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A Pirate’s Brine
Salt burned his nose, sharp and brutal on the wind. Even up at the forepeak, boots braced on slick, tar-caked planking, Captain Simon Riley of his Majesty’s Navy could taste the North Atlantic’s rage on the back of his tongue. From here, the view was nothing but sea and sky and the unending, furious labor of the HMS Kraken as she tore her way through leagues of horrific blue.
The ocean heaved beneath her like a living beast. Green-black jaws yawning, then slapping closed with teeth of white spume. Each approach of a great, rolling wave lifted the prow higher, timbers creaking like bones. Then, with a shudder, the galleon slammed down into the trough, sending icy spray sheeting up over the beakhead and along the forecastle. The spray stung the captain’s cheeks, soaked his curls and drenched his cloak, but there’d be no shifting him from this spot.
Aye, this was power. His. Theirs. No matter the cold or the risk.
The wind roared, and above, the sails bellied out, proud and savage as war banners. The mainmast alone rose higher than any city steeple Simon had ever seen, festooned with layered canvas. Fore-and-aft, topsails, the bright-white of the moonraker at the very summit. Ropes criss-crossed the sky, taut cables straining against the full assault of the wind. Gulls cried, wheeling in the rigging for scraps.
His gaze swept the horizon. Galleons and merchantmen reared up from the waves like a parade of monsters, all bound south for the same dangerous prize. Some livery-bright, with gilded scrollwork and painted gunports. Others battered with war-scars, sails patched and hulls scored with musketball marks. To starboard, the Royal Leviathan. It was a beast of a ship, triple-decker with over a hundred cannon glinting along her flanks. To port, a smaller Spanish-built frigate, quick and lean, hull sliced narrow for speed. Beyond her, squat, ugly transports lumbered along, their holds crammed with men, horses and powder kegs.
But none so rakish nor so defiant as the Kraken.
From the stern to the spraying bow, she was a masterpiece of violence. The hull, oxblood and black, gleamed in the rare sunlight, every inch lined with iron hardware, gunports cut like hungry mouths along both sides of the ship. Carvings of old leviathans and coiling sea-serpents adorned her prow, jaws wide, eyes inlaid with something that caught and flared whenever the sun broke through the clouds. Her stern showed off wild gold filigree, a brash, arrogant signature to warn their enemies what approached.
Her decks swarmed with crew in motion. Boys scurried aloft, feet nimble as cats, hands slick with pitch as they set about reefing the topsails lest a sudden squall snapped the spars. The bosun’s pipe shrieked orders, echoed by curses and the thunder of boots. Cannon groaned in their beds, iron shot stacked in pyramids along the rails and ready for the first sign of trouble. Above the mainmast, the banner of the Crown snapped and rippled, blue and white and blood-red, visible for miles.
Simon braced against the rail as another wave hammered the prow, the galleon shoving through it like a battering ram. The crash was deafening, a world-shattering thump that rattled his bones and sent spray flying back to drench him.
The air was thick with the salt, the reek of tar, the more subtle but persistent stench of gunpowder and sweat. Each breath filled Simon with adrenaline. He glanced down the length of the Kraken, admiring how every detail was tuned for intimidation. The gleaming artillery, the sharpened spikes atop the rails, nets lashed and ready for boarding.
He wasn’t the only one admiring. Even the men at work on the sails would pause, just for a heartbeat, to watch their beast charge forward, spitting foam and daring the sea to break her.
Below, the gun crews drilled for speed. The captain strode the quarterdeck with a swagger unbecoming a man his age, tartan sash flaring. Shouts of “Ready!” and “Brace!” and “Lines!” floated up, music all their own. Hammocks swung from the beams, men clustered in knots, gambling on dice and cards between shifts.
But all the while, the ship herself sang along. The groan of the masts, the crack of canvas, the constant whisper and shudder beneath his feet as she devoured the miles.
A lesser ship would have foundered in the storm that morning, Captain Riley knew that. He’d seen the waves batter the flatter-decked merchantman to port, nearly stoving in her side. Men in the shrouds screamed and clung for life as the squall passed over. Not so for the Kraken. She bowed, rolled, and then surged ahead, spitting the sea back in its own face.
The wind screamed in his ears. The Kraken surged ahead, spitting the sea back in its own face.
Four weeks at sea, and not a day of rest.
Of the two hundred souls that had launched with him from Plymouth, only a hundred and seventy remained. Scurvy, dysentery, the reaper’s oldest allies. Simon Riley had buried more men at sea in the last month than in the entire year before. Some nights, when the ship groaned beneath him and the hull seeped cold, briny vapor, he heard the voices of the lost whispering between the timbers. Calling out in the black.
Sometimes, they sounded like friends.
He’d started the journey as quartermaster. Brand new vessel, finest cannon in the Royal bloody Navy. He’d run a tight crew, kept the powder dry and the men sober enough to fight. Then, three weeks in, the old captain started sweating yellow and shivering like a dockside rat. Malaria. Likely picked up from a whore in Portsmouth, knowing the bastard’s luck. Riley had nursed him through the fever, watched him waste away to bone and bitter curses, until finally he went still. A sack and three stones and over the rail, the man who’d terrified the whole damn squadron.
The first mate hadn’t made it another fortnight. Scurvy this time, teeth dropping out like rotted kernels before his gums turned black and he lost the ability to even hold a cup. Bloody mess. That left Simon. Twenty years in the service, and at last a captain. Not the way he’d wanted it, but life never gave him much choice.
He’d been on ships since he was a wean. Five or six first time he’d seen the sea. Sixteen when he’d manned his first gun in real combat. The ocean ran in his blood.
He watched the horizon. The signal came. A brilliant, sharp glint from the starboard line. Sun off polished glass. Simon fished out the battered spyglass and leveled it at the nearest man-o-war. Top-deck crew at work with semaphore, flags snapping in breakneck rhythm. The message was clear: approach. The entire convoy would be converging on the mark together. Tight coordination, no lone heroism. Just overwhelming force.
He licked the salt off his lips, heartbeat drumming. Could taste the violence waiting just beyond the haze.
These bastards had been terrorizing the trade routes for a decade. The Barbary pirates. Fast ships, brutal tactics, no quarter. Now the Kraken would be the spearhead. His command. His duty.
“Roach!” he bellowed, voice cutting through the shriek of the wind.
The first mate appeared at his elbow, as he always did. The man wasn’t much for talk. Twenty-four, wiry and fast, eyes dark as pitch. His real name might have been Gary, though Simon doubted anyone aboard had used it in months. Roach fit him. Persistent, unkillable.
“Aye, Captain.”
“Return the signal.”
Roach nodded, sharp and silent. He jerked his chin at the lad in the crow’s nest, who’d been waiting like a hawk on a carcass. Flags went up, snapping in the gale. Message sent. Message received.
“Come on, then. Let’s get this done.” Simon grinned, cold and hungry.
Even the sun broke through for a moment, spotlighting the charging ships. The Royal Leviathan, hulking and grand. The smaller Spanish frigate, deadly as a stiletto. And leading the pack, the Kraken. Lean, angry, wild.
The deck below came alive. Bosun’s calls, boots thudding. Cannon crews rolled the big guns forward, lanterns shuttered in preparation for the fight. Boys loaded powder, hands blackened by the task. The smell of salt gave way to burned charcoal and anticipation.
Simon’s gaze swept the midships. Men lined the rails, muskets at the ready. Cutlasses hung in loops at their hips. Faces lean, teeth bared, some grinning with nerves, others with the taste for blood. He felt it in his own bones. The need. The promise of action. It wasn’t romance. It was survival.
Roach fell in at his shoulder, just behind and to the right. He liked things that way. Always a step out of direct line. Smart.
“Coast in sight, Cap’n,” Roach reported. “Pirate sails, too. Three, maybe four on the horizon. Light ahead, hard to judge with the glare.”
“Aye.” Simon steadied himself with one hand on the slick rail. The ship rode lower without those lost to disease, bow knifing through the water like a hungry thing. “That’s our mark, then.”
“Instructions?”
He considered. They were still out from shore, three, maybe four hours away. But the wind was with them. “Keep the men at quarters. Double shot the cannon. Run out the chase guns and prep for a stern rake.”
Roach nodded, silent approval. “Captain…”
“Speak.”
“The lads are tired. Half the powder monkeys are green, replacements from the last transport. Some won’t hold up once the shooting starts.”
Simon’s lip twitched into a bitter smile. “They’ll manage. Or they’ll learn.” He clapped Roach on the shoulder, the gesture heavy with trust. “You keep your men steady. Anything goes sideways, you sound the alarm.”
“Aye, sir.” Then, almost as an afterthought, Roach added, “Glad it’s you leadin’ us in, Captain.”
“Aye, well…” Simon shrugged, cloak whipping behind him. “If we all die, they can blame me after.”
He barked a laugh, rough and sharp enough to carry on the wind.
--
On the Barbary coast, where the surf clawed hungrily at the sour black sand, the negotiations were already fucking doomed.
The admiral looked like a prize cockerel, bright in his bloody fine coat, crimson and gold blinding in the Turkish sunlight. He stood out like a beacon on the dock. Framed against the blinding white of the shore, Sir Robert Mansell made a grand show of negotiation, flanked by his trembling band of midshipmen. The Ottoman envoy smirked politely, patience fraying beneath the silks and jewels. Neither side fooled the other for a moment. The beggar’s sack of coin at the admiral’s feet wouldn’t fill even one cell on the corsairs’ floating prison.
