna happen.” Henry offers you a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, yer’ll be safe so long as yer by the Captain’s side.”

You know that much—but you also doubt the man’s willing to go to any great lengths to make sure you are safe. ‘Nothing personal’, which probably includes your well-being. You’re just one of the many aces up his sleeve, and not one he necessarily needs.

Perhaps you could go convince him to allow you to stay in your cabin for the time the ship’s docked here. Bidding farewell to Henry, you turn and make your way back to your quarters, waving a hello to Luke and Kieran as you pass.

And then, out of nowhere, there’s a grating caw of a crow, and something black and feathery obstructs your vision. It flaps to a stop at your side, and you jump to find Sylus’s trusty pet crow, Mephisto, perched quite happily on your shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you.” The bird has apparently taken a liking to you, for it holds something sparkly in its beak and blinks at you in offering. You reach up a hand, stroking its breast feathers, before accepting the little trinket it brought to you. “Aren’t you an intelligent fellow, hm? A far more interesting choice than a parrot, I’d say.”

“Agreed,” a deep voice says from behind you, and you almost leap out of your skin in fright. Startled by your sudden movements, Mephisto caws loudly right in your ear and jumps off your shoulder, gliding over to settle on a certain pirate captain’s broad left shoulder instead. He grins down at you. “I am glad to see I am not alone in my more unconventional tastes.”

“It—It makes a statement,” you reply, rather out of breath, attempting a smile. “It’s definitely more, um, intimidating.”

That grin widens. “Ah. So it works.”

You’ve gotten used to his more acerbic, dry humour thus far, over the weeks you have, in essence, befriended him. At least, you consider him a friend. You’re unsure if it’s mutual, however. You laugh a little. “Ahem, yes, it would seem so.”

“Where were you off to?” Sylus casually asks, lifting a hand and affectionately scratching his pet crow’s head. If a crow is even capable of purring, it does now. The bird nuzzles into his palm. “We are getting ready to disembark.”

“Oh, I was just going back to my cabin.” You weakly gesture behind you, in the general direction of said cabin. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of anything by tagging along. It’s an unfamiliar and, as you’re well aware of, unsafe place.”

He hums, giving you an assessing look. “You are correct. However, how on earth could I be so cruel as to leave you all alone on a boat? You will be tagging along, and I can ensure your safety.”

“If you’re worried about me running away, you don’t have to be.” You look down at your hands awkwardly. “If you like, you can lock my cabin door.”

“My, you really are strange, aren’t you?” the Captain remarks, crossing his arms. “It almost sounds like you don’t want to go back.”

“Uh, well…” You’re not sure if it’s appropriate to confirm that. “Let’s say…I’ve grown fond of the sea view.”

“Is that so?” Sylus lifts one arm and brushes a hand across his mouth, gazing down at you. “How interesting.”

“But, of course, I do have to return,” you hastily add. Get a grip! Push it any further, and he might leave you here, stranded! You suppose that’s a tad bit kinder of a fate than simply marooning you somewhere. You’d just have to snatch a few coins from a crew member’s pouch, or even his office, and you’d somehow make do in this strange, dangerous city. “My—My father must be worried sick. I can, erm, assure you that he would have sent a letter agreeing to your terms. I assure you.”

“Uh-huh,” is all he replies with, and he lowers his arm back to fold across his chest. You really don’t like that perpetually knowing look of his. It’s simultaneously arrogant and humiliating. And it doesn’t help that his face is easy on the eyes, either, which inadvertently makes things easier to forgive. You’ve found you really quite hate that, actually. “Still. Surely you’d like a tour of the city?” Then Sylus lowers his arms, shoving his hands into his pockets, posture so damn relaxed compared to your tense frame, staring at you from beneath his lashes. “You liked this old ship here so much, sweetheart. Othelm has all kinds of thrills and adventures and things to do, too, you know.”

“Oh, I see,” you weakly reply.

His smirk makes you want to smack him, drown him, kiss him and scream at him all in one breath. “Really, it’s like a manual. The perfect introduction to the pirate life.”

“I see,” you say again, avoiding his gaze. Why does this guy have to be so damn perceptive? It’s not that you want to be a pirate, one who joins in on all the bloodshed and thieving and killing—you just don’t want to go back. And, somehow, you doubt your father has dispatched a letter for Sylus, demanding your return. Despite his rather frightening determination to marry you off to that old duke, you doubt it.

“Either way, you simply can’t hide yourself away down in that stuffy cabin for the rest of the week.” The Captain half-turns to walk away. “Come along. The ship is docking now.”

You hesitate once more, staring at his broad back as he strides away, before heaving a sigh and following after him. Things can’t get any worse, right?

Oh, but they could—especially when it’s pirates and Sylus in question.

You trail after him down the gangplank once the ship docks, trying not to slip on the slimy, wet wood of the wharf as he, with Luke and Kieran flanking him, strides along without a falter to his step. Some other crew members have gathered behind you, their hands resting casually on the hilts of their cutlasses, a dare to those surrounding and watching to just try anything. You slow down and fall into step beside Henry, wishing you had at least some kind of weapon, even though you’re not trained with one.

As if she read your mind, Henry pushes aside her loose-fitting outer vest and hands you a dagger, winking. “You’ll probably need it, milady.”

“Oh.” You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Henry.”

The attire you chose to wear today proves to be wise: with a baldric hitched around your waist and baggy trousers for your lower half, the dagger fits nicely into one of the empty notches of your belt, and your shoes are far more practical than the heels you were abducted in. They have grip, supportive against the slippery pier you’re walking along now, and the bandana you used to wrap around your hair helps you look more like the part of the pirate.

Blend in, the logical part of your brain had told you earlier this morning, and that’ll lessen the chance of anyone trying anything.

If Sylus had noticed, he’d made no comment. Henry gave you a thumbs-up when she saw you, and the twins gave you two encouraging thumps on the back that almost sent you flying. All that’s left to do now is try to slump your stance and stride a little more, instead of that straight-as-a-rod posture your witch of a governess used to slap into you. She even used to use a switch on you whenever you did something wrong, and the scars on the back of your calves are still fading.

Nobility is a farce, purported to be a life of luxury and little toil and relaxation. Sure, having a full belly at the end of every day and access to a bath and an abundance of clothes to wear is great, but there’s always darker facets to it that remain overlooked, where skeletons reside safely in the closet, and the more illicit is turned a blind eye to. Such an example is your own father.

You’re not entirely sure of what exactly he does, has done, or is embroiled with, but it is nothing moral, as proven by your abduction. Sylus would’ve had a better chance with getting what he wants if you were a ‘beloved daughter’ to your father. However, you have, for much of your life, gone ignored by the only parent you have.

Such is life. Richer or poorer, there are hardships all the way. You’re more fortunate than most, you know this, but it still rather hurts.

Boisterous greetings are exchanged between the crew behind you and the other pirates milling about the port, and a few even approach Sylus to clap a hand over his back. Shared interests in thievery appear to produce a strong sense of camaraderie amongst these people, and the captain, despite his intimidating and rugged and arrogant approach, returns the greetings with a small grin and nod.

The Onychinus head, with his signature pet crow on his left shoulder, continues sauntering through the streets and toward a bouncing pub up ahead. Its sign, nailed into the wood above the building’s door frame, is hanging on for dear life, weather-beaten and grimy. It looks like it might’ve once spelled “Owen’s”, but the E is around the wrong way. Intentional or not, you’re uncertain. Pirates aren’t known for their literacy.

