June, 1685. Somewhere in the Caribbean Sea.

Salt crusted her lips. The sun burned overhead, unforgiving, as it had for what she guessed was the third day adrift. Her dress—once silk and ivory lace—was now translucent with seawater, clinging to her skin like a second, shameful layer. Lady Eveline Ashcombe, daughter of a baron, survivor of a shipwreck, stared up at the searing sky and wondered if she was dying.

And then—shouts. Voices not in prayer or panic, but rough and raucous, cutting through the gull cries.

A shadow loomed over her. A boat. A rope dropped. Hands gripped her shoulders—calloused, unfamiliar—and pulled her out of the ocean like she was a caught fish. She fainted against them, but not before hearing a deep voice mutter, “Alive… barely.”

She awoke in a dark wooden cabin. The air was thick with heat, musk, and salt. Her limbs felt heavy, her throat parched. The scent of smoke and sweat drifted from somewhere beyond the door. She sat up, the world swaying beneath her.

“You’re awake.”

The voice was gravel and command. She turned.

A man stood by the doorway, taller than any she’d seen. His skin bronzed from sun, hair tied back in a low, unruly tail. His shirt open to the navel, revealing a broad chest etched with scars and power. His eyes—dark and gleaming—rested on her like a predator who’d finally caught something worth keeping.

“I thought you might die,” he said, stepping closer, eyes never leaving hers. “But you didn’t.”

Her voice caught in her throat. “Who are you?”

“Captain Rourke.” His smile curled with something wicked. “You’re aboard The Devil’s Mercy now. Pirate ship, in case you hadn’t guessed.”

Panic flared. She backed against the wall, hands clutching the shredded remains of her dress.

His gaze flicked down. “That gown’s not fit for a whorehouse rag now. And you… noble, aren’t you? I can smell it on you.”

Eveline’s breath caught—half indignation, half heat. She should’ve been horrified. She was horrified. But under it, shamefully, undeniably, there was something else. The way he looked at her. Like he’d tear her open with desire, not violence. Like she was treasure. His.

“I won’t be your whore,” she said, voice shaking.

“No,” he agreed. “You’ll be mine.”

Before she could speak, he closed the distance. One hand tangled in her wet hair, tilting her face up. He kissed her—hard, hungry, tasting her salt and fear and defiance. She gasped, and he used that moment to deepen it, his tongue claiming her mouth like he owned it.

Her body rebelled, arching toward him. She hadn’t been touched, not like this. Not ever. No suitor back home had dared. And none had smelled of spice and sea and gunpowder. Her thighs clenched involuntarily.

His hand slid down, bold and rough, curling around her hip through the torn silk. “You want to say no, but your body already knows the answer.”

She should scream. Slap him. She did neither.

He shoved her against the cabin wall, mouth hot at her throat, teeth grazing her pulse. One hand tore the front of her dress open. Her gasp turned to a cry as his hand palmed her breast—firm, demanding, thumb teasing the already-hard peak.

Eveline moaned—humiliated by the sound, by how ready her body was for this violence-wrapped-in-pleasure.

“You’re wet,” he growled, sliding a hand between her thighs, beneath what remained of her shift. “Already? Noble lady, you’ve got a filthy soul under all that lace.”

“Shut up,” she gasped.

He chuckled, darkly pleased. “I plan to. With my mouth. After I fuck you.”

He lifted her—strong arms braced under her thighs—slamming her back against the wall as his mouth captured hers again. She felt the ridge of his arousal against her, hot and demanding through his trousers.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled against her ear.

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

His mouth trailed fire down her throat, and Eveline’s thoughts splintered like glass underfoot.

She wasn’t supposed to feel this. Not like this. Not from a man who took her, who didn’t ask, who pressed his body to hers like he owned it. And yet—her breath came fast, dizzy. Her skin begged for more.

His hand moved between her thighs again, rough fingers brushing where she was soft and slick. She bit her lip hard, but it was no use—her hips bucked forward, instinct overpowering any sense of dignity. She was wet. Soaked. Shame burned across her face.

But it didn’t stop him.

He groaned against her ear, a low, feral sound. “Christ, you’re dripping. Your little cunt wants me.”

The vulgarity should have horrified her. Instead, it punched deep into her belly—hot, dark, intoxicating. No one had ever said such words to her. No one had ever touched her like this. Not the soft-handed sons of noblemen. Not the man her father had promised her to, who kissed like a priest and smelled like ink.

This pirate’s fingers slid lower, between her folds, and found the aching nub of her. She jerked in his arms. Her head fell back, hitting the wood with a soft thud. She barely noticed.

His thumb circled that spot slowly—lazily—like he knew exactly how it would ruin her.

