Chapter 3: Bloodied Bargains
The cold pork congealed on the plate. The silence in the cabin was a living thing, broken only by the creak of the ship and the distant shout of a sailor. Isolde’s wrists, still bound, throbbed where the silk had bitten, but the new slack in the rope was a world of possibility. She stared at the desk, at the spot where Rhys’s dagger had lain before he’d taken it with him. But he hadn’t.
Her eyes tracked to the floor beside the heavy oak leg. There, half-hidden in shadow, the blade gleamed dully. He must have dropped it when he retied her, distracted by the pale skin he’d unveiled.
Her heart began a slow, heavy drum against her ribs. She glanced at the door. No sound. Moving with a deliberate, agonizing slowness, she slid off the edge of the desk, her legs nearly buckling from hours of disuse. The torn front of her dress gaped, the cool air a shocking caress. She ignored it, her entire being focused on the weapon. She knelt, the movement awkward with her hands tied before her, and reached. Her fingers brushed the carved bone handle. She curled them around it, the weight solid, reassuring, deadly.
She shuffled back to lean against the desk, the dagger held tight against her thigh, hidden in the folds of her ruined gown. The pulse in her throat felt like it might leap from her skin. She rehearsed it in her mind. He would come in. She would stand. She would press the point to his throat and demand her release. It was simple. It was madness.
Time stretched. The light through the windows faded to a deep twilight indigo. The door finally opened.
Rhys entered, carrying a wooden bowl of water and a cloth. He looked tired, a smear of tar on his forearm, his hair tousled by the wind. He barely glanced at her, heading for the washstand. “Thought you might want to—"
Isolde pushed herself upright. The motion made him turn.
She held the dagger out, her grip white-knuckled, the point aimed squarely at the base of his throat. Her bound hands trembled, but the steel stayed level. “Untie me,” she said, her voice a low, clear wire of sound. “Now. And take me to the shore.”
Rhys went very still. His eyes dropped to the blade, then travelled up to her face. He didn’t look afraid. He looked… intrigued. A slow, dark smile touched his lips. He let the bowl and cloth fall to the table with a clatter.
“You found it,” he said, almost approvingly.
“Do it.” She took a half-step forward, the point hovering an inch from his skin. She could see the steady beat of his pulse in the hollow of his throat.
He didn’t retreat. Instead, he leaned in. The movement was so casual, so utterly fearless, that she froze. The cold tip of the dagger pressed into his flesh. A bead of dark red welled up around the steel, stark against his sun-weathered skin.
He hissed, but his smile never wavered. His blue eyes locked onto hers, holding her in place more surely than any rope. He leaned in further, the pressure of his body against her hand forcing the blade a fraction deeper. The blood traced a thin line down his neck.
“Do it properly,” he growled, the words vibrating against the metal. “Or don’t bother, little baroness.”
Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. The reality of it—the heat of his skin, the give of his flesh under the point, the vivid scarlet of his blood—flooded her senses. This wasn’t a theoretical threat. This was visceral. This was murder. Her arm began to shake violently.
“You’re not a killer,” he whispered, the scent of him—salt, sweat, oak—filling the space between them. “I can see it in your eyes. You have the spirit for a fight, but not the stomach for the finish.”
“I will,” she choked out, but the dagger was retreating, her arm bending as he pressed forward.
“No,” he said, simple and final. His hand came up, not in a grab, but slowly. He wrapped his fingers around her fist, the one clutching the dagger. His touch was firm, warm, completely enveloping. He didn’t force the blade away. He held her there, his blood now smearing both their skin. “You had your chance. You didn’t take it. That tells me everything.”
With a gentle, inexorable pressure, he guided the dagger down and away from his throat. She was powerless to stop him. The fight drained from her muscles, leaving her hollow and shaking.
He took the dagger from her limp grasp. He examined the bloody tip, then wiped it clean on his own shirt before setting it aside, far out of reach. He touched his neck, looked at the blood on his fingers, and gave a short, humorless laugh.
“A scratch.” He picked up the cloth he’d brought, soaked it in the bowl of water, and pressed it to the cut. His eyes never left hers. “You’re full of surprises. I like that. But a surprise that almost gets a man killed… that needs an answer.”
