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Sabrina, 720 AD

“Why must you judge me for picking up random men at the tavern? I don’t judge you for seducing the pastor at the orphanage, and don’t roll your eyes as if your attraction isn’t obvious! You would trade your tentacles for him in a heartbeat,” I scold my big sister, Bettina. We reach the front of Maude’s dirty tavern not a moment too soon. My prim sister’s diatribe churns my stomach—not with guilt—but with annoyance. I have no reason to feel guilty.

What I choose to do with my one night a month as a human is my business.

“You could spend your time doing something good for the species we mimic. The joy I receive from those children’s smiling faces—”

“I get the same amount of smiles. I promise,” I say with a wink that twists Bettina’s face into a scowl. “By the time I lower my skirts back into place, every man I encounter is smiling.”

“Sabrina, how could you! You’ve ruined yourself for your fated mate,” she snaps.

My eyes roll so far, I can see the back of my red hair. I thrust the bundle of fish I carried for her onto her shoulder. After she drops me off at Maude’s tavern, she will continue to the cathedral in the island’s center. The kids will be thrilled to roast fish over an open fire as she tells them stories of our undersea adventures. I’ve watched her flirt shamelessly with a man of the cloth without guilt. Why should I feel guilty because my idea of fun is more… raucous…bawdy…lively?

Her face is red with frustration and embarrassment on my behalf. The wishy-washy pastor has brainwashed her. She should remember that we can’t conceive a baby without the soulbond to make us human or our mate into a Kraken. Should I inform her that once the full moon lowers and we change back into Kraken, we shed all human ailments—including the Bube and pox? Probably not. Admitting I have contracted and shed such ailments would dig me deeper into her hole of disrepute. There is no harm in what I choose to do with my time…or what she chooses…except when she tries to choose for me.

“I’m having fun! As for my fated mate… If I find him at Maude’s, he’s as unscrupulous as me. Otherwise, he will never know what I’ve been up to. Dancing on tables is fun. Drinking rum and flirting with the men who buy it for me until I’m three sheets to the wind—is fun. And guess what? Sex is fun too.”

“Sabrina, you’ve grown into a horrible wench!”

“Not horrible, I’m good at it,” I say with a flip of my waist-length hair over my shoulder. She presses her lips together until they are white, like the lacy collar under her chin. “I’ll meet you under the pier in the morning to stash our clothes. Have fun sleeping alone on a straw mattress in the drafty chapel.”

Shedding my prissy sister like an itchy coating of sand, I press through the swinging half-doors of Maude’s. The smoky interior smells of cigars, spoiled ale, coconut rum, and unwashed sailors. Breathing a healthy dose into my lungs, I make my way to the bar. My hips swing with feminine sensuality as I weave between the long wooden tables and askew benches. I scan each seat for my intended targets. One to buy my drinks, one to pay for my room, and one to tip Maude so she doesn’t get on me for taking customers from her working girls. At least three men will treat me tonight…ma ke that five. My sister has soured my mood, so I’ll need twice the drinks to loosen up.

“The usual, Sabrina?” asks Jamal, who tends the portion of the bar closest to the door.

“Not yet,” I say with a laugh. “I haven’t found the man who will tend to me tonight.”

“Put her on my tab,” says a dark-haired man with a scar running from his eyebrow to his chin. He throws back his shot of rum when I give him a demure nod of gratitude, lowering my lashes over my bright, sea-green eyes.

Jamal’s an easy-going landlubber and would probably fit Bettina’s definition of someone appropriate for me—even if his reliable job is at Maude’s. He never drinks while behind the bar, stands up for strumpets whose clients can’t understand ‘no’ or ‘not now,’ and always wears a smile. His smile—and my strict don’t-bugger-your-friends policy— is the reason I’ve never taken him to bed.

I don’t touch rot. Blackened teeth, matted hair, gangrenous limbs, and yellowed fingernails are deal breakers. I won’t allow a man with rot to touch me—not even to help me off the tabletop after I dance over him. With Jamal’s poor dental hygiene, it’s a miracle I accept drinks from him.

Lucky for me, the scarred man who offered to buy my night’s drinks is moderately clean. He drops off his stool to hobble my way with his peg leg clapping the wooden floor louder than Maude’s off-tune piano. Missing a leg doesn’t mean he has rot…quite the opposite in my experience. If he has access to a competent ship’s doctor to perform such an operation, I expect he also has access to soap. This man’s growing in my favor and could be my bedfellow for the night.

“Tonight’s not the night for a delicate flower to swindle drinks from pirates,” he whispers in my ear. His breath is thick with alcohol and coconut milk. It fans over my bare shoulder and exposed cleavage. I feel my nipples harden at the first attention I’ve received in a lunar cycle.

