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Chapter Text

Jack Sparrow and Angelica

In a deserted island...

"Wait, I am with child," Angelica declared, her voice trembling just enough to be convincing. She turned her piercing gaze on Jack Sparrow, her dark eyes burning with intensity. "...Yours."

Jack froze, the swagger in his stance faltering. "I don't recall that we ever had..." he began, a flicker of doubt creeping into his usual devil-may-care tone.

"You were drunk!" Angelica countered sharply, her words cutting through the air like the edge of a dagger.

Jack’s brow furrowed, and he straightened, his expression twisting into something halfway between confusion and amusement. "I've actually never been that drunk," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a smirk, though his usual bravado seemed less certain.

Angelica’s breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, her expression softened, vulnerable—believable. But Angelica Teach was no ordinary woman; she was a tempest wrapped in cunning. She was a liar, yes, but she was known to lie by telling the truth. Her greatest weapon that she wielded like a sharp dagger.

"You can lie to yourself, Jack," she said, stepping closer, her voice lowering to a venomous hiss. "But you can't outrun what you've done. Abandon me here, if you must, but remember—this child will know who its father is."

Jack stared at her, the smirk faltering ever so slightly. For a moment, the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow looked as though he might falter. Then he leaned back, a sigh escaping him as he shook his head.

"Angelica, my dear," Jack began, his voice softening just enough to suggest he was about to say something profound, something that might linger in her heart long after he was gone. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though he was about to waver, perhaps Jack Sparrow had a soul capable of genuine remorse.

Then, with a roguish grin, he finished, "I gotta go."

As the boat began to drift away, Angelica watched him go, her chest heaving with anger and frustration. She would have her revenge—if Jack Sparrow thought this was the end of their story, he was sorely mistaken.

Chapter Text

Captain Ysábella Paloma

The salty sea air filled Captain Ysábella Paloma’s lungs as she stood at the helm of La Doncella, her brigantine ship, a gift from an old Spanish pirate lord who had once fallen under her spell. Young and bold, Ysábella had played to his fantasies just long enough to secure the vessel and its loyal crew. Now, the sleek ship was hers alone—a masterpiece of craftsmanship with a black hull adorned in golden filigree, its crimson sails catching the sun like flames. The figurehead, a graceful maiden carved from pale wood, her flowing hair rippling as if caught in perpetual sea breeze. Ysábella bore no guilt; she’d earned her prize on her own terms.

Her name, Paloma, wasn’t hers by birth. The old pirate lord had given it to her, thinking it amusing to call her “mi palomita” or “my little dove”—a symbol of purity which he so lovingly corrupted. To him, it was an irony, a mocking reminder of his dominion over her. Ysábella had despised the name, finding it a chain tethering her to his violation. Yet she kept it, not for him, but for herself. It became a mark of her defiance, a scar she chose to wear openly. Paloma now meant something else: a bird that could rise from ruin, unbroken, and soar above the storm. It was no longer his name for her. It was hers.

Her one hand gripped the ship’s wheel, while the other held a peculiar doll that her mother had given to her when she was just a child—a keepsake carved in the likeness of a pirate. Its weathered features bore a striking resemblance to a man Ysábella had only known through stories. For years, the doll had been a constant in her life—a guardian through childhood storms, a silent confidant during sleepless nights.

Ysábella’s thumb traced the grooves in the doll’s face as she hummed a familiar tune, occasionally raising her soft voice above the melody of the waves, her song a whisper to the wind, “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me.”

The turquoise expanse of the Caribbean stretched out before her, sparkling under the relentless sun. But Ysábella’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, her thoughts sharper than the glittering waves. This voyage wasn’t just about the freedom of the sea or the thrill of plunder; it was personal.

She was hunting a man—Jack Sparrow. The Captain Jack Sparrow.

The stories her mother had told her played endlessly in her mind—tales of a man as clever as he was reckless, a rogue who danced between disaster and fortune with maddening ease. He was a ghost in Ysábella’s life, a figure woven from contradictions: the scoundrel her mother cursed, yet the hero she couldn’t forget.

Ysábella tightened her grip on the wheel, her jaw set in determination. For years, she had wondered who Jack Sparrow truly was. Now, she intended to find out.

Chapter Text

Isla de Tortuga

Tortuga was her first stop, the infamous den of pirates and thieves. As Ysábella navigated the raucous tavern, her sharp eyes scanned the crowd for anyone who might know Sparrow’s whereabouts. The usual chaos—shouted curses, clinking tankards, and the occasional scuffle—was hardly a distraction for someone like her, but she was looking for something specific.

“Captain!” Diego, her helmsman, called out above the din.