And it was ruining her.

She could feel her pulse there. Every stroke made her gasp silently, hips rocking without permission. She wanted more. She needed more.

Her thoughts were no longer clear. They melted, dripped down her spine like candle wax.

His mouth found her nipple, already tight and begging. He sucked, tongue flicking rhythmically, while his fingers teased lower. Her back arched. She clung to his shoulders—strong and slick with sweat—her nails digging into him as the world began to unravel.

A warm coil twisted in her belly. A frantic, helpless pressure built—tight, relentless.

She didn’t know this feeling. No governess had ever whispered of it. No book had dared describe it. But her body knew. It knew.

She shattered.

The climax rolled through her like thunder—violent, unstoppable. She trembled in his grip, legs shaking, teeth clenched to muffle the cries. Pleasure spilled over her in waves, again and again, like the ocean itself had taken her.

When it passed, she was limp against him, gasping like she’d drowned all over again.

He held her up.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger. “Didn’t even fuck you yet.”

He laid her back on the captain’s bed—soft, warm furs tangled beneath her bare skin. She reached for him now. Without thinking. Without shame.

He unlaced his trousers slowly, letting her see. Hard, thick, flushed with need. Her breath hitched. She’d never seen a man like this before.

He knelt between her thighs, spreading her wide. She felt exposed, vulnerable—and yet, not afraid. She wanted him. Inside her. Deep.

Her heart thundered in her ears as he lined himself up, the tip of him nudging at her entrance. Slick, hot. Too big.

Her body tensed.

His voice came low and rough. “Breathe. Let me in.”

She did. She let him.

The stretch burned—sharp at first—but it was good. Too much, not enough, perfect. She felt every inch of him as he pushed in slow, thick and insistent, until he was buried inside her completely.

She moaned. He cursed, breathless.

“Fucking tight,” he growled.

He didn’t move right away. He let her feel it—all of him. The fullness, the ache, the way her body pulsed around him. Her mind was gone, lost in the sensations. She was nothing but flesh and heat and longing.

And then he moved.

Slow thrusts at first, dragging against every tender nerve. Her hands gripped the sheets, her lips parted in soft, helpless sounds. Each stroke drove deeper, harder. Pleasure built again, fierce and fast.

She wrapped her legs around him. Her body—once prim, once noble—welcomed him like she was made for this. Like she belonged to him.

Because maybe she did.

And when he growled her name—low, possessive, claiming—it broke her again.

She screamed this time. She didn’t care.

She didn’t know how long it lasted.

Time unraveled into waves of motion—his hips driving into hers with brutal rhythm, her body rising to meet every thrust, soft cries spilling freely from her lips. The pleasure became something raw, animal, unrelenting. She wasn’t Eveline Ashcombe, daughter of nobility. She was only heat and breath and the dizzy throb of her own undoing.

He gripped her wrists, pinned them above her head, his weight pressing her down into the bed. She should’ve felt trapped. Instead, her thighs fell wider, welcoming him deeper, her body aching for every hard stroke.

When she came again—harder than before—she sobbed his name, muffled by the fur and her own disbelieving gasp. Her entire body clenched around him, shaking uncontrollably as pleasure ripped through her like a storm breaking over the sea.

He followed—slamming into her one final time with a growl. She felt it: the hot, pulsing flood inside her. Felt him shudder, deep and violent, before collapsing over her like a falling wave.

The cabin was still now, save for the sound of their breathing—heavy, tangled, uneven.

His weight settled over her, comforting in its heat. She lay beneath him, dazed, bare, legs parted, the inside of her thighs wet and sticky with proof of what they’d done.

Of what she’d let him do.

No. Not let. Wanted. Needed.

Her thoughts were scattered, like pages of a diary torn by wind. Her body still trembled, tender and raw, her thighs bruised from the grip of his hands. Her nipples ached. She could feel the pulse of her heartbeat between her legs.

This should have been shameful. Unforgivable. She’d been raised to be silent, chaste, composed.
But now—used and wrecked and held in the arms of a pirate—she felt… alive.

And warm. So warm.

He shifted, pulling her with him, curling her into the curve of his body. One rough hand smoothed down her back, fingers tracing the base of her spine like she was something delicate.

No words passed between them. Just the steady rhythm of the sea outside, the creak of the wooden boards beneath the bed, the quiet rise and fall of their breath.

Her eyelids fluttered.

She tried to stay awake. To remember this feeling—this odd, dangerous safety in the arms of a man she should fear.

But her body was soft now. Spent. Drowsy.

She let her cheek rest against his chest. Felt the thud of his heartbeat beneath her palm. One last thought floated through her fogged mind:

He’ll never let me go.

And then, finally, she slept.