Chapter 2: Stew and the Belt
The stew was hot in her hands, the bowl wrapped in a rough cloth that did little to shield her fingers from the warmth seeping through the clay. She'd waited in the galley, letting the cook's grumbling wash over her, letting the steam rise and mist her face while she tried to convince herself she wasn't shaking.
She was.
Not from fear. She didn't want to name what it was from.
The corridor was dark, lit only by the occasional guttering lantern, and she moved through it slowly, her bare feet padding against the wood. Her backside still throbbed with every step. The memory of his hand, the weight of it, the heat of it, was a persistent ache that refused to be ignored. She'd been spanked before. Her father had believed in discipline, had raised a hand to her more times than she could count.
This was different.
This had been measured.
She stopped outside his door, the bowl warming her palms, and she could hear the scratch of his quill against paper. He was writing something. Probably his log. Probably recording her failure in neat, precise script.
She pushed the door open with her shoulder.
He looked up, and for a moment, his eyes caught hers. There was no apology there. No softening. Just the cold, flat assessment of a man who'd seen her broken and was curious to see how she'd put herself back together.
She set the bowl on the edge of his desk, a little harder than necessary.
"There," she said. "I ate. Happy?"
He didn't respond. He set down his quill and reached for the bowl, lifting the spoon and blowing on the steaming liquid. He took a sip, his expression unchanging, and then set the bowl back down.
"The cook's better than he smells," he said.
She stood there, fists clenched at her sides, and felt the anger building behind her ribs like a living thing. He'd flipped her over his lap like she was a child. He'd spanked her until she couldn't sit without wincing. And now he was eating her stew like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Don't you have anything to say?" she demanded.
He looked up at her. "I have a few things, but I doubt you're ready to hear them."
"Try me."
His eyes narrowed, and he set down the spoon. The quiet clink of metal against clay was the only sound for a long moment.
"All right." He leaned back in his chair, studying her with a stillness that made her skin prickle. "You talk too much. You listen too little. You think your sharp tongue is a weapon, but it's just a shield. And you flinch when I look at you, but you won't admit you're scared."
"I'm not scared of you."
"That's the first lie you've told tonight, and it won't be the last."
She took a step closer to the desk, her body humming with tension. "You think you know me? You don't know anything about me."
"I know you were raised on discipline and you've spent your whole life running from it." His eyes dropped to her hands, still clenched at her sides. "I know you've got more fire than sense. And I know, in three hours of scrubbing floors, you never once asked for help."
She laughed. It came out sharp and bitter. "Why would I ask you for help? You're the one who put me on my knees."
"I didn't hear you complain about the work. Just about the circumstances."
"That's the same thing."
"It's not." He pushed the bowl aside and stood. She stepped back without thinking, her spine hitting the desk's edge. He noticed. A flicker in his gray eyes, something that might have been satisfaction. "You hate being told what to do. That's clear. But you'll do it anyway, because you're smart enough to know when you're beaten."
"I'm not beaten."
"Not yet." He took a step closer, and she pressed harder against the desk. "But you will be. You'll be beaten, and you'll learn, and then—"
"Then what? I become your perfect little prisoner? I don't think so."
He reached out, and she flinched as his hand came up. But he only touched her chin, tilting her face up.
"You've got a smart mouth," He said softly. "I've known a lot of people with smart mouths. Most of them learned to keep them shut."
"And the ones who didn't?"
"Most of them are dead." He let go of her chin, and his voice was almost gentle. "The ones who weren't are sitting in captains' chairs, drinking rum and counting their scars."
"Then maybe I'll be a captain someday."
He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "You've got a long way to go before that."
She wanted to hit him. Wanted to swing her fist and catch him in that smug, bearded jaw. She imagined the impact, the crack of knuckles against bone, the satisfying shock of pain radiating up her arm. She imagined the look on his face when he realized she wasn't just a spoiled admiral's daughter, that she was something more dangerous.
The stew was still steaming on the desk.