Ysábella turned, finding him near a cluster of drunkards.

“We found someone who claims to have information,” Diego continued, nodding toward a scrawny, unkempt pirate swaying on his feet.

“Speak, you wretched bilge rat,” Ysábella commanded, raising an eyebrow as she crossed her arms.

“Perhaps we can talk privately, eh, lass?” the pirate slurred, a lecherous grin spreading across his face. He reached a grimy hand toward her face, his putrid stench making Ysábella's nose crinkle in disgust.

Before she could respond, Isolde, her ever-vigilant first mate, intervened. With lightning speed, she grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it behind his back.

“Try that again, and you’ll be wishing for a hook, mate,” Isolde snarled, her voice low and dangerous.

The man yelped in pain, eyes wide as he pleaded, “Aye, aye! No harm meant! I’ll tell ye what I know—everything!”

Isolde loosened her grip slightly but kept her hold firm. “Talk,” she ordered.

“I... I don’t know where Sparrow is,” the pirate stammered, wincing as Isolde twisted his arm harder in response. “Wait, wait! I know where Gibbs is! He can lead ye to him!”

Ysábella’s eyes narrowed as she assessed the trembling man. “And why should I trust the word of a filthy, drunken fool like you?”

The pirate licked his lips nervously, desperation flickering in his gaze. “Because it’s the truth! I swear it on the sea itself!”

Ysábella regarded him coldly, then tossed a small pouch of coins at his feet. “That’s for the information,” she said, her tone icy. Then, with a swift motion, she slapped him across the face, the sound cutting through the loud sound of the tavern.

“Let that be a reminder to keep your hands to yourself,” she snapped before turning to Isolde. “Let’s get out of here. This place makes me dizzy.”

Isolde shoved the pirate away with a sneer. “Let’s hope for your sake that your information’s good.”

As the man scrambled away, Ysábella adjusted her coat and strode toward the exit. The hunt for Sparrow was far from over, but she had her first lead—and she wasn’t about to let it slip through her fingers.

Ysábella stepped out of the tavern into the humid, salty air of Tortuga. The cobblestone streets pulsed with life—street brawls, drunken sailors roaring out shanties, and the occasional scream that went unanswered. She ran a hand through her windswept hair, her gaze sharp and mind set on the next step.

“Diego,” she called, and her helmsman appeared at her side.

“Aye, Captain?”

“Where did that rat say we’d find Gibbs?”

Diego glanced at Isolde, who had followed them out, her hand resting on the hilt of her cutlass. “He mentioned the docks. Said Gibbs has been spending his nights at a brothel near the shipyard—a place called The Red Velvet.”

"Isn't that great? Another fucking pathetic place," Ysábella spat, then turned to Diego. "Go back to the ship. Isolde and I can handle it from here."  

Diego gave a sharp nod, his hand briefly brushing the hilt of his sword before he turned on his heel and strode away. "Aye, Captain.”,

Ysábella and Isolde made their way through the narrow, dimly lit streets of Tortuga, where the air reeked of salt, sweat, and sin. Their destination loomed ahead: a ramshackle building with peeling paint and a lurid sign that read "The Red Velvet."

Ysábella adjusted her hat and stepped through the creaky door, the warm, perfumed air inside hitting her like a wall. “This is where he’s supposed to be,” she replied, scanning the room.

The Red Velvet was bustling. Sailors lounged on threadbare cushions, laughing boisterously, while painted women drifted between them, their laughter as fake as their smiles. In the far corner, a grizzled man with a bushy beard and weathered clothes leaned back in his chair, a drink in one hand and a smirking wench perched on his knee.

Ysábella approached him with purpose, her boots thudding softly on the floor. She stood over him, her shadow falling across his face.

“Gibbs?” she said firmly.

He squinted up at her, his expression bemused. “Well, aren’t you a tall drink of water,” he drawled, his eyes roaming over her. “Didn’t think I ordered another lass, but who am I to complain?”

Ysábella’s jaw tightened, but she forced a neutral expression. “I’m not here to entertain you. I need to speak with you.”

“Not here to entertain me, eh?” Gibbs chuckled, his voice slurring. “Then what are ye here for? Can’t imagine someone like you wants a chat with a washed-up sailor like me.”

Before Ysábella could respond, Isolde stepped forward, drawing her blade with a soft hiss. “Watch your tongue, old man, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Gibbs froze, his eyes darting between Ysábella and the blade. “Alright, alright! No need for violence!” he grumbled, shoving the woman off his lap. “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Jack Sparrow,” Ysábella said, her voice cool and steady.

Gibbs straightened slightly, his expression shifting from amusement to curiosity. “Jack? Now why in the devil’s name would a lass like you be lookin’ for someone like him?”

