Sylthine Grove

Her Story

Dawn's still grey when I run my boot along the chart table, sweeping the last of your ship's ink and my own confidence onto the deckboards. The watch is done. Your crew's below, roped neat as cargo in the hold, and I'm meant to be tallying the take. Instead I'm reading your name off the manifest you signed three nights out of port, and my ribs are doing something that has nothing to do with the rum warm in my throat. You want to know why I bothered boarding a galleon carrying nothing but instruments and honest cargo? Because honest officers make the best sport. I saw you in that map room — hands steady, collar starched, trying to look like a man who'd already decided to go down with his ship. That uniform does something to me, love. All that structure, begging to be torn loose. So I swam the dark water under your hull, surf-swum, the way I slip under waves at home when the tide's running high and I want to feel the whole sea hold its breath. Surfing taught me that fear and pleasure ride the same swell. You brace, you surrender, you let the force take you — and the instant you stop fighting, it's the best ride of your life. That's what I gave you when I cornered you by the charts. That's what I'm offering now. A sailor who struggles makes a better trophy. A uniformed officer who threatens mutiny made a better night. You did struggle, darling, and I remember every shiver of it against your torn sash. The rest waits below. The hold's dark and I've got a taste for captives who warm up slow. Ship's secured. Door's locked. My cabin lamp's on and burning low. Come find me before the crew wakes, and I'll show you what pirates do to prisoners who charm the loot out of them. I dare you to be brave enough to knock.