3. Chapter 3

Asoft knocking pulls me from my sleep. I’d dreamt of Vixen and her merry band of pirates. About how they spoiled and pampered her while still fearing her extraordinary swordswoman skills.

The knocking on the door confuses me, though, because it’s at my bedroom door, and for someone to be at my bedroom door, they would have to be in my home.

Shocked completely awake by that thought, I sit up and reach for the cricket bat I keep by my bedside.

My hand wraps around the handle… no. This is not my bat. I stare at the item I’m holding in my hand, blinking a few times to bring it into focus.

It’s a sabre. I know this because, from time to time, Jasper and I practice with a set that has dull blades.

Why do I have a sabre in my bedroom?

The knock breaks into my thoughts again, and my eyes lower to the… wooden wall.

What the fuck?

I look around me, once again blinking a few times. When my vision doesn’t change, I rub my eyes with my spare hand, hoping for a different outcome.

Nope.

I’m still in a cabin.

And now that I’m fully awake, the cabin is clearly moving.

Holy shit.

Someone kidnapped me!

I don’t know what kind of kidnapper would give me a fucking sabre to defend myself, but I have no other explanation.

The knock at the door grows insistent.

“Captain! Captain Vixen, you asked I wake you at dawn, ma’am. I’m coming in now,” a soft female voice calls from the door.

I jump from the bed holding the blade in front of me for protection, but the second I do, I realize I’m fucking naked.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

It has got to be a dream.

I’m still dreaming. That is the only plausible explanation for what’s happening.

“Ow!” The involuntary exclamation falls from my lips as I pinch myself.

Well, I must be fast asleep then. No way this is anything but a dream.

A high-pitched squeak signals the door opening, and I grab the sheet off the bed and hastily wrap it around myself while trying to keep hold of the blade.

“Mistress, are you okay? I heard a cry of pain. Shall I call the men?”

Okay, if this is a dream… then I must be Vixen. And if I’m Vixen, the short, petite woman standing just inside my cabin door must be Bella—the handmaiden they saved from a slave trader in one of their—our—adventures.

“All’s well, Bella. No need to alarm the guys.”

The diminutive brunette curtsies and then tentatively smiles at me.

“I see you’re not yet dressed. Does that mean Wolf and Grin bedded you well?” She lets out the cutest giggle, but her words strike something profound within me.

Last night.

I wrote this very scene.

Right before the ex-Captain Packard was thrown overboard.

And if I remember correctly, I deleted all the words right after this exact conversation.

Huh.

Maybe this is my brain’s way of figuring out how to fix it.

I struggle but can’t quite figure out the exact words Vixen responded with, so I wing it instead.

“Aye, they did an excellent job. Where are they right now, do you know?” I ask, even though I know that if this follows the book’s plot, they are probably dealing with Packard and his latest tantrum at being left out of the big decisions.

On cue, Bella ducks her head and grabs her skirt, tangling her fingers into the material. I don’t quite remember writing her this demure. Making a mental note to fix it during edits, I place the sabre down on the bed and step toward her.

I untangle her fingers, the action making her look up at me.

“It’s Killer, mistress. He’s putting up a fuss, he tried to incite a mutiny,” she says, referring to the ex-captain by the name the crew started using for him when they stopped referring to him as The Captain.

“Ah, I see. Perhaps I should get dressed and meet the men, then?”

“Yes, ma’am. That might be best.”

For the second time this morning, her words give me pause.

I totally spaced.

She’s Vixen’s handmaiden. She was so fiercely loyal after they saved her that she refused to go ashore again, seeing as she had no family to return to. And handmaidens… handmaiden. As in, she is here to dress me.

I take a deep breath and shake off the ick.

This is a dream. I don’t need to follow the rules.

“It’s okay, Bella, I’ve got this. Why don’t you…” Oh shit. “Uh, Bella, what do you do when you aren’t attending to me?”

“Mistress?” she asks, her brow pulled together in the cutest frown. “I don’t understand. I tend to you. That’s my job.”

A sinking feeling falls over me.

Did I write a flat character?

“You don’t have any hobbies?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but surely you know we can’t keep any horses on the ship?” she asks, her brows drawn together in confusion.

Oh, fuck it all. I did write a flat character.

“Oh no, sweets, what do you do for fun?”

She still looks bewildered.

“Do you read? Draw? Anything like that?” I ask, grasping at straws now.

“Oh, yes! I enjoy drawing. On our last raid, Wolf returned with a bag of charcoals and notebooks for me.”

This is not something I remember writing and saying a silent prayer of thanks to whoever is listening that my dream world has some meat to its bones without me having to add it.

“Good! Now, why don’t you do that? I’ll get dressed and find the men once I’m done.”

“Bu—” she tries to interject.

“No buts, Bella. I’m fine. Now, please leave me be so I can finish my morning routine.”

The poor girl sends a flabbergasted look my way before doing another curtsy and heading back out the door.

Once she’s gone, I realize I was a bit hasty in my dismissal. I have no clue where my clothes are being kept.

The cabin is large, bigger than I’d imagined while writing it. The bed is low to the floor, littered with cushions and throws of all colours and textures.

Against the far wall is an assortment of chests, which would have to be where my stuff is being kept. I look around for another door, knowing it is an experiment in futility.

I’m on a pre-thirteenth-century pirate ship. There is no privy. No fucking toilet.

Shit. Fuck. Dammit.

Stupid asshole publishers.

I close my eyes and try to picture a wooden door that leads to a luxurious bathroom suite. It’s a dream after all.

When I open them, I’m met with nothing but a chamber pot peeking at me from one corner of the room, a set of screens standing next to it.

Shit. Fucking. Fuck. Dammit.

It’s a dream, right? Just a dream. Surely, in a dream, I won’t need to use the toilet?

I try really, really hard to convince myself and my bladder. Knowing that if I do, I’ll probably fucking wet the bed. Gritting my teeth, I head towards the chests and dig through them, looking for clothes to put on.

What I end up finding is one of the most badass pirate outfits I have ever seen. If held at gunpoint, I’d even admit it’s better than anything my imagination could have created. I slither myself into skin-tight, soft, dark brown leather trousers before donning a white—for lack of a better word—blouse that’s made of the smoothest, softest cotton in the world. Over that, I put on a black corset-type deal that buttons up in the front and cinches my waist in a way that I know will emphasize the flare of my hips.

Unable to locate a mirror, I grab my mess of hair and braid it before pulling it up into a bun, tying it up with a leather cord I found in one of the trunks. My outfit is completed by the sexiest pair of pitch-black boots and a belt that doubles as a sheath for the sabre I was brandishing earlier.

All I need now is a parrot and an eye patch, and I’d suit the stereotype perfectly.

With my armour on, I make my way to the door, readyish to face whatever awaits me there.