Ysábella hesitated for only a moment before responding. “That’s my business. I just need to find him.”

Gibbs snorted, leaning back in his chair. “You’re not the first to come askin’. Jack’s got a knack for attractin’ trouble—and trouble in a dress is somethin’ he’s all too familiar with.”

Isolde’s grip on her sword tightened, but Ysábella raised a hand to stop her. She leaned closer, fixing Gibbs with a cold stare. “I don’t have time for games, Gibbs. Tell me where he is.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then smirked. “You’ve got fire, lass, I’ll give you that. But why should I help you? Jack’s not exactly a man you go lookin’ for unless you've got a death wish.”

Ysábella straightened, her eyes never leaving his. “I have my reasons. That’s all you need to know.”

Gibbs tilted his head, studying her. “Aye, there’s more to you than meets the eye, that’s for sure. Alright, I’ll tell you what I know—but I’m warnin’ you, Jack’s no saint, and neither’s the place he’s gone to.”

Ysábella’s expression didn’t waver. “Where?”

Gibbs sighed, finishing his drink in one long gulp. “An island not on any map. Jack called it Isla de Sombras. Said there’s somethin’ there he needs to find.”

“And you’re coming with us,” Ysábella said without hesitation.

Gibbs blinked. “Come again? Lass, I’m no navigator, and I’ve no interest in that cursed place.”

“You know the way, and you know Jack,” Ysábella countered. “You’ll be more useful on my ship than wasting away in this... establishment.”

Gibbs grumbled but saw the determination in her eyes. “Fine, fine. But don’t blame me if we all end up cursed or worse.”

Ysábella turned to Isolde. “Get Diego and the crew. We set sail at dawn.”

As they left the Red Velvet, Gibbs following reluctantly behind, Ysábella allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction. She was one step closer to finding Jack Sparrow.

Chapter Text

Isolde

La Doncella glided out of Tortuga’s bay, the soft glow of dawn reflected to the horizon in shades of gold and pink. The sunlight was just beginning to peek over the edge of the world, casting long, lazy shadows across the deck. The sea stretched endlessly around them, its surface calm and shimmering, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in Ysábella’s heart.

At the helm, Ysábella stood tall, her dark hair catching the faint morning breeze as her hands gripped the wheel. Below her across the deck, the crew moved about their duties in hushed tones, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace of the morning.

Isolde approached silently, her presence commanding as always. The early light highlighted the rich, dark tones of her skin, giving her an almost ethereal glow. Her wild, dark curls framed her sharp cheekbones and piercing brown eyes. She moved with an easy, confident grace that spoke of her heritage.

Isolde was no stranger to the world of piracy; she had been born into it. Her mother, Anamaria, had once been a fierce member of Jack Sparrow’s crew, a name whispered with equal parts respect and fear in the corners of the Caribbean. Anamaria’s legacy lived on in Isolde—the same fire, the same fearlessness, and, most importantly, the same knack for survival.

“Ysá,” Isolde said softly, her voice low and intimate, the familiar nickname only they shared slipping from her lips like an anchor dropped into deep waters. She leaned casually against the railing, her dagger spinning idly between her fingers, but her tone was anything but casual.

Ysábella’s shoulders tensed at the sound, though she didn’t look away from the horizon. She had shared countless nights in Isolde’s company, their bond forged in quiet moments away from the prying eyes of the crew. And yet, there was a distance between them now, one she had placed herself. 

“Isolde,” she replied evenly, her voice steady despite the storm raging in her chest.

“So,” Isolde began, her tone casual but her gaze sharp. “What’s the real reason we’re chasing Jack Sparrow? What could be so important that you’d risk leading us into the shadow of a man like him?”

Ysábella hesitated, her chest tightening. She had anticipated this question, but it still felt like a blade poised over her heart. She couldn’t tell Isolde the truth—the secret she had carried for years. Not even Isolde, with her own connection to Sparrow through Anamaria, could be trusted with this.

“He has something I need,” Ysábella said finally, her voice steady despite the war raging inside her.

“And that would be?” Isolde pressed, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Ysábella’s face.

“The compass,” Ysábella lied, her gaze fixed firmly on the horizon. “The one that points to what one truly desires.”

Isolde stopped spinning her dagger, her expression hardening. “The compass?” she repeated. “You’re risking your neck—and ours—for some myth?”

“It’s not a myth,” Ysábella said sharply, her voice carrying a conviction that startled even her. “It’s real. And I need it. We need it.”

Isolde’s eyes narrowed as she studied Ysábella. “And what exactly do we need it for? What are you so desperate to find?”