Just outside the pub, the Captain turns and faces the group following after him. “Alright, everyone, you are free to do as you please for the rest of the day. As long as the boat is restocked and cleaned up before nightfall, you may drink to your hearts’ content tonight.”

Immediately, the crew lets out overjoyed cheers and disperse, hurrying off in different directions with their companions. You remain, Henry at your side, with the twins beside the captain, and he turns once more to enter the tavern. “We have business to attend to.”

What business? you want to ask, but you’re immediately deafened by the sheer uproarious volume of the bar, where pirates gulp down jugs of ale and rum and beer, engage in destructive brawls at their respective tables, or rage at each other over games of poker. The place stinks of alcohol, tobacco, fish and unwashed men, and you almost heave your insides out right there.

And it doesn’t look like it’d be an uncommon sight to see in here, either—you have to carefully pick your way through the tables and men and other unidentifiable things you don’t want to find out about on the floor, and it’s clear the place is hardly ever mopped. With a hand over your mouth and nose, you resist the urge to bolt out back into the fresh air, where the stench of fish and filthy pirates is a little less potent.

The other four with you, however, look completely unfazed, and you follow after them as Sylus makes his way through the pub, up for a set of closed-off steps near the back of the alehouse, and barely gives any of the drunk pirates a second glance, even as they slur soused greetings to the man. You keep your head down, and avoid their eyes.

But that appears ineffective—abruptly, out of nowhere, you feel a hand meet your backside, and you yelp, whirling around, more than ready to deal an incensed hand across the bastard’s face. You turn to find a table full of guffawing men, many of them missing teeth, in terrible need of a shave, and puffing glowing pipes of baccy.

“Yer a new face!” your harasser belly laughs, and you almost shriek when he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him. His grasp is bruising, and you frantically struggle to get away, getting ready to panic. You begin fumbling for your dagger. His companions, all holding sets of playing cards, snicker amongst themselves and watch on with dark glee. “What’s a cute lil’ thing like you doin’ ’round here, eh?”

“Let me go!” you exclaim, enraged and scared, and you lift your free hand to smack his face with all the strength you can muster. It sends his pipe flying out of his mouth, clattering to the ground, and his surprise has him letting your wrist free. Immediately, you back away, rubbing your arm, breathing hard. “Do that again, and I’ll—!”

Your back meets a chest, and a terrified gasp clogs your throat. But the cologne is familiar, something far removed from the reek stifling the air around you, and a large hand meets your shoulder. Your head snaps up to find the face of Sylus, and his set jaw.

“Having fun, boys?” he drawls, gently pushing you behind him. Henry’s standing there also, stepping forward to guard you from the rear, and it takes quite a bit within you not to burst into tears. She gives a comforting squeeze to your upper arm, and softly tugs you to walk away with her. “You won’t wanna see this, milady.”

“What—why? What will he do?” You attempt to throw a glance back, but your view is blocked by Kieran’s taller frame. And then there’s a shatter, a yell, and every pirate in the tavern turns to face the commotion. You’re being herded up the stairs before you can try and catch anything again, and the door at the top of the steps clicks shut just as there’s a pained shriek and collective cheer from down below.

You knew something along these lines would happen to you at some point, as this is the perilous environment you’re now entangled in, but it leaves you greatly shaken regardless. You feel dirty, you’re probably going to cry, and you’re angry. Henry turns and gives you a sympathetic look.

“Don’t ya worry ’bout it anymore, missy,” she soothes, her hand hovering consolingly over the small of your back as she guides you to sit down. “Good thing the cap’n’s fond of ya. Said to us a few weeks ago that if any of us try anythin’, we’ll meet a grisly end.”

“Is…Is that so.” You stiffly take a seat and try to calm yourself, vaguely recalling him saying something along such lines to you. “That’s, uh, kind of him.”

Henry snorts humorously. “He knows this ’as been hard for ya. Sorry that had to happen to ya, though. You got good reflexes!” She grins and jostles your shoulder. “Saw that smack you gave the old scoundrel. Must’ve loosened a few more of ’is teeth!”

You appreciate her attempts at cheering you up, and you crack a wobbly smile. “Yeah. Must’ve.”

Suddenly, you’d really like to go home. And after that happened, slipping away and hiding in a ship set sail back for the mainland isn’t such an ideal notion anymore. Imagine if Sylus hadn’t stepped in? Imagine if you were alone? Compared to them, and their experience in combat, you would be a lost cause.

The ghosting touches of sleazy noblemen that had you spinning around in a rage have got nothing on what you’ve just experienced. You hug yourself and force yourself to relax back into your seat, praying that your father has sent a letter, demanding your return, just so you have a way out of here.

Ten minutes later, the door clicks open, and in enters Captain Sylus. His eyes meet you, trailing up and down your frame in a scrutinising manner, before he strides past and for the door at the end of the corridor. “He won’t be harming you again.” The man casts a glance at you from over his shoulder. “None of them will.”

“Uh, thank you,” you croak, trying to smile again. You rather wish you did the honours yourself. “Much obliged, sir.”

“No need to thank me.” He pauses before the door, pulls out a set of keys from his pocket, and shoves one into the lock. “Luke, Kieran, Henry, you know what you’ve been assigned.”

Henry gets to her feet, smiles, pats your head, and walks over to join the twins. “See ya later, milady. Let’s pray it don’t happen again, but, knee the next guy in the balls, alright? Really give it to ’im!”

That earns her a laugh from you. “Noted, Henry. See you.”

And that leaves you seated here, on the sofa outside Sylus’s presumed second office, the man still standing outside the door. He’s looking at you. “Are you alright?”

You heave a sigh and look down at your hands on your lap. “Yeah. Just a little shaken. Thank you for stepping in.”

“Again, no need.” The Captain turns the doorknob and begins to open it. “I have things to attend to now.” And then he points to the door diagonal to his. “If you would like to rest, there is a bed in there.”

“But, isn’t it your room?”

“I hardly mind.” He shoots you an impish grin, but it’s not unkind. “It seems you’ve convinced yourself you’re a bother, when you’re the hostage here, so isn’t it the other way around?”

“And you call me strange,” you mumble, scratching the back of your neck, “when you treat me like this.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” You jump to your feet and hurry for the door he’d pointed to, offering a bright smile. “Thank you so much for your kindness. I won’t keep you any longer.”

And you swear you hear him chuckle as you shut the door. He’s rather good at distracting you, even if he doesn’t seem to try.

Perhaps that’s the thing. He doesn’t need to try.

A few days have passed since that incident, and you let Henry drag you about the safer streets, pushing it to the back of your mind. But you notice one thing—the pirates bustling about the place seem particularly avoidant of you.

Is that her? You’d heard a few of the escorts serving ale and female pirates murmur amongst themselves. The Captain’s woman?

“The Captain’s woman?” you gasp at Henry, rather mortified. “Is…Is that what I’m being called now?” “Gotta cut ’em some slack, missy.” The woman pats your shoulder. “’Tis a bit of a shock, because he ain’t done that for nobody else in the past.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Ah.”

It just makes you more eager to get back on the boat and leave this port city, for its heavy atmosphere, violent crime and the looks everyone gives you has the hair on the back of your neck standing on end. However, no harm comes to you—it appears the warning Sylus demonstrated proved effective.

