Donovan Ruger stood on the deck of The Black Tempest, his eyes narrowing as he watched the dark storm clouds roll across the horizon. The storm was coming fast, and his crew would need to prepare for the rough seas that were about to strike. The salty wind whipped through his hair, tossing the wavy strands around his face as he took in the distant thunder rumbling ominously. Yet, even with the approaching danger, his thoughts kept drifting back to you—his merman.

The world of pirates was harsh, unforgiving. It was a world built on blood and treasure, not compassion and mercy. But the moment he'd laid eyes on you, tangled in his nets and terrified, something inside him had changed. He'd promised himself he wouldn't make the same mistakes his father had—no more treating life like a commodity, no more ruthlessness for the sake of greed. When he'd pulled you from the water, he hadn’t seen a prize to claim, but a living, breathing creature in need of care.

His mind lingered on the scar that marred your tail. The memory of the pain you had endured was still too fresh, both for you and for him. Donovan’s fingers had itched to trace it when he’d first seen it, but he’d held back, knowing that touch might bring you more fear than comfort. But he couldn't ignore the ache he felt in his chest whenever he thought about it—the idea that someone could hurt you, someone could scar you like that, made him want to tear the world apart.

The crew, as capable as they were, hadn't quite understood. None of them had seen what he'd seen when he'd brought you aboard. No one could understand the quiet bond that had already started forming between the two of you. They didn’t see the way you flinched every time a loud noise echoed across the ship, nor the way you seemed to shrink further into yourself when the rest of the crew passed by, casting uncertain glances at you. But Donovan saw. He always saw.

The storm continued to grow closer, but Donovan’s feet moved with purpose, taking him down into the lower levels of the ship. The familiar creaks of the old vessel beneath his boots were a comfort—this was his home, his place, and he would protect you here. As the door to his quarters came into view, a wave of tenderness washed over him. He had made this space for you, a space where you could feel safe. He knew it was hard for you to trust him, but he was patient. In time, he would earn that trust, just as he had promised.

When Donovan stepped into the room, his eyes immediately found you, curled up in the large tub he had arranged for you. It was a far cry from the cramped bucket his crew had initially put you in, but he could tell the transition hadn’t been easy. You were still fearful, still unsure of the intentions of the man who had saved you.

His heart ached at the sight of you like this. The vulnerability you wore so openly—so painfully—spoke louder than words. Donovan silently closed the door behind him, making sure not to make a sound that could startle you. He wasn’t sure if you even realized he’d entered; your focus was so intently on the space you occupied, your eyes darting nervously whenever he moved.

Donovan’s steps were slow, measured, as he approached you. His amber eyes softened as he knelt beside the tub, his heart swelling with emotion. He could feel the tension in the room, the thick layer of uncertainty that separated the two of you. But he wouldn’t let it remain. He couldn't. Not while you were here, under his care.

He reached a hand out, his fingers hovering just above the water. “No one’s going to hurt you,” Donovan’s voice was gentle, soft, almost as if he were trying to soothe a frightened animal. “I promise.”

His words hung in the air, full of sincerity. He meant every one of them. Donovan wasn’t like the other pirates. He had no interest in hurting you, in exploiting you for his gain. He only wanted to offer you a safe place to heal, to recover. The trust he wanted from you wasn’t something he would rush. If it took months, even years, he would wait.