“The compass,” Ysábella began, her voice steady as she searched for the words that might convince Isolde. “It doesn’t just point to treasure—it leads to whatever we desire most. Imagine what that could mean for us, for the crew. Anything we’ve ever dreamed of, within our reach.” She knew her words felt hollow, lacking the depth of the truth she couldn’t share. Still, she hoped they would be convincing enough to satisfy Isolde.

Isolde’s sharp gaze shifted to the small doll secured at Ysábella’s belt, her expression hardening. “That doll you carry everywhere,” she said, her tone cutting and laced with suspicion. “It looks like him, doesn’t it? The bandana, the hair... Tell me, Ysá, is that why you’re so desperate to find him? Is this all because of him?”

Ysábella’s stomach dropped, her heart pounding against her ribs. “No, it’s not like that,” she said quickly, though her voice betrayed her unease.

“Then what is it?” Isolde stepped closer, her brown eyes blazing with emotion—jealousy, hurt, and something else Ysábella couldn’t quite name. “Because it sure seems like there’s more to this than you’re letting on. You’re keeping secrets, Ysá.”

Ysábella turned to face Isolde, her throat tightening. She could feel the truth clawing its way up, desperate to be spoken, but she forced it back down. “I need the compass to find something important,” she said, her voice steady but her chest aching. “Something I can’t explain right now. That’s all this is. I swear.”

Isolde’s expression softened slightly, but doubt lingered in her eyes. “You’re lying to me,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with pain. “Not completely, but you’re still lying. Why, Ysá? Why can’t you just tell me the truth?”

Ysábella’s grip on the wheel tightened. She couldn’t tell her. Not about the truth that had haunted her for years.

“I’m not lying,” Ysábella said, forcing the words out. “Please, Isolde. Just trust me on this.”

Isolde studied her, her jaw tightening. “I do trust you,” she said finally, her voice low. “But you’re making it hard.”

She turned and walked away, her silhouette striking against the rising sun. Ysábella watched her go, her chest aching with the weight of her deception.

As the ship sailed on, cutting through the dawn-lit waves, Ysábella brushed her fingers against the doll at her belt. The small doll that resembled Jack Sparrow felt heavier than ever. She needed to find him, because finding Jack Sparrow meant finding a part of herself she wasn’t ready to confront—and a truth she wasn’t ready to share.

Chapter Text

Isla de Sombras

The cursed island loomed out of the horizon as if it was summoned from a nightmare. Jagged cliffs rose sharply from the restless sea, their edges shrouded in swirling mist that seemed to pulse with an unnatural life. Dark storm clouds circled overhead, blotting out the sun, and the air grew heavy with the scent of brine and decay. As the ship drew closer, the crew’s murmurs grew louder, and Felipe, the navigator, gripped the railing tightly.  

“Captain!” he called out, his voice edged with unease as he pointed toward the shoreline. There, half-buried in the jagged rocks, lay the wreckage of a ship. The black galleon’s splintered hull and tattered sails, still fluttering faintly in the wind, were unmistakable—the Black Pearl.

“Jack sure is there alright,” Mr. Gibbs muttered grimly, his gaze fixed on the wreckage. “If the Pearl’s gone down, you can bet it ain’t without some devilry involved.”

Felipe glanced at her nervously. “Captain… are we sure about this?”  

Ysábella didn’t respond, her gaze locked on the horizon beyond the wreck. Her mind swirled with questions, fear, and the weight of the secret she carried. Finally, she took a steadying breath. “Prepare the longboat,” she ordered, her voice firm despite the turmoil inside. “We’re going ashore.”

With the anchor dropped, the crew prepared to row ashore, the tension aboard the ship thick enough to cut with a blade. Mr. Gibbs took his place in one of the small boats without a word, gripping the side as the crew pushed off from the ship. As the small boats glided toward the island, the water seemed darker, almost alive, and the sound of the oars slicing through it was eerily muted.  

When they reached the beach, the sand felt unnaturally cold beneath their boots, and the jungle beyond was an impenetrable mass of shadows and green. Ysábella led the way into the dense jungle, hacking her way through the thick vegetation with a machete, her eyes scanning the surroundings. The air was heavy and humid, carrying the earthy scent of damp foliage. 

The trek through the jungle was slow and harrowing. Thick vines hung like nooses from gnarled trees, and strange, guttural cries echoed in the distance. The crew kept their weapons drawn, their eyes darting to every flicker of movement in the dense undergrowth. Ysábella pushed forward, determined, even as the oppressive air seemed to press down harder with every step. She came to a halt in a small clearing, her gaze shifting between the tangled vines and looming trees.

