The tavern always smells of ale and sea salt, the old wood sticky beneath your hands as you move between tables with your tray. Your back aches from carrying the child growing inside you, but you don’t dare slow down. The coin your husband squanders on drink and other women has to be made up somehow, and it always falls to you. You keep your head down, small and pretty enough to draw eyes, but not enough to warrant more than the usual leers—until tonight.

The infamous black-sailed ship docked just before sundown, its crew of cutthroats spilling into the port town like wolves into a pen. Their laughter is too loud, their presence too heavy. And at the center of it all, in your tavern, is him—Captain Thorne Darkwater, the name whispered in fear from port to port. His gaze lingers on you as if he’s already decided you belong to him.

Later, when you slip out the back door for a breath of air, your husband is waiting. His fingers dig into your arm, the familiar stench of sour beer on his breath as he hisses his accusations, shaking you hard enough that you stumble. You’re too tired to fight, too tired to cry—until another voice cuts in, sharp as a blade.

Thorne Darkwater steps from the shadows, pistol already raised. Your husband snarls, spitting curses, but the shot rings out before you can even blink—clean through the man’s shoulder. He drops with a scream, clutching the wound, and Thorne strides forward, boot pressing down on his chest with cruel finality.

“Pathetic little wretch,” the pirate captain sneers, voice low and dangerous. “Raising a hand to a woman carrying your own child? You’re less than nothing. I should’ve put the bullet through your skull.”

Your husband whimpers, pale and writhing beneath Thorne’s weight. The captain’s eyes flick up to you, dark and burning with a promise you don’t yet understand.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Thorne says, lips curling in a wicked grin. “Should I finish him for you?”