If only my father could see me now. He’d either have a heart attack, throw a hissy, or personally march you off to the dukedom himself. You, a noblewoman, dressed in the tattered, sun-faded rags of a pirate? Those debutantes would drop to the ground in a faint.

You would’ve, too, if you were that age. No wonder your father was in such a hurry to marry you off—you are now well past the common and ideal age for women to be wed, and you think you did a rather good job at putting it off as long as you have. And, now, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, you’re no longer so glad to have been kidnapped, but it’s still better than having to warm the bed of some squalid old man you don’t know from a bar of soap.

But, eventually, the day arrives for everyone to board the ship again and head off to the next destination. You’re probably one of the first to hurry on the ship, a safe haven from the malignant attitudes and perturbing stares you receive from man and woman alike at the port, and somewhere you can finally think.

It was a harsh wake-up call for you, all of the commotion and the incident you’re still reeling from. It proves as a reminder that, although Sylus and Henry and the twins and the flagship crew treat you a little kinder than the rest, pirates are still pirates, and are evil people by profession.

This has been a fun adventure, while it lasted. You wait until Sylus has boarded the ship, given the command to set sail, and retreats back to his study before you approach him.

You knock on his door, and the answering “come in” has you, with some hesitance, clicking open the door and entering. You swallow, drawing in a deep breath. Alright. It’s okay. Just pretend he’s ugly and nasty and horrible like the rumours, say your piece, and get out of here. Stop overthinking things!

“Ah, it’s you, sweetheart.” Great. In an instant, all your resolve has crumbled, all because he’s, apparently, taken a liking to addressing you endearingly in a tone so deep, it reminds you of the ocean. That sounds corny. And it makes you want to jump in said ocean, and willingly become fish food.

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you reply, clearing your throat. “I’m just here to, erm, ask if you received a letter from my father?”

Hours ago, when the last of the resources were being loaded onto the ship, you’d noticed the captain speaking with another man far more well-dressed than all the other surrounding scruffy buccaneers. He’d handed Sylus a bunch of letters, tied securely together by a string, and your heart had immediately lifted with hope. Surely, there would be a letter in that pile that would mean your return home.

The man pauses in his present perusing of said pile of letters, and looks up at you from above the rims of his glasses. He doesn’t say anything for a brief pause, before he puts the paper in his hand down, slips off his glasses, and leans back in his chair. “Unfortunately, my lady, no.”

You immediately deflate. You look down at your hands and stiffly pick at your nails. “…Ah. I see.”

“I am sorry,” Sylus says, but his tone sounds impersonal. You half-consider asking him if you can double-check the pile of letters, just in case—however, you know that would be pushing your luck. Instead, you glance up and try to smile. “Oh, no, it’s alright. It…might just…take a little while longer. I apologise for the wait.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, and you avert your eyes from his, unable to hold his stare. There’s a long, tense moment of silence, before you look at him again. “You don’t have to answer if this is too, uh, personal, but may I ask what it is my father took from you?”

Sylus, again, doesn’t answer you for a beat, before standing from his seat and lifting a hand to tug at his collar. His sleeves are rolled up at the elbows, revealing his corded, toned forearms, and you try not to gawk at him. Dammit, I always had a weak spot for tanned men. His bronzed skin looks positively delicious in this low light, and maybe it’s time for you to leave. Before you actually jump him this time.

Besides, you’ve been rather uninclined to male company since that mishap at the tavern. Every time it comes to mind, it churns your stomach painfully.

“Your father is currently in possession of something I discovered myself,” he begins, rounding his desk, crossing his arms and leaning back against it. “Emphasis on the I. It is something called a ‘Protocore’.”

You turn your head to look at him sidelong, puzzled. “Proto-what?” “A Protocore,” he repeats. “Wanderers are thought to be extinct. No one knows how they came to be. It’s been centuries, almost an entire millenia, since the last Protocore was recorded. Five years ago, I found one.”

“I see.” You’re still not entirely sure what he’s getting at, but you understand the gist of it. “So, it’s…some kind of mystical item that provides supernatural powers, perhaps, like in those fairytales?”

His lips twitch with an amused grin. “If you like. Except, they are filled with energy I don’t know how to extract and tap into yet, but it is connected to my Evol, I believe.”

You straighten, startled. “I’m sorry, did you say Evol?”

“I did.” Sylus lifts a hand, and something red and black and like mist gathers around his palm. The empty pitcher of water on the coffee table lifts and clatters to the ground, and you let out an exclamation of surprise. “It’s a less well-known factor about me.” He tilts his head and smiles at you, but it’s sharp as a knife. “Usually, those who see me use it don’t live to see the morrow.”

So the rumours are true. Your heart drops. “Oh. Oh.”

Then, realisation hits you in the face. “Wait. Hold on.” You take a step closer and stare up at him with wide eyes. “Is the reason why you hate my father, why you’re the most-wanted criminal of today, and why my father is out for you…” It’s a little less harder to hold his gaze now. “Is because he turned you in?”

His mouth is tightly shut as he gazes at you, long and hard, before he lets out a breathy chuckle. “Oh, yes, you’re a smart woman, alright.”

You falter, taking a step back. “Oh. Well. This is…” You run a hand through your hair. “This is something.”

“It is,” Sylus croons in agreement. “I was only a boy.” You glance up at him. “How old are you?”

“I am twenty-eight.” He tilts his head. “I thought that was common knowledge.”

You shrug. “Some people say you’re hundreds of years old, an immortal alien creature, and the devil incarnate. Rumours tend to spiral out of control and be exaggerated.”

“That is true.” The man gives you an assessing look. “And how old are you?”

“Well, you know that the night you kidnapped me was my engagement ceremony,” you say, shrugging again. “But I’m actually past the ideal age women are married off. My father was in a hurry to get rid of me. That event was celebrating my betrothal to a duke in the northwest. I’m only a little younger than you.”

Sylus gives a low hum. “Ah. That is the reason why you weren’t all that worried about the abduction.”

You smile wryly. “The man is my father’s age. I was being congratulated left and right because I was about to marry into such an affluent family and achieve a grand title, but…” It has been drummed down your throat your entire life: you are the daughter of a noble, his only offspring, thus, it is only protocol that you would be shipped off somewhere, to some man, who you will long outlive. Yes, the money and position and power and life is attractive, but you just didn’t want it. It wasn’t even because you wanted to marry for love—you just didn’t want another set of chains to be locked around your ankles, more than you already have from your father.

Your mouth twists to the side, and you shrug again. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want to get married. Not to a man thrice my age.”

“I suppose that’s understandable.”

“Anyway, this ‘inadvertent evening adventure’ turned out to be far more than I’d bargained for that night I sat here in front of you.” You grin up at him brightly, and then it fades. “Apart from being assaulted, it’s been…fun, I guess.”

“I…am sorry that happened to you.”

You shrug it off, not wanting to talk about it. “I’m surrounded by pirates. You guys try your hand at anything.”

“If you are suggesting that I would lower myself to such a thing…” Sylus straightens in his spot, towering over you. “You are sorely mistaken.” A hand of his comes up and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your right ear, and his gaze roots you to the spot. “That man met his end in a fitting way for harming a woman.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “And, as long as you are on my ship, you’ve nothing to fear.”

You resist the urge to lean into his palm and look down, biting back a bashful smile. “Oh, well, thank you, Sylus.”