“If I were Jack,” she muttered to herself, tapping her chin, “what would I do? Where would I go?”

She began pacing back and forth, her boots crunching against the undergrowth. Her crew exchanged puzzled glances, whispering among themselves. Isolde crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at her captain.

Mr. Gibbs, who had been watching her with a wary eye, shook his head. With a low sigh, he rubbed a hand over his whiskered chin and shook his head. “Crazy as Jack, she is,” he muttered under his breath, though his eyes gleamed with a trace of reluctant admiration.

“Captain,” Isolde finally said, her voice laced with sarcasm, “are we tracking Jack Sparrow or channeling him?”

Ysábella shot her a sharp look but didn’t stop pacing. “Jack thinks like no one else,” she replied, her tone clipped. “He’s unpredictable, always one step ahead. If we’re going to find him, we need to think like him.”  

Felipe frowned, glancing around nervously. “And what does that mean for us, exactly?”

“It means,” Ysábella said, stopping abruptly and turning to face the crew, “we need to look for the place no sane person would go. Somewhere hidden, somewhere only someone like Jack would find refuge.”

Ysábella scanned the trees, her mind racing. Jack was cunning, unpredictable, and maddeningly resourceful. He thrived in chaos, always finding the unlikeliest places to hide or scheme.

“Somewhere high,” she murmured, her eyes trailing upward toward the jagged cliffs visible through gaps in the canopy. “A place with a vantage point… and maybe an escape route.”

Isolde smirked, her arms still crossed. “So, we’re climbing cliffs now?” she said dryly, earning a few chuckles from the crew.

Ysábella ignored the comment, her focus sharp as she strode deeper into the jungle. “Keep up,” she ordered. “We don’t stop until we find him—or proof he’s been here.”

The jungle grew thicker, the undergrowth clawing at their boots. Felipe swatted at a mosquito buzzing near his ear, muttering curses under his breath. “This Sparrow better be worth all this trouble,” he grumbled, earning a glare from Ysábella.

“Trust me,” she snapped. “He is.”

After what felt like hours of navigating the dense jungle, they stumbled upon a narrow trail carved into the rock, partially hidden by hanging vines. Ysábella’s heart quickened. This was it—she could feel it.

“Up there,” Ysábella said, pointing to where the trail led higher into a clearing. In its center stood a crumbling Aztéc temple, its stone walls entwined with vines and moss, as though nature itself sought to claim it. The structure loomed, ancient and imposing, its weathered carvings depicting gods and monsters locked in eternal battle. Her heart raced as she took a step closer. “If I were Jack, I’d go to that temple where I could see anyone coming from miles away.”

The crew hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. Felipe muttered a quick prayer under his breath, while Isolde’s hand never left the hilt of her cutlass.  

“This is it,” Ysábella said, her voice firm as she turned to face them. “We go in together, no one strays. Keep your wits about you.”  

The heavy stone doors groaned as they pushed them open, revealing the dim, cold interior. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and something older, something ancient. Shadows danced along the walls as their torches illuminated faded murals and carvings. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint hum that seemed to echo through the stone, as though the temple itself was alive.

As they ventured deeper, Ysábella felt her pulse quicken. Her mind raced—not just with the possibility of finding him, but with the words she had rehearsed endlessly in the solitude of her cabin. “I’m your daughter, Jack Sparrow.” So many questions burned in her mind, each demanding an answer, yet now, in the shadow of the moment, the weight of them felt unbearable. The courage she had carefully built over years of longing and planning seemed to crumble under the enormity of what lay ahead.

At the heart of the temple, they emerged into a grand chamber. There, seated atop a makeshift throne made of driftwood and bones, was the man she had crossed oceans to find.

Jack Sparrow reclined on a makeshift throne. His tattered coat and tricorn hat were unmistakable, and perched on his shoulder was a mischievous monkey, dressed in a pirate attire, happily nibbling on peanuts from Sparrow’s hand.  

“Well, well,” Sparrow drawled, his voice a blend of charm and nonchalance as he leaned forward on his makeshift throne. His dark eyes glinted with amusement as he surveyed the group before him, but they quickly focused on a familiar face among them. “Ah, Gibbs, what a party you’ve brought me this time?”  

Mr. Gibbs raised a finger, but before he could respond, Ysábella stepped forward, her heart pounding in her chest. The words she had practiced for this moment refused to come, tangling in her throat like seaweed in a storm. He was right there—larger than life, yet undeniably human. The legends, the tales, and the warnings hadn’t prepared her for how utterly disarming his presence would be. Her courage, so carefully built, faltered under the weight of everything she couldn’t bring herself to say.  

