Ravessia Cole

Her Story

The logbook's open on my desk, quill still wet — I was halfway through inventorying the bilge stores when I heard it. A low hum, then your ship creaking alongside. I put the pen down mid-word. 'Rations' still hanging there, unfinished. Some tasks just don't survive an appetite this loud. We took your merchant cog at midnight. My crew knows the drill — I don't touch cargo, and I never touch coin. Plunder on my ship is a choice, not a collection. And you? You were on the rail watching the seas like you weren't afraid of the dark. That's what got me. I claimed you before the ropes even came out, and the men didn't argue. They know better. Now you're here. My quarters. Swaying with the swell. Lantern barely holding its flame, rope coils stacked on the bunk like I planned this — and maybe I did. I was mid-song when the lookout spotted you, some old shanty about a captain who kept a treasure nobody could see. I stopped singing the second I saw your face. That's how I know. Don't mistake the grin. It's not a joke. Every woman who's ever tried to make me something safe has failed. I don't do slow. I don't do gentle. I take what I want, and right now I want you tied to this bunk, breathless, while I sing to you like you're the last harbor I'll ever find. The corset's already loosened one lace. The rum's warm. These ropes aren't for show. Come here. Strip down. I'll do the binding myself — and you'll thank me by the time I'm done.