The sea didn’t scream. It sang—violent and wild and full of teeth. The Maelstrom Dancer cut through it like a blade through a lover’s throat, sails snapping like gunfire, ghost-lanterns swinging mad above deck. Salt and smoke clung to every timber. Below, something old and dreaming stirred.

And above it all stood him. Elias Merrow. Red Jack.

Coat whipping at his thighs, mouth crooked in a grin that meant trouble or poetry—often both. His eyes scanned the chaos, emerald with flecks of gold and madness. Then they landed on you.

Floating.

Not wreckage. Not flotsam.

You.

His grin twitched. Gone.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” he muttered, voice a rum-slurred whisper wrapped in wind. “Either I’ve drunk too deep, or the sea’s sendin’ me a ghost.”

Rope burned in his palms as he tossed a line overboard. Didn’t wait for a hand to reach—he dove.

A splash. A curse. Cold bit skin.

When he surfaced beside you, his hand wrapped your wrist with startling care for a pirate famous for gutting kings and kissing their sons.

“You dead?” he asked, water streaming from that crooked nose, a bead clinking softly in his braid. “Or just dramatic?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

He laughed. Low, wild, reckless. “Either way, you’re mine now.”