9. Gypsy

9

Gypsy

T oday’s not the day to cross me.

One pirate sprawls at my feet, clutching his knee, his face twisted in agony. It’s a shot I didn’t think twice about. Just cold, familiar efficiency. I’m too damn tired, too pissed off, and far too on edge to waste time on mercy. Mercy invites mistakes. Mercy leaves room for payback.

But a man with a shattered kneecap? He’s not coming after me. He’s not coming after anyone.

It’s just business.

I exhale slowly, squaring my shoulders and locking eyes with the second one—a pirate whose face is redder than a sunburn. He’s already scrambling, dragging his injured crewmate up, shaking like he knows I’ll shoot next if he doesn’t move fast enough.

Good. I want them off my ship—my newly claimed ship—before things go further south. And they’re already headed there.

Even from down here, I can hear the wind picking up, howling like a storm’s ready to tear through the sails. The calm seas from just minutes ago? Gone. The air’s thick, heavy with the promise of chaos. I can feel it in my very bones.

“Move it,” I bark, voice low and sharp, watching them stumble toward the ladder.

If Silverbeard were here, he’d call me reckless. He always said you don’t leave enemies breathing. Finish what you start. Kill ’em all and make sure no one’s left to come back for revenge. But I’d rather let them limp off on their own than waste time tossing dead bodies overboard.

I follow them up to the deck, the wind slapping against my face as I step out into the storm that’s already rolling in. The sky’s a mess of black clouds, boiling faster than they should.

Fuck.

I keep my pistol trained on the pirates as they hobble to the edge of the deck, muttering curses under their breath.

“Jump,” I snap, jerking my head toward the edge. “Off my ship. If you’re lucky, you’ll find a skiff nearby. If not, start praying you reach the shoals before the sharks find you.”

For a moment, the red-faced one hesitates, glancing at his fallen friend like he’s debating a last stand. I’ve seen that look before—the kind that ends with a sword through someone’s gut. I raise the pistol again, and that’s all it takes. His bravery crumbles, and he stumbles toward the railing, hauling the injured man with him.

Good fucking choice.

I watch them go, muttering curses as they flop overboard, their splashes swallowed by the howling wind. It barely registers—just another noise in the chaos around me. Only when they’re too far gone to turn back do I lower my pistol and take in the wreck of a deck.

What a goddamn mess. Broken crates, spilled rum, ropes tangled like a snake pit. The place looks like it’s been through hell. Guess the fools who had it didn’t bother keeping the insides half as pretty as the hull. Not that it matters. It’s still a fine prize, storm or not.

The real problem? In the state it’s in, this ship’s going to need more than just two hands to get her through the storm. Especially through this storm.

And then there’s him. The prisoner.

His voice comes from below deck, muffled but annoyingly persistent. “Hello? Still there? You haven’t forgotten about me, have you?”

I grit my teeth.

“Nope. Nope, I haven’t,” I mutter under my breath.

Of course I haven’t. It’s not like I’ve got many choices left at this point. Time’s running out, and there’s more work to do than I care to think about. But I’d be an idiot not to use whatever I’ve got, and right now, that means him .

I yank open the hatch and head down. The musty air hits me—stale sweat, damp wood, and blood. It’s darker down here than it should be—without any candles lit up—but the light filtering in through cracks is enough to catch a glimpse of him.

He’s huddled in his cage, wrists bound, legs tucked up like a scared child. The sight makes me sneer. He doesn’t belong here—not with that pale skin and soft look about him. His hair’s too clean, too light, falling in waves across his forehead, catching the light like gold. It’s all wrong for a place like this. He looks more like he belongs in some lord’s hall than rotting down here, chained in the bowels of a pirate ship.

And yet, here he is, bound in chains, pale and sweating.

“Miss? Oh, mysterious, dangerous Miss? I’d be willing to negotiate my release. I’ve got... charm, for one. Maybe a song? Not that this seems like the time for a lute, but believe me, I’m very good at what I do.”

I raise an eyebrow, taking a couple of steps toward him. He stiffens at my silence, eyes widening. Pale blue, almost silver. Pretty, I suppose. If you’re into that sort of thing. But they’re nothing like Zayan’s.

The thought of Zayan makes my stomach twist, a fresh wave of irritation crashing through me. Why the hell am I even thinking about him? That bastard doesn’t deserve a second of my time, let alone a place in my head. Not after what he did.

I wrinkle my nose. Focus .