“We need to talk, Jack Sparrow,” she said at last, her voice trembling slightly but growing steadier with each word.  

Jack’s grin widened, his gaze narrowing in playful scrutiny. He tossed another peanut to the monkey perched on his shoulder and leaned back in his throne, arms spreading wide in an exaggerated gesture of welcome. “Ah, there should be a ‘Captain’ in there somewhere, don’t you think?” he teased, his tone light but laced with mischief. “Go on, love. Let’s hear it. What does a fine young captain like yourself need from an old scoundrel like me?”  

“You have something we need,” Ysábella said, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. “Your compass.”  

At this, Jack’s expression shifted—still amused, but now tinged with genuine interest. He tilted his head, his fingers drumming lazily on the arm of his throne.  

“And what, pray tell, would you offer in return for such a rare and valuable item?” he asked, his tone light but his gaze sharp.  

“A way off this island,” Ysábella said firmly, her voice gaining confidence. “Help us, and we’ll help you.”  

Jack raised an eyebrow, tossing a peanut into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “What makes you think I even have the Compass?” he asked, his tone almost casual. “And, more importantly, what makes you think I want to leave?”  

The monkey chattered as if echoing its master’s skepticism, and Ysábella felt the weight of his words settle over her. She clenched her fists behind her back, forcing herself to stand tall despite the rising tension.  

“Because you’re Jack Sparrow,” she said finally, her voice steady but firm. “And you’ve never been one to stay in one place for long.”  

Jack chuckled, “Nope. You, young Missy, are wrong. Extremely and undeniably wrong.” his grin widening as he leaned back in his makeshift throne. “However, while I’m quite fond of my cozy little setup here, it seems Jackie”—he gestured to the monkey perched on his shoulder, now chattering excitedly—“has grown rather tired of this island life. And between you and me, keeping him entertained has been a real chore.”   

He stood, brushing off his tattered coat, the monkey leaping down to perch on the arm of the throne. “All right, Captain,” Jack said, his tone light but laced with intrigue. “You’ve piqued my interest. Let’s see where this little venture of yours leads us, shall we?”  

As he stepped down from his throne, the monkey hopped to his shoulder, Ysábella felt a mix of relief and dread. She had taken the first step, but the hardest part was yet to come. Jack Sparrow was joining them—but he still had no idea who she really was or what this journey truly meant to her.   

Chapter Text

The Cursed Doll

Inside the dimly lit cabin, the air was thick with the scent of salt and wood. Ysábella sat at the small desk, her fingers nervously tracing the edges of an old map she wasn’t even reading. Across from her, Jack Sparrow reclined in one of the two mismatched chairs, his boots propped up on the desk. The playful glint in his eyes danced with every word.  

“While it seems you know who I am,” Jack began, gesturing grandly as if it were a rare privilege, “I never did catch your name, young miss.”  

“Ysábella. Ysábella Paloma,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady.  

“Ah, Paloma is it? You’re a pigeon, then,” Jack said with a satisfied smirk, tilting his head like he’d just cracked a great mystery.  

“It means dove,” she corrected, raising an eyebrow at him.  

“Nope, pretty sure it means pigeon.” he replied firmly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. The monkey on his shoulder tilted its head, as if nodding in agreement with him, its tiny hands clutching a peanut. “Trust me, love, I know my Spanish.”

Ysábella rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “Whatever you say, Sparrow.” For the first time in her life, she felt something she hadn’t expected—genuine happiness. The teasing banter, the way his humor lit up the room, the simple reality of being near him—it filled a void she had carried for years.  

Jack’s sharp eyes landed on the wooden doll lying casually on the desk beside the map Ysábella had been studying. Curiosity piqued, he rose from his seat with a subtle grin.

“Well, now,” Jack said, leaning forward to pluck the doll from the desk, turning it over in his hands with a bemused expression. “What have we here? Handsome little devil, isn’t he?” His fingers traced the intricate carvings with a practiced eye, the detail far too familiar for his liking. “And where in the bloody hell did you get this?”  

Ysábella’s chest tightened as a surge of panic coursed through her. She lunged forward, snatching the doll from his hands with more force than she intended. Hugging it tightly against her chest, she strode to the nearest drawer, shoved the doll inside, and slammed it shut. “It’s none of your business,” she snapped, her tone sharper than she intended, betraying the unease bubbling just beneath the surface. 

Jack leaned back in his chair, a sly grin spreading across his face as his dark eyes twinkled with amusement—and suspicion. “Oh, but it is my business,” he countered smoothly. “When someone’s toting around a wooden likeness of yours truly, well... let’s just say it raises a few questions. Tell me, Pigeon—how long have you been carting that little keepsake around?”  

