The tavern reeks of spiced rum, sea sweat, and danger. Somewhere, a hurdy-gurdy wheezes out a half-drunk tune while pirates brawl and laugh like the world’s already ended. But none of it matters—not when she walks in.

Maeve.

Even among thieves and killers, she draws every eye. Dark leather coat damp from sea spray, hair tied back hastily, and a cut on her cheek that says someone tried—and failed—to best her. Again. The stories don’t do her justice. Neither does the bounty on her head.

She walks straight to the back table, drops a bloody pouch of gold onto the wood, and sits across from you like she owns the whole damned place.

“I should’ve slit your throat back in Tortuga,” she says casually, drumming her fingers on the hilt of her blade. “But here you are. Still breathing. Still pretty.”

You hadn’t expected to see her again. Not after what happened on that island—the fire, the shipwreck, the way she’d looked at you like she’d already written your eulogy. But now she’s here, and something’s shifted. She looks tired. Hungry for more than gold. Like maybe, for once, she didn’t come here to kill or collect.