1. Gypsy

1

Gypsy

I n this life, if the salt doesn’t kill you, the stupidity of so-called sailors surely will.

The crate I’m dragging through the sand feels like it’s about to fall apart any second. Wobbly, creaking with every step, and every time I stop to catch my breath, the wood shifts dangerously beneath the weight—or lack of it. No surprise, really. The damned thing barely survived the sail. Even before that, it looked like it had seen better days.

I remind myself, for what must be the hundredth time, that I should pick my treasures more carefully. But when you’re left with no choice, you don’t get to be picky. There hadn’t been any time for waiting, or planning, or even scouting for some other crew to rob. I had to act then and there.

“If I’d known my father would drop me on the island with a delay, I might’ve made a different plan,” I mutter, tugging harder at the rope, frustration growing with every step. “Hell, I wouldn’t have decided to rob privateers of all people for a quick coin.”

Getting dropped off at the harbor a couple hours later than I originally intended, had already been a setback. But noticing only pathetic excuses for sailors crawling the docks had been a gut-punch. Small-time, washed-up pirates with no sense of direction or ambition, only looking to survive another day, weren’t exactly ideal targets.

I had to improvise.

So, of course, when I saw privateers docking for a quick layover, I made my move. Desperation, mixed with a bit of luck, guided my hand as I slipped aboard unnoticed. I didn’t need much, just something valuable enough to trade off. But instead of treasures, I ended up with a crate of half-decent rations.

Good thing the captain of their ship had a gold ring stuck on his finger. It had turned out to be the only saving grace.

Still, I need to drag this crate like a goddamn fool, fighting the sand and the sun and the gravity that’s pulling me off the dunes.

“Is it worth it, Gypsy?” I grunt. “Could’ve just taken the ring and run. But no, now you’re dragging glorified breadcrumbs across an island like a common pack mule.”

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. As miserable as it is, this crate holds rations—nothing like treasure, but enough to trade. And with my father tightening his grip on me, I don’t know when I’ll get another shot at Old Betty’s. He’s been watching me too closely, like he knows I’m up to something.

This might be my only chance, all hinging on this damn crate.

I pull harder, gritting my teeth. Then, I hear it—a wet crack, followed by a groan that sends a shiver down my spine. I freeze, glancing down at the crate. The wood’s splintered, a jagged crack running down its side.

Of course. The useless privateers didn’t even bother coating the wood in tar. Just let it soak in seawater like a bunch of clueless idiots.

“Fucking amateurs,” I mutter.

It’s the basics. You coat the wood with tar or wax, or the seawater soaks in. Basics.

I glance up, the sun beating down on my already sweaty skin. I don’t have a choice but to keep going. It’s either this, or I end up stranded with nothing to show for it. Hauling this crate by hand is out of the question—the bottom’s barely holding together. Gravity’s doing me no favors either.

I dig my heels into the sand, the rope biting into my shoulder. By the time I reach Skullcove Haven, I’ll have burns to match the blisters already forming on my hands, but there’s no turning back. The sun’s slipping lower, and I’ve got a meeting to make before nightfall.

For the next few hours, it’s just me, the waves, and this damned crate. The water hums in the background, its rhythm almost soothing—if not for the burning in my muscles. I match my breathing to the rise and fall of the sea, zoning out enough to forget the ache in my back.

The beach stretches on forever, the dunes never-ending. By the time I reach the top, the sky’s alive with oranges and pinks, the southern horizon flaring like a wound across the clouds. Kaiterra, we call it. Home to pirates, rogues, and thieves. Legends and scum alike—including me. Made up of eight seas and its countless archipelagos, each ruled by its own law or, more accurately, lawlessness. It’s the only world I’ve ever known.

I pause at the crest of the dunes, letting the view sink in. Below, Skullcove Haven’s coastline unfurls, cliffs plunging into the sea, smooth rocks jutting out like marbles. The jungle spreads out far around it, darkening like the belly of a beast as the sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the canopy. Ships dot the horizon—some merchant, some pirate—all painted in the warm glow of the setting sun.

It’s all quite beautiful, really. Majestic. There’s a scent of freedom in the air, mingling with the salt. You can feel that this is the place where deals are made, and lives are lost with equal ease in your very lungs.

There’s no law here but the one you enforce with a sharp blade or a quick wit.