“What if this flower isn’t so delicate?” I ask with a flutter of my eyelashes. He’s missing a few teeth, replaced with metal crowns. Otherwise, they’re as clean as his slightly yellow fingernails.

Truth be told, I could snap this guy in half with one of my tentacles. Who’s he calling a flower? I’d drag him to the bottom of the ocean and drown him before he knew what had happened.

“My ship’s been in this harbor for two weeks, and I’ve dipped my stick in every well under this roof twice…except yours. You aren’t one of Maude’s regular gi rls. I doubt you are even a working girl. I bet Daddy is in some hacienda wondering where his little princess ran to,” he says before sucking on my earlobe.

I shiver at how much I like a man to play with my ears. Too bad his sexist comments smell of rot and drop him down a notch on my list.

“No hacienda. My daddy isn’t on this island, nor is my keeper. You’re right. I’m not one of Maude’s girls. I’m my own girl,” I whisper against the bottom of his chin. Yum, he smells of gunpowder and boat tar. He’s a sailor—pirate or merchant. No way would a naval soldier come to the tavern out of uniform when the uniform earns them free drinks and privileges from Maude.

“ Patricia’s Wish docked this morning. Her Captains are a she-devil and her consort. The crew is a hoard of demons. Any one of them would ruin you,” he says, rubbing a proprietary hand down my back.

“How do you know I’m not one of those demons?” I toss back the end of my drink in one swallow. My sailor’s pupils dilate as he watches my throat work the liquid down my gob. I have no time or interest in conversations about good and evil. If I did, I’d be at the orphanage with Bettina—all pious and boring.

As if to come to my rescue, Maude plays a livelier tune, and the real tavern girls clamor onto the stage to dance. Their singing resembles the alley cats marooned by the ships docking on this island, but it’s catchy enough to tap my sailor’s toe. I lead him to the end of a long table and use him as leverage to climb on top of it. With a salute to Maude, I lift my skirts to my knees and dance along. My hem flies over my sailor’s head to give him a glimpse of my thighs. I wink over my shoulder at the other men at the table to prevent him from thinking we’re exclusive. He blew it with his warning about demons and she-devils.

There’s one she-devil in this bar, and she’s me.

I twirl as the music comes to a crescendo. Time to find my next mark. Pity because that sailor smelled so good. His rot was on the inside. The men at our table are uninspiring, so I hop onto the one adjacent. Nope, they smell of yeast dough and cheese—the telltale signs of foot and lip fungus.

Next table!

I’ve leaped and tapped halfway around the room when a crew of pirates burst through the doors. Their leader has shiny, clean brown hair framing cold, grey eyes. His hands are red from scrubbing. Ship’s doctor, if I had to guess. Behind him is a short man—no higher than the doctor’s ribs—with shocking red hair and a tidy, red beard. His blue eyes twinkle with mischief, but the set of his mouth is stern. I’d say he’s the enforcer—small but lethal—like a bosun, master of sails, or quartermaster. Wouldn’t he be fun for a night?

Other crewmen flood in without a care in the world. They are ratline climbers, deck scrubbers, gunners, or other disposable men, based on their dependence on the short man to scout out the bar for danger. A man with a full set of metal teeth gives me a terrifying smile before heading for Jamal. Not touching that sailor for all the pearls in the sea!

Last through the swinging doors is a man with the whitest smile I’ve ever seen. Crystalline blue eyes clearer than the Caribbean Sea sparkle at me. The crooked hook of his nose mars the perfection of an otherwise statue-worthy face. Tall, strong, and encased in worn leather, he’s built like a ratline climber but wealthier. He scans the crowd like a seasoned pirate too.

I’m blinded by lust and momentarily lose my footing. The heel of my tattered boot lodges between two planks on the table. My ankle screams as it twists with my momentum. Arms pinwheeling, my weight swings over the edge of the table. The sticky, grog-soaked floor rushes toward my face as I prepare for impact.

I thump into the strong arms of the handsome pirate whose boots are the size of boats. My hair brushes over their metal tips and tangles in the leather laces crisscrossed up his shins. Two long, clean fingers press into the side of my breast, sending lava through my veins. He’s missing the middle and ring finger at the base knuckle.

“Caught me a doxie,” the handsome man yells to the crowd, who laughs and cheers in response. His deep timbre rattles my bones and spreads goose-pimples over my flesh. The cold, bare flesh of my arse, exposed to the room! I fight the hem of my skirts that flipped to my shoulders during my fall. His arm supports my weight at the waist while his hand fists my skirts to keep them up. His other hand spanks me, hard. The crack rings out over the chorus of laughter. My face heats with embarrassment. I’m not drunk enough to flash the crowd!