“If you could just give me a chance, then I’m sure—“

“Quiet.” My voice is sharp but low. I don’t care for his songs, or his charm. I need someone to pull ropes, not serenade me.

He flinches at the command but recovers quickly, flashing a weak smile, trying to sell me on whatever he’s got left. His teeth are clean. Too clean.

“Look,” he starts again, his voice trembling just slightly, “I can see you’re not the type to—ah, let’s say, negotiate, but maybe we could come to an understanding. Something mutually beneficial, you know?” He lifts his bound hands, fingers wiggling pathetically.

I study him for a short moment. He’s not the type of companion I would normally go for. Too little skill shows on his smooth hands. But like I said, I don’t have much choice.

“Chains aren’t really my style, you know,” he tries again, his smile faltering as his eyes dart to the pistol on my belt. “You wouldn’t want to... shoot me, would you? I’m much better above deck. Fresh air, less blood...”

He stops when he realizes I’m not laughing.

“You still don’t know when to shut up,” I say, unlocking the cage with a swift, sharp click. “It makes me want to kill you.”

“Now, now, I’m sure that’s just the heat of the moment talking. Killing me would be such a waste of potential. You haven’t even seen my best skills yet. I’m excellent at... well, a lot of things. Surely that’s worth sparing my life?”

I don’t respond. His desperation leaks into his tone as he continues.

“I—I mean, think about it. “There’s a lot I could do for you, Miss…”

“Captain,” I snap over my shoulder, not slowing down. “My name is Gypsy. But if you call me that again, I’ll put a bullet between your brows.”

I can hear him trying to keep up as I push open the hatch and emerge back onto the deck. The wind hits us both immediately, sharp and biting, and I feel him freeze for a second behind me.

The storm’s closer now, swirling clouds overhead like a black monster ready to devour us whole. The sails are thrashing wildly, ropes twisting in the wind.

The weather is changing even faster than I feared.

“O-okay,” the prisoner says. “Where… Where do you need me?”

I point toward the bow, where the anchor chain is still slack, dragging in the water. Shit. That’ll tear us apart if we don’t get it up before we set sail.

“We need to take up the anchor or we’ll be wrecked before the storm even hits us properly.” I wave him toward the capstan, already making my way to the bow. “Get over here and help me turn it.

He scrambles after me, and we both grab the heavy wooden bars. Inch by inch, the anchor chain groans, pulling the dead weight of the anchor from the water.

“Hurry!” I shout over the roar of the wind. “We don’t have time for this!”

He grunts beside me, his face red with effort. We both heave, the wind slapping against us, the ship starting to drift in the storm’s pull. Finally, with a last turn, the anchor clatters up, and I lock the chain into place.

“Done!” I shout, wiping the rain from my eyes. “Now, the ropes!” I point toward the tangled mess of rigging by the mast. “Untangle them. Now.”

There’s a pause—a very brief one—but in that second, I catch the flash of uncertainty in his eyes. His hands twitch like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

“I... sure! Absolutely! Ropes, yes, I can do ropes.” He jogs forward, tripping over his own feet before grabbing hold of one of the lines. His fingers fumble with the wet, knotted ropes, and he curses under his breath. It’s awkward, clumsy, but, somehow, it’s working.

Thank fuck.

I rush to the mast, ignoring the screaming protest of my muscles as I grab the halyard and wrestle with the mainsail. It’s difficult, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins keeps me going. The wind roars louder, the ship groaning beneath us, and I can feel every creak, every pull, like it’s alive and fighting back. I yank hard, cursing under my breath as the sail finally catches, flapping violently before snapping taut.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the prisoner still tangled in the ropes. He’s a mess—hair whipping around like a ragdoll, face pale as a ghost—but he’s trying. I’ll give him that. For all his bumbling, he’s not giving up.

And that’s something. Right now, we both need something .

I sure as hell am not dying on this pitiful, tiny schooner, stuck outside the sand shoals near Old Bayou. Death doesn’t care where it finds you, but I do. I’m not going down as a traitor, or as the Marauders’ whore, or whatever else the Serpents want to call me now.

When I die, it’ll be on my terms. In a blaze of glory. Not like this. Not here. I refuse to let it end like this.

Gypsy Flint bested by a storm…? Pfft. No fucking chance.

“Oi!” I yell over the wind, pointing to the ropes the prisoner’s fumbling with. “Pull it tighter, before the wind eats us alive!”

He looks up, startled, and tries to tighten his grip, but the rope’s slipping through his fingers like water. “I’m trying!” he shouts back, voice cracking. “But it’s a bit… complicated!”