I take a deep breath, breathing it all in, and start my descent.

The crate jerks, almost tipping to the side as I navigate down the uneven slope. Every muscle in my body is aching, screaming at me to stop, to rest, to let this damn thing fall apart and be done with it. But that’s not an option. Not today.

I bite back a curse as the sand gives way beneath my boots, forcing me to lean back to keep my balance. If I roll down this hill with the crate, I’ll be lucky if I don’t break my neck. The trick is to keep moving, but slow. The last thing I need is to get my bones broken at the rocks below.

“Almost there,” I mutter, more to myself than anything else. “Just a little farther.”

The village sprawls below, a cluster of shanty buildings and tents patched together from whatever the sea has spat back at the shore. The tarps, make-shift material roofs over the countless stalls, paint the view in multiple colors.

Most people underneath them don’t ask questions, don’t care who you are or what you’ve done, so long as you’ve got something to trade. They might be under my father’s protection, alright, but there’s no stronger currency than coin—and that’s the only thing that truly keeps this place running.

I’ll manage to earn my share without him ever knowing.

As I get closer to the village, the air changes. It’s thicker here, heavy with the scent of salt, sweat, and rotting fish.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and steel myself. This place might be familiar, but it’s never safe. Not really. There’s always someone looking to make their fortune at someone else’s expense, and I’ve got no plans of being the fool today.

The crate is barely hanging together now, the wet crack from earlier widening as the jagged splinters poke out. It won’t be long before the whole thing falls apart, so I’ve got to get to Old Betty’s fast.

As I trudge past the first few stalls, I catch sight of a few familiar faces. Most of them don’t bother to acknowledge me, heads down, focused on their business. A few nod in passing, recognizing me as Silverbeard’s daughter, but they don’t linger. My father’s name keeps people cautious around me, and that’s just how I like it.

I push through the crowd, feeling eyes on me from every direction. It’s not just the crate drawing attention. It’s the fact that I’m alone, no crew backing me up.

But I know how to handle myself. Besides, anyone stupid enough to try and cross me would have to deal with Silverbeard’s wrath—and that’s a fate worse than any scuffle in the streets.

I spot Old Betty’s stall up ahead, a dilapidated structure barely held together with driftwood and iron nails. The sign swinging above the door reads “Old Betty’s” in faded paint, her skinny, wrinkled self perched on a rickety stool just outside the entrance, puffing lazily on a pipe. Her sharp, beady eyes lock onto me the moment I step into view, a sly grin spreading across her face.

Old Betty doesn’t miss much, and she’s already clocked the state of the crate I’m dragging.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Gypsy herself,” she rasps, her voice thick with the weight of years spent dealing with the scum of the sea. “Looks like you’ve got yourself in a bit of a bind there, lass.”

I force a smile and lean against the crate for support, wiping the sweat from my brow. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Besides, might just be worth your time.”

Her grin widens as she hops off her stool with surprising agility for her age. She circles the crate like a vulture eyeing a carcass, her gnarled fingers tapping the wood thoughtfully. “Might be worth it, you say?” she hums, puffing a cloud of smoke into the air. “Let’s see what ye’ve got.”

I cross my arms, trying not to let the heat rising in my chest get the better of me. My heart’s slamming against my ribs like it wants out, but I’m not about to show her that. I’ve dragged this half-rotten mess through hell, and if she doesn’t find something worth her precious time, I swear I’ll—

“Well, this ain’t much,” she mutters, pulling out a sack of half-decent rations. “But these’ll do fine for the right buyer.” She pulls out another small pouch, weighs it in her hand, then tosses it back in the crate. “You didn’t risk your neck just for breadcrumbs, did you?”

I suppress a sigh. “There’s more.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the captain’s gold ring, holding it up to catch the last rays of sunlight. It glints, a small, yet unmistakable promise of value. “This. Should cover the rest.”

Betty’s eyes narrow as she snatches the ring from my fingers. She inspects it closely, twisting it in the fading light, her lips twitching in what might be approval.

“Well, well. Privateer’s gold, is it? Bold move, lass. Might just fetch you a fair trade.”

I stand taller, feeling the weight of her words. “Enough for the compass?”

