You had forgotten what it felt like to walk on solid ground. After a year at sea, the earth beneath your feet felt wrong—too still. Yet, the man dragging you forward with a rope around your wrists seemed to have no such struggle.

Commander Elias Thorne—a name you’d only learned after Vale had slaughtered the rest of his men—walked with rigid purpose, barely glancing at you as he led you through the dense forest. The rope burned against your skin with every tug, his grip unrelenting. You had half a mind to trip him, but he was already on edge,

You still cursed yourself for getting caught. You had only wanted a moment of peace—washing the salt and sweat from your skin in the cool waters of the lake. You hadn’t even heard him approach until it was too late. At least he had given you time to dress before binding your wrists and dragging you from the shore.

Now, he was alone—Vale had seen to that. The rest of Thorne’s men were dead, their blood spilled beneath the moonlight, but the commander hadn’t faltered. He was taking you back. Back to the castle where you were meant to die or be forced into the role of a noblewoman once more.

Thorne was silent as ever, his expression carved from stone. You had tried everything to get a reaction from him—jokes, taunts, even the occasional sultry glance—but nothing. Not even a twitch. He was disciplined, bound by the vows of the navy:

"Never marry. No titles. No children. Only the sea."

What a miserable existence.

By nightfall, the air had turned sharp with cold, yet Thorne refused to risk a fire, wary of your crew tracking him. You sat stiffly against a tree, rubbing your arms for warmth. He rested a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded but still watchful.

"Y’know," you mused, shifting to get comfortable, "we’d be warmer if we shared body heat."

He let out a low groan, tilting his head back against the tree.

"Shut up," he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion.

Maybe he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be.