Director’s note: Episode two raises the temperature and tests the limits of trust. This chapter marks Thomas’s true initiation aboard the Silent Tide, where desire, dominance, and ritual blur into a single act of transformation. What begins as fear becomes faith. What feels like surrender becomes belonging. Every motion here burns for a reason, and every scar earns its meaning.

Chapter Three

The rough threads of the mooring line burned against Thomas’s palms as he hauled himself up. Sounds of cheers, moans, and groans from the Silent Tide above masked his clumsy scrambling. The salt-stung air was thick with the smells of cheap rum, roasted meat, and the honest sweat of a crew celebrating another day of dodging death. He dropped over the gunwale, landing with a soft thud on the deck, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He’d been overlooked by their crew that afternoon. Tonight, he’d find a way to make a compelling case to stay. He hoped his daring midnight venture across the bay would reinforce his seriousness. 

The scene was a living, breathing debauchery. In the flickering torchlight, men roared with laughter, their hands roaming over women whose painted smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes. It was a raw, unvarnished transaction of flesh and coin. But his gaze, snagged and held, was drawn to the stern.

There, in a high-backed chair carved from some dark, foreign wood, sat the Captain. Shadows clung to the figure like a second skin, obscuring all but a booted foot propped on a crate and the glint of a silver ring on a long-fingered hand. The Captain observed the carnal festival with an unnerving stillness, a silent monarch presiding over a court of hedonism. A sharp, gestured command from the gloom sent a brutish mate scurrying. The voice that followed was a low, graveled thing, its pitch ambiguous, its authority absolute. Thomas couldn't look away.

A meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder, spinning him around. A rugged man’s face, a roadmap of old scars and newer rage, loomed inches from his own. Rum-soured breath washed over him. “Spyin’ on your betters, lad?”

Before Thomas could form a denial, he was being dragged, his heels scraping against the deck planks, toward the shadowed throne. The Captain didn’t move, didn’t speak. A single, dismissive wave of that ring-adorned hand was their only verdict. The weathered man grunted, shoving Thomas toward a heavy door.

The Captain’s quarters were a world apart. The reek of the crew was replaced by the scent of beeswax, old leather, and a faint, exotic spice. A single oil lamp guttered on a massive desk, its light failing to reach the corners of the room. The door shut with a solid, final thump, sealing him in. The Captain remained by the door, a silhouette against the carved wood.

As Thomas’ eyes adjusted, he discovered the strong woman from earlier  mending a sail in the corner. She set her work aside without a word and moved into the lamplight. Her large frame was undeniable. It was the first mate he had seen earlier. She was… formidable. Hair the color of dark honey was braided tightly against her scalp. Her eyes, a shade of golden brown, assessed him with a terrifying clinical dispassion. She wore practical trousers and a loose tunic, but the way she moved screamed of a feral, contained power.

She didn’t speak. She simply approached, her steps silent on the rug. Her fingers, calloused and strong, went to the laces of his shirt. He flinched back. Her grip on his wrist was instant, iron-strong, yanking him forward. There’d be no negotiations here. The message was clear, delivered through touch alone. His shirt was pulled open, then off, the cool air raising goosebumps on his skin. He didn’t feel cold. The adrenaline pumping through his veins in fiery chaos.

Her touch was not gentle. It was a thorough inspection. Her palms scraped over his chest, her thumbs pressing into the muscle of his arms, evaluating his soft merchant’s body with a humiliating efficiency. 

“I have to search you.” She paused to look into his eyes. Her voice offered an unexpected sense of compassion. This was a choice, even though the alternative was likely very unpleasant. He nodded yes to her.

A hot flush of shame warred with a traitorous spark of desire as her hand slipped down, dancing down his thigh. She made a noncommittal sound in her throat, then pushed him backward until his legs hit the edge of the large desk.

She unbuckled his belt with swift, practiced movements, yanking his trousers and smallclothes down to his knees in one motion. The cool air was a shock against his bare skin. Freed from his clothing, he felt an uncontrollable growing excitement. 

She looked down, a smirk curling her lips. “Merchant boy, you do know you’re in danger right? Do you find this exciting?”

Thomas’s shy eyes hardly met hers. “It does appear that way”

A devious thought bounced around her eyes before she produced a small vial from a pocket, coating her fingers with a slick, floral-scented oil. “Riley.”

He looked down at her soft gaze, “Thomas”. They held eyes for a moment, a pact that this interrogation was about to take an unexpected turn.

Her hand closed around him. Thomas jolted, a gasp tearing from his throat. Her technique was unholy. It was too much, too good, a direct assault on his senses. He threw his head back, a groan escaping him as pleasure.

Through the haze, a new sound filtered in. A soft, rhythmic creak of leather. He had forgotten they were not alone. He forced his eyes open, looking toward the Captain.

The shadowed figure had finally moved. They had unbuckled their own trousers, freeing themselves. The Captain’s silver ring glinted in the dark, a spectator to his unraveling, and finding their own pleasure in the display.

Riley’s other hand snaked around his hip, her nails digging crescents into his buttock, holding him in place as her ministrations became more intense, more focused. She’s not going to let me finish. The realization hit him like a bucket of cold water. This was a demonstration. A prelude. A way to soften him up, to make him pliable.

His mind raced even as his hips began to move against his will. He did not find men attractive. The thought of what that shadowed figure, that male Captain, might expect from him next twisted his stomach into a cold knot. His lack of participation, his rejection, would mean a swift and anonymous death in the dark sea. The pleasure coursing through him became tainted with a sharp, metallic fear.

He was trapped between Riley’s devastating expertise and the Captain’s terrifying, unknown intentions. He was balancing on a razor’s edge, sensation and dread warring within him.

And then, from the darkness, it came. A soft, shuddering sigh. A moan. But it was all wrong. The pitch was wrong. It was too high, too melodic. It was not a man’s sound at all.

It was unmistakably, undeniably, a woman’s voice.