Her beauty isn’t the kind you find in the local villages—no dainty wildflowers tucked behind her ear, no rosy blush on her cheeks. Instead, her hair’s wild, freckles scattered across her sunburnt nose, and her smile… oh, that crooked smile. It reminds me of glass shards smoothed by the sea—sharp but somehow impossible to look away from. And, judging by the way my bones are tingling, I’m pretty sure she’s got the guts to kill all three of us and then head to the nearest tavern for a celebratory drink.
Yeah, if I’d met her before, I’d definitely remember.
I clear my throat, trying to muster some of my usual charm. I need at least a little. “Miss, I don’t know who you are, but I have to say, you certainly know how to make an entrance.” I shift, attempting to stand a bit straighter despite the cuffs. “If you’re here to rescue me, your timing couldn’t be better. I was just about to negotiate my way out of this… but a good, old-fashioned rescue works just as well.”
She smirks, her eyes never leaving the men—cold, calculating, and, dare I say, mildly amused. “Rescue?” she drawls, like the word itself is a joke. “Who said anything about a rescue?”
Mr. Spit’s face twists into an angry grimace. “Drop the weapons, girl, and maybe we won’t kill you too.”
Oh, Mr. Spit. Wrong move, my friend.
She laughs—a sharp, joyless sound that shoots straight through me, sending an ice-cold shiver down my spine. “Bold words for a man staring down the barrels of two pistols. Do you even know what they can do to you? Doesn’t seem like you do.”
Oh, she knows exactly what those pistols can do, and she knows that Mr. Spit knows it too. She’s just toying with him, poking at his pride like a cat batting at a trapped mouse. And it works, of course. His face turns a glorious shade of red, and suddenly he’s holding his spit in, a task that must require Herculean effort for a man like him. Since I woke up on this delightful ship, shackled like a common criminal (which I am absolutely not, by the way), he’s been shouting and spewing saliva like a leaking faucet. But now? Now he’s struck dumb.
I raise an eyebrow, studying him. All that smugness has drained from his face, replaced with pure, concentrated, fear-induced rage. If I could paint his expression, I’d call it“The Silence of the Spit-Spraying Berserker.”
A smile tugs at my lips. Oh yes, I feel the muse creeping in. This woman... she’s a living, breathing inspiration.
“I could write a song about this,” I mutter to myself, but apparently not quietly enough. Mr. Spit turns to glare at me, and only then do I realize I’ve spoken aloud. It happens a lot—talking to myself, lost in the moment. Mother always said I had the soul of a poet, unashamedly expressive like the wind whipping through colored sails, while the rest of the world prefers to be plain and neat. The smartest woman I know, truly. She always captured my essence perfectly.
The other guy, the quiet one, finally makes a noise, hissing like a snake as his tongue darts out to lick his lips. His eyes flick up and down the wild woman, lingering on the barrel of her gun. Her hands, steady as stone, don’t waver.
“Your hair’s wet,” he sneers. “Your clothes are soaked. Which means your gunpowder must be wet too. That makes those pistols nothing but toys. Oi, Paulie, don’t be scared of her. She can’t do us any harm now, can she?”
She tilts her head, just a touch, and her eyes glint like stars that know exactly where they belong in the sky. Then her mouth forms a little ‘o,’ and her eyebrows rise, all innocent-like.
“Oh no,” she murmurs, her voice lilting up as if she’s talking to herself. “Wet gunpowder? It can’t be. Oh dear.”
The quiet guy snickers, puffing up like a rooster who thinks he’s won the day. “See? Told you, Paulie,” he sneers again, his confidence swelling. He shifts his knife toward her, taking a bold step forward. “A little birdie flew onto our ship, but bad, bad pirates might just rip out its wings.”
His step forward is his last mistake.
In a blur of motion, she lowers her right pistol and, with a fluid grace that could put dancers to shame, fires her left. The sound explodes in the small space, echoing off the wooden walls, and I jump back so fast I hit the boards with a thud.
The quiet guy’s face twists in surprise before he crumples to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. And then, the scream. I don’t know whose it is—his, mine, Mr. Spit’s—probably a chorus of all three.
“Fuuuck! My fucking knee!” The quiet guy’s alive and he’s definitely not quiet anymore. He writhes on the floor just outside my cage.Oh shit. His blood is pooling my way. “That bitch fucking shot me! Paulie!”
But Paulie—oh, Mr. Spit—can’t help him. He’s too busy staring down the barrels of two pistols, his face now a lovely shade ofburgundy. I slide down the wall, fingers trembling, fear surging through me like waves crashing against the shore. But even in the midst of terror, something stirs within me, a seed of inspiration. If only I had my notebook, I’d write it down:
A wild beauty, fierce and free,
With midnight waves for hair,
She holds her pistols steady,
With courage bold and rare.
Her smile is swift and treacherous,
A glint that’s hard to tame,
The sea’s own daughter, strong and brave,
To save my soul, she came.
Paulie’s face contorts with terror as the wild woman steps closer, her pistols still aimed true.
