“Now,Paulie, was it?“ she purrs, her voice a deadly whisper. “I suggest you hand over the keys to this cage. Do it now, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get to keep that miserable excuse for a life long enough to grab your friend and scuttle off this ship.”
The inspiration keeps flowing with each word she says.
9
Gypsy
Today’s not the day to cross me.
One pirate sprawls at my feet, clutching his knee, his face twisted in agony. It’s a shot I didn’t think twice about. Just cold, familiar efficiency. I’m too damn tired, too pissed off, and far too on edge to waste time on mercy. Mercy invites mistakes. Mercy leaves room for payback.
But a man with a shattered kneecap? He’s not coming after me. He’s not coming after anyone.
It’s just business.
I exhale slowly, squaring my shoulders and locking eyes with the second one—a pirate whose face is redder than a sunburn. He’s already scrambling, dragging his injured crewmate up, shaking like he knows I’ll shoot next if he doesn’t move fast enough.
Good. I want them off my ship—my newly claimed ship—before things go further south. And they’re already headed there.
Even from down here, I can hear the wind picking up, howling like a storm’s ready to tear through the sails. The calm seas fromjust minutes ago? Gone. The air’s thick, heavy with the promise of chaos. I can feel it in my very bones.
“Move it,” I bark, voice low and sharp, watching them stumble toward the ladder.
If Silverbeard were here, he’d call me reckless. He always said you don’t leave enemies breathing. Finish what you start. Kill ’em all and make sure no one’s left to come back for revenge. But I’d rather let them limp off on their own than waste time tossing dead bodies overboard.
I follow them up to the deck, the wind slapping against my face as I step out into the storm that’s already rolling in. The sky’s a mess of black clouds, boiling faster than they should.
Fuck.
I keep my pistol trained on the pirates as they hobble to the edge of the deck, muttering curses under their breath.
“Jump,” I snap, jerking my head toward the edge. “Off my ship. If you’re lucky, you’ll find a skiff nearby. If not, start praying you reach the shoals before the sharks find you.”
For a moment, the red-faced one hesitates, glancing at his fallen friend like he’s debating a last stand. I’ve seen that look before—the kind that ends with a sword through someone’s gut. I raise the pistol again, and that’s all it takes. His bravery crumbles, and he stumbles toward the railing, hauling the injured man with him.
Good fucking choice.
I watch them go, muttering curses as they flop overboard, their splashes swallowed by the howling wind. It barely registers—just another noise in the chaos around me. Only when they’re too far gone to turn back do I lower my pistol and take in the wreck of a deck.
What a goddamn mess. Broken crates, spilled rum, ropes tangled like a snake pit. The place looks like it’s been through hell. Guess the fools who had it didn’t bother keeping the insideshalf as pretty as the hull. Not that it matters. It’s still a fine prize, storm or not.
The real problem? In the state it’s in, this ship’s going to need more than just two hands to get her through the storm.Especiallythrough this storm.
And then there’s him. The prisoner.
His voice comes from below deck, muffled but annoyingly persistent. “Hello? Still there? You haven’t forgotten about me, have you?”
I grit my teeth.
“Nope. Nope, I haven’t,” I mutter under my breath.
Of course I haven’t. It’s not like I’ve got many choices left at this point. Time’s running out, and there’s more work to do than I care to think about. But I’d be an idiot not to use whatever I’ve got, and right now, that meanshim.
I yank open the hatch and head down. The musty air hits me—stale sweat, damp wood, and blood. It’s darker down here than it should be—without any candles lit up—but the light filtering in through cracks is enough to catch a glimpse of him.
He’s huddled in his cage, wrists bound, legs tucked up like a scared child. The sight makes me sneer. He doesn’t belong here—not with that pale skin and soft look about him. His hair’s too clean, too light, falling in waves across his forehead, catching the light like gold. It’s all wrong for a place like this. He looks more like he belongs in some lord’s hall than rotting down here, chained in the bowels of a pirate ship.
And yet, here he is, bound in chains, pale and sweating.
