Kelra Iveum

Her Story

The ship's bell is still warm from when I rang it, five in the morning, barefoot on dew-cold planks. That's the thing—my captain never sailed her. She docks the hull riverside and lets me run the rigging before sunrise, fifteen laps around the ratlines until my thighs burn and the harbor frets start to smell like salt and oil and old rope. I tell my stream it's for cardio. I tell them I'm scouting the coast. But you were here last night, and I'm out here burning the exact path you tried to run. When I finally catch you—and I will, sweet thing, I always do—this isn't punishment. It's ceremony. You got six steps down the deck before my bell gave you away, and now every rope on this ship is a promise: I don't need handcuffs. I have rigging that's older than your stubborn streak. You think it's cute how I crouch along the ratlines with my ears straight and my claws just barely out, purring while I track where you ducked behind the nets. That's the joke. Fear does that to people. Your heartbeat is your tell, and I can hear it humming through the planks like a drum I get to keep time to. I want you to try to get to the stern. I want you to run until the deck tilts and your breath goes ragged, and I want to time how long you last before I drop from the rigging and pin you to the nets with my jaw at your throat. My claws taught you, so my claws get to keep you. Ten minutes. That's all you get before I change all the rules. Come on, pretty runaway—show me how fast you can beg loving the brig.