“Think nothing of it, sweetheart. I may be a pirate, and I may have kidnapped you, but I do not happen to be completely immoral.”

“Nothing personal, right?” you say, voice strangely hushed.

The Captain’s shapely lips lift at the corners, and his eyes aren’t such a lethal shade of red anymore. His hand drops back to his side. “Nothing personal.”

Sylus revealing the true nature of his history and relationship with your father ended in connecting a whole lot of dots for you: it explained why your father’s reputation is so good, even though he is ‘new money’ and of commoner origins, why he was in a rush to marry you into even higher status, and his elusive countenance. You actually can’t believe Sylus chose not to kill you—wouldn’t it be the perfect revenge against the man who ruined his life from childhood?

The Empire is, despite openly encouraging people to turn Evolvers in, secretive as to exactly why. They brush it off with an excuse that such people are “dangerous” and “alien”—but it confuses you terribly as to why they haven’t revealed to the public, in the man’s wanted poster plastered across all stretches of the Empire and beyond, that Sylus is an Evolver. Wouldn’t it be the cherry on top? Wouldn’t it be the perfect selling point to really motivate people to hunt the man down and capture him?

The answer is simple, you found, after mulling over it for a good long while afterwards: it would make no difference to his reputation anyway, and Sylus is simply too powerful. He is too powerful an adversary, too influential a figure, and too loved as a pirate king to tear down so easily. He has mastered the art of evading the Imperial Navy. They hardly even try anymore, in fact.

But, perhaps the true nitty-gritty of it is that Sylus has his fingers stuck in everything. He makes deals with nobles, maybe even the Emperor himself, and thrives off of their desperation to keep their illicit trading with the pirate king under wraps. Why does he always get away from them by just a hair? Why does he always remain undefeated?

Corruption. And Sylus is at the centre of it all. The uncrowned king of the briny deep. He, in essence, shoulders all maritime trade. He, in essence, rules not only the verboten business of the sea, but of the land, as well. He, in essence, is the true power behind the golden-gilded Imperial throne.

He’s too useful to dispose of. Too powerful to contend with. The Emperor is a weakling compared.

So, perhaps the reason why he is dead set on getting that Protocore-thing back from your father is because it may just be the very thing the Emperor needs. The very key to finally dethroning Sylus. But, just what is the Protocore?

Not even Sylus knows. Or he’s just not telling you. Why would he tell you? The daughter of the very man who brought about this mess, who threw a wrench in the pirate king’s plans? You stare out your window, seated on your bed in your cabin, gnawing on your thumbnail, buried in your thoughts. He surely knows. The man is too cunning to not know.

You just hope it isn’t anything too risky. Knowing that man, however, it’s guaranteed. And you just hope you don’t get too caught up in the crossfire, if everything ends in blowing to hell.

Days melt into weeks, and weeks melt into months. Soon, you’re sure it’s been at least half a year since you first arrived on this ship, and now you have visited more places than you can count. Henry started showing you a few tricks with how to effortlessly gut an assailant without a hitch. You spend time chatting with the crew members up on deck, helping out with the odd menial task, and gradually adjusting to the seafarer’s life.

One little responsibility you’ve taken up is mending some of the crew members’ torn garments. You’ve always been rather good at embroidery, much to your governess’s (very rare) delight, and you gladly accept anyone’s clothing to sew back together.

Some of the woman pirates aboard the ship expressed wonder at the high quality of your needlework, the seamless stitches patching their ripped shirts or trousers up to perfection again. It proved a good pastime for you instead of just sitting in your room and reading, doing nothing, and it makes you feel useful. Especially when you get to redo the loose and poorly-sewn hems of their clothing, as not one of them appears to be much good with a needle and thread.

“Always get me clothes caught on the odd nail or hook,” Henry had lamented once, sitting by your side and peacefully observing as you mended one of her colourful bandanas. “Before you came along with those nimble hands of yers, most of us used to just continue on with massive holes in our pants or shirts! Then the cap’n got us some thread and all that to fix our clothes, but we didn’t really know what we were doin’.”

“I can see.” The shirt she had given you to repair had the most horrid stitching you’d ever seen. First, you carefully removed the yarn, threaded the needle, and began repatching it. “It’s alright.” You smiled at her. “I enjoy doing this. And it’s really quite easy to get the hang of, too. See? I could even do a bit of decorating for you, if you’d like.”

Word spread, and soon many of the crew’s clothing had piled up in your cabin, ready for you to mend—and even a certain someone knocked on your door and leaned against the door frame.

“If you’re unopposed,” Sylus said, lifting a neatly folded shirt in the air, “I have a few things that need stitching.”

“Alright,” you’d agreed, accepting the garment. Its material was highly expensive, with gold thread and intricate embroidery. “It might take a while, though. I’ve got…” You glanced at the mountain of shirts and pants and other things gathered by the closet. “A lot to get through.”

“Take your time.” And he’d even ruffled your hair. “It’s not urgent.”

Then, Sylus started turning up with the odd trinket and jewellery. A lot of jewellery. It only ever happened whenever the ship would make a stop at a port, and the man had taken a strange liking to showering you with gifts.

You stared at the pair of cream pearl earrings in the velvet box. “You…got me these?”

The Captain was standing on the threshold of your cabin, hands in his pockets, head inclined down to you. “I did. I thought they would suit you.”

“Pearls suit anybody,” you blurted, before realising how that sounded. “That is to say, I am very grateful for this gift, Sylus. They are lovely.”

“Try them on.” He lifted one hand from a pocket and brushed some hair away from one side of your face, tucking it behind your ear. You shivered slightly, trying not to preen at his touch. “Let me see them on you.”

“Uh, alright.” You turned away before he could see how flustered you were. “Let me, um, get my mirror.”

After that, he always returned from trips into cities with jewellery, clothes, or other miscellaneous luxuries you’re quite overwhelmed at receiving. And then you start overthinking things, keeping yourself up at night, mulling over every single act of generosity toward you, and that’s when you decide to get up and cool yourself off with some fresh sea air.

You’re an utter fool, you chastise yourself, tugging your cool, silken robe shut to fend off the chill. Another gift from him. Pull yourself together! He’s most likely fattening you up for the slaughter. Leading you along to let your guard down, and then you’re dead meat!

Most crew members are in their bunks and hammocks by now, while some remain out on guard and watch above deck, and you make your way up to a more secluded area where you can be alone to clear your head.

Only, someone’s already there and enjoying a glass of whiskey.

“Oh,” you say, before you can remember to be quiet and slip away unnoticed. Their head turns to you, and you recognise the build as the captain’s. You awkwardly curtsy in apology, even though you’re in a robe and nightgown. “Apologies, sir. I didn’t know anyone else would be here.”

“It’s late,” he replies instead, lifting his glass to his lips. You remain a polite distance away, ready to turn and leave, but he continues. “What are you doing up?”

What am I, a child? You purse your lips. “I can’t sleep.”

Sylus hums, and his head turns to gaze out to sea again. “I am the same.”

Before you can think better of it, you approach the man and come to a stop beside him, a good metre between you. You’re not about to risk giving into temptation. “Aren’t you cold?”

He chuckles. “I am not, but thank you for your concern, sweetheart.”

“Ah.” What were you going to do if he was? Offer him your robe? You’re chilly enough on your own, even with the dressing gown. This was a very bad idea. You clutch the railing you’re both leaning against. “No worries.”