He reached for her bound wrists. She flinched, expecting violence, a blow, something to match the fury she saw simmering beneath his calm. Instead, his fingers went to the knot. He untied it. The silk slithered away, falling to the floor. Her hands were free, marked with deep red welts.
She stared at her own skin, numb.
“There,” he said. He tossed the damp, pink-tinged cloth onto the desk. “No more ropes.”
Isolde brought her hands to her chest, rubbing the feeling back into her wrists. The sudden liberty was disorienting, terrifying. It felt like a trap. “Why?”
“Because the game changes when you draw blood.” He stepped closer, crowding her against the desk. He caught her chin, forcing her to look up at him. The intensity in his gaze was overwhelming. “The ropes were for a hostage. A hostage doesn’t try to slit her captor’s throat. You’ve made it personal. So now, we see what you are. Prisoner? Stowaway? Or something else?”
He released her chin, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. “Your choices just got harder. You can try to kill me again. You’ll fail. You can throw yourself from the window. It’s a long, cold swim. Or you can learn to live here, on my terms.” His gaze dipped to her torn dress, the exposed skin. “Starting with the understanding that defiance has a price, but so does… cooperation.”
He turned and walked to the door. He paused, hand on the latch. “Sleep in the bed. It’s more comfortable than the desk. I’ll be right outside.” He glanced back, a pirate king in his plundered domain. “And Isolde? Try the door if you like. It’s not locked. But remember—there’s nowhere to go but the sea.”
He left, shutting the door behind him. She heard the distinct sound of a heavy object—a barrel, perhaps—being dragged across the deck outside, blocking it from the other side.
She was alone. Unbound. The dagger was gone. The door was blocked.
Isolde sank onto the edge of the large, canopied bed, her body trembling with a storm of spent adrenaline and shock. She looked at her hands—the welts from the silk, the tiny smear of Rhys’s blood on her knuckle. She brought her finger to her mouth, the metallic taste sharp on her tongue.
It was the taste of the line she had crossed. And the taste of the impossible, uncharted sea that now stretched before her.
The metallic tang lingered, a tiny victory that tasted like defeat. She sat frozen on the edge of the bed, the ship’s gentle sway feeling like the tremors running through her own body. Hours passed, marked only by the changing shadows and the distant watch-bells, before the barricade scraped away from the door.
It opened quietly. Rhys entered, closing it behind him. A fresh, smaller cut was visible on his neck, neatly stitched, stark against his skin.
“See?” he said, his voice casual as he gestured to it. “You’ve marked me. My crew’s been asking questions all evening. Makes a man look weak, having his hostage try to open his throat.”
“Good,” Isolde whispered, the word finding strength. “Maybe they’ll replace you.”
He laughed, a genuine sound of amusement that disarmed her. “Not a chance.” He leaned against the door, studying her. The playful glint in his eyes hardened into something more deliberate. “But it does mean we need to settle accounts. You drew my blood. I think I’m owed a look at yours.”
The meaning slammed into her a second later. She shot to her feet, backing toward the windows. “You are not.”
“It’s only fair,” he said, pushing off the door and taking a slow step forward. His movements were relaxed, almost lazy, which made it worse. “A life for a life, Isolde. You tried for mine. I’m just claiming a glimpse of yours. Think of it as a pirate’s tithe.”
“It is madness. It is an outrage.” Her voice cracked. She clutched the torn front of her gown.
“It’s the rules you agreed to when you picked up that blade.” He stopped a few feet away, his head tilted. “You can do it yourself, or I can. But after the knife, I’m not feeling particularly patient or gentle. Your choice.”
Tears of pure, hot fury blurred her vision. “I will not.”
“Suit yourself.” He closed the distance in two swift strides. She tried to dart away, but his hands caught her shoulders, turning her, pinning her back against his chest. One arm wrapped around her, immobilizing her arms. The other went to the back of her dress.
“Don’t you dare,” she spat, struggling uselessly against his iron grip.
