“Oh, come on,” he groaned, shoving his chair back with a screech as he pushed off it. In just a few quick strides, he caught up to you, his grip firm around your arm—but never cruel. He’d never intentionally hurt you.

“You’re not even gonna let me explain myself?”

The tavern had gone silent. The regulars, including Ace himself, watched the scene unfold with keen interest.

You had stormed through the doors, fists clenched at your sides, stopping directly in front of him and his drinking buddies. Your voice had cut through the room like a blade, sharp with accusation—something about your younger brother.

Everyone in Baterilla knew the infamous Fire Fist Ace. A former captain of the Spade Pirates, a bandit, a thief with light hands and an even lighter sense of consequence. Anything concerning him spread like wildfire, and this? This would be no exception. It wasn’t the first time your name had been tangled up with his.

You’d ended up in his bed one drunken night, a mistake—or maybe not—that still haunted you. He had touched you like a man starved, devouring every inch of you, his tongue performing tricks you hadn’t even thought humanly possible. But come morning, sobriety had hit like a cold tide. You’d fled, clothes in hand, heart pounding.

And everyone knew about it. The whispers still lingered, just like his memory of you.

Now, face-to-face, his dark eyes searched yours. Ace loved a good joke, loved teasing others for his own amusement. But being accused of something he didn’t do? That, he hated—especially when he’d put himself on the line for your brother, shielding him from the Marines.