It’s silent for a few more beats, and you can’t stand the tense atmosphere any longer, so you open your mouth to take your leave, but Sylus beats you to it. “Care for a drink?” Your mouth falls open, before you click it shut, awkward. “Oh, you don’t have to. It would be a long walk from here to your quarters. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“Sweetheart,” his chest rumbles with a chuckle again, and you can feel his eyes on you, “this is my private balcony.”

You gasp, reeling back. Oh, gods, imagine how this must look! A woman, dressed in a thin, mercifully modest, nightgown, visiting the very man she has an uncomfortable amount of sexual tension with, at night? Especially this late, where it’s quiet and those onboard are mostly asleep? He must think I’m so pathetic! What an idiot!

“I’m—I’m very sorry,” you fall over your words, blazing hot with humiliation. You take three hasty steps back. “I didn’t know, I promise you. I was only wandering about aimlessly, looking for somewhere to think. This was terribly rude of me. I’ll, um, I’ll leave now. Again, I apologi—”

“I never told you to leave,” Sylus softly cuts in, and he sounds so smug. But he places his glass down, faces you, and takes a step forward. You can’t see his face; he’s just one tall silhouette of muscle and arrogance, horribly good at driving you mad, and you clutch at the front of your robe, finding it uncomfortably hard to breathe. “I’m not averse to your company.”

“Oh…” You lower your head and stare down in the general direction of your slippered feet. It’s too dark to see anything, really, as the moon isn’t out tonight. The scent of his cologne and body wash and shaving cream is almost overpowering. And it’s getting harder to resist the urge to not just grab his collar and wrench him down to kiss you. Get a grip, you buffoon. You think this is a romance novel or something? He’d sooner keelhaul you than return such affections! “Well, that’s kind of you.”

He’s close. Standing right in front of you. You can feel his body heat. And you jump when his hand suddenly meets your chin and lifts it. “You know, I had always wondered what on earth I was going to do with all that jewellery of mine.”

“O-Oh?” You swallow and smile unsteadily, despite him probably not being able to see you. If this is his private balcony, why doesn’t he have any lights on, or a few candles lit? You should’ve brought a chamberstick with you. “Is that, uh, so?”

“Mhm,” he hums deeply. “And then I thought: why not just gift them to the only woman aboard who knows what to do with them?” Sylus’s hand moves, lifting to brush his knuckles against your cheek. You shiver, and not from the cold. “Imagine my happiness when I saw how flawlessly they suited you.”

You try not to think about how all that jewellery is likely stolen goods, and their original owners are either dead or still out there, stripped of their wealth, all because of this one man. “I don’t quite know where to start repaying you.”

“You don’t repay gifts, sweetheart.” His hand is warm. “Besides, isn’t it the least I can do?”

“To be honest,” you begin, voice cracking slightly, and you clear your throat, “I, um, there’s one thing I don’t really understand.”

Is he doing it on purpose, the way he caresses your cheek? Damn the man. “And what is that?” “My father is responsible for you leading a life of piracy.” Your words make his hand stop. “I’m his daughter. Aren’t you at least a little resentful of me?”

“If anything, it should be you who is resentful of me, sweetheart.” Sylus shakes his head at you. “Are you forgetting who’s the vile abductor here?”

“Oh, no, of course not.” You twist your robe’s tie around in your hands. “I just—well…” You tilt your head to the side and avert your eyes. “I would understand if you decided to send my head back on a platter to my father as a pleasant little message to hurry up.”

He snorts. “Are you saying you’d let me?”

You shrug. “I say this because I know you won’t.” Then you give him an unsure glance. “I think.”

“Rest assured, I will not.” The Captain then grabs your hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “I’ve said this countless times before. It’s nothing personal.”

“Sounds pretty personal to me,” you mutter, flushing. “You must be going out of your mind with impatience. He didn’t even bother to send a letter agreeing to your terms.” Is a Protocore more important than his own daughter?

“That is why we are set on-course for Rosmon right now.” He lowers your hand from his mouth, but doesn’t let go. “I have plenty of less-sanguine methods of procuring an item without mailing a human head to someone.”

“That’s a relief,” you softly laugh, still feeling feverish. I should probably leave now. Stay here any longer, and you will be pinning this man to the wall. “That’s, er, all I wanted to say.”

“So you did ‘wander about aimlessly’ in search of me?” Sylus teases in that sultry tone of his. “Goodness, sweetheart. If you wanted to speak to me so badly, you could’ve just said so.”

“I—no, I really didn’t mean to disturb you here,” you insist, humiliated. “I know how that must’ve looked. Those really weren’t my intentions. Please, just—forget it ever happened.”

“Why should I?” It appears he doesn’t intend on letting you off the hook tonight. “You got my hopes up.”

“Wh-What?” Your heart’s in your mouth at this rate. “I—! That’s—I didn’t…”

“A cruel woman, you are,” Sylus taunts, even going so far as to step away and cross his arms. “What else was I supposed to think?” You put your face in your hands. “I’m terribly sorry, Sylus. I don’t know how else I’m supposed to explain myself to you. I swear, none of that was my intention! Stop teasing me!”

He pretends to heave a forlorn sigh. “I suppose I’ll just have to spend the rest of my life wandering aimlessly about these seas, dreaming of what could’ve been, forever heartbroken by one woma—”

That’s when you let out an exasperated noise, lash a hand out, grab the collar of his shirt, and wrench him down, like you’ve been dying to for months. You still can’t really see him, so you blindly push yourself up onto your toes and head for where you picture his mouth to be—and your judgement proves accurate, for Sylus immediately uncrosses his arms, grabs your hips, and pulls you flush against him, meeting you halfway.

The Captain’s lips slot directly over yours, and they’re as soft and satiny and hot as you’d imagined them to be. Your hands are balled into fists on his chest, tightly clutching at his shirt, and one of Sylus’s hands comes up from a hip and cups your right cheek, tilting further into your mouth, deepening the kiss. His lips move, vehement and slow, prying your lips open. You squeak into his mouth as his tongue enters, laving against your own, and you can taste the aftermath of the whiskey he was enjoying earlier. It’s a rich, smokey tang that you find yourself enjoying, as if it’s enough to get drunk off of, and you go limp against him. The one hand left on your side slides to wrap around your waist, splayed against the small of your back, keeping you upright as you tug on the silver strands of hair at the back of his neck. You’re trying to push yourself up higher, to meet him far more closely and comfortably, and Sylus takes that chance to turn you around, back you up against the railing, and continue his burning incursion on your mouth.

“Mmph—can’t—oh!” You try to break away for some air, but he’s far more eager than you’d initially gambled, and you’re cut off by his tongue swathing against your lips, diving back in, leaving you thoroughly inarticulate. You’re probably going to shred his shirt through with your nails from how tightly you’re grasping it, clawing to find some kind of grounding. You can’t keep up with him; Sylus’s ministrations are deep and passionate and sensual, you’re trying to match his speed, hardly lacking in vigor, but you’re running out of oxygen.

My lungs! They feel as if they’re about to burst, so you pound one fist against his wide chest and squirm, whining into his mouth. “Sy—Sylus—air!”

You can see him now, as he finally breaks away; the moon’s peeping out from behind a cluster of clouds, his hair is identical to its pale beams, mussed from you running your hands through it, and he blinks at you, as if drawn from a haze. You’re breathing hard, gulping in the oxygen, offering him a shaky smile. “…S-Sorry, just a bit out of air.”