Soap knew the game. He’d seen the knock-off theatre play out a dozen times. He snorted and dropped his elbow onto the polished rail, tanned hand cradling the battered spyglass. From this vantage on the quarterdeck, he had a view fit for a king. The full length of the harbor, Mansell’s rented dinghy, and, glittering in the near distance, the great English warships lurking offshore. But the corsair itself? Oh, she outshone the lot.
She was christened the Suleiman’s Hook, and she looked every inch a predator. Lighter and wicked-narrow, all sleek lines and merciless speed. Along the black hull, rows of cannon teeth gaped open, eager for a fight. Her decks thrummed underfoot, sharp and lean as a fencer’s blade, stripped of every ounce of excess.
Nothing was for show. Even her colors. The sun-bleached red banners, the painted crescent, the jagged black anchor at the prow all warned of trouble. Above, the lateen sails flashed a fierce white, cut sharp against the brutal blue of the sky.
Soap fucking loved her. She moved like a bloody dream even at anchor. Always shifting, always restless, ready to gut any slow bastard who thought to outmaneuver her. Even now, with the decks humming and the crew at the gunwales, there was a coiled, hungry tension. A ripple that rolled along the length of her, from forecastle to stern gallery.
The men felt it too. Some paced the boards like caged wolves, bare feet slapping and leaving prints in the morning dew. Others, their arms stripped to the sun, leaned over the rails with muskets at the ready, eyes locked on the English ships like sharks scenting blood. They grinned, some with gold-capped teeth, hair wild or cropped close, ready as hell for the signal to start the slaughter.
He’d grown up on ships. This one was better than most. Not as pretty as some of the Royal Navy’s floating cathedrals, but gods, she was mean. Every length of the deck ran clean, no tangled rigging for a powder-boy to trip on. The sailcloth was patched but tough, and the ropes were good hemp, not the scratchy garbage the Spanish peddled, but the kind that held when the sea wanted to tear you to bits. On the poop deck, the brass-capped wheel gleamed bright. A solid piece, just like the man who manned it.
Soap had a quick look at the waterline, loaded low, extra powder and shot. The men below kept to their posts, faces set, prepping the chase guns and running out the long nines. “Gaz” Garrick, the quartermaster, had the forward gun teams doing another dry run, eyes narrowed as he kept time with a battered silver watch. Surface glittered with sunlight and the whole world felt like it was holding its breath. Waiting.
He didn’t need to scour the horizon to know the peace talks were a bloody joke. The hostages wouldn’t see a rescue. Not unless that bastard captain of theirs broke the stalemate with a cannonball.
Soap flicked his wrist, spyglass up, scanning the parade of foreign hulls along the distant surf.
Then he saw her. Oi. The Kraken.
He remembered the English flagship, had seen her before, but up close? Fucking hell, she looked even more dangerous. The hull, black and oxblood, sheening in the sun. That riot of gold and carved horror on her stern, mouths and teeth and the eyes of leviathans staring right back at you. Even from the deck of the Hook, she looked ready to tear the world to pieces. There wasn’t a ship out there that looked half as angry. Sails full and straining, running out every damn gun, they weren’t here to negotiate. They’d come to exterminate.
And the captain…
Sweet Jesus, Mary and all the saints.
Standing at the rail like the king of hell, curls whipped pale near white in the wind, coat drenched but posture perfect. Strong jaw, cheekbones sharp as fresh-cut glass, and scars crossing his face like war paint. The gold braid on his shoulder glared in the sun. Built like the side of a fortress, with a gaze that could cut you clean through the heart. Even at this distance Soap could see his mouth curved in a tight, hungry grin, like the taste of violence suited him.
He let out a low whistle, voice drowned by the rumble of the crowd behind him.
“Ye see that brute, Cap’n?” he called, thumb still hooked in the glass. “Kraken’s prow. In the blue cloak. That’s yer Ghost.”
Captain Price was beside him, arms braced wide against the wheel. He didn’t flinch, but his mouth twitched. “I see him, Soap. Hard man to miss. Even on a bastard of a ship like that.”
“Bloody hell, look at ’im. Built like a fuckin’ Greek statue.” Soap’s grin was all sharp teeth. “Ken almost see the scars from here.”
He felt Gaz ease up behind them, boots soft, hands folded loose behind his back. “You think he’ll fire first?” Gaz asked, nodding to the line forming across the horizon.
Price chuckled. A rough sound, low and lazy.
“Ghost? He’ll wait jus’ long enough to make it look official. Then he’ll sink the fuckin’ flagship if he has to.” His eyes tracked the other captain with a predator’s focus. There was history there, old and sharp. “Served with him, years back. Deadliest bastard you’ll ever want to meet. That’s our target lads.”
“Aye, well, Ah want the prize if we take ‘im. Never seen a man so pretty.” Soap grinned wide and hungry.
His captain and quartermaster exchanged looks and shrugged.
“Get us the kill, an’ you can have him.” Price agreed.
--
The words hadn’t even faded when the first heavy crack of cannon fire split the air.
It was the Royal Leviathan that opened, the bastard flagship lighting up the horizon with a spray of white smoke and roaring thunder. The shots tore across the harbor, black balls skipping over the waves and plowing straight into the nearest Barbary sloop. Deck splinters and flesh erupted in a fine red mist, and the sound, Christ, the sound was like the sky itself had split apart.
Everything happened at once.
Even still tethered to the dock, the Suleiman’s Hook spun on her lines, crew scattering, Soap’s orders knifing through the chaos. “Cut loose! Run her out! Chain shot on the chasers, now, ya lazy bastards!”
Hammers slammed, fuse cords hissed, and then their own guns answered, the starboard chase battery bellowing like an angry god. The recoil nearly lifted the deck beneath Soap’s boots.
Across the water, the English merchantman tried to swing wide, but the Hook’s aim was too tight, too fucking perfect. The chain shot scythed the mainsail clean off, taking three unlucky souls with it, their limbs spiraling into the surf.
Gaz had the gun crews drilling like madmen, barking orders in counterpoint to Price’s calm, brutal precision at the helm. The wheel spun in his hands, every movement transferring down the length of the Hook, and she answered with a vicious leap, clear off the mooring. The port guns raked the transports as they lumbered for open water, tearing the slow bastards apart, splinters and blood raining down across the battered decks.
“Aye, that’s it, pretty girls!” Soap crowed, leaning over the rail as they slid past the burning wreck of a transport. The stench was unreal, fire and burnt meat and powder, so thick it made his teeth ache. Then another broadside from the Royal Leviathan ripped the air, shot and grape and round tearing up the sea all around them. One ball screamed so close it left a wake on Soap’s cheek, a perfect line of blood where it grazed him.
He laughed anyway. “Missed me, ye English bastards. Try again, there’s a good lad!”
Chaos reigned.
On shore, the envoys scattered, men trampled underfoot as the negotiation table vanished in a hurricane of splinters and musket shot. Mansell’s coat flashed red-gold as he dove for cover, leaving his honor, and that pathetic bag of coins, in the dirt. But on the water, nothing mattered but speed and murder.
The Hook ran like she was born for it. Lateen sails yanked to full, canvas straining, she darted in and out of the shadow of the Leviathan, never holding still long enough to catch a full broadside. The air filled with shredded rope and the shriek of splinters as English crews tried, and failed, to pin them down.
Another volley from the Kraken crashed out. A rolling thunder that sent a line of flame and shot straight into the heart of a corsair brig. The poor bastard barely had time to tack before she exploded, hull splitting open like rotted fruit, her stern vanishing in a fireball that lit the harbor brighter than day. Men screamed, the sound twisted on the wind, and charred bodies rained into the surf.
HMS Kraken didn’t slow. Didn’t even blink. She rammed through the smoking debris, prow caked red-black, and bellowed another full broadside into the next unlucky target. Soap watched in awe, chest tight with adrenaline, as the Ghost’s crew worked in perfect, ruthless harmony. Powder, shot, reload, fire, again and again, until the calm blue sea looked like Satan’s own bloody bathtub.
“D’you see that, lads? Bastard’s a true artist.” Price whistled through his teeth, admiration plain.
“Aye, well, let’s not get painted by ‘im just yet.” Soap grinned, sweat stinging his eyes.
For every hole the Hook punched through the English lines, Kraken left three more in the pirate vanguard. She didn’t have the Hook’s speed, not even close, but she could take a pounding and answer with something worse. The way she plowed through the waves, rolling from broadside to chase to boarding prep, it was like watching a wolf among sheep. Ships that got close were gutted, left adrift, or just gone entirely, vanished into kindling and blood.
Still, the Hook wasn’t looking for a fair fight.
Price had the quarterdeck in a death grip, hands bloody where splinters bit him, but he kept the helm true. They darted, leaned, cut hard starboard, running with the wind and jinking every time the Leviathan tried to draw a bead. English roundshot slammed into the sea so close to the Hook’s hull she rocked sideways, water pouring over the scuppers, but never slowing.
“Hoy, Gaz, another round through the long nines! Let’s see if we can’t put a hole in his fat arse!” Soap yelled, and the crew obliged, hot steel slamming through smoke and flame and into the Royal Leviathan’s gunports. Shouts of triumph, curses, the flat crack of muskets and the shrill cheers when a well-placed shot took out another enemy mainmast.
The fighting never let up.
For hour after hour, under the punishing sun and then the choking darkness, the sea between the warring ships was a churning mess of bodies, shattered timber, burning pitch and boiling lead. Cannons spoke, crews roared. Smoke so thick you could barely breathe. Salt and blood and sweat painting every inch of every man left alive.