"See, this is what I don't understand," she said, her voice low and venomous. "You talk about discipline like it's some kind of lesson. But I've seen discipline. My father—"
"Your father, from what I've heard, raised you like a son. Taught you to fight, to sail, to hold your liquor." He raised an eyebrow. "And yet here you are, washing my floors."
She felt her teeth grind. "He didn't raise me like a son. He raised me to be a weapon."
"Did he?" Rhys tilted his head, his eyes crawling over her. "Because you don't look very sharp right now." A long pause. "I've seen stray dogs with better discipline."
Something inside her snapped.
The bowl came up in her hands before she even made the decision. The stew sloshed over the rim, burning her fingers, and she hurled it at him with every ounce of strength she had.
The clay shattered against his chest—
The stew splattered his shirt, chunks of potato and carrot and greasy gravy clinging to the fabric. The bowl dropped to the floor and cracked, shards skittering across the freshly cleaned planks. Steam rose from his chest, and the silence that followed was absolute.
He looked down at himself. For a long moment, he just stared at the mess.
Then he looked up at her.
His eyes had gone flat. Hard. Not a flicker of anger, not a flash of surprise. Just a cold, bottomless stillness that made something primal in the back of her brain start screaming.
She swallowed. Her hands were shaking, dripping with stew and shame.
"I—" she started.
He reached for his belt.
The leather slid through the loops with a soft, whispering sound. He doubled it over, the buckle clinking against the wood of the desk as he set it down. His hands moved with slow, deliberate precision, methodical, unhurried.
"What are you doing?" She heard the tremor in her own voice. It frayed her nerves further.
He didn't answer. He gestured to the desk.
"Bare it," he said.
"No."
He undid the top button of his trousers, never breaking eye contact. "I said, bare it."
"No."
He took a step closer, and she bumped against the edge of the desk. There was nowhere left to go.
"You just threw hot stew at me," he said, and his voice was dangerously calm. "You could have burned me. You could have ruined months of work. You could have blinded me if it'd hit different." He tapped his collarbone, where a red mark was already blooming through the stain. "But you didn't think about that, did you? You just acted. Let your temper do the thinking."
"I didn't mean—"
"You meant to hurt me." He shook his head slowly, a low laugh escaping him. "That's the problem, Isolde. You're a weapon with no hand on the hilt. And someone's gotta hold it before you cut somebody who doesn't deserve it."
He was right in front of her now. She could smell the stew on him, the sweat, the ever-present salt.
"Bare it," he said again. "Or I'll bare it for you."
She stared at him.
Something in her chest was fighting, some stubborn animal refusing to surrender. But her hands were already moving, shaking as they reached for the laces at her back. Her dress slid down her shoulders, bunching at her waist, exposing the thin chemise beneath. She hesitated.
"All of it."
She gritted her teeth and pulled the chemise up, bunching it under her arms. The air hit her skin, and she felt exposed, raw, humiliated in a way that was somehow worse than the spanking on the deck. The bruises he'd left earlier were already blooming, purple crescents across the curve of her buttocks.
He led her over to the desk by the arm, his grip firm but not punishing. He bent her over the edge, pressing her chest down against the cold wood, her hips tilting up. She tried to push herself back up.
His hand pressed down on her lower back. "Stay."
She stayed.
The leather was cold against her skin. He let it rest there, his fingers teasing the edge, letting her feel what was coming before he delivered it.
"You want to be a weapon?" His voice was low, almost thoughtful. "You want to be sharp. Fine. But weapons have to be tempered. Hammered. Heated until they're ready to take an edge." The belt lifted, and she heard the air shift. "This is the hammer."
It connected with the sensitive crease where her buttocks met her thighs.
The pain was sharp. Precision-guided, targeted. It cut through her like a knife, radiating heat that spread across her skin and burrowed deep into muscle. She gasped, her hands flying back to protect the spot.
He caught her wrist and pinned it to the desk. "Hands down."
She lowered it, breathing hard.
The belt fell again. Same spot. The same line of fire.