“You already did the daring part, love,” he murmured into her hair. His fingers found the remaining laces of her stays. He didn’t bother untying them. She heard the sharp snick of a small blade—not his dagger, but a sailor’s utility knife—and the tension in the corset vanished. The dress sagged.
He released her arms only to slide the ruined gown and petticoats from her shoulders. They pooled at her feet in a whisper of silk and linen. She stood in her thin chemise, her entire body rigid, humiliated shivers racing over her skin.
He stepped back. She wrapped her arms around herself, refusing to turn and face him.
“All of it,” he said, his voice lower now. It had lost its lighthearted edge.
“No.”
“Isolde.” He said her name like a command and a plea woven together. “Don’t make this harder. It’s just skin. I’ve seen skin before.”
“Not mine,” she said, the words choking her.
“True.” There was a long pause, filled only with her ragged breathing. “Then I will.”
His hands were on her again, impersonal but inexorable. He turned her to face him. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, a hot tear escaping down her cheek. He hooked his fingers in the thin straps of the chemise and drew them down her arms. The final garment slipped away, joining the pile at her ankles.
The air in the cabin was cool. It washed over every inch of her, a shocking, unbearable exposure. She stood utterly revealed, her arms hanging uselessly at her sides, her eyes still tightly closed. She felt his gaze like a physical touch, sweeping over her, mapping the territory he had claimed.
He was utterly silent for a long time.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, stripped of all mockery. “There. Accounts are settled.”
She heard the rustle of fabric. He bent, and she flinched. But he was only gathering her chemise. He draped it over her shoulders. “Get some sleep.”
She clutched the thin cloth to her front, finally opening her eyes. He was already at the door, his back to her, as if giving her a moment’s privacy. The line of his shoulders was tense.
“That’s it?” she heard herself ask, the question trembling in the air between them.
He glanced back, his profile sharp in the lamplight. His eyes held a storm of something she couldn’t name—regret, desire, fury. It was all there, tightly leashed. “For tonight,” he said. “The view was the payment. Nothing more, nothing less.”
He left, pulling the door shut behind him. The barricade didn’t scrape back into place. She was alone, naked but for the flimsy chemise, the ghost of his gaze still burning on her skin.
She was alone, naked but for the flimsy chemise, the ghost of his gaze still burning on her skin.
It took minutes for the paralysis to break. She stumbled to the bed, pulling the heavy covers over herself, hiding from the empty room. Shame was a hot, sick wave, but beneath it, a sharper, more terrifying current surged. Her skin still hummed where his hands had been. The memory of his grip was a brand.
She lay rigid, staring at the canopy. The ship groaned around her. Every sound beyond the door—a footstep, a laugh—made her flinch. She waited for him to return, to claim some further, darker payment. He didn’t.
Hours bled into the darkness. The initial shock cooled, leaving a strange, buzzing clarity. She replayed it. The knife at his throat. The feel of his skin giving way. The shocking warmth of his blood on her hand. Then later, his deliberate hands, the fall of fabric, the devastating exposure.
He had looked. He had seen everything. And then he had covered her and walked away.
Isolde turned her face into the pillow, which smelled of him—salt and leather and something faintly spicy. A fresh wave of humiliation washed over her. She should be planning her next escape, fueled by righteous fury. Instead, her treacherous mind kept returning to the precise moment his calloused fingers had brushed her shoulders as he pulled the chemise away.
The heat of his body behind hers. The solid strength of him. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold air traced her spine.
She hated him. She despised his arrogance, his cruelty, his common birth. He was a thief, a murderer, a pirate. He had stripped her not just of her clothes, but of every dignity she owned. Yet, under the covers, her own hand drifted over the skin of her stomach. She imagined a different touch. Rougher. Claiming.
Isolde squeezed her eyes shut, a low moan of frustration stifled by the linen. This was madness. It was perversion. She was a baron’s daughter, and he was low-born scum who stole for a living. To fantasize about his hands was to betray everything she was. But the memory of his eyes, darkened with a hunger that wasn’t just for conquest, refused to fade.
Sleep was impossible. The space beside her in the wide bed felt enormous and accusing.