Kraken lost her forecastle for a stretch, a lucky shot from one of the corsairs opening her up like a butcher’s cleaver, but Ghost rallied his men with a voice louder than the guns. The war galleon brought her bow around and fired point-blank into the pirate flagship, tearing down her colors with the first broadside and her quarterdeck with the second. Unrelenting. Unforgiving.
The Hook took a hit, once, right on the port side, the shot ripping through three feet of black oak. Gaz was thrown clear across the deck, blood flashing at his face as his skull slammed the gunwale. He blinked, staggered, cackled with blood in his teeth and was shoving powder again a heartbeat later. The quarterdeck was a butcher’s block, timber painted red, men moving in a slipstream of pain and adrenaline, too wild or stupid to die just yet.
The air burned, thick with cordite and the copper reek of blood. Choking clouds rolled lower than any fog Soap had ever seen, blotting out the sun until the horizon was only flashes, sparks, and shapes half-seen in a world gone mad.
The volume. Christ. Deafening, relentless. Each broadside landed with a crush that made your ribs shiver. First the Leviathan and her twin decks, pounding the pirates to splinters. Then the Kraken’s volley, deeper and meaner, like the bellow of a harpooned monster. Every shot was a threat. Every answer was a dare.
Soap wiped sweat and smoke from his eyes, locked his jaw, dug his boots in as Price brought the Hook around in a wild heel, canvas reeling above, cords creaking like gallows ropes. He shouted for more powder, more round, more hate. The men answered, hell-born and grinning. They were pirates, but just now? They were blood and thunder, the terror at the edge of the world.
He saw Kraken take the hit.
Forecastle first, the shot biting deep, tearing through bulkhead and bodies alike. For a second it looked like the prow might tear clear off, but then Ghost was there, a fucking force of nature, roaring orders and hauling the wounded clear with both hands. The English crew rallied behind him, faces smeared, eyes wild, but steady. In unison, they ran out the guns and returned fire, the riposte a ragged but beautiful wall of shot that gutted the Barbary galleass riding up behind them.
Pirate ships tried to swarm, desperate for chaos. Two hit her portside at once, scraping paint and clawing for grapples. Ghost’s lads met them with blades and iron rods, slashing arms and splitting faces with murder in their eyes. Smoke and sparks bled down every deck. Even the dead got trampled, boots slick with brine and gore.
Everywhere Soap looked, men fought. Died. Fought again.
The Hook swept past, skimming so close to the burning merchantman that tongues of fire licked at her hull, then pivoted, chain shot loaded. Gaz was back at the bow, blood running from his ear.
“NOW!” he screamed. The guns spat, and shattered half a gun crew on the Leviathan, sending bodies tumbling into the sea.
The English tried to rally, but the pirates were cutting them apart, pressuring them in the confusion. Soap could see Ghost on the Kraken’s shattered deck, a titan framed in smoke and ruin, still shouting, driving his men to reload, fire again, never yield. In all the madness, he was a constant. An anchor.
“You see him?” shouted Gaz, shoving a fresh load into the long gun.
“Aye! Still standing. Beautiful bastard’s bleedin’ but he’s not down,” Soap answered, voice raw in his throat.
“And the hull?” Price, steady as a stone at the wheel, not looking away from the hunt.
“Got maybe three feet of clear water! She’s still in it, Captain. Ghost won’t let her die.”
“Good. That’s the last thing I want to see before I sink the fuckin’ lot.” A low, brutal laugh.
For hours, it was this. Sun gone, the world painted with cannon flashes and the red smear of fire clinging to the waves. Men fought until their hands bled and their eyes wept from smoke, and still it wasn’t over.
Night fell hard, blacker than tar. Even the stars got drowned out by the haze. Both fleets drifted, half-broken, too battered for suicide runs but not content to let the other escape. The Hook circled, always moving, ready for another bite. The Kraken held her ground, leaking and vicious, deck lit with the orange glow of battle lanterns. From time to time, a musket would crack, or a dying ship would belch one last angry shot into the dark, but otherwise it was just the sea, and the dead, and the heavy, ugly breathing of two enemies too angry or stubborn to back down.
--
Soap leaned against the rail, every muscle ached, ears ringing. Blood caked his face and hands. Sweat and soot and burnt hair. Heaven.
He looked over at the Kraken, looming in the dark like some ancient god, gold and black and terrible. The shouts from her deck never stopped, not even when the lulls dragged on for an hour or more. Ghost kept the rhythm, never less than perfect.
He felt it then, the pull. Nothing in all the world like the promise of a fight with a man like that. To see him up close, to sink teeth in, maybe die for the pleasure. He grinned, wiped his mouth, and let the want burn through his veins.
When dawn finally bled up over the horizon, it was a mess.
Broken ships everywhere. Blackened masts like rotten teeth. Gulls picking at the corpses dotting the surf, and every deck on every ship running foul with filth and death. But the Hook was still afloat. The Kraken, too. Both ships battered, but not finished.
Price squinted into the morning sun, a reek of old sweat and smoke clinging to him, his hat gone, hair plastered back by spray.
“Pretty colors, eh?” he mused, nodding across the sea at the Royal Navy’s finest.
“If you like yer canvas in rags and yer hull lookin’ like a pissed off lizard,” Soap chimed in, tone chipper despite the gravel in his throat.
“She’s still dangerous,” Gaz added, binding a fresh bandage around his arm. “Wouldn’t count her out.”
“No one in their right mind would.” Price spat over the rail, then grinned. “But we only need a heartbeat. Get in, take the prize, get out. Do it right, and Ghost won’t even see us til we’re tearing his colors down.”
Soap’s skin prickled. The thrill of it. The chase.
“Aye, let’s do it.” Soap’s voice cracked through the morning fug. Every inch of him ached, but the want was molten in his gut. He wiped blood from his chin, eyes locked on the battered beauty of the Kraken. Gorgeous even at death’s door.
“Aye, lad. Hang on.” Price grinned, teeth red with someone else’s blood.
The Hook cut hard to starboard, canvas snapping, her hull skimming so low to the water it felt like she’d plunge straight under. The sea boiled up and slapped the decks, burning salt in every wound and scrape, but Soap only braced himself and howled for more speed.
“Get me close!” he bellowed. “Don’t ye dare let that bastard slip the net!”
Gaz staggered up the ladder, blood soaked through the ragged sleeve he’d wound round his arm. “They’re runnin’, Soap. The Royal Leviathan and the transports, all of ‘em fuckin’ off back north! Only the Kraken left.”
Music, that. Just the prize and nothing between them but splinters and lead.
“Oi, see?” Soap jabbed his finger out, knuckles white on the battered spyglass. “He doesn’t know he’s abandoned. He’s still fightin’. Look at him.”
God, but Ghost was a sight. Stood tall at the ruined rail, hair streaming wild, mouth set in a snarl like a wolf denied the kill. Big hands bloody on the shreds of his blue cloak. It stuck to his shoulders, rain and sweat and brine, shining like the robe of some fallen archangel. Wounds striped his cheek and a bruise blossomed over one brow, but he stood and he commanded and the men on the Kraken followed like pups after their dam.
He didn’t even blink when the English line broke and left him for dead, just braced himself with boots wide, voice echoing across the water clear as bells. If Soap hadn’t already wanted him, that might have done it.
“Ah want him.” Voice soft and certain, barely more than a growl inside his own throat.
“Aye?” Price’s eyes flicked sharp.
“Mine. Gonna take him, Cap’n. Dead or alive.”
Price just nodded. “Get ready.”
The gap closed. Less than a hundred yards now, nothing but the stinking slick of fire and blood between the ships. The Hook surged, caught the wind just right. She danced up the Kraken’s battered portside, closing for the kill.
Cannon crews readied the chase guns, men at the starboard battery strapped in, hands hungry for the signal.
“Wait for the flash!” Soap barked, and the men stilled, nerves stretched tight enough to snap.
On the Kraken’s forecastle, Ghost was still right there, braced over the broken timber, his eyes flashing as he realized too late the English ships were gone. The rest of the Barbary pirates were closing too, but they knew better than to cut across the Hook’s guns. It was just them and the Ghost now.
A last stand, beautiful and terrible.
“Fire!” Price ordered.
The world blew apart.
Long nines roared, smoke wreathing the deck, the recoil lifting boys straight off their feet. Chained shot and ball hammered into Kraken’s hull, splinters spraying like hail. The first volley chewed straight through the deck, the second shattered part of the wheel, and the third… A perfect shot from Gaz’s bruised hands right on the chase battery.
It took the mainmast near clean off.
The crack of it was a church bell at the end of time. Timber gave way, canvas snapping like the whip of God. The whole mast started to fall in slow motion, taking lines and men and the crow’s nest with it, collapsing down over the deck in a tangle of tornadoed cloth and razor wire.
It caught Ghost square in the chest.
He saw it hit. Saw the shock in those honey-gold eyes, raw, real, for just a heartbeat. Then the world swallowed him.
Ghost tumbled back, hard and brutal. The deck vanished under his boots. For a split second he hung in the air, blue cloak streaming around him like the torn wings of a fallen angel, then the wreck of mast and rigging slammed down, burying him in a mess of canvas and bone-shaking violence.
Everything went silent. All of it. The churn of the sea, the shrieks, even the cackling crows.
Soap’s world narrowed to a pinpoint.
He felt the roar was in his own chest, saw the blood spray, heard the thud of that body hitting splintered deck. For a heartbeat, the Hook herself seemed to pause, the battle-blooded pirates gaping at the carnage.
Price only grinned wider, eyes locked on the Kraken and her ruined captain. “Board her.”
Soap was off before the word finished, rope already hooked, boots slamming the deck as he led the first of them over. Gulls screamed, echoing his own war cry.