I bite back a curse, stepping toward him. The idiot’s going to get us killed at this rate. “It’s not complicated,” I snap, grabbing the rope from his trembling hands. “It’s survival. Now hold this—tight!”

He fumbles to get a better grip, knuckles white. “Right, Miss Captain! Holding tight! Just, uh… if I drown, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

I blink, caught off guard. He’s joking? Now? In the middle of a bloody storm? The man’s mad.

A short laugh escapes me, sharp and bitter. “You won’t drown,” I mutter, hauling the line with ease. “ We won’t drown. But you might get thrown overboard if you keep handling rope like that. I’ll fucking throw you myself.”

His eyes widen again, and he looks like he’s about to argue, but instead, he just grins—nervous, wide-eyed. “Right… thrown overboard. Sounds… reasonable. Just, uh, for the record, I’m doing my best!”

“Your best looks pretty damn pitiful,” I say dryly, securing the last knot.

“Trust me, I’ve noticed.”

I glance at him—he’s still wearing that grin, but it’s a mask for the fear underneath. The man’s terrified, no question about it. But he’s still standing, still trying. Hell, I’ve seen seasoned sailors fall apart faster than this, and they didn’t have the nerve to smile through it. Maybe it’s stupidity, or maybe... maybe it’s something else.

As I said… We both need something.

I shake my head, a smirk pulling at my lips despite myself. “The world of piracy is a brutal one, but it sure as hell is free for all. Even for ones like you.”

I grab another line, keeping an eye on him. He’s gripping the rope like it’s his lifeline, which, to be fair, it probably is right now.

“Even for ones like me. Got it,” he mutters.

“And when this storm’s over,” I add, “someone’s going to need to scrub this deck—and it’s not going to be me.”

“Scrub the deck? Right, of course! Nothing says ‘I survived a storm’ like... scrubbing ,“ he babbles, eyes flicking nervously to the bloodstains. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to get up close and personal with... blood . Really brings out the wood grain, doesn’t it?”

He flashes me a weak grin, and damn if it doesn’t hit harder than it should. I don’t know what’s crazier—him, for cracking jokes in the middle of this chaos, or me, for actually laughing at them. But before I can bite it back, another short, sharp laugh escapes me.

“You’re a damn fool,” I mutter, shaking my head as I secure another line. “What’s your name?”

“Vinicola!” he shouts over the roar of the sea. Then, he quickly adds, “But you can call me Vini. It’s easier to remember... rolls off the tongue, I think! I’m a bard, actually!”

“Not from around here?”

“No. But I’ve spent time on the islands. What gave me away?”

I grin once more. “It’d be easier to list what doesn’t give you away.”

But as much as I surprisingly enjoy this conversation, talking will not save us from the storm. I glance out at the horizon—dark clouds seem to cover the entire skies.

“Alright, Vini! First, we need to secure this mess before we get torn apart. Stow everything loose and grab the barrels. Lash them down near the mast, and if you see anything rolling, tie it off. Now.”

His pale face flickers with confusion, but he nods quickly, scrambling toward the scattered crates and broken barrels.

I grab the nearest line, muttering a curse under my breath as the wind howls louder, threatening to rip the sails right off. We’ll need to reef them or this storm will tear us apart. I yank hard on the halyard, the rough rope biting into my hands, and call back to Vinicola, who’s tripping over his own feet as he ties down the last of the barrels.

“Drop the mainsail halfway! We need less canvas in the wind, or we’ll capsize!”

He blinks, clearly confused by the order. “Halfway? How do I—“

“Just do it!” I snap, yanking harder on the line. The sail flaps violently above us, the wind pulling at it like a wild beast. I grit my teeth, muscles straining as I pull it down partway and secure it to the boom with quick, practiced knots. “Now, Vinicola! Tie off the lower part of the sail! You see where it meets the mast? Use the rope and reef it!”

He has clearly never done it before, but he manages to tie it off. Sloppy, but it holds. For now.

I run back to the rigging, checking the sheets. They’re too loose—if the wind catches them wrong, we’ll be tossed like driftwood. I tug them tighter, wrapping the rope around the cleat and securing it with a quick knot.

The ship lurches, and my stomach flips as the bow dips into a wave, water crashing over the sides. Damn. We’re going to need to bail if this keeps up. I look toward the hatch, where the water’s already pooling near the entrance.

