Chapter 10: Lessons in Obedience
The mid-watch was an eternity. Every creak of the timbers, every sigh of the rigging felt like Rhys’s breath on her neck. The memory of the crow’s nest—the terrifying choice, the consuming kiss—shivered through her like a fever. When a grimy sailor finally relieved her, the sky was beginning to bleed a deep, bruised purple in the east.
She meant to slink back to the corner of the galley she’d claimed as her own. A heavy hand landed on her shoulder before she’d taken three steps.
“Not that way.” Finn’s voice was low. He didn’t look at her. “Captain’s quarters. Now.”
A final, cold wave of understanding washed over her. The bargain was due. She straightened her spine, the proud baroness reasserting itself for a fleeting moment, and walked toward the stern with a dignity she did not feel.
The captain’s quarters were a paradox. Thick Myrish carpets swallowed the sound of her bare feet. A grand brass-chased lantern swung gently, casting moving shadows over shelves of stolen books, delicate porcelain, and an array of wicked-looking cutlasses mounted on the wall. It smelled of old paper, fine brandy, salt, and him.
Rhys stood by a wide stern window, silhouetted against the dawn. He wore only his breeches, unlaced at the top. The muscles of his back shifted like corded rope as he poured two glasses of amber liquid.
“Close the door,” he said, without turning.
She did. The click of the latch was terribly final.
He turned and held out a glass. She took it, her fingers brushing his. The brandy burned a path of false warmth down her throat.
“You said your piece up there,” he began, walking a slow circle around her. “Now we see if you meant it. Or if you’re just a clever girl buying time.”
“I meant it.” The words were automatic.
“Prove it.” He stopped in front of her. “Take off your clothes.”
Her breath hitched. The glass trembled in her hand. This was the precipice she had known was coming, the true face of ‘his rules.’ The defiance flared, hot and desperate. She met his gaze. “Or what? You’ll throw me to the sharks now? After all this?”
A slow smile touched his lips. He took the glass from her hand and set it aside. “No. That choice was made. This is different.” He reached out, his calloused fingers tracing the line of her jaw, down the column of her throat, coming to rest at the laces of her rough-spun tunic. “This is about obedience. And pleasure.”
She recoiled from his touch. “I find no pleasure in this.”
“You will.” His hand fisted gently in the fabric at her chest. “Or you’ll pretend so convincingly I’ll be fooled. But we start with obedience. The clothes. Take them off. Or I do. And I am rarely gentle.”
Tears of fury and humiliation pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back. Her fingers, clumsy and cold, went to the laces. She peeled the salt-stiff tunic over her head. The cool air of the cabin raised gooseflesh on her skin. She kept her eyes on a point beyond his shoulder, on a chart of unfamiliar seas, as she stepped out of her trousers. Soon, she stood naked before him, save for the fine chain and locket she’d managed to conceal since her capture. Her arms hung stiffly at her sides.
His gaze was a physical weight, traveling over her with a thorough, appraising slowness that felt more violating than a touch. He circled her again. “Turn around.” She did, shuddering as his knuckle traced the line of her spine from nape to tailbone. “Beautiful,” he murmured, but it sounded like a assessment of livestock. “Now, on the bed. On your back.”
The bed was large, bolted to the floor, piled with furs and linen. She lay down, the textures alien against her skin. She stared at the beams above, detaching herself, trying to float away.
He joined her, propped on one elbow beside her, his body a wall of heat. He didn’t immediately touch her. Instead, he began to talk, his voice a low, hypnotic rasp.
“I watched you during the watch. The way you stared at the horizon. You’re still looking for a way out.” His hand came to rest on her stomach, flat and warm. She flinched. “Stop looking.” His fingers slid lower, through the soft coppery curls, and found her core.
She gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily.
“See?” he said, his fingers exploring her with a terrifying, clinical precision. “Your body isn’t as proud as your tongue. It’s more honest.” He found the sensitive bud and began to stroke, a slow, relentless rhythm. “It knows what it wants.”
Shame flooded her, hot and nauseating, because a traitorous warmth was pooling low in her belly. She clenched her teeth, trying to wall off the sensation.
“Don’t fight it,” he commanded, his breath hot against her ear. His fingers worked her, clever and insistent, now slipping inside her, then circling back. The friction built, a coil tightening deep within. A small, pathetic sound escaped her throat.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his own breathing growing heavier. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, his stubble scraping her skin. “Come for me, Isolde. Let go.”
She was trembling on the edge, the pleasure a terrifying wave about to crash over her, to drown her defiance completely. Her back arched, a silent plea.
He stopped.