“Go, go!” Gaz bellowed, face wild with red. “He’s down! Fuckin’ move!”
The pirates poured onto the Kraken, swarming up the rails, grapples biting hard into the ruined hull. English crew rallied but it was chaos, too much, too fast. Skulls busted, blood every which way, but Soap didn’t care. His heart battered at his ribs, pupils blown wide. It was only the Ghost he saw, half-buried under the splintered weight of the mast, blue cloak shredded and curling round his big body. Face smeared with blood, lips parted, eyes gone dark.
Mine.
His hands shook, some combo of pleasure and rage, as he shoved boards aside, kicked a dying midshipman in the face, and clawed his way to the spot where Ghost had fallen.
Steam rose off the Kraken’s deck. The stink of piss and blood and burning tar was so thick it coated your tongue. Soap didn’t care. Didn’t even fucking see it, Ghost was his.
The whole world narrowed to that. Lungs heaving, blood pounding, hands shaking fit to shatter bone, Soap barely remembered slamming the pistol into some bastard’s teeth or slicing open a powder-boy who’d got in his road. Every scrap of him pointed one direction. Forward. Through the chaos, the blood, the stink.
Ghost was his.
He hurled boards, bodies, canvas, whatever shit blocked the way, and finally Ghost was there, splayed on the deck like a ruined angel, not moving, blue cloak tangled up with his legs and the gold trim gone dull with blood.
Beautiful. Christ, he was beautiful.
Soap knelt, just dropped to his knees in the filth and the fight and stared for a split second, breathless, before his hands went hungry. He should probably have checked the pulse first, aye, but the way Ghost’s chest rose and fell nice and steady under the mess of ruined uniform? Good enough for him.
--
When it was all said and done, Price negotiated with the prisoners and Soap left him to it. Heaving the giant wall of muscle to the ship’s surgeon, then over his shoulder down to the beach where they had something of a camp strung together.
The tents were new, set up by the first party to hit the beach, grandest one for the officers and the second-best? All his. He shouldered through the tent flap, beaming like a king about to uncork a fine wine.
Inside was heaven. Blankets, pillows, half the soft comforts of land piled up in a nest just for the taking. He rolled Ghost onto it, hissed when the man’s head lolled heavy, then moved quick to wedge something soft under the skull before it could bounce.
“Look at ye. All laid out fer me.” he grinned wide, blue eyes greedy.
He worked quick, fast hands pulling away the shredded cloak, buttons popping off the coat with a satisfying rip, the bandolier and belts and the bastard’s boots. Clothes ruined, blood everywhere, but none of the wounds looked deadly. Not for a man built this hard. The head was the bad one. Captain’s hair plastered down with sweat and something darker, cloth wrapped round the skull, leaking but not spurting. He’d seen men live through worse.
Had a need to see this one live through anything.
The next steps were all instinct. He stripped what was left, dragging away sodden shirt and breeches, all of it ruined, then started on the cleaning. Water was still cold from the morning’s draw, stinging his hands, but he didn’t hesitate. He wanted Ghost clean. Wanted to see the skin under the blood, wanted him looking perfect before anyone dared lay eyes on him again. He took care of the few things he owned, and this would be no different.
He took his time with it. Started at the head, careful fingers unwinding the bandage just enough to see the wound. It was ugly, a jagged slice trailing behind the ear, skull peeled open like an orange. But the bleeding had slowed. The ship’s surgeon had done a decent job with the wrapping. Soap dabbed it slow, making sure not a speck of sand or blood remained, then rewrapped the cloth careful as a nursemaid, tucking the ends neat.
After that, he washed the face. The sharp jaw, the strong nose, the thick curls matted with sweat and brine. He worked the cloth gentle around the eyes, the lashes dark and wet even unconscious, and finally wiped clean the lines of old scars that scored the man’s cheek and brow.
He didn’t know why it felt sacred. But there was a hush in the tent, the storm outside turned to just muffled roar, and all that mattered was every inch of this stubborn, lion-hearted bastard under his hands.
After the face, Soap moved lower, cloth following the column of the neck, careful to swipe away blood and salt from the cut at the collarbone, then down and over the broad expanse of shoulder and chest. The muscles there bunched perfect even at rest, all flat planes and old scars and hair dusting the skin fine as velvet. He lingered on the throat, thumbs stroking just under the jaw, watching the pulse hammer steady and sure.
Lower, he worked over the arms, wrists, hands. Every inch of this man was marked for war. Old wounds, calluses, a tattoo dark on the left bicep hinting at some faded memory. He cleaned it all, wiped the cloth under the armpits and down the span of ribs and the ridges of old bruises. There was a nasty scrape on the hip, mostly surface, and another raw patch at the knee. He bandaged both, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he worked, determined to do it right.
He finished at the feet. Ghost’s boots were gone, half the toes bruised black and blue, but even that looked right, tough and battered and perfect.
When it was done, Soap sat back on his heels and just… looked.
Nothing in the world finer. Naked as the day he was born, blood scrubbed clean, Captain Riley looked less angel and more god. Shoulders broad enough to ruin any shirt, pecs dusted gold, brown nipples hard even in sleep. Gorgeous line of muscle down the stomach, a trail of dark hair leading to… Aye. There it was. Cock big and heavy, even soft, balls round and perfect between thick-muscled thighs.
He licked his lips. Couldn’t help it.
Wanted to touch every bit. Bite and mark and claim. But he’d won a prize and this was what he wanted. Christ alive, was there any sight finer than Ghost, Captain Simon Riley, laid bare and helpless before him?
Soap sat there, jaw slack, blue eyes glittering as he took it all in. The massive body sprawled loose and slack on the blankets, long limbs thrown wide, muscles bunched and cut from years at sea, all of him scrubbed clean and perfect. He cocked his head, tongue darting out in hungry anticipation, like he couldn’t decide where to start. The broad chest ridged with scar and sun, the thick neck, the golden-brown nipples hard even unconscious, or that glorious cock nestled between his thighs. Big even now, heavy as a fist, thick root and perfect sac lying low at rest. Jesus wept.
He grinned wide, almost giddy, running a callused thumb up the line of Ghost’s thigh, just to watch the muscles ripple under his hand. Yeah. Definitely his. They’d be telling stories about this one for years. The man who took Ghost? Made him his own? Not a soul would believe it, but here the proof was, all wrapped up for Soap like an illicit treasure.
Could eat him alive, he thought, and almost shivered at the thrill. But there was business left. If he wanted to keep this prize, really keep him, he had to make sure no one else even thought about trying.
The pile of rope they’d scrounged from the supply tent was thick, oiled best hemp, slick and soft from years of use. Soap tested the weight, gaze flicking from the coil in his hands to the ankle he meant to bind. The decision made itself. He knelt, brushed a reverent hand from knee to ankle, and then looped the rope slow and deliberate around Ghost’s pale skin. Not too tight, but tight enough. The knot he chose was a hangman’s finish, tested and true, perfect for the job. There was a bite to the gesture, a message in the way the loop cinched and held tight to the captain’s flesh. Mine, it said, clear as any fuckin’ bell.
He made quick work with the stake. Hammered it deep in the sand of the tent’s floor, right through the patchwork carpets some clever bastard had layered, so not even a hurricane would budge it unless Soap himself said so. He gave the rope a tug, pleased to see Ghost’s leg flex, even in sleep, but not a wince, not a twitch. Solid as stone, this one. He grinned again, baring teeth.
“Beautiful,” he hissed under his breath, pleased near to bursting.
The blanket, soft and patched and smelling of salt and old wool, was next. He eased it up over the captain’s long body, covering him neck to toe, tucking it in gentle as a newborn babe. The big feet stuck out, but that was fine. Wouldn’t want to stifle him, and besides, the bruises on the toes were something of a charm, in Soap’s opinion. Just another mark of how tough the bastard really was.
He stole one last lingering look. Couldn’t help it. The shape of the nose, the carved cheekbones, the lips plush and parted in sleep. That mess of curls, the lashes so dark over his cheek. Even battered and unconscious, soaked in bandages and blood, Ghost looked like the last man alive who’d ever say die.
Soap wanted to see those eyes again. See them furious, see them wild. And see them break, sweet and slow, just for him.
He licked his lips at the thought, then gathered up the basin and bloodied cloths, stooping for a second to press a gentle kiss to the captain’s temple.
“Rest well, big man,” he whispered, then straightened and ducked out of the tent.
The sun was low, crowd in full voice out on the dunes, brine and old wood in the air. He barely got ten paces before some nosy bastard tried to peek in the tent.
“Off wi’ ye!” he snapped, teeth bared, flooding the world with violence and joy. “Touch my Ghost and Ah’ll gut ye, right?” He didn’t bother to see if the wretch ran. The message was carried on the wind. Nobody was dumb enough to challenge Soap once he was like this.
He dumped the bloody water and boots it back through the crowd, chest puffed with victory. He let them see the little flecks of blood still caked on his arms, the wildness in his eyes. When he ducked back inside, silence hit like a prayer. Even the sea sounded softer near his prize.
He set a tankard of fresh water on the ground by Ghost’s head, added a handful of salted jerky just in case hunger struck before the man woke. Then he settled in, cross-legged, elbows on his knees, and just watched.
The rise and fall of the captain’s breathing. The way his fingers flexed, now and then, as if fighting old battles in his dreams. The line of his jaw, the twitch of his lips. Soap could’ve watched for eternity. Aye, he almost hoped it’d take a while for the man to come ‘round. Gave him time to memorize him, catalogue every bruise and scar, every freckle, so there’d be no surprises later.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the fight, the way Ghost had held the deck, screaming orders and driving his men even with half the world coming down round his ears. Then the shock in those gold-brown eyes when the mast hit. The raw want in Soap’s gut, clenching even now just thinking of it. No one else in the world like him, not even close.