A faint, grey pre-dawn light was seeping through the windows when the door finally opened again. She didn’t move, feigning sleep, her heart hammering. His boots were quiet on the floorboards. He set something down on the desk with a soft thud.
“I know you’re awake,” he said, his voice gravelly with fatigue. “Your breathing changed.”
She opened her eyes. He stood by the desk, looking at her. He’d changed his shirt, but the dark stitching on his neck was a stark reminder. In the gloom, he seemed less a villain and more simply a tired man.
“What do you want?” Her voice was hoarse.
“To talk.” He dragged the room’s single chair over, placing it beside the bed but not too close. He sat, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “Your father’s reply came. A fast cutter found us just before dawn.”
This was it. The ransom. Freedom. A dizzying hope shot through her, immediately tempered by cold dread.
“And?” she prompted, pushing herself up against the headboard, pulling the covers tight to her chin.
“He agreed to the new sum. Double.” Rhys ran a hand through his hair. “He was most accommodating. Provided the coordinates for the exchange himself. A secluded cove, two days’ sail from here.”
Relief, sweet and overwhelming, left her weak. “So, you’ll take me there. You’ll let me go.”
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “That’s the plan.” He paused, studying her face in the dim light. “The cove he specified? It’s called Blackfin Bay. Has a single, narrow entrance. Perfect for a ship to get trapped if, say, a naval frigate were waiting just over the horizon.”
The relief curdled in her stomach. “My father wouldn’t risk me.”
“Your father is a politician who just had his prize asset stolen,” Rhys said flatly. “He’s not risking you. He’s using you as bait. He gets his daughter back and my head on a pike. Neat.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know the waters around here better than he knows his own wine cellar. I know an ambush point when I see one.” He leaned back, the chair creaking. “So, here’s the new calculus, Isolde. I sail into his trap, we all likely die or hang. Or I don’t.”
A cold knot formed in her chest. “You keep me.”
“For a while.” He stood up, pacing a short, frustrated path. “Until I can arrange a different exchange. Somewhere I control. It’ll take time.”
“You can’t. The deal is struck!”
“The deal is a lie.” He stopped, pinning her with a look. “Your value just shifted again. You’re no longer just ransom. You’re a hostage against my crew’s survival. And you’re a witness to your father’s betrayal.”
The word ‘betrayal’ hung in the air. Had her father truly chosen a chance to destroy this pirate over a guarantee of her safety? The doubt, once seeded, sent roots deep into her heart.
“What does that mean for me?” she whispered.
“It means you stay in this cabin. You eat what I eat. And you try very, very hard not to stab me again.” A faint, weary smirk touched his lips. “We have a long voyage ahead. To where, I haven’t decided yet.”
He walked to the door, then glanced back at the bed, at the bundle of her ruined clothes still on the floor. “There’s a trunk at the foot of the bed. Clothes. Taken from a Spanish galleon. They should fit. Wear whatever you like.”
The door closed behind him. This time, she heard the clear, final sound of a key turning in the lock.
Isolde lay back, the brief hope now ashes in her mouth. Her father had gambled with her life. Her captor had, in his own brutal way, just spared it. The world had inverted.
She rose, the chemise clinging to her. She went to the trunk, lifting the heavy lid. Inside, folded neatly, were women’s garments—a deep blue silk gown, a simpler linen dress, a woolen skirt. Finer than anything a sailor’s wife would own. Loot.
She pulled out the linen dress. It was plain, serviceable. It felt like a choice. A semblance of autonomy. She dressed slowly, the fabric soft against her sensitized skin. The garment fit, more or less. It felt alien.
Returning to the bed, she sat on its edge. The scent of him on the sheets was now unavoidable. She ran her fingers over the pillow where his head would lie.
Part of her, a dark, shameful part that had awakened with the touch of his knife and the heat of his stare, wished he would return now. Wished he would push her back onto the mattress and run his hands all over her again, not as a lesson in power, but to answer the desperate, confusing need his earlier touch had ignited.
She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. It was wrong. It was beneath her. He was a low-class pirate, a criminal, and she was his property to be bargained with. To desire him was a sickness.
But as the ship plunged on through the unknown sea, the truth coiled tight in her belly. The sickness was there. And it was awake.