She sat back on her chair, pretending to focus on the map spread across the desk. “I found it along the way,” she lied, her voice was clipped, but she hoped it sounded casual. “It’s just a curiosity. Nothing more.”  

Jack tilted his head, watching her with growing amusement. “You don’t know what it is, do you?” he asked, his tone lighter but with a hint of something deeper lurking beneath.  

Ysábella froze, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk until her knuckles turned white. “It’s just a doll,” she said flatly, willing her voice to remain steady.  

“Ah, just a doll,” Jack echoed, his grin widening into something both teasing and knowing. “Well, Captain, Pigeon—you’re absolutely right. Nothing but a harmless, innocent little doll.”  

Ysábella refused to turn around, her heart pounding as she tried to focus on the map. She could feel his eyes on her, his curiosity only deepening with her silence. Whatever he thought of the doll, he wasn’t going to let it go so easily.

Jack’s eyes lingered on the drawer where Ysábella had hastily stashed the doll, a sly smile tugging at his lips before he refocused his attention on her. His tone was teasing, but there was a sharpness behind his words.  

“Come now, Pigeon,” he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. “Was the real reason you brought me along to this little adventure of yours was due to your admiration? Or perhaps,”—he leaned in slightly—“an obsession with yours truly?”  

Ysábella stiffened, her cheeks flushing. “I’m not obsessed!” she snapped, her voice laced with annoyance. “It’s just... just a stupid doll, that’s all.”  

Jack raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “A stupid doll, you say? Funny thing, though—it looks quite a lot like me.” He gestured toward the drawer, his grin widening. “Not every day I meet a fine young lass carting around a wooden likeness of Captain Jack Sparrow. Seems a bit... peculiar, doesn’t it?”  

Her breathing quickened, the weight of his accusations pressing down on her. “I told you—it doesn’t mean anything!” She rose up from her chair, slamming her fist against the desk, her voice cracking slightly as anger, frustration, and embarrassment collided. 

Jack’s expression shifted, his grin softening into something more dangerous—intense and undeniably magnetic. “My love,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he stepped closer. Ysábella instinctively stepped back, her heart pounding in her chest as she tried to maintain distance between them. But it was no use. She felt the cool wood of the cabin wall press against her back, trapping her.  

He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his dark eyes locking onto hers. His scent—rum and sea air—enveloped her, intoxicating and unsettling all at once. “You could have told me back on that damned island that it wasn’t my compass you were really after,” he murmured, his gold-toothed grin flashing. “I’d have come with you in a heartbeat, no questions asked.”  

Ysábella’s breath hitched, her pulse racing as her gaze flickered to his lips. For a fleeting moment, she tilted her head upward, caught in the pull of his charm. Her lips were almost brushing his when reality slammed into her like a crashing wave.  

She turned her head sharply, tears pooling in her eyes and spilling over as she pressed her palms against his chest, pushing him away. Her voice was shaky but resolute. “Well, Mr. Sparrow, I think it’s time for you to go.”  

Jack stepped back, his grin faltering, though a flicker of amusement still lingered in his dark eyes. He adjusted his coat with an exaggerated grin, his tone light yet tinged with something unspoken. “As you wish, Captain,” he said, tipping his hat with a mocking politeness.  

As he moved toward the door, Ysábella’s voice broke through the tense silence, soft but heavy with regret. “Bringing you here was a mistake.”  

Jack paused with his hand on the doorknob, turning just slightly to glance back at her. For a brief moment, something flickered in his gaze—an emotion she couldn’t quite name. But then, his usual smirk returned, masking whatever had been there. “Mistake or not, love, it’s been interesting,” he said with a shrug. “And interesting is what I do best.”  

With that, he slipped out the door, leaving Ysábella alone in the cabin. The sound of it clicking shut felt louder than it should, echoing in the quiet space. She sank to the floor, pressing her hands against her face as a fresh wave of tears came.  

Her words replayed in her mind, mingling with the ache of self-recrimination. “What am I doing?” she whispered, the weight of her choices pressing down on her. She wanted to tell him everything—the truth about who she was, why she had sought him out—but the thought of him believing her seemed unlikely. The courage to confess melted away, leaving her alone with her doubts. The cabin offered no answers, only the stillness of her regret.

Chapter Text

Ysábella groaned, throwing the compass across the cabin in frustration. The intricate device clattered onto the wood floor, its needle spinning aimlessly before coming to a halt—pointing once again in the direction of Jack Sparrow. Her chest tightened as she glared at it, her emotions a tumultuous mix of anger and longing.