Her gaze sharpens at the mention of the compass, her lips curling into a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Ah, now we’re getting to the real business,” she says, flipping the ring between her fingers with a practiced ease. “That same old compass, eh? Still haven’t given up?”

I smirk, even though my insides twist like the knot in my gut. “You know me, Betty. Not really a quitter.”

“Aye, that you ain’t. Forever chasing power, just like your old man.”

My jaw clenches. I am nothing like Silverbeard. Still, for the trade’s sake, I keep quiet about it.

“Power is one way to call it,” I say instead.

At that, she stops spinning the ring and looks into my eyes. “Oh, don’t be fooled. Power, it is. What else would you want a cursed compass for?”

My fingers twitch at the word “cursed,” but I keep my composure. There’s no point in showing Old Betty anything but confidence, especially now.

“Cursed or not, it’s a tool,” I say, trying to sound more indifferent than I feel. “And I’ve got use for it.”

She chuckles, a deep, gravelly sound, and tucks the ring into her pocket. “Tools, power—it’s all the same to the sea. It’ll chew you up and spit you out whether you know what you’re holding or not. But far be it from me to turn down a profitable trade.”

Betty moves to the back of her stall, shuffling through crates and boxes piled high in chaotic order. My pulse quickens with each creak of the wood, the seconds stretching painfully. Finally, she pulls out a small, worn box—its surface weathered from years at sea, just like everything else in Skullcove Haven.

I take a step forward, feeling my breath hitch in anticipation. This is it. The compass my father is so afraid of.

She sets the box down between us, running her fingers over the faded engravings on the lid. Her eyes flicker up to mine, sharp as ever.

“You sure about this, lass? You may think you know what you’re getting into, but once you have it, there’s no turning back.”

I’ve been sure for years. That’s why I’ve been building up a tab at Old Betty’s and staying one step ahead of Silverbeard’s prying eyes.

This compass might look like a broken trinket, but to everyone else, it’s cursed. To me, it’s the key to making a name for myself. Starting a pirate crew would be easier with this in my hands. Plenty of men are angry at their so-called gods, plenty who want to defy The Lady. They’ve lost things at sea and crave retribution.

I don’t believe in gods or curses. But if I take this compass out to sea and come back unscathed, I’ll carve out my place.

I reach out, fingers brushing the weathered box, and meet Betty’s gaze. “I’m sure,” I say, voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.

Betty watches me for a moment, as if weighing something, before giving a slow nod. She flips the latch on the box and opens it, revealing the compass nestled inside. It’s old, that much is clear, with intricate engravings spiraling around the edges, half-faded from time and sea. The needle inside spins lazily, pointing anywhere but north, just like I expected.

I let out a slow breath. A gold little thing like this and even my father shakes in his boots at the thought of it.

“Take it, then,” Betty says, her voice low. “If you’re willing to pay the price.”

I just did, didn’t I?

I slide the compass from the box, the metal cool against my palm. It feels heavier than it should. But I don’t flinch. I’ve worked too hard, waited too long, to hesitate now.

“What’s life without a little risk?” I say with a smirk, tucking the compass into my pocket.

Betty chuckles, the sound deep and knowing. “Aye, that’s the spirit. Just don’t dare let Silverbeard know it’s in your possession. He’ll have you strung up by dawn if he even catches a whiff of it.”

I grin at that. “Let him try.”

She cocks a brow, but says nothing else, walking back to her stool and sitting upon it. I nod her goodbye and glance over my shoulder. The sun has dipped low enough to cast long shadows over the village, swallowing the light.

The time for my other meeting is long past.

As I weave through the market, my gaze darts to the meeting point I’ve been aiming for since before sunset—a small tavern nestled between two larger warehouses. There are people clustered in front of it, their voices blending into the murmur of the night.

Pirates, beggars, and local deadbeats—they’re all gathering here tonight. All because Silverbeard’s crew—The Sly Serpents—are expected to make an appearance. His presence, even rumored, turns Skullcove Haven into a powder keg.

It all makes sense, given his reputation. Couple years back, I still felt pride because of it. My father, my crew—they’re legends. But now… Now, it’s different.

I push through the crowd, careful not to draw attention, my fingers brushing the compass tucked safely in my pocket. Given the lack of boisterous laughter coming from the inside of the tavern, the other Serpents are not here yet.

Good. I still have some time left.

