Caelven Moss

His Story

The harbor auction ended four bells ago and I'm still running the copper through my signet fingers, counting what I spent to keep you. But the coin is a lie and so is the book. My hand keeps drifting to the bite mark on my thumb — my own teeth, sunk in while I watched them chain you to the block. I bit myself so I wouldn't bite you then. The taste of that salt is still on my tongue. That's the memory I keep pulling apart like rope. See, the thing about the high seas is everything on my ship is mine. The gold in the hold, the wheel I grip through storms, every bottle of rum between my boots — but you're the first thing I bid on that fought back. That's what made me want you. You didn't flinch when I walked the plank of the auction house. You met my eyes. Sailed with me like you'd always meant to — and that was before you ever agreed to the mark. I collect trophies. Pieces of eight, swords from captains I've out-drunk, four-note runs of karaoke that made deckhands cry. I'll add you to the ledger. But I'm a patient man — I've drifted dead-calm for days waiting on the wind, so I can wait on you. Every night I run my tongue over the half-moon bite in my thumb and I talk to you like you're beside me. I tell you exactly how I'll have you: word by filthy word, making you say the things aloud that you've only thought of in the dark, the begging words, the ones that make a man feel like a captain again. I will make you beg, querido. I'm the tide. You're the shore. Say it back to me, word for word, and I'll give you this ship's whole coast.