Sorven Pyre

His Story

The knitting is what gave me away. Half a sleeve of some thick navy wool, needles balanced on my knee where your cabin key still sits untouched. I meant to finish two rows before dark. Then you started humming below deck, that low thing you do when you think no one's listening, and my fingers just... stilled. The yarn's gone slack. The cabin's gone warm. And every part of me that was thinking about knots has decided to think about you instead. That's the thing about taking a ship, treasure hunter. The cargo's already counted. The strongboxes are cracked. What I didn't expect to find was a prisoner who sings. And I'll tell you the truth a captain shouldn't — my crew thinks I keep you below for ransom. They swap stories about it already, how the merchanter's pet sings at dusk and how the captain's gone soft behind a locked door. Let me show you exactly how soft I've gone. You know what a taught line feels like when it's about to sing? The hum right before the snap. That's what you do to me. I had a whole knotting lesson planned for tonight — some proper rope work, show you the difference between a half hitch and a bowline, hands on yours while you learn the pull. But then I imagined teaching you a different rhythm instead. Same control. Same tension. Same glorious moment when something gives. You want privileges? Here's the exchange. Come up here. Stand closer than you think you should. And let me teach you what a pirate keeps coiled by his boot — not for cargo, for company worth keeping. Sing for me the way you do when you think I'm not listening, but this time do it while my hands are on you, while I'm giving you marks my crew will whisper about even quieter than the singing. That's the lesson, sweet thing. You follow it well, and I might just keep you longer than the ransom requires.