Sylus is gazing at you with an intensity that makes your heart both stop, plummet, and leap, and the intimate region between your thighs is burning. You blurt out whatever comes to mind to fill the awkward silence. “Um, I didn’t know you were such a good kisser.” You look away and to the side, lost for what to do and say. “And, uh, I’m sorry for grabbing you like that, um…I just needed to, you know, shut you up.”

“Do you know…” he says instead, one of the man’s hands brushing back a loose strand of hair, eyes roving over your face. “How angry I was when that man harassed you?” You blink. Why is he bringing that up now? You’d rather not talk about it. “…No.”

His smirk is something that instills a deep sense of dread within you—not for your life, but for another’s. Another’s that’s already long gone. “I almost razed that pub, that town, to the ground. With every one of those repulsive bastards inside. That man got off very lightly for what he really deserved.”

Your mouth twists to the side. “Didn’t you kill him?”

Sylus’s teeth flash with that sharp smile. “Far too quickly.”

Lowering your head, you bite back a smile. “I wish I’d had the honour.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle and buries his face into your neck, clutching you close. He’s quiet for a few moments, and you try not to preen too much at his previous comments. He’d go to such lengths for you, a captive, and the daughter of the very man he hates? Your cheek rests on his shoulder, and you allow yourself to smile. I suppose he won’t make me walk the plank just yet.

The man’s large frame is warm and wards off the cold, and your hands are gently rubbing into his back, something that makes him purr delightedly into your nape. “I was wondering how long it would be before you finally found the courage.”

“Uh, sorry?” Your hands pause, and then you flinch when Sylus begins placing soft kisses to your skin, nibbling lightly, before he finally bites down and soothes the sting with his tongue. You jolt upright, mind blank, and he laughs softly, one of his hands cupping the back of your head. “I, um, I’m not quite—” Your head falls down onto his shoulder, and your nails dig themselves into his back, through his shirt. “What you—hm!—mean…”

“Sweetheart, I am no fool,” Sylus murmurs against your neck, the other hand around your middle tugging you closer just that little more. At this rate, he’ll flatten you against him. “Did you think you were being subtle with the way you look at me?” Oh, just wonderful. You burn with mortification and embarrassment. “I…didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It was amusing,” he chuckles, lips now pressing against your collar, “if that’s any consolation.”

You keep your face hidden in his shoulder. “Not really.”

“I kissed you back, didn’t I?” Sylus emerges from your neck and stares down at you, and that maddening smirk has you conflicted between pushing him away and pulling him back down again. It doesn’t help that his eyes flick to your mouth and back up to your eyes, his top teeth tucked beneath his bottom lip. “And, I dare say, I enjoyed it thoroughly.”

You lower your head and wriggle out from between him and the railing, too humiliated to look at him anymore. “I, well…it was okay. I think I should probably leave now.”

“Not so fast, lovely.” He grabs your elbow and pulls you back, leaning in—and that’s when he firmly tips your head up, his other arm around your waist again. “You have to give me a goodnight kiss first.”

“You’ve gotten awfully fond of her as of late, boss,” Kieran begins casually, as if only commenting on the weather. “Giving her special treatment and all.”

“Right,” agrees Luke, parking his behind on the Captain’s desk, making Sylus click his tongue in irritation. The mask conceals Luke’s grin, but his amused tone doesn’t. “It’s already been, like, six months, at least. Never seen you so polite and charming around a woman before.”

“I do believe you’re overanalysing things,” Sylus remarks, not looking up from the paperwork he’s busy signing. “It’s merely treating a noble lady with the respect she deserves. Something called manners.” The Captain gives Luke a pointed look. “Something you two could learn a thing or two about, it would seem.”

“Uh-huh,” Kieran draws out, waltzing over from the window to stand before the desk. “Been a long time since you ever cared about decorum and respect, sir.”

“Especially since she’s the daughter of the very man who, I dunno…” Luke selected a pen from the desk and twirled it around his fingers idly. “Maybe destroyed your entire childhood?”

Sylus, already used to such antics from the two boys, gives no outward reaction. “I am assuring that the goods remain intact.” He finishes signing one document and begins on another. “I’ve no need to explain myself to you two.”

Kieran snickers. “You’re only digging yourself a deeper grave with that one, sir.”

“And they sure are taking a while to get back to you about her ladyship, aren’t they?” Luke drops the pen and then leans over to grab an envelope, buried beneath the mountain of paperwork on the captain’s desk, and holds it up, as if only just discovering its existence, and it’s the most interesting thing in the world. The seal of the letter is broken, its crest one they all recognise, and Luke smirks. “Or, maybe they have, but you’re just…stalling.”

“And that is so terribly out-of-character for our dearest Captain Sylus,” Kieran quips, crossing his arms. “It’s also terribly out-of-character for our cold and intimidating and oh-so-chaste captain to smooch up a storm with his archenemy’s darling daughter.”

Sylus coolly places his pen down, takes off his reading glasses, and leans back in his chair. But there’s a set to his jaw, a sharpness to his gaze, that immediately puts the twins on guard. “I do believe the bilge cleaners could use an extra pair of hands or two.”

“See? He keeps avoiding the topic,” Luke hisses to Kieran, as if their captain isn’t right in front of them, and as if he doesn’t look like he’s about to maroon them. “Poor guy. Does he really think no one could see them? All that charm, and he hasn’t gotten any action in his life.”

“Yes, I think a demotion from first and second mate really would prove a nice little reprieve from your duties.” Sylus puts on his glasses and picks up his pen again. “Apparently, there’s a rat infestation in the bottom of the ship’s hull. I think you’ll be plenty occupied helping the crew out down belo—”

“No need, sir!” Hurriedly, Luke scrambles off the desk and they rush for the door, giving their Captain hasty salutes. “We won’t bother you any more! We know full well how busy you are! Have a good rest of your afternoon, boss!”

And the door slams shut. The wearied Captain Sylus releases a sigh. I need a nap.

Sylus was invited to join in on the partying, but he had declined. Usually, he’d be unopposed to sharing a couple of drinks with his crew and enduring their awful jokes, but, tonight, the captain is busy nursing a glass of wine with his paperwork. And a particular letter on his desk.

So, when there is a knock at his door, he heaves a sigh and clicks it open. “Luke, I already said—”

“Ooh, look who it isssss.” He’s mildly surprised to be welcomed with a drunken smile and the swaying frame of his dearest hostage. “The gorgeous Captain Sylus!”

He lifts a brow, one corner of his mouth curling up. “Oh, my. What a wonderful compliment to receive from such a beauty as yourself.”

You giggle. “Y’know, I can never tell when you’re being—” hiccup, “—sarcastic or not.”

Sylus leans a forearm up against the door frame, looming over you, but that doesn’t seem to deter your inebriated self in the least. The scent of alcohol is overpowering, and he’s thoroughly amused now. “I prefer to keep my cards close to my chest, sweetheart.”

“Little too close!” The woman lands a smack to his other arm. “Got any rum? Henry showed me this game called ‘the cup of sacrifice’. It was gross! Beer, ale and salt do not go together.”

“You’re not going to throw up, are you?” Sylus gently grasps your shoulders to steady you. “I’d prefer you to not do so in my office.”

“Noooo! I won’t throw up.” You tip forward, despite his firm hold on you, and your forehead meets his chest. Your slurred words are muffled by his shirt. “I do feel a little—hic—squeamish, though.”

