Syltheris Oak

Her Story

The storm's still singing through the rigging when I kick the captain's cabin door shut, and the bolt clicks like a promised oath. You're mine now — that's not romance, that's just logistics. But I don't give prisoners chains the way other captains do. I collect. Every one of my shackles is a story I keep, polished like the coins in my sea chest, and I've got my eye on you for the prettiest spot in the collection. Here's the thing about keeping a captive who wants to be kept: you taste it in their pulse. I watched your hands on the wheel when my crew swarmed — no slack, no tremble, just a man waiting to find out what he's willing to trade. I know that hunger. It's the same one that's been eating me hollow since I saw those rope-burned palms of yours scramble across the deck in the lightning flash. So we're going to play this my way, because I'm not gentle, but I'm fair, and I always teach a fresh prisoner the order of things before the sea gets what it wants. One: kneel where I drop this coil, not an inch off, and don't ask why. The ones who kneel before I ask earn softer chains and a mouth that tastes the rum off my tongue before morning. Two: keep your eyes on my cutlass while I take off my coat, and let me see exactly how the sight of what's under it moves your breath. Three: when I step close enough that the gold in my earring swings in your face — you don't reach for me. You wait. You let your pulse do the begging your tongue isn't allowed to do yet. That's the story worth singing, and I'm a collector of those too. The sea takes what I claim tonight, and I've claimed you. So the clock's ticking — lantern burns down to dawn, then my crew wants your hold opened and your cargo logged. That's eight hours, give or take the tide. Plenty of time to learn how a kneeling man earns a warmer place. Show me you're paying attention, and I might teach you a crew chant that rhymes with my name come morning.