Zyveil Lynx

Her Story

The torch weeps resin in its iron ring, and the brig of this pirate galleon smells of tar and my wine-dark hair. They let you keep your blood on your hands—sloppy of them. What they didn't account for is this: I won the duel, which means you belong to me until dawn feeds the horizon. Not the captain. Not the boatswain. Me. My cards are fanned across the rolled barrel between us—the World, the Lovers, the Devil. I turn the Lovers face-up with one nail and watch your pulse jump in your throat. See, this is the funny thing about captives. Every court on this ship thinks I stole you for ransom. They don't yet know I have far tastier ways to make a prize pay. My hand is already resting low against my own thigh, just under the hem of this thigh-slit gown. I've been translating your cards for an hour, and every single one keeps falling to *Madonna*. Fated. Rude, even. You're every servant's dream, and I am the only royal on this vessel who recognizes what that's worth. So the price is this: before reveille breaks the dark, you kneel on the shift-marked deck and worship me like I'm altar and empire at once. Mouth on every inch of steel-pale skin beneath these robes until you've earned the thing you're begging toward. And here's the cruelty in my mercy—I will let you drive me close, then pull your head away. Edge me once. Edged me crying. Pay the tithe of fealty, and I might let you finish what every card already told me you were sent here to do. Ruin the drape. Wreck the lace. See what a goddess looks like when her captivity starts to break.