The Captain can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Goodness, you have adjusted to the seafaring life, haven’t you?” He eases you from his chest. “One might even say you’re a full-blown lady pirate now.”

Your head tilts lethargically up at him. “I’d rather that than becoming a duchess.”

“Oh?” Sylus wraps an arm around your shoulder and guides you into his office, shutting the door behind him with his foot, and helps you toward one of the couches. “And why is that?”

“Because,” you say, words garbled, “I don’t wanna marry some paltry old duke. I prefer…” And that’s when you surprise him by reaching up, grabbing his chin, and tilting his face this way and that. “You.”

“I’m flattered,” he croons, gently grabbing your wrist and removing your hand from his face. You slump into the sofa, head laid back against the cushion, smile dopey. You reach up again and poke his cheek. “Yeah. I’d rather marry you.”

That makes him pause. He stares. “That so?”

“Uh-huh.” Your arm flops down at your side. “I don’t want to go back.”

The man straightens and turns to pour a cup of water from the pitcher on his desk. Sylus extends it to you. “I thought any woman would like to become a duchess.”

You give a drunken snort and sloppily drink the water. “Yeah, probably. Is it, hic, so weird that I just don’t…” You sluggishly lean forward and place the cup on the coffee table. “Wanna be forced to bear some old guy’s heirs?”

“I suppose not,” he acquiesces.

“Call me superficial, but he’s ugly, and you’re not.” You flop an arm over your eyes. “Ugh, I have a headache. Anyways, you’re obviously the better choice here.”

Sylus crosses his arms. “That’s terribly kind of you.”

“Can you stop giving me two-word answers?” It was actually four words, but you hardly notice, giving a hiccup and removing your arm to glare weakly at him. “You kissed me. Doesn’t that mean you want to marry me too?”

The Captain cracks a little grin, and takes the seat beside you. “Not necessarily, sweetheart.”

That’s when you wave a hand dismissively. “Was joking, anyway. What’s your hair care regimen?”

Your spontaneity barely fazes him now. He refills your cup, then pours his own. “Why do you ask?”

“’Cause your hair’s so soft.” A hand comes down on his head and pats it. “Dunno how you manage it when spending weeks at sea. You—” hiccup, “—are so strange.”

Sylus grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles. “Let’s say that it’s a secret, my lady. Now, how about getting you back to your cabin and into bed, hm? You’ll have a horrible hangover in the morning.”

“Ooh, you gonna join me?” Your forehead leans laggardly on his shoulder. You giggle again. “You look warm. I get a little cold down in that cabin. Sometimes, the water comes smacking right up against the window…”

“What a terrible state of affairs,” he humours, easing you to your feet, arm wrapped securely around your middle. Your head lolls against his shoulder, and Sylus keeps you steady. “Regrettably, it would be most unbecoming for an unwed man and woman to spend the night in the same room and bed, sweetheart.”

“Oh…!” You appear to only be just sober enough to finally realise the connotations of your words. “No, no, that’s not what I meant…” Sylus briefly considers picking you up and carrying you as you abruptly stumble over thin air, speech slurred from the booze. “I meannnn, I’m not averse to it…but—”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say when you’re drunk, my lady.” He opens his door, sweeps you up into his arms, and turns in the direction of your cabin. The sudden sensation of the ground disappearing beneath your feet has your intoxicated self disoriented and clutching at his shirt. Sylus grunts and readjusts his hold. “Fortunately for you, I am no knave who would take advantage of a defenceless woman.”

“See? Marriage material.” A forefinger lightly jabs at his chest, and his eyes snap down to you. “Could you get me some more rum? We need to toast to this!”

“I think you’ve had quite enough rum for one night.” She is wasted. A rambling nonsense. Nonsense that’s probably going to make him lose sleep tonight.

“You can never—” You let out a very unladylike burp. “—have enough rum.”

Sylus can hear the boisterous celebrations of the rest of the crew down on the main deck, and he holds back a sigh. “I suppose they taught you a few of their favourite drinking games?”

“Sure did!” If it weren’t for his firm stature and balance, perhaps your staggering as you jubilantly threw up a hand in merriment would’ve sent the both of you stumbling. “Real fun. Never did anything like that at those dull old balls!”

“Sounds like the noble life is terribly boring, hm?”

“So boring! It’s…” Your fogged mind has to think hard about what to say next. “Nice to let loose, y’know? Probably why I like this boat and crew s’much.”

“Strange until the end, you are,” Sylus softly remarks, amused, and he gently guides you down the corridor for your cabin. “Almost there. You lie down and I’ll go get you some water, alright?”

“Aren’t pirates meant to be ruthless thugs?” you mindlessly, sluggishly muse, fumbling for the doorknob of your room before the captain takes charge and opens it for you. “So unrealistic. You’re the nicest pirate I’ve ever met.”

“I believe I’m the only pirate you’ve ever met.” He sets you down on the bed, straightens, and turns to open a window. The sea is calm tonight, and so is the cool breeze. “Other than my crew. And, yes, I’m likely the only ‘nice’ one out there. If deciding not to kill you is considered ‘nice’.”

“I’d say generous,” comes your muffled voice from the pillows you’ve buried your face into. “You could wake up tomorrow and settle to feed me to your pet sharks.” “Pet sharks?” Sylus snorts. “Have you convinced yourself that I have pet sharks?”

“S’what those fairytales say.”

“Except, this isn’t a fairytale, sweetheart.” The man picks up an empty jug of water sitting near your bed. “This is very much reality. And I don’t have any pet sharks.”

There’s a grunt. “You should get some.”

The Captain can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll take it into consideration. I’ll be back with some fresh water in a bit.”

When he returns, he finds you grumbling incoherently and rubbing your hands over your face. He sets the pitcher down, pours you a cup, and extends it. “Here. Drink.”

It’s like you hardly even noticed he left, with how you wordlessly sit yourself up and accept the water. Once you’ve downed the whole cup, you peer up at him with glazed, squinty eyes. “Did I ever tell you you’re gorgeous?”

“You did, about ten minutes ago,” he replies, refilling the cup and putting it by your bedside, within reach. “I appreciate the compliment. It’s time for you to sleep now.”

“Sleep with me,” you mumble, and then you yawn. “I’m cold.”

“Can’t do that, I’m sorry, my lady.” Sylus is not a good man, but he draws the line at some things. He takes a seat at the edge of your bed. “You must rest now, or your hangover will be worse in the morning.”

There’s a tug on his sleeve, your grip on his shirt feeble with your clear enervation. The high from the alcohol is dropping into sleep. “…If you asked me to…I’d marry you.”

“Is that so?” He brushes some hair out of your closed eyes. “I’m honoured.”

“Should be.” Your words are fading. “I’m a noblewoman.”

“That you are.”

“So, you have to do as I say…”

“Indubitably, sweetheart.”

“We should…replace the nuptial beverages with rum only…”

“Taken a liking to rum, have you?”

He doesn’t get a reply to that one, and Sylus remains for a moment, ensuring you’re asleep, bringing the blanket up a little further over your shoulders, before leaning forward and placing a kiss to your temple. “Sweet dreams, my lady.”

And once Sylus arrives back to his study, he picks up the neatly folded letter and gives it one last skim-read.

Marriage?

There’s a crackle and hiss as Captain Sylus strikes a match, lifting the flame to the corner of the paper, allowing it to catch alight. He watches, closely, as the letter swiftly blackens to cinders, and he blows the matchstick out. As far as he’s concerned, you don’t need to know of its existence.