A sound escaped her, something between a whimper and a curse. She could feel the heat spreading, feel the sting building layer on layer. But beneath the pain, something else was stirring. A warmth that had nothing to do with the burn. That pooled in her belly, low and unsettling.
She hated it.
"Count," he said.
"What?"
"Count the blows. Out loud. I want to hear your voice."
Something hot and rebellious surged in her chest. "I'm not counting your—"
The belt cracked across the same spot again. Her words dissolved into a sharp cry of air. Her hips bucked, but his hand kept her pinned.
"One," she spat, tasting blood from biting her tongue.
"Good girl."
The praise was worse than the pain. It hit her thigh-spot with the weight of a sledgehammer.
"Two." The word was strangled.
Three, four, five. Each blow landed with the same sickening precision, targeting that crease where her thighs met her ass, the most sensitive part of her. The skin was burning, raw, already tender. Isolde's breath came in ragged gasps. The tears she'd fought back earlier broke loose, spilling silently down her cheeks.
Her fingers curled into talons against the polished desk.
"I can feel you trembling," Rhys said, his voice almost gentle above the roar of blood in her ears.
"I know." She sounded pathetic to her own ears, small and broken, but she couldn't summon the strength to care anymore.
He paused. He'd stopped. She heard the belt being laid on the desk, the soft leather whispering against the wood. The sound of his weight shifting, and then his hand, heavy and warm, settling on the small of her back.
"You took that well," he said.
"Fuck—you." The words were barely a whisper.
He chuckled, low and rough. He reached down, and—she felt his fingers brush the inner curve of her thigh.
She froze.
He didn't move further, just traced a lazy circle at the edge of the bruise, his touch featherlight. She was waiting, holding her breath, her body caught suspended between pain and something else. A breathless anticipation she didn't want to name.
"Hold still," he murmured.
His fingers slid deeper, riding the inside of her thigh. She wanted to clamp her legs shut, wanted to push him away, but her body wasn't listening. It betrayed her, opening to him like a flower to the sun.
He found her slick and swollen, and she heard his sharp inhale.
"Look at that." His voice had gone rough. "All that fire, and it's making you wet."
She couldn't speak.
He traced her with one deliberate finger, circling her clit until her hips started rocking, seeking pressure. His thumb pressed down, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. He was watching her, she could feel his eyes on her back, on her spread thighs, on the trembling curve of her ass.
"Too bad," he said softly.
He pulled his hand away.
The absence was a physical ache, a void where the pleasure had been building. She felt empty, wrung out, aching in ways that made her hate him more.
But he didn't leave her hanging. He reached for the belt and folded it over, then stepped in behind her. She felt his body's heat before her senses fully caught up. The leather pressed against her inner thigh, right where his fingers had been.
He slid the belt along the slick crease, using her own wetness as lubricant, letting her feel the leather glide through her folds.
"Next time," he said, "you'll stay still for me. And you'll take what I give you." He pulled the belt away. "And you'll be grateful for it."
He let go of her, stepping back.
She collapsed against the desk, chest heaving, her whole body trembling. The air felt cold without his warmth, exposed. The bruises throbbed. The spot between her legs ached with a wanton, needy pulse that she couldn't deny.
She heard him pouring water from a ewer into a basin, heard him scrubbing at his shirt.
"Get off the desk," he said over his shoulder. "Clean that up."
She didn't know how she found the strength, but she did. She stood on shaking legs, pulled her dress up over her shoulders, and stumbled to the corner where a rag hung. She knelt down and began wiping the stew off the floor.
He didn't look at her.
But she could feel his gaze on her, following her every move, burning into her skin.
Her fingers moved mechanically, wiping the mess, his message burning into her skin, settling deep in her bones.
She hated him for this—for the pain, the humiliation. She hated him for leaving her aching and denied. But mostly, she hated the way some treacherous part of her, small and buried, had liked it.
The silence stretched between them.
She scrubbed. He watched.
The lantern flickered. The ship creaked around them.
And nothing was settled.