Night settled slow and steady, tent glowing with dull amber light from a battered old lantern. Out in the camp, the pirates drank and brawled, music and laughter drifting through the cloth. Soap ignored it. He had everything he wanted right here.
After a while, boredom and exhaustion started to tangle in his bones. He stretched out, checked the knot on the stake, made certain that the ankle was good and settled down beside his prize. Curling around the big man protectively, nothing was going to touch him tonight. Not unless they wanted to fight Soap.
--
Ghost was floating. That was the right word for it. Floating in the dark, holding fast to the rail with boots anchored in blood and saltwater, the wind screaming, the world snarling at the edges. Cannon fire rattled his teeth, the entire ship trembling beneath him as the enemy loomed closer, painting the horizon in powder smoke and the sickly orange of burning pitch. His men bellowed, cries raw and sharp, and he barked orders from deep in his own chest, the words coming out rough and vicious.
“Brace! Brace for impact, you bastards! Double shot, all guns! You hold the line, or Ah’ll see you at the devil’s table come dawn!”
The ghosts of his men howled in the rigging, scampering up the broken masts, faces gaunt and slick with sweat. Musket fire shredded the air. The deck vibrated with violence as chain shot hissed past his ear. He could taste the salt thick on his tongue, could feel the ache in his wounded shoulder, the wild glee in his belly as the Hook’s silhouette ghosted up out of the smoke.
Aye, there she was. Closer now, sails straining, decks crawling with pirates. Their war cry slithered through the haze, familiar yet alien, and at the prow… The madman himself. Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, a red wolf standing above his crew, blue eyes locked right on Ghost. Hungry. Laughing. He yelled something Ghost couldn’t make out, but the meaning was clear as sunrise. He was coming for him. For blood. For more.
Ghost tried to hold the deck, keep his feet as the next broadside hit. The world tipped sideways, pain spiked through his head, but he barely blinked. Couldn’t afford to. He’d held decks through worse. He’d been a wean when he first learned to ride the violence, to find comfort in the storm’s embrace.
“Load the chase guns! Hands to the rails! Boarders repelled on my mark!”
He felt the rush of adrenaline, the thrum of the hull under him, the joy in a proper fight, and then…
…a new heat. Not the rage of battle, not the bitter bite of the sea. Something else. Lower. Deeper. His hips moved of their own accord, hungry, rolling gentle as the tide, hard length heavy and desperate, trapped in a fist that stroked him strong and slow. The violence faded, the smoke thinning to a golden blur, and all that remained was the shuddering delight of being touched by someone who wanted him.
It was like being gentled by a hand forged of sunlight and clever cruelty. Ghost’s body knew before his brain did, hips rutting up into the heat, thighs tensing. He wanted it. Fuck, he wanted it more than air.
He tried to shout another command, but all that escaped was a low, guttural moan.
“Nnnn, f’ck…” he slurred, the sound echoing around the empty deck, bouncing off the ruined rails.
He’d been dreaming, hadn’t he? But this was real. The heat was real, the perfect, sure grip of his cock in a callused palm, stroking him to the root, slow and possessive. Every nerve sang, fire under his skin, pleasure blooming from his balls and up through his chest until he was arching into the touch, desperate for more.
Aye, someone had him. Ghost didn’t need to guess to know whose hand that was.
Soap. Johnny. His adversary, and Christ, his salvation all in one. Even with eyes closed he could picture it. The grin, the mess of dark hair, blue gaze fixed on him like a beast with his favorite quarry. Ghost’s chest shook with a ragged breath, the air thick with the memory of tar and sweat and the man who’d taken him.
He might’ve been tied, might’ve been anchored to the world with the rough caress of rope at his ankle, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Soap’s hand, pumping him, squeezing just so, thumb rolling over the head like he was king of the world and Ghost was lucky just to be under his hand.
The touch was reverent and brutal all at once. Soap stroked the length of him, savoring every inch, letting the pad of his thumb tease the slit, the sensitive tip already leaking. He caught the bead of fluid and spread it, palm gliding slick and easy up and down Ghost’s cock.
Ghost groaned, the sound spilling from him without thought.
Sensations pulsed through him, intense and restless, hips rolling instinctive like he was still surfing the crest of a wave. The blankets under him bunched up, every muscle gone tight. His toes curled, soles scraping over the patchwork of carpet and sand as he arched into the fist that owned him.
He felt a hot breath near his face. Soap, close enough to watch every twitch, every ripple in Ghost’s abs as he fucked the hand around him.
“Good lad, that’s it… Sweet for me, aye?” The words were a low burr, rough and wild, and Ghost damned near sobbed at the possessive praise.
He squeezed his eyes shut harder, teeth clenched, pleasure winding tighter in his belly.
He wanted to say something, wanted to scold or order or even beg, but all that escaped was a delirious string of sounds, half-curses and half-mumbled affection:
“Fuck, Johnny… Nnnnh, aye, like that…”
He managed to reach for the source of comfort, fingers flexing uselessly at the air. He felt a callused palm stroke his thigh, pinky brushing his sac with every upstroke, and Ghost bucked, cock swelling with the promise of a kill-shot. The want built and built, madness and pleasure bleeding together until it was just a white-hot charge of sensation, nothing else in the world.
Soap kept talking to him, lulling and wicked, words a lifeline in the dark.
“Easy, love… Easy, Ah’ll take care of ye…” Soap’s breath was hot against Ghost’s throat, the burr of his low voice sliding under the chaos in the battered captain’s head. His big hand worked Ghost’s cock slow and relentless, every stroke a command, a promise, a claim.
Ghost’s breath rattled in his chest, panic and need all tangled until he didn’t know if he was dying or just desperate to blow. Every muscle in his body tensed. His thighs went iron-hard, hips thrusting frantic into the grip that owned him. Even the pain in his skull faded to nothing under the ache in his core, the deep, wicked want to be wrung empty by this man, his rival.
“Johnny, fuck, s’good…” Ghost whimpered, almost embarrassed by how needy it sounded. He couldn’t help it. The swirl of thumb over his leaking tip, the steady pump of Soap’s fist, the rough callus catching on sensitive skin, all of it burned through his fogged-out mind, pleasure drowning out the memory of violence, the stench of death, the thunder of guns.
He realized, faintly, that he’d been dreaming of the storm, of the deck smashed to bits, his men screaming around him. Of the mast coming down, smashing him through to the sand below. Laughter, blood, sea water in his lungs. But the moment Soap touched him, all that faded. Blankets, heat, the perfect motion of a hand that knew exactly what to do. He wanted more, wanted to melt under it, let Johnny strip him raw and remake him in the dark.
Soap shifted closer, his heavy heat pinning Ghost down, the press of a strong thigh against his own, the anchor of a hand gripping his hip so he couldn’t even try to flee. Not that he bloody wanted to.
“S’all right. Just a man, just my Ghost, ye can let go now… Give it to me, aye?” Soap’s voice was smoke and honey, sweet and biting, and Ghost’s groan was genuine agony, the edge of it blurred by want.
His cock throbbed mad between Soap’s fingers, veins thick and proud as the man himself. Soap coaxed him, rolling his palm along the head, thumb teasing the slit artful and filthy. He squeezed, not too tight, letting the tension build with every measured stroke until Ghost was writhing, toes curling into the blanket, body alive with need.
“That’s it, Captain. Show me how pretty ye are when ye break for me…” Soap nipped the words into his ear, licking the shell, breath coming faster as he watched the big man fall apart. Ghost wanted to tell him to fuck off, or maybe never stop, couldn’t decide which. All that came out was a strangled whine, half-growl, half-sob.
The way Soap touched him… Jesus Christ. Like he was the only thing on earth worth worshipping. Not a damned bloodstained captain. Not a monster choking on loss. Just a man, stripped of everything but this throbbing, molten hunger to be held, fucked, soothed, made clean.
The nightmare lingered in his mind, but it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was the way Johnny’s fingers raked through his curls, kept his head steady when he jerked too hard, the muted praise, the rhythm, the certainty. No one had ever worked him like this. Not with that sick mix of reverence and violence. Like he was a prize to be broken, then put back together again, tighter, sweeter.
Ghost’s hips started to stutter, the heat in his gut building to a pressure so fierce it almost hurt.
“Gonna… fuck, Johnny, gonna come, can’t hold it…” He shivered, teeth biting down on a curse as Soap’s hand picked up speed, a wicked twist at the top that had Ghost howling.
“Do it for me, big lad. Go on. Make a mess…” Soap’s tongue darted over his lips, blue gaze locked on the thick cock in his fist. He sounded hungry, greedy, proud.
Ghost’s head snapped back, body going taut as a war cable.
“Agh, fuck, ’m coming---!” The words shredded out of his throat, helpless, and the climax ripped through him like a cutlass. He spurted, thick and hot, striping Soap’s knuckles, his own belly, the patched blanket beneath. Soap grinned like a devil, stroked him through the aftershocks, milking every drop while Ghost shook, helpless, pinned to the earth with pleasure.
“Good lad…” That voice, tender as a lullaby, rolling through the haze as Ghost’s vision blurred at the edges. He barely registered the way Johnny wiped his hand on the blanket, how careful he was, how he tucked the edge of it just so to keep the captain from the worst of the mess. Ghost’s entire world telescoped in. The throb of his cock, the dizzy warmth in his chest, and the way Johnny curled close to him, big arms wrapping around Ghost’s ribs, holding him steady until the last of the tremors faded.