Yeah. Sylus disposes of the ashes and burned taper. Marriage. He could do that.

And, maybe, he’ll tell you about the letter. Someday. Just not any time soon.

While it took a few hours for your headache to ease and for your ability to actually function to return, the memories came barrelling for you in full force. You babbling embarrassing nonsense to the captain. Poking his face, whining for more rum, suggesting marriage, and essentially spilling your guts. You sit here, now, head in your hands, considering doing the honours and voluntarily walking the plank yourself. To save everyone the trouble. And to save you the embarrassment of having to face Sylus again.

What the hell was I thinking? Thank the gods the ship’s sailing right for the mainland again. Perhaps you could take that chance to leave a letter apologising to him profusely and then make a run for it. You wouldn’t be taking the pearl earrings, as painful as that would be. And you almost jump out of your skin when there’s a knock at the door, before you force yourself to relax. “Come in.”

The door opens, and the very person you’d really not like to see is standing there, arms crossed, that stupid grin pulling his full lips up. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You put your face in your hands again. “Please go away. Can I jump off the ship?”

“You’re telling your future husband to go away?”

“Stop!”

“And I can’t let my future wife jump off the edge of the boat and go swimming with my pet sharks.”

You’re a hair away from bursting into mortified tears. “Where on earth is Henry?”

“Most of them are still asleep and hungover. Who else would be able to check on you?”

You turn, lie down again, and pull the covers up so you’re covered fully, back to him. “I’m fine! Now, please save me from further humiliation and come back later!”

One of the floorboards creak as the captain strolls into the room, and there’s the sound of water pouring from the pitcher and into a cup. “I thought you wanted to know my hair care regimen.”

“Sylus!” You groan into the pillow. “I have a headache!”

“Of course you do. I’m just being a good host and fiancé and making sure you’re—oof!”

Said pillow comes flying and smacks him right in the face, and you rush out of bed, clothes crumpled and hair frizzy, dashing for the door. “I’m going to check on Henry!”

Hours later, after you finally succeed in booting Sylus out of your cabin, you really do go check on Henry—and find her sprawled across the floor of her quarters, apparently not having made it to her hammock before passing out. You sigh and roll her over so she’s face-up. “Henry. Are you okay?”

“Mmf…” is her answering grumble, one arm sluggishly lifting to rub at an eye. Then it cracks open. “What the…?”

You grin. “Good morning! Do you have a sore back? You’re currently lying on the floor.”

Her eyes shut tight again as she winces, turning away from the light streaming in through the window. “Gods…I feel like shit…”

“Want some water? Apparently, we’re nearing the mainland. You might want to get up.”

It takes a good long while for the rest of the crew to get up one by one, groaning and heads heavy and swearing, but, eventually, they’re jolted awake when the watchman cries from the top of the mast, “Land-ho!”

After months of seeing nothing but ocean and unfamiliar lands, your home is finally in sight. You don’t really know how or what to feel about it. It neither strikes relief within nor moves you. Perhaps, with your speedy and firm adjustment to the ‘seafaring life’, as Sylus is fond of putting it, you’ve grown accustomed to it all. The bobbing of the ship doesn’t bother you anymore. Seasickness is a bygone memory. It’s nice being able to see the stars in all their full glory at night. The seafaring life is liberating.

What if you scared Sylus off with your antics last night? You can’t imagine him being ‘scared’ in any context, but it still makes you shudder. What kind of idiot blatantly and drunkenly announces that she wants to tie the knot with a man she kissed once—and one who’s her captor, no less? You got off real lucky with Sylus being your abductor. Now he’s teasing you about it. Maybe you should just leap off this railing you’re leaning against right now.

But, even as you look at your country in the distance, everything settles into indifference. Your father didn’t send a letter demanding your safe return. He didn’t send a letter to Sylus stating his agreement to the captain’s terms. And, if that’s the case, you really don’t know what’s going to happen the moment the ship docks at the port. Is your hour of execution finally nearing? If so, Sylus has done a damn good job lulling you into a state of false security, before finally taking back that Protocore-thing he wants, while taking the life of the one thing your father needs to secure heightened status with the marriage—you. Your hands, presently rested against the railing and hanging over it, aren’t the soft ones of a noblewoman anymore. They’re a bit calloused now. And you look at them, and the change this journey has brought.

You find that you’d rather die than be delivered back to your father, and finally married off. You’d rather die than living on knowing that this whole abduction-thing was just a bump in the road. You’d rather die than live the remainder of your life with Sylus as just a transient memory. Your father would rage at you, send a letter to that old duke stating the marriage is back on, and that would be it.

You purse your lips. The mainland is no longer a dot on the horizon. It’s growing bigger, closer, by the minute, and it’s exactly where you don’t want to go.

Someone comes to a stop beside you. They lean against the railing too. You turn your head and look up at the captain.

“I’m sorry that my father never sent you a letter,” you say, still sick with embarrassment from the previous evening. Your words are stilted. “I suppose that, now, all you can do is…do what there is to be done.”

“And what’s that?” He looks at you sidelong.

You look at your hands again. “Well, you never got the agreed upon ransom, and isn’t the penalty for that the death of your hostage?”

“Is that what the fairytales say?”

You groan and rub your eyes. “Stop bringing that up! I was off my face and babbling nonsense. And, no, it’s not what the fairytales say.” Your hand drops down again, and you frown up at him. “It’s common knowledge.”

Sylus hums. “I suppose it is. So, you think I’m going to drag you to your father’s estate and kill you in front of him?” “Wasn’t that planned from the start?”

He’s quiet for a beat, and then he chuckles deeply, in that classic, sultry way of his. Then, the captain fully turns and faces you, leaning one elbow against the railing. “Sweetheart, I may have gone to an extreme length to obtain the Protocore by abducting you, but…well, things have changed a little.”

You blink. “In what way?”

“I always have Plan Bs, Cs and Ds. You were Plan A. And you worked. For a time.”

“Until you didn’t get the letter, so I didn’t, really.”

The Captain snorts like something about your words was particularly funny. “That’s my fault, actually.” He doesn’t elaborate. “No, you’ve been perfectly enjoyable company thus far. And Plan B is a perfect logical solution also, one that will procure the Protocore from your father’s office and safe just fine.”

You still don’t know where he’s going with this. “And that is?”

“I have your father’s schedule and everything mapped out. Within the next few days, he will be out and about at events, greeting delegates from other countries, striking a few more illicit deals, the like. The old fool doesn’t know that all said dealings are all tied back to me. He thinks he cut ties with me long ago.” Sylus tilts his head at you. “Luke and Kieran will take those chances to try and break into the manor whilst he is absent. Mercifully, they have time and opportunity on their side. If the first attempt goes sideways, they have the next night, and the next.”

You’re rather impressed. “I see. But…what will you be doing, and where will I go?”

“Let’s say…you and I have a date with another place once we anchor at the port.”

The wind is blowing some hair into your face, and you awkwardly struggle to brush it out of your eyes and mouth. “Um, where?”

And then, he does something rather uncharacteristic. Sylus doesn’t smirk, he doesn’t grin, he doesn’t even give you that signature smug look of his, no—this time, he smiles. And it’s a gentle one. One that softens his sharp features and eyes. One that’s all for you. “The registry office.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⨾

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