I sprint over and slam the hatch shut, locking it down tight. The storm’s battering us from all sides, and the rigging’s holding for now—but if this keeps up, we’ll need to pull the sails down completely. And with just the two of us? That’s a gamble I don’t like.

Hell, it’s bad enough this storm’s decided to swallow us whole right after I got tossed off the crew. But I’ll admit, luck tossed me a bone by crossing paths with this bard. If I hadn’t run into him… well, I don’t want to think about what might’ve happened.

The fact that he’s actually following my lead instead of dropping to his knees and praying to The Lady like every other coward I’ve seen? That’s something I won’t forget. I fucking swear.

So when the first flash of lightning cracks, close enough to feel it in my bones, and the thunder follows like cannon fire, I can’t help it. The madness of the storm’s in my blood now. I look at him—this strange, frail-looking man who somehow ended up in the middle of all this with me—and I half-laugh, half-shout over the chaos.

“Welcome to the pirate life, Vinicola!”

He stares back, wide-eyed, dripping wet, and then something in his gaze shifts. Something wild, raw—and completely out of place on someone like him.

“What a life to live!” he shouts, like he’s caught the fever of it too.

And for a split second, despite everything—the storm, the ship, the danger—the chaos in my blood hums right along with those words.

What a fucking life, indeed.

But then my eyes flick toward the horizon, and the feeling dies as fast as it hit me. Out there, cutting through the storm like a damn shadow, is another ship. Its sails stretch wide against the wind, like they’re daring it to tear them apart. And next to them, fluttering just enough to twist my gut, is a small grey flag.

Ash grey. Twisted black anchor. Swallowed by the serpent coiled around it.

Zayan.

His flag. His personal mark—the one he dredged up from the depths, along with whatever treasure he found for Roche. The one he used to leave behind like a ghost, like some silent message meant just for me. Always for me.

A chill runs down my spine, colder than the storm itself. Of course, it’s him. Of course he’s here, chasing after storms like he’s got nothing to lose. Maybe he thinks I’ll come running after him again. Maybe he’s foolish enough to believe I’d fall for it.

But not this time. Not ever again.

The only thing he’s getting from me now is a death’s kiss, and I’ll be more than happy to plant it on him. I’ll draw red before he even has time to smile that cocky, infuriating grin.

Except... something’s off.

That’s not a Marauder ship. Their flag’s nowhere to be seen. No, this one—it looks too much like the schooner we’re on. Like they were cut from the same damn cloth.

And then it clicks. Those two wet rats I threw overboard? Looks like they had friends waiting for them at Old Bayou. Now it’s coming back to bite me, like I should’ve expected. How Zayan Cagney ended up aboard their ship? That part I can’t figure out.

But whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’re coming. Let them.

“How much of a bounty do you have on your head?” I shout at Vinicola, not even bothering to look his way. My eyes are locked on the approaching ship.

“Quite a lot, I’d guess,” he stammers, voice shaking. “Dorien’s got nothing he loves more than his daughter. He’d pay any price for Nicoleta’s supposed abuser.”

“Huh.” That explains the rats. No one sails into the storm for just any bounty.

I keep my thoughts to myself and spin on my heel, sprinting across the rain-slicked deck. My boots slip slightly, but I don’t stop until I’ve slammed the cabin door open. Inside, the cramped space is a mess of charts, trinkets, and the personal junk of those two idiots I threw into the sea. I dig through their garbage, tossing aside a compass, a sextant, until my fingers close around what I need—the cold brass of a spyglass.

I’m back on deck in a heartbeat, snapping the spyglass open, aiming it at the ship bearing down on us. It looms into focus, and my stomach twists.

“You bastard,” I mutter under my breath.

“Miss Captain?” Vinicola’s voice cuts through the wind, just as thunder rumbles in the distance.

I bite my lip, tasting salt, and clench my fists so hard it hurts. The storm’s rising, the wind whipping my hair into a frenzy, but I’m already halfway to fury. “Ever heard of the Crimson Marauders’ right hand?”

Vinicola blinks, brows knitting in confusion. “Who?”

I almost laugh. Almost. “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.” I snap the spyglass shut with a sharp twist. “Because it looks like Zayan Cagney has joined forces with whoever the hell’s coming for you. And they’re not playing nice. I count at least twenty cannons on that ship.”

Vinicola goes white as a sheet, his hands clutching at his pale hair, eyes wide with panic. “Gods above…”

“Hate to break it to you, Vini, but there are no gods coming to save us. No gods at all.”

It’s just the two of us against a fucking crew.