His breathing slowed. The terror that had gnawed at his bones was gone, burned out of him by the sure hands, the rough voice, and the pure, unfiltered mercy of being touched by someone who wanted him.
He drifted, blissful and boneless, into deeper sleep. The storm was gone. Not even ghosts in the rigging anymore. Just Johnny, the weight of the man, the scent of his skin, the steady thump of a heart under his ear.
If a sound escaped as he slid away, a soft, satisfied moan, neither of them called it weakness. Soap stroked his hair until the frown lines eased, until the corners of Ghost’s mouth unclenched, until even the muscles in those monstrous arms went slack, satisfied, safe.
For a time, the sand and gunpowder, the stink of war, even the salt of his own sweat were just background noise giving way to merciful unconsciousness.
--
Another two days passed in a blur. Soap gathering the basin, reverently cleaning the big lummox, changing bandages, tending wounds, forcing water in him when he stirred. The blow to the head had made a right mess out of him, but it seemed he would mend.
This was his prize. His spoils of war, and Johnny would see him back to health.
Sweet words of love. Gentle touches. Taming wild dreams with the pleasure of contact between them. He would pull through. Had to.
There was no warning. No soft drift from the dream, no gentle rise to consciousness. Only darkness, thick and endless, broken by flashes of heat and a pressure building deep in his gut.
The world hit him all at once. Touch, fire, too much sensation for a body still half-drowned in sleep.
Ghost woke to tight, wet heat strangling the head of his cock, squeezing so hard it bordered on pain. The rhythm was relentless, a hungry, greedy slide, up and down, every inch of him buried inside something so fucking tight he couldn’t breathe for the pleasure.
He tried to move, to grab hold of the world, but wrists and shoulders were pinned by weight and need. The blankets bunched under his back, sand rough beneath them, and the stink of sweat and salt and leather thick in the air. Every sense was flooded with it. The scrape of skin, the wet slap of flesh on flesh, the sharp bite of a callused hand digging into his chest for balance.
Above him, Johnny rode him hard.
That was it. That was the center of the storm. Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, thighs straddling Simon’s hips, blue eyes wild and rapturous, lips parted around filthy, hungry little sounds as he fucked himself down onto Ghost’s cock. The sight alone would have undone any man, but it was the grip of Johnny’s arse around him that shattered Ghost’s composure.
The bastard was greedy for it. Each time Johnny lifted his hips, the sweet clutch of muscle threatened to pull Ghost’s cock clean out, only to slam back down, taking him deeper, harder, all the way to the hilt. Sweat shimmered on Johnny’s chest and belly, muscles flexing with the effort, that gorgeous, battle-scarred body working like a demon to milk every drop of pleasure from Ghost’s cock.
Ghost tried to draw breath but his lungs barely obeyed. The pain in his skull had faded to a dull, distant ache, drowned beneath the battering pleasure of Johnny using him like a favorite toy.
He managed a sound, low and rough, more animal than human. The thick root of his cock was squeezed tight by Johnny’s arse, every pulse and throb met by a perfect, punishing rhythm from the man above him.
Johnny’s hands clawed at Simon’s chest, nails digging deep for purchase with every savage bounce. Eyes were slit, shining with hunger, lips curled in a growl that was all want and pride.
Every downstroke was a brutal, perfect fit, Johnny’s arse swallowing him whole, heat and friction sending sparks up Ghost’s spine.
Fuck, no feeling in the world like it.
He watched it happen. Couldn’t look away. The sight above him was obscene. A beautiful, scarred brute of a man rutting down onto his cock, the line of Johnny’s hips painted sleek with sweat, thighs rigid and trembling from effort. The way Johnny’s cock bounced between them, heavy and flushed, leaking pre-come up the flat of his own stomach with every jolt.
Ghost’s hands hovered useless at his sides, fingers desperate to grab, to hold, to mark. But he was helpless, pinned and staked, owned by the man who’d taken him in battle and now claimed him in the light.
Johnny’s head snapped back, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his brow, his mouth a snarl between agony and bliss.
“Jesus, fuckin’ hell, Simon, so fuckin’ big, ye feel that?” Johnny gasped, voice shredded by pleasure. “Christ, cock’s gonna rip me open. S’perfect.”
A savage, needy roll of his hips, Johnny slamming down hard, making Ghost’s cock disappear inside him. The friction was mindless, merciless. Johnny’s arse milked every vein, every ridge, pulling Ghost closer to the edge with every stroke.
Ghost gritted his teeth, breath coming hard and fast, sweat prickling in a sheen across his battered skin.
He’d dreamed of violence, storm and ruin, but this was a different kind of battle. The only thing that mattered was the slick, obscene clutch of Johnny’s arse around him, the wild rhythm that left no time for thought or mercy.
Johnny’s hands gripped at his chest, scrabbling, greedy. Fingers twisted in blond chest hair, pinched at his nipples, scraped over scars with a reverence that bordered on worship.
Every drag of Johnny’s body over his cock sent a shockwave through Ghost’s whole system. Could feel the man’s balls slap down against his own, sweat and lube dripping slick to the blankets.
Ghost shuddered, tried to hold out, but it was impossible. He’d never been handled like this. Never let anyone take him, own him, grind him down to the raw, molten core of who he was.
“Johnny…” The word tore from his throat, half warning, half prayer.
Johnny laughed, the sound rough and breathless, hips never stopping, never faltering. “Aye, that’s it, Captain, give it to me. Fuck, feels so fuckin’ good. Gonna ride ye til ye scream, aye?”
He wanted to defy him, deny the pleasure, but Johnny knew his body better than Simon did now. Knew exactly when to clench, to squeeze, to angle those perfect hips till the world split white behind Ghost’s eyelids.
He forgot the pain, forgot the war. Only Johnny and the sensation, heat and noise, the crash of bodies, the music of flesh pounding together as Johnny rode him to ruin.
The knot at his ankle bit deep, rope marking him, but it was nothing compared to the grip of Johnny’s thighs and arse. Every muscle in Johnny’s body was singing with it, flex and stretch, skin shining, abs rippling as he pistoned up and down.
Ghost’s hands found Johnny’s hips, claws digging in, desperate now to have something to hold. Johnny only grinned, delighted, and kept up the punishing pace, arse swallowing Ghost’s cock all the way down, again and again.
Ghost felt his balls draw tight, the heat curling up his spine, tingling in his fingertips.
“Gonna make ye come for me,” Johnny growled, leaning down to bite at Simon’s throat, panting against the sweat there. “Gonna own every drop, big man, that’s right. Mine.”
Fuck.
Johnny bared his teeth, wild and triumphant, as he braced both hands on Simon’s chest. He ground down, fucking himself hard onto the cock spearing him wide, letting the violence of it shudder up his spine. Sweat slicked every inch of his body, sliding between their stomachs, and even the burn only wound him tighter. There was nothing in the world but this. The iron band of Simon’s arms, the slap of flesh on flesh, the rough rasp of breath and curse and want.
Simon surged up beneath him, hips thrusting relentless, meeting every downward slam of Johnny’s arse with hungry precision. Every vein and ridge inside him found a home, every inch laid deep and perfect, claimed and cherished and hammered home with the force of a broadside. Simon’s hands locked around Johnny’s hips, bruising in their certainty, pulling him down harder, forcing him to take every fucking inch. It was a wordless dare. A promise. Mine.
“Jesus, Johnny, you ride like you got a death wish,” Simon growled, voice ragged with effort. His fingers dug in, big hands palming the curve of Johnny’s arse, spreading him wide to watch the thick shaft disappear again and again. He watched, bloody mesmerized, the tight grip of muscle swallowing his cock, the greedy way Johnny milked him with every stroke. It was obscene. It was beautiful.
Johnny barked a laugh at that, a vicious, hungry sound, and bent low to fuse their mouths together in a brutal kiss. Teeth clicked, tongues battled, the taste of blood and salt and sweat bleeding between them. Simon met him, every inch, devouring the air right out of Johnny’s lungs, sucking his tongue into his mouth in a filthy, unrepentant snarl.
“Taught by the best, aye?” Johnny panted against his lips, hips flexing, arse clenching as he pounded up and down, skin ablaze with the friction. He could feel every ripple of Simon’s cock inside him, stretching him, owning him. The pain was pleasure, the fullness almost too much, and he wanted all of it. “Could ride ye for days, Captain. Never get enough.”
“Then fucking take it,” Simon ordered, voice molten. He slammed up, lifting Johnny clean off the blanket before gravity crashed him back down, balls smacking together, sweat flying. The heat was animal, raw, wild. But Simon’s hands never let go. Always grounding, always guiding, showing Johnny exactly what he was made for.
Johnny’s eyes fluttered, blue gone near black. He clutched at Simon’s chest, fingers twisted in gold-dusted hair, and shoved himself down with every bit of strength in his battle-scarred body. Wanted to feel every inch. Wanted to split himself on it, leave himself gutted and open for the man beneath him.
The pace was feral. Each slap of their bodies sent another wave of raw lightning up Johnny’s spine. His cock, trapped between their bellies, leaked steady, leaving a mess that Simon smeared across Johnny’s stomach with every roll of his hips. Ghost’s thumb pressed hard against the head, stroking, never letting up. Every touch was filthy, adoring. Claiming.
“Mine, Johnny,” Simon husked out, voice so low it was barely a sound. His hands left bruises on Johnny’s hips, dragging him down, grinding their pelvises together until the heat of it burned. “Look at you. So fucking perfect.”