Her eyes flew open, wide with shock and a desperate, unmet need. He had withdrawn his hand completely, watching her with those intense blue eyes, a cruel smirk on his face.
“Please…” The word was out before she could stop it, a raw, humiliating whisper.
“Please what?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Don’t stop.”
“I want to hear you say it. What do you want me to do?”
She was panting, aching, her body screaming for release. “Touch me. Finish it.”
“Not good enough.” He shifted, kneeling between her legs. He unlaced his breeches, freeing his erection. He was thick, veined, ruddy in the lantern light. The sight of him, so blatantly ready, sent a new jolt of fear and something else through her. He took himself in hand, stroking slowly, his eyes locked on hers. “I’ll give you what you need. But you have to earn it. You have to do something for me first.”
Her mind was fogged with unmet desire. “What?”
“Open your mouth.”
Understanding dawned, cold and vile. She shook her head, trying to push herself up on her elbows.
He leaned forward, his free hand wrapping in her hair, not painfully, but with absolute control. He brought his face close to hers. “You promised. My rules. My waters. This is my rule right now. You want to come? You want that relief so bad you’re shaking for it? Then you take me in your mouth. Or…” He tilted his head toward the stern window, toward the sea. “The alternative is always there. Maybe a few hours treading water will cool this heat between your legs.”
The crow’s nest bargain echoed in the room. Your ship. Your rules. This was the true currency. Her body, her pride, for a moment’s release.
A tear of sheer frustration leaked from the corner of her eye. She gave the slightest, barely perceptible nod.
“Use your words,” he growled.
“I… I will.”
“You will what?”
“I will… suck your cock.” The obscenity felt like glass in her throat.
He guided her head forward. “Then do it. And do it like you mean it, or we start over.”
The smell of him, salt and musk, filled her senses. She opened her mouth, letting the tip press against her lips. She tentatively touched him with her tongue. The taste was strange, salty, profoundly intimate. He groaned, a low, genuine sound that vibrated through him.
“Further,” he urged, his hand still in her hair, guiding her. “Take more.”
She relaxed her jaw, allowing him to push slowly into her mouth. It was an invasion, stretching her, choking her slightly. She gagged, her eyes watering.
“Breathe through your nose,” he instructed, his voice strained. “Now move.”
She began to bob her head, following the pressure of his hand. The act was degrading, but a dark, transactional part of her mind focused on the goal. If she did this, he would finish what he started. She would have her release. She found a rhythm, hollowing her cheeks, using her tongue as he had used his fingers.
“Fuck, yes,” he hissed. “Just like that. Your clever mouth is good for more than backtalk.”
His hips began to move in tiny thrusts, meeting her motions. The power dynamic had shifted again; she was actively participating in her own degradation, and a horrifying thread of agency—of choice—ran through it. She was choosing this over the sharks. Choosing sensation over principle.
He was breathing in harsh gasps now. “I’m going to come in that pretty mouth,” he warned, his fingers tightening in her hair. “And you’re going to swallow every drop. That’s the price.”
She couldn’t answer. She just kept moving, her own need a throbbing, ignored ache between her legs.
With a guttural cry, he shoved deep, holding her there as he pulsed. The hot, bitter flood hit the back of her throat. She gagged violently but forced herself to swallow, again and again, until he was spent.
He pulled out, slick with her saliva. He looked down at her, her lips swollen, her eyes streaming, and something in his hardened expression flickered. Not remorse. Something more like awe, and a deeper, more possessive hunger.
“Good girl,” he breathed, the words shockingly tender.
Then he pushed her onto her back again. He kissed her, deep and demanding, tasting himself on her tongue. His hand slid back between her legs, finding her wet and swollen, more ready than before.
“Now you,” he said.
And this time, he did not stop. His fingers worked her with a focused intensity, his mouth on her breast, sucking hard. The coil, never fully relaxed, wound again with shocking speed. The orgasm broke over her like a wave, brutal and shocking in its intensity. Her body arched off the bed, a shattered cry ripped from her throat—a sound of surrender, of pleasure, of utter defeat.
She collapsed, trembling, every muscle spent. He gathered her against him, his own body slick with sweat. She expected to feel nothing but hatred. Instead, she felt a hollow, clean exhaustion. And a terrifying, sinking knowledge.
He had won. He had made her beg, made her service him, and then made her come apart at his command. The baroness was gone, at least in this room. What was left in her place was something simpler, and more dangerous.
He nuzzled her hair. “Sleep,” he commanded.
And she did, not as a captive in a pirate’s bed, but as a creature who had finally, fully, acknowledged its master. The shame would come later. For now, there was only the deep, silent sea outside, and the warmth of the man who owned it, and her.