I slip through the tavern’s doors, the dim light barely enough to outline the familiar shapes of tables and chairs scattered about the room. The place is already louder than usual, but there are a few patrons sitting hunched over their drinks, their eyes darting toward the entrance as if expecting trouble regardless.

My boots scuff against the wooden floor as I move toward the back, my eyes scanning the shadows. That’s when I see him.

Seated at a table, back to the wall, with a cape draped over his broad shoulders and a hood concealing most of his face, Zayan Cagney seems to be watching me.

He doesn’t move. Only his lips twitch, forming the faintest smirk as I approach. I can’t see his eyes, but I know there’s a devilish glint in them—there always is.

There’s something about the way the cape cascades down his frame, the way no one knows who he is yet they leave him alone, and the way I know he doesn’t belong here, not on this part of the island, that makes me want to turn and walk right out of this mess.

But instead, I slide into the seat opposite him, doing exactly what I shouldn’t—getting tangled up with him again.

Zayan doesn’t say a word at first, just studies me from under that hood of his, like he’s weighing whether this is going to be one of our usual games or something else entirely. His smirk remains, lazy and confident, the kind of expression that makes you want to wipe it clean off his face—or kiss it off, depending on the day.

“Well, look who finally decided to show,” he says in that smooth, deep voice that always feels like a challenge. “Thought you’d given up on me, Gypsy.”

I rest my elbows on the table between us and lean forward, trying to catch his eyes beneath the material.

“Still stuck on what happened last month?” I whisper, the scent of the sea mixed with earth and spice filling the air between us. “Sulking is not a pretty look on you, Cagney.”

Zayan’s smirk widens, a spark of mischief lighting up his dark eyes as they meet mine. He leans forward too, the movement slow and deliberate, as if to remind me just how in control he feels.

“I wouldn’t dare sulk, love.” His voice is smooth, with a hint of mockery. “I knew you’d be back.” He tilts his head slightly, his gaze sliding over me like a wave lapping the shore. “Because regardless of what you like telling yourself, you just can’t stop it.”

I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips, but I keep my voice low, just above a whisper, so no one in the tavern can hear. “Stop what, exactly?”

“Oh, Gypsy, you know exactly what I’m talking about. But if you need a reminder…” His fingers brush against mine under the table, a subtle touch that sends heat rushing through me.

I pull my hand back, but not before letting my fingers linger just long enough to feel the spark between us. “You really have a death wish…”

We cannot do shit like this. Not here. If he’s seen… If he’s recognized… I don’t even want to think about what would happen then.

Without waiting for a response, I stand up from the chair and weave through the crowd, leaving him behind. But not for long.

I step outside, the heavy night air wrapping around me, and hear him following after. I don’t turn around, but I know it’s him. He moves like a shadow, quiet and sure, but somehow, I always seem to feel him.

He’s following me.

“Keep running, Gypsy,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the back of my neck. His voice sends a shiver down my spine, one that has nothing to do with the night air.

If I had room in my black heart for thoughts like that, I’d say it’s a damn romantic night to be running from him. The beach, bathed in moonlight, looks exquisite—his breath warm on my neck makes it all the more exhilarating.

But romance isn’t why I’m running. His words are not the reason either.

I slow just enough to let him close the gap, teasing him, before breaking into a full sprint. The muffled sounds of the tavern fade into the distance, replaced by the steady rhythm of the waves and the soft crunch of sand under my boots as I hit the shoreline.

When I know we’re alone, I stop, spinning to face him, breathless from both the run and the thrill. Moonlight catches on his features, his smirk tugging at his lips just like it always does, and damn, maybe I should’ve done this sooner.

Maybe I shouldn’t have ditched him last month…

His cloak is gone, tossed aside somewhere in the chase, and there’s a hint of exhaustion in his eyes that tells me he’s more used to life at sea than sprints across sandy shores. Yet here he is, on land, with me.

“We don’t have much time,” I say, breath still coming in short bursts. “My crew’s probably docked by now. I need to be in that tavern when they arrive.”

He raises an eyebrow, that wicked smile spreading across his face—he’s thinking what I am. This? Right here, right now? It’s the most reckless thing we’ve ever done. Forget fucking in the cliffs or the middle of the sea—this is dangerous. My father’s territory.

Anyone could see us.