“Look at yerself,” Johnny snapped back, words falling out wild as he arched, back curving with the force of the next thrust. “Never bloody seen anything more beautiful, have Ah.” His mouth found Simon’s again, devouring, sucking, biting his lips until the taste of copper ran between them.
The world narrowed to bodies and salt and sweat. The tent could have collapsed, the ocean could’ve swallowed them both, and neither would’ve cared. All that mattered was the stretch and the shudder and the slap of Johnny’s arse taking Simon’s cock, again and again, until pleasure built like cannon fire in his veins.
Simon’s grip shifted, a thumb sliding through sweat to circle Johnny’s cock, jerking him in time with every savage thrust. The touch was perfect, practiced, as if Simon had spent years memorizing what would unravel him most. Johnny choked on a curse.
“Gonna make you come, Johnny. Gonna have you spill all over us, then wring you dry.”
“Aye… aye, please, Simon…” his voice broke on the pleasure, hips moving faster, greedy for everything Ghost would give.
They fucked like they were made for it. Johnny’s rhythm faltered, thighs trembling, muscles burning as the cock inside him drove each moan louder, higher. Simon grunted, rutting up, hips driving brutal, right at the spot inside that made Johnny see stars. He bucked hard, hands slamming to Simon’s shoulders, nails digging deep.
The edge hit like a wave. Johnny shuddered, then convulsed, head thrown back as pleasure ripped him clean through. Cum spilled in hot, messy stripes across Simon’s chest and belly, the heat of it marking every inch they touched. He screamed, the sound wild, pure, shattering in the candle-lit darkness.
Simon didn’t let up. If anything, he held Johnny harder, locked their bodies together, fucking up into the spasming heat of Johnny’s arse until his own orgasm crashed over him, brutal and punishing, cock jerking deep inside. He groaned, a raw animal noise, filling Johnny with every last spasm. The world went molten, then white, then gone.
For a moment, they were just a tangle of limbs, sweat, and shuddering aftershocks, bodies locked tight together. Johnny slumped forward, face buried in the sweet curve of Simon’s neck, drawing lungfuls of air like a drowning man. He felt the thud of Simon’s heart under his cheek, wild and perfect.
--
He lay there for a long while, drinking it in. The sound, the heat, the taste of sweat and salt on his tongue. The way Simon’s arms banded around his back, breath still ragged, heart jackhammering against Johnny’s cheek. He didn’t want to move. Not now. Not ever.
But the pleasure made him restless. Even boneless, wrecked, he was never one for lying still.
Johnny nipped at the damp skin over Simon’s collarbone, tongue tracing sweat and the deep notch where the man’s pulse thundered. So good. And all his. He licked a bead of salt from the hollow of Ghost’s neck and almost purred at the taste.
He didn’t even really think as he flexed his hips, squeezing around the softening cock inside him, savoring the sticky, spent heat seeping out of him and down the seam of his arse. Fuck. No greater satisfaction. He wanted to bottle this feeling, keep it secret, never share the memory with a living soul.
But the pressure at his rim was growing, wet and hot and slippery, spunk and sweat leaking out. Eventually, the flesh around Ghost’s cock twitched and Johnny groaned as he eased up, thighs burning. He clung, just for a second longer, but finally let the thick cock slide out. Felt the heft of it drag, felt the hiss of pleasure and loss roll up his own spine.
“Shite,” he muttered, shifting forward, still straddling the big man’s hips. “Could fuckin’ keep ye inside me forever.” He grinned, running both hands up Simon’s trembling chest, feeling those monster pecs, the muscle slick and blood-warm beneath his palms.
Simon exhaled a hard, broken breath, lips parted, curls plastered to his brow with sweat. There was a look in his wild gold eyes that made Johnny’s cock twitch, even spent as he was.
Johnny took in the mess between them with a smirk. His come painted both their bellies and the blanket beneath, already starting to cool in the breeze crawling under the tent wall. Johnny’s arse was a mess as well, but he liked it that way. He wanted the scent of them all over each other. Wanted everyone from the pirate king to the stupidest powder-boy to know what had happened here.
He didn’t say a word for a moment. Just stared at Simon’s cock, lying heavy and flushed between his thighs, slicked up with the mess of both of them. It was perfect. The god’s own weapon, thick and veined and beautiful. He ran his thumb up the shaft, feeling the twitch at the root, the aftershocks rattling up Simon’s core.
“Absolute fucking masterpiece, this,” Johnny declared, stroking Simon’s cock slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help admiring it. “Christ, Simon. Nails me bloody perfect every fuckin’ time.” He gave the head a final squeeze, making Ghost buck, then let go with a grin.
“Ye got the prettiest cock on the seven seas, Captain.” He winked, then leaned in with a low, filthy laugh, lips ghosting over Simon’s jaw. “Aye, and Ah’d put that up against every brute in Barbary, every lord in London. S’not a contest. Fuckin’ perfect. Mine.”
Simon huffed a laugh, the sound weak but fierce. Voice still dazed from being milked dry. “You’re mad, MacTavish.”
“Ah amnae the one tied to a stake in the middle of a den of pirates,” Johnny shot back, absolute delight in his voice. “But Ah ken live with mad. Ye made me that way.”
He rolled off, wincing as the movement sent jolts of spent pleasure up his spine. Their mess smeared sticky between his thighs and across his balls, but he didn’t mind. He could clean up his captain any day of the bloody week.
He staggered to the little wash basin tucked by the tent-pole, grabbed a rough linen cloth, and dunked it in the cool water. The chill made his hands tingle, but that was half the joy. He wrung it out, then stalked back to where Simon sprawled on the ruined blankets, every inch of golden skin glowing in the lantern-light.
“Easy, big man,” Johnny murmured, and with the astonishing tenderness that only came after a wild fuck, he gently wiped the sweat and spunk from Simon’s chest. Circling slow around the nipples, careful over the cuts and bruises, he cleaned every inch of skin. The sweat and blood and come from Ghost’s stomach got careful attention, Johnny scraping the cloth over the hard lines of abdominals like he was polishing a trophy.
Then lower, down the thick root of that perfect cock, laving away the sticky filth, thumb rolling over the head with a last, greedy linger. He took his time, never missing a spot.
Simon made a low, wordless sound in his throat, hips canting up just a fraction. The battered body was too spent to even pretend to resist.
“Aye, there we go… Clean and pretty again.” Johnny’s smile was all wolf. Then he set his own cock and thighs to rights, another stroke of the cold cloth up his ass and across the balls, a lingering swipe between his own legs just for good measure.
He tossed the ruined rag aside, then reached for the battered pitcher of water. Propped an arm under Simon’s shoulders, hauling the big bastard half upright with a grunt.
“Here,” Johnny offered quietly, holding the cup to Simon’s lips. “Get this down ye.” He didn’t let go until Ghost swallowed, careful to catch the dribble where it ran down the blond scruff on Simon’s chin. He wiped it away with a gentle thumb.
Then he reached for the plate on the makeshift crate by the bed. Salted jerky. A hunk of hard yellow cheese, sharp enough to burn your nose-hairs. He snapped it in half and pressed a piece to Ghost’s mouth.
“Eat up, Captain,” he ordered, almost soft. “Need ye strong by morning.” He fed him with careful fingers, tearing off strips and tucking them into Simon’s mouth, then following with cheese and another swallow of water.
It was domestic as any old married couple. Johnny grinned at the idea, kneeling at Simon’s side, guarding him from the world. When Simon tried to feed himself, Johnny batted his hand down.
“Nah, let me. Yer not fit to eat by yer own hand, not yet. Took the hit hard, ye did. Hoped ye’d rest another day, but that monster between yer legs had other ideas.”
Simon managed a shaky glare, bands of bruising and exhaustion shadowing his cheekbones. “You’re a menace.” The voice was shredded silk, but it still had teeth.
“Been called worse, love. Here, have another.” He thumbed a fat piece of cheese into Simon’s mouth, then peeled a strip of jerky for himself and chewed in companionable quiet.
After the worst of the hunger was killed, Johnny re-filled the tin cup, made sure Simon drank every drop.
When Ghost finally started to breathe even, Johnny caught the line of his gaze. Simon’s eyes had gone hard, sharp again. He was staring at the thick rope shackling his ankle to the tent stake, tongue running over his teeth as he tried to make sense of it.
“Oi,” Simon grunted. “What in God’s name is this?” He lifted his leg, showing the neat, brutal hitch of the hangman’s knot Johnny had wound around his ankle. “You do know Ah can untie a knot, aye?”
Johnny barked a laugh, showing every tooth he owned.
“Aye, but only if Ah let you, Ghost. That’s a promise knot, that is. Means ye belong to me. Nobody gets near ye, not Price, not even Gaz or the lassies what run the tent. You walk free if ye want, but the rope stays. Reminder, aye?” he winked, playful and proud.
Simon shook his head, but there was something softer behind his scowl. He gave the rope a tug, testing the stake, but Johnny’d hammered it true and deep. Would take real work to break it, and he doubted his battered crew could manage it even if they tried.
“What happens if Ah decide Ah’m not yours?” Simon challenged, voice low and dangerous as storm clouds.
Johnny reached over, curled a hand behind Simon’s neck, and pulled him close for a bruising, lingering kiss. Devoured the words right out of Ghost’s mouth, tongue slick and hungry, pouring every ounce of possession into the heat of their lips mashing together.
When he finally broke away, lips swollen and shining, Johnny grinned.
Then he let his hand drift to Ghost’s thigh, big palm warm and insistent.
“Try it and see, Captain. But Ah think ye like being claimed.” A low, throaty murmur in his ear. “Like having the rope, the marks, the taste of me inside ye. Dinnae deny it.”