“Unhand me, you scoundrel,” I yell upside-down, earning myself a second swat. My cocktail threatens to come up again as I spin upright. I wobble as he sets me back on the table where I fell. I should smack him. I should channel Bettina and scold him.

Why am I aroused by this handsome man who can handle me like a tiny fairy but chooses to degrade me by spanking me in public? Men like him threaten my independence and right to a night of fun each month. He’s the type of pirate everyone is afraid I will meet. Did they know I’d be drawn to him like a moth to a flame?

“There we go,” he says with another pat on my behind. Thankfully, this time my skirts block his contact. “Back to work, wench.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to save face and tell him I’m not one of Maude’s girls. He must be one of the demons from Patricia’s Wish . The smartest course would be to dance away from him and back to the condescending sailor who smelled nice. I’m too bright to be swayed by a pretty smile…a smile without a hint of rot…and perfectly manicured nails…all seven of them as clean as his smile. As my eyes search him for flaws, he runs the four fingers of his left hand through his mane of golden hair. Both his middle fingers are missing. I’m blasted with the scent of soap, gunpowder, boat tar, and an ocean breeze.

My shoulders rise and fall as I breathe him into my lungs.

A flirty remark dies on my tongue as he adjusts himself through the crotch of his leather pants. Nope. Too much. Too uncouth, too vulgar, too smarmy, too much for a part-time human like me. He’s as shameless as me but with twice the firepower. Not gracing him with another second of my attention, I twirl and dance along the table to the opposite end of the brothel. I’ll find a safer man to bed tonight.

I kick and tap to the beat with my skirts swishing above my knees for mediocre sailors, stealing furtive glances at the handsome man and his table of rowdy friends. I don’t dare approach them. I do possess some sense of self-preservation. The night flies by as shots are taken from my cleavage and poured down my throat by random drunks.

All the while, the handsome pirate watches me from his corner.

The heat in his stare burns away my inhibitions, and I find myself performing for him, using the attention from men closer to me as my props. Coins jingle in my pockets and shoes as I earn my night’s lodgings under the pirate’s lustful gaze. It isn’t long before I’m singing louder than the girls on stage.

My peg-legged companion leaves with his head shaking in warning. He can’t buss my cheeks. He’s not my father. My father’s at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. I thumb my nose at the swinging doors as he exits the bar.

Time to secure a room from Jamal. Looks like I’ll be sleeping alone tonight, but some nights are slow. On a good night, I’ll take two or three men to my room in succession before selecting the one I will sleep beside. Nights like tonight balance the scales. My body must wait another month for a masculine touch to feed my desires. I hope the working girls are luckier and wake up next to stacks of gold.

“Here’s one, two, five gold coins,” I count as I drop doubloons onto the bar top. Maude’s rate is three coins for rooms not occupied by her girls, so the two extra coins will go to Jamal’s savings. I hope he opens the beachside cantina of his dreams someday. “I’d like a room—the one at the far end of the hallway if it’s open.”

“Are you sure? Miss Opal has the room next to that one. Maybe take the first room,” Jamal says, swiping my coins into his hand. He trades them for a large iron key. Being a ‘screamer’ is Miss Opal’s specialty. I’ll wake up with a banging headache if I’m in the room next to hers.

“Thanks for always looking out for me,” I reply, swiping the key off the bar top.

“Which room is ours?” I don’t need to turn around to know it’s the handsome pirate behind me. My body ignites with the command in his question.

“I’m in room one,” I say, verifying the key is labeled with the number one. He steps toward me with a palm outstretched for the key. “You are bunking in the bilge of some ship with the rest of the sea sludge.”

He takes a predatory step forward. My back hits the bar. I clutch the key to my chest. It vibrates with the pounding of my heart—or maybe that’s the shaking of my fingers. Blond hair tickles my nose as he leans over me, one arm resting on the bar to either side of my waist. His scent invades my nose. Blue eyes bore into me with an intensity that curls my toes in my boots.

“Tell me you don’t want me in your bed to pleasure you from head to toe and make your every fantasy come true, and I’ll disappear,” he whispers against my ear. The brush of his lips on my earlobe unravels me.

My soul bond snaps from its cage in my heart and reaches for him.

My fated mate stands before me.

A once-in-a-lifetime connection and the promise of true love war in my head with my common sense. He’s not just a pirate, but a notoriously demonic pirate, sailing under a she-devil. For all my blustering, I’m afraid. This man will break my heart when he chooses piracy over life under the sea with me. Why would a man like him commit to a quiet life? I should save myself the agony of tying my soul to a ruffian and losing him to the sweet trade or worse.

The word ‘no’ will save my heart and soul.

“Stay with me,” I whisper as tears gather in my eyes.