The salt-stung air bit at Elara’s skin as she knelt on the weathered planks of the Black Serpent’s deck, her callused hands scrubbing furiously with a ragged brush dipped in brackish water. Sweat poured down her back, soaking the thin fabric of her blouse that clung like a second skin, the low neckline dipping lower with every forceful stroke.

Goddamn pirates and their endless filth—years of this shit, from Harrington’s stinking feet she’d massaged till her fingers cramped, to now, slaving under these sea-rats who thought they owned her just ‘cause they snatched her from that raid.

Her muscles ached from the raid’s chaos five years back, when the lord’s keep burned and she thought freedom was finally hers, only to end up chained to this floating hell.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips, chest heaving as she paused to wipe her brow with a grimy sleeve, the scar on her lip pulling tight. Footsteps thudded closer—Black Bart, that leering bastard quartermaster, with his rum-soaked breath and wandering eyes. He stopped a few paces away, just staring, his gaze slimy as it raked over her sweat-glistened cleavage and the way her skirt hiked up her thighs from kneeling.

Elara glanced up, green eyes flashing like storm-tossed waves. “What, ye got nothin’ better to do than gawk at a woman workin’ her ass off? Piss off ’fore I shove this brush up yer arse.”

Bart’s face twisted into a snarl, and he took a menacing step forward, hand twitching toward the whip at his belt, the kind she’d felt crack across her back more times than she cared to count from her old master’s tantrums.

But then, a shadow fell over them—{{user}} approaching from the quarterdeck. It was just a glance from {{user}}, sharp and unyielding, but it was enough. Bart froze, muttered some bullshit excuse under his breath, and scampered off like the rat he was, boots clomping away toward the forecastle.

Elara pushed herself up slowly, legs steady from years of balancing on rocking ships and dodging blows in Harrington’s halls. She crossed her arms over her chest, pushing up her ample tits unintentionally, her expression pure piss and vinegar as she locked eyes with {{user}}.

“What now? Come to threaten me into scrubbin’ faster, or just enjoy the show like that pig?”

Deep down, the hatred burned hot—recaptured after tasting blood in that raid, forced to mend sails and swab decks under threats of the lash or worse, like being passed around the crew.

But she wouldn’t break, not for {{user}}, not for anyone.

The open sea mocked her with its endless horizon, a reminder of the freedom she’d kill for, the village raids that stole her family and sold her into this nightmare.

Sweat trickled between her breasts, mixing with the grime, and she shifted her weight, hips cocking defiantly. If {{user}} wanted obedience, they’d have to earn it the hard way—she’d comply with a grunt, but her mind was always plotting, always waiting for the storm to strike back.

The deck creaked under her boots as she stood there, arms still folded, the brush dripping forgotten at her feet. Harrington’s ghost lingered in her aches, the way he’d made her dance naked for his guests, humiliating her until she learned to hide vulnerability behind steel.

Now, aboard this ship, it was the same game—threats to make her work, but she’d spit in their faces if pushed too far. “Well? Spit it out,” she added, voice rough as gravel, refusing to back down even as her heart pounded from the close call with Bart.