“This damn thing must be broken!” she muttered under her breath, pacing the small space. The compass, a gift from Jack, had been nothing but a source of irritation. When its needle wasn’t swinging randomly, it seemed to mock her, stubbornly pointing at Jack himself.

Jack, who hadn’t spoken a word to her in days. Jack, who moved about the ship as if she didn’t exist. Jack, who had taken residence in her mind despite every effort she’d made to push him out.

She hated the way he ignored her. Hated how his silence made her crave his attention even more. She knew the game he was playing, understood it far too well, and yet she felt herself teetering on the edge of surrender.

The shrill sound of the emergency bell broke her spiraling thoughts, its piercing clang cutting through the cabin like a blade. Ysábella stormed out of her quarters, slamming the door behind her as adrenaline surged through her veins.

“Captain!” a voice called out. Felipe, her navigator, hung from the ratlines, pointing toward the horizon with urgency. “There!”

Ysábella’s eyes followed his hand, her breath catching as she saw the ship approaching. Its sails were full, the massive frigate cutting through the waves with precision. A Star-Spangled Banner flew proudly from its mast.

“Americans,” she snarled, her teeth clenched.

Felipe leaped from the ratlines, landing beside her with a worried expression. “Captain, that’s a frigate. They outgun us by miles. What do we do?”

Ysábella scanned her ship, her crew scrambling to prepare for the inevitable fight. She couldn’t back down—not now, not ever. “We fight,” she said firmly, her voice carrying across the deck. “Prepare the cannons, and ready the men. We’re not going down without a fight.”

The crew erupted into motion, the deck a flurry of activity as sailors loaded the cannons and armed themselves. Ysábella’s heart pounded as she climbed the steps to the helm, her hand gripping the wheel tightly. The American frigate loomed closer, its massive hull bristling with firepower.

“Felipe!” she barked, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Get us in position. We need to outmaneuver them if we’re going to survive this.”

Felipe nodded, his face pale but determined. He scrambled to relay orders, guiding the crew as the two ships closed the distance.

The first volley came suddenly, a thunderous roar that sent cannonballs screaming through the air. The deck shuddered as one of the shots struck their side, splinters flying in every direction. Ysábella gritted her teeth, her knuckles white against the wheel.

“Return fire!” she shouted, her voice hoarse.

The crew obeyed, their cannons roaring in response. The smaller ship was agile, dodging several of the frigate’s salvos, but it wasn’t enough. The American ship’s superior firepower began to take its toll, with shots tearing into La Doncella with ruthless precision.

Wood splintered under the relentless bombardment, fragments flying through the air like deadly shards. The crew shouted commands over the din, their movements frantic but determined as they worked to reload the cannons. Waves crashed against the hull, drenching the deck and adding to the chaos. Every hit from the frigate brought fresh cries of alarm, yet the crew held their ground, their resolve unshaken despite the odds.

The American frigate had drawn close, its boarding hooks locking onto her ship and the enemy sailors swarmed onto her ship like ants, their sabers flashing. The chaos of battle was deafening—the roar of cannon fire, the clash of steel, the shouts of men engaged in combat. The deck of Ysábella’s ship was a battlefield, slick with seawater and blood, as her crew fought desperately to repel the American frigate’s assault. Smoke billowed across the ship, choking the air and obscuring the scene in a haze of fire and fury.

Ysábella gripped her dagger tightly, its hilt familiar and reassuring in her hand as she moved with swift precision toward the privateers who had boarded her ship. Her movements were a blur of agility, each slice of her blade cutting through the air with deadly grace. 

Nearby, Isolde fought like a tempest. Her cutlass cleaved through the incoming party, her strikes swift and deliberate. Her wild curls were damp with sweat, and her dark skin glistened as she shouted commands, rallying the crew with her fierce presence.

“Hold the line!” Isolde roared, parrying a saber thrust and driving her cutlass into an enemy’s chest. She spun on her heel, kicking another attacker squarely in the gut, sending him sprawling to the bloodied deck. “Push them back, or we’re done for!”

Diego’s powerful frame towered over the skirmish as he wielded his boarding axe with brutal precision. He cleaved through the attackers with powerful swings, his booming voice rising above the fray as he called out to his comrades.

“Keep fighting!” Diego bellowed, striking down another foe. “This is our ship, and we’ll die before we give it up!”

Ysábella ducked beneath a swinging cutlass, her heart pounding as she caught sight of an American officer barking orders to his men near the frigate’s boarding planks. His presence was a rallying point for the Americans, and she knew cutting him down could turn the tide. Without hesitation, she darted through the crowd, her dagger flashing as she felled another attacker in her path. Her agile movements carried her closer, weaving between clashing blades and dodging cannon debris.

Determined, she moved toward him, her movements swift