Someone could talk.

And if there’s one thing a pirate captain-in-the-making doesn’t do, it’s meet with a rival crew member in secret—especially when that crew openly hates yours. But here stands Zayan Cagney, one of the Marauders, our sworn enemy.

But oh, how this enemy looks… His hair is as dark as the night sky, his skin like honey-glazed almonds. He’s freshly shaven, his shirt almost gleaming white, like he’s dressed up just for this. Just for me.

One might mistake him for a gentleman.

One might even mistake me for a lady, the way he looks at me. Beautiful. Utterly desirable. A bane of his existence at times, and a tease at others.

“You should’ve come sooner, Gypsy.” His voice is a low purr, every word dripping with that lazy confidence he never seems to lose. “I’ve been waiting…”

He takes a step closer, his fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt, each movement slow and deliberate. He acts like he didn’t hear me. Like we have all the time in the world. But when his shirt falls open and I see his naked, tattooed chest, I don’t seem to mind that anymore.

The brand on his chest flickers in the moonlight, a mark of the Marauders, and I lick my lips, torn between frustration and something far more dangerous.

“Let’s just say I’ve been… busy,” I reply, my voice carrying the same teasing lilt. My fingers drift to the buckles at my knees, drawing my daggers in one fluid motion. I toss them lightly into the sand, close enough to grab if I need them.

Even after all this time, I could never be totally powerless with him.

He watches me, amused, his smirk not fading for a second. “Busy enough to leave me waiting?” His tone is teasing, yet beneath it, there’s that unspoken edge, the frustration simmering just below the surface. He peels off his shirt, letting it drop to the sand. “You know I hate waiting, Gypsy.”

His words are almost a taunt, as though we haven’t done this many times before. My breath hitches, just barely, but I keep my expression neutral. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing what that does to me. Not yet.

“I thought you liked the chase,” I counter, stepping closer, my boots sinking slightly into the sand.

“Being stood up by you isn’t a chase .“ His fingers hook over my waistband, and in one quick motion, he pulls me toward him, our noses almost touching. “It’s torture.”

I pause, feeling his breath against my skin, his words sinking deeper than they should. Torture . It’s a game we’ve played many times, but there’s something about the way he says it tonight that feels... different.

I try to shake it off—the way his voice stirs something deep inside me, making it sound like there’s more between us than just sex. He likes to speak as if we’re bound by something stronger than desire, as if I’m the one haunting his thoughts when he’s out on the waves.

But perhaps it’s only in my head. It has to be.

My heart flutters, despite myself, but I remind myself of who he is—a Marauder, a rival, and nothing more than a fleeting distraction. That’s all he can be, though sometimes… sometimes I find myself thinking of him when he’s gone.

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze, forcing the tension into something I can manage—something I can control. Lust.

“I do what I want, Zayan,” I breathe. “So if it’s torture, maybe you should’ve gotten used to it by now.”

His grip tightens on my waistband, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us. The heat of his body radiates against mine, and I feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, in sync with my own.

“You know damn well I could never get used to you.” His voice is low, a rough whisper that sends a tingle down my spine. “No matter how many times I tell myself this is the last time.”

Electricity pulses between us—untamable currents twisting in my gut. Lightning where our bodies meet.

Still, this is purely animalistic. Nothing more.

“If you’re looking to tie someone down, head back to the inn and find a village girl for your ship. There are plenty of those.”

His eyes rake over me, but he doesn’t need to say a thing—the look on his face tells me all I need to know.

“I don’t want no village girl,” he breathes, his tattooed fingers already working at my slops. He pulls them down, the sea breeze brushing my bare skin. I step back, allowing him to undress himself as well.

I strip off my shirt as his clothes fall to his ankles, leaving nothing between us but the open night air. He stands there, naked, rough, and all too real.

There are plenty of fish in the sea, but none as fiercely wild as Zayan Cagney.

“No?” I tease, taking another step back, only for him to close the gap once more.

“No,” he echoes, his voice low, commanding. “I want you.”

And the way he says it, I know this is more than just another night for him. And maybe, just maybe, I want it to be more too. But I’ll never admit it. Not to him. Not even to myself.

“Then,” I whisper, leaning in, “fuck me—fuck me so good you’ll think about it for months. Because there might not be a next time.”