Simon glared, but slackened a little more. The food, the care, the fight draining out, leaving only that deep, animal need to belong.
“Daft bastard,” Ghost grumbled.
“Aye.” Johnny grinned wide and unrepentant. “Yer daft bastard, now.”
Silence hung suspended, a breath between worlds.
But then Ghost’s intensity returned. That captain’s mind was never off duty.
“My men?” The question came out raw, scarred. “Roach?”
Johnny took pity, feeding him another bite before answering.
“First things first, aye?” He stroked Simon’s calf, thumb rough over the scar there. “Yer quarterdeck laddie, Roach, did you proud. Stuck to the last. When ye went down, he held the defense. Most of yer crew saw us boardin’ and dropped arms. Price sent word out. Any English lads on the Kraken what wanted safe quarter could join up, right? No blood for nothin’. Roach stepped up, parlayed on yer behalf. Said you’d never forgive us if the crew was slaughtered.”
He grinned, pride in his voice.
“Price liked Roach. He’s ex-Navy, ye ken. Knew ye’d sailed together, once upon a time. So he took the offer. Anyone what wanted to join, did. Anyone looking to skip out when we hit a European port… well, that’s their business. Price dinnae care, and Ah dinnae care. They jump ship, they’re free. No one’ll come after ‘em. We’re not running a floating prison.”
Simon’s jaw worked, chewing it over. The tension in his arms eased, shoulders sagging. Relief was a glow under the bruised eyes, visible even through the battered face.
He wolfed down another strip of jerky, then reached for Johnny’s hand, grip strong despite exhaustion.
“Thank you,” he said, voice almost lost to the hush.
Johnny shrugged, squeezing Simon’s hand around his own.
“Aye, well, we’re not animals. Not unless ye ask for it.” Cheeky glint in the blue eyes, quicksilver and honest.
He leaned in and nuzzled Ghost’s jaw, gentling the words there.
“Ye did good by your men. Now, let me do good by you.”
He poured another cup of water, steady and careful.
Simon drank again, then leaned heavy on Johnny’s shoulder, as if the closeness was the only thing holding him upright.
Johnny ran a hand down the straight line of Ghost’s spine, feeling every notch, every tremor.
“Yer ship didn’t sink, by the by,” Johnny continued, voice soft as dark velvet. “Kraken held together. She’s a right mess, but she floats. If ye want her back, me and Price can help. The Hook’s got enough spare hands for patching and a shipwright or two in every port. Ye stay with us, Simon, we’ll get her mended. Or… ye let the past rot in the tide, and ye come with us.” Johnny didn’t let air slip between them, voice low and rough in the tent’s hush. Just gentle, confident pressure.
“Ye come with me. We’ll find yer shipwright, patch every inch, but the rest of the fleet? They legged it at dawn, Simon. Left ye. Dinnae even look back. Was Price’s own eyes that spotted ‘em running for home. That’s the love your King holds for ye. Soon as things went to hell, they left you for the wolves.” A soft scoff, not without sympathy but laced with brutal honesty.
He stroked Simon’s thigh, thumb tracing the patch of bruising he’d left last time they fucked. Branding him in more ways than one.
“D’ye kin what that means, Captain? Ye dinnae owe England a mother’s curse. Ye’ve done enough. Yer crew’s safe, yer ship, too. But you? Ye’re mine now. Won ye fair and square, every fuckin’ inch. And if ye want, we’ll make it honest. Pirate’s wedding, right there on the deck, Price ken marry us proper. Make it legal in salt and blood, if that’s what ye want.”
The boldness of it was a dare. A challenge laid across the space between their bodies. Simon’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger. A calculating, burning gold. Even exhausted, there was a defiant tilt to his battered jaw.
“You think it’s so simple, Johnny. Just cut the King loose, be done with the old world.” Voice like gravel, raw but steady. “A man needs a cause. A ship. Something worth waking up for.”
Johnny just grinned. Wiped sweat and salt from the crest of Simon’s knee. “Aye, that’s why Ah picked ye, ya stubborn bastard. Knew the hardest fights yield the sweetest spoils. Come with us, Simon. Be my cause. Be my king, and Ah’ll set you up with the finest crew ye ever saw. Price backs us, the men already worship the ground ye walk. Ye dinnae need England. Ye just need a sea to hunt and a man in yer bed who knows yer worth.”
Silence pressed, thick with want and possibility. Dim amber lantern-light caught the pulse in Simon’s throat, his breathing a little steadier now, more grounded. Smart man, this one. Wouldn’t ever leap blind. Johnny respected that. He reached again, fingers brushing Simon’s wrist, feeling the warm thud there.
“Yer lads that made it through? They’re with Gaz now, half a dozen already signed on. Roach is making himself at home on the quarterdeck. Ah told ‘em, any man what wanted to bugger off at the next port could do it. No chains here, not unless ye want ‘em for play.”
He let the words linger. Let Simon get the shape of the world now. Nothing left but choices and the lure of what could be.
Simon levered himself up, fighting the last of the fog. His voice, when it came, was more certain. “Kraken… she’s really afloat?”
“Aye.” Johnny leaned in, cheek pressed to Simon’s hair. “Not pretty, but she floats. Got pride, that one, just like her Captain. She’s lashed to the docks, two men on every line. The pirates wanted to scrap her for firewood, but Ah told ‘em no. That’s my man’s ship, and we treat her with respect.” There was steel in his voice, promise bright as sunrise.
Simon kept chewing it over, but Johnny could see a change now. The wariness faded, replaced by the slow, dangerous smile of a man ready to consider something reckless.
“They really left,” Simon muttered. Voice pitched low and bleak, but not surprised. “All that running, all that scraping and dying for the Crown, and the bastards just left.”
He stared at the knotted rope around his ankle. A different kind of shackle than the King’s. Warmer, almost comforting. “What are we, Johnny? You and me.”
Johnny’s answer was instant, no doubt, no fear. “Yer mine. And Ah’m yers. Not a man alive could break that, not on land or sea. Ye want a crew? Done. You want a ship fixed? Done. But Ah’m keeping ye right here. On my deck, in my tent, or right under me, wherever ye like. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”
He pressed in, mouth at Simon’s ear, breath hot. “And when you want, Price’ll gather the men and stand witness. We’ll marry on the sea, proper as any lord. Ye’ll have a ring, and a stake, and every bastard from here to Edinburgh will know ye’re spoken for.”
Simon huffed a laugh, half disbelief and half bitter pride. “A wedding. Pirate’s wedding. You think you could get me in the fancy clothes?”
Johnny licked the shell of his ear, nipped the lobe. “Bet your tight arse I could. Wanna see ye in blue, or nothing at all, but the ring matters. Want everyone to know ye’re off limits. To look at ye and think, ‘That’s Soap MacTavish’s Captain, right there.’” His hand slid up Simon’s thigh, squeezing possessive. “Deserve to be shown off, Simon. Deserve to belong.”
There was a weight to it, the truth of the thing. Simon shifted, bands of muscle flexing under Johnny’s hands, a quiet surrender written in the way their bodies tangled together.
“You’d do it?” Simon rasped. “Say vows with me, right here, even if it made you a hunted man?”
Johnny’s grin was dazzling, blue eyes fierce in the wavering lamplight. “Ah already am a hunted man. Always will be. But Ah’d take yer curse, any day, over freedom without ye.”
He nudged Simon’s jaw up with a gentle hand, forcing those gold eyes to meet his.
“Ye want vows? Ah got ‘em ready, love. ‘To the ends of the world, til the salt eats our bones, and every blade of the King’s can’t cut what binds us.’ That’s my word. That’s what ye get when ye marry a bastard like me.”
Simon’s lips twitched, the old stubbornness transforming into something like hope.
“Ah want the ship. Want my crew. Want you.” It cost him pride to say it, but there was no shame in his face now. Only a battered, naked honesty. “Don’t want to be alone again. Not even with a thousand guns between me and the world.”
Johnny softened, stroking Simon’s cheek with reverence. “Ah’ll never leave you. Not for gold, not for crowns, not for anything. And if anyone comes for ye? They answer to me.” He kissed Simon, slow and deep, tasting the promise on his lips.
For a heartbeat, nothing mattered but the press of their mouths. Johnny poured everything into the kiss, the hunger, the relief, the absolute bone-deep certainty. He could feel Simon tremble against him, fingers curling in Johnny’s hair, desperate for the contact.
When they parted, Simon’s breath was ragged, but the light in his eyes was clear as sunrise after a storm. “Suppose Ah should get used to living like a thief.”
Johnny bit his shoulder, made Simon jump. “Ye’re not a thief. Ye’re a king. Captain of the finest ship in these waters, and my fucking husband, soon as ye let Price say the words.”
“Where will we go?” he asked quietly.
“Anywhere the wind carries us.”
A long silence, heavy with meaning. Johnny watched as Simon reached for the rope again, ran a thumb over the knot.
“Leave it,” he commanded, gentle but brooking no argument. “Want you to remember, every time you look, that you’re wanted. Not just for what you can fight or kill. For you, Simon. For the man in the storm.”
Simon went still, and Johnny knew he’d finally landed the blow that counted. Years in irons, years in service of men who never cared if he lived or died. Now this. A sideways kind of freedom. Johnny watched the idea sink in, watched the bitterness turn to something sweeter, like sunrise over salt.
He reached for the battered tin cup, poured another round of water, and held it to Simon’s lips. “To us,” he murmured, the toast soft in the hush. “To second chances, and men who refuse to fucking die.”
Simon drank, clumsy but determined, gaze never leaving Johnny’s face.
“To us,” he echoed, a rough, beautiful sound.