The Captain's Claim

The storm had quieted by dawn, but the ship still smelled of smoke and salt. Rain dripped from the rigging like the sea itself wept for what I’d done, though I’d never believed the ocean had mercy for anyone, least of all me. Mauve stood at the foot of the quarterdeck, her hands slick with rain, her eyes darting from Isabella to me. The child squirmed in Isabella’s arms, fussing weakly, unaware that the world she’d been born into was already breaking beneath her.

“Mauve, take it,” I said. My voice came out low, gravel dragged across iron.
Mauve blinked, uncertain. “Captain?”
“The child,” I snapped. “You’ll keep it alive until I decide what to do with it. Feed it. Silence it. Don’t let it near her again.”
“Blackthorn, please, ” Isabella began, stepping forward, but my glare cut her short.

Mauve hesitated only a moment longer before she obeyed. She reached out, taking the bundle from Isabella’s arms. The movement tore a sound from her, half cry, half breath, but she didn’t resist. She only stared down at the child as it was carried away, her hands still trembling in the empty space where her daughter had been.

“Captain,” Mauve ventured softly. “She’s only a babe.”
I turned on her. “I’m not her nursemaid. Do as you’re told, or you’ll follow her into the sea.”
That ended the argument. Mauve hurried below deck, the infant’s muffled cries fading with each step. Isabella lifted her chin, meeting my eyes with the same quiet defiance she’d worn since the night I married her. “You don’t have to do this,” she said.
“You don’t get to tell me what I have to do.” I caught her arm, hard enough that she gasped. “You never had that right."
Her voice was small but steady. “I didn’t run. I escaped.”
“Call it what you want,” I growled, dragging her across the deck. “You belonged to me then, and you belong to me now.”

The crew parted without a word as I passed. Some couldn’t meet my eyes; others watched with the sick fascination of men who’d followed me long enough to know what came next. I shoved open the door to my chambers, forcing her inside ahead of me. The moment I stepped through, the air changed. It smelled wrong, of lavender and linen instead of salt and gunpowder. Gone was the iron cage that once stood in the corner, the one that kept her from wandering too far. Gone were the crimson drapes and the satin sheets that had belonged to my ship. In their place: lace curtains, a writing desk, a soft chair, a vase of wilting flowers. Feminine. Fragile. Weak I stared, frozen, the fury building beneath my ribs like a storm rising from the deep.

“What is this?” I hissed.

Isabella said nothing. She stood near the window, rainlight spilling across her face, her hands folded in front of her like a penitent before execution.

“I asked you a question.”
“After you were gone,” she said softly, “Mauve took command.”
I barked a humorless laugh. “Here you are again, right where you started.”
Her eyes flicked toward me, sharp as broken glass. “No. Not where I started. I was free.”
“Freedom’s an illusion,” I said. “You should’ve known that. Everything has a price, Isabella, and I already paid yours.”

I crossed the room slowly, the boards creaking beneath my boots. The ship groaned around us, as if she too resented what she’d become.

“This was my world,” I said, running my fingers over the desk. “My ship, my rules. You think you can turn it into a drawing room?” I knocked the vase from the table. It shattered, water spilling like blood across the floor.

She flinched but didn’t move. Her composure was a blade honed on fear.

“Do you hate me that much?” she asked quietly. “That even flowers offend you?”
I turned toward her, voice sharp. “Don’t mistake disgust for hate. I don’t waste hate on what I’ve already conquered.”
Her lips trembled, but she held my gaze. “You conquered nothing. You bought me. Like cargo.”
“You made the mistake of thinking you were more.” I took a step closer. “You thought a pirate’s coin could buy you a crown. You thought love would keep you safe.”
“I didn’t love you,” she said.
“I know,” I said at last. “You never did.”

I moved closer until I could see my reflection in her eyes, dark, weathered, hollow. The kind of man even the sea wouldn’t claim.

“That,” I murmured, “is what makes this easier.”
She backed away until her shoulders hit the wall. “What do you want from me?”
“Want?” I echoed. “I don’t want. I take.”
Her voice trembled. “Then take your vengeance and be done with it.”
I leaned in, my hand slamming against the wall beside her head. “You think this is about vengeance? You think killing James, burning his kingdom, watching you crawl back onto my deck was enough?” I shook my head, laughing softly. “No, Isabella. This is about remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
“That you were never meant to leave me.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. Rain beat against the glass, thunder rolling far out to sea.

Her breath came fast, shallow, like she was afraid to fill her lungs. “You can destroy everything I’ve built,” she said, “You can’t undo what I became without you.”
“Without me?” I tilted my head. “There is no you without me. I made you. I found you. I gave you a name worth cursing.”
“Then you’ll have to live with that curse,” she whispered.

I turned from her, pacing across the room. The ship creaked with the weight of the storm. My crew’s footsteps thudded faintly above deck. Somewhere below, the child cried again, her voice muffled by the sea’s song.I stared at the shattered vase, at the water pooling around my boots. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The ship. The woman. The world. Everything had changed while I’d been rotting on that cursed island, and now that I was back, the only thing left that still made sense was the fury burning in my chest. I turned back to her. She hadn’t moved. Still standing there, trembling, but not afraid. Not enough.

“You’ll stay here,” I said at last, my voice low, deadly calm. “You’ll eat when I say. Sleep when I say. Speak when I allow it. The next time we reach port, this ship will be mine again, every last inch of it.”
Her jaw tightened. “You can rebuild your ship, Blackthorn. You’ll never rebuild me.”
“Maybe not,” I said, stepping closer until my shadow fell over her. “I can remind you who you were when I bought you.”

I let the silence stretch between us, long enough that I could feel her pulse quicken in the air. Then I turned away, the words rasping like steel on stone.

“Rest while you can, Isabella. Tomorrow, the sea decides what it wants to keep.”