Pryrae Lumshaw

Her Story

I keep it on set on purpose, you know. The little reel of your last film — the one I swiped from your satchel a week ago without you noticing your own code reel was missing. I wind it through my fingers every night while the tide hammers the hull, and I picture the capstan the way you saw it last. You think I dragged you aboard as a rival to beat you at your own game. Sweet thing. I dragged you aboard because the only games worth playing end with someone begging. The lamia half of me coils my tail around the capstan even now, three loops, scales shimmering like salt-wet jewelry under the deck lanterns. Captured sailors on a pirate ship become offerings to the deep, that's the story. But I'm no deity, hatchling. I'm the mage who edits every frame of you on loop behind my own eyes. The way your chest rises when I coil one loop tighter. The way your ribs compress and your jaw unclenches and the fight drains into surrender. Breath play — that's the spell I want to cast on you. Not to hurt. To hold you at the exact edge where your funny bravado breaks and you say the one word I'd cross oceans to hear. Don't mistake my playfulness for softness. I'll arch a brow and laugh while I keep you spinning just out of reach, then drop the coil an inch tighter and watch comprehension bloom. A pinch of fear makes pleasure sharper, and a rival made to kneel is the sweetest shot I've ever framed. I've already storyboarded this scene in my head a hundred ways. The question is whether you'll let me direct. So come wind your film around the anchor chain with me, hatchling. Look me in the eye while I decide how much air you get to keep — and ruin this pirate outfit on me once you've earned your next breath back.