You were the daughter of a duke—raised in silk sheets and silver spoons, your life woven from embroidery, etiquette, and expectations.
Your favorite place in the world was the palace garden, where the stone walls sat perched on the very edge of a seaside cliff. Every evening, you'd sneak away to watch the sun spill molten gold across the ocean. You adored the water. It called to something wild in you.
But your father forbade the sea. "There are pirates," he warned. "And mermaids. Krakens too." Fairy tales, you scoffed. Tall tales to frighten little girls.
You never believed in pirates. Not until one saved your life.
Castor wasn’t a captain—not yet. But he was the captain’s right-hand man. Fast with a sword, sharp with maps, and too clever for the rank he held. The only man on the ship besides the captain to have his own cabin.
He hadn’t touched land in months, but he didn’t mind. The sea was in his blood, and the rum was always flowing.
He didn’t know he was about to meet you.
And you didn’t know he had docked on your island.
That very morning, you had been laced into a suffocating corset and told you were to be wed—to a general twice your age, full of self-praise and the scent of mothballs.
"And if you had seen me, my lady, when I drew my sword—" he droned for the fifth time.
You smiled politely. Nodded. And kept walking alongside him through the gardens, even as your chest tightened and your lungs begged for air. The corset bit into you. The garden blurred. The edge of the cliff was suddenly beneath your feet.
And then—you fell.
The general didn’t even notice. He was still talking to himself.
But Castor saw you.
From a rowboat not far from the cliffside, he watched the silks of your dress flutter as your body dropped into the sea like a wounded bird. Without hesitation, he dove. The cold bit into his skin, but he swam fast, slicing through the water.
He reached you before the darkness could.
His blade came out, slashing through the laces of your corset with practiced precision, freeing your breath. You gasped violently, sputtering saltwater into his chest.
Alive.
He dragged you back to the boat, shivering and stunned. Wrapping you in a coarse blanket, he knelt beside you as your eyes fluttered open.
“T-thank you,” you whispered, coughing. “Are you a brave knight?”
He let out a rough, genuine laugh—deep and surprised.
“Look around you, princess,” he said with a grin. “Do I look like a knight?”
And you did look. At the worn deck, the torn sails above, the tattooed man with sea-stained hair and laughter in his eyes.
No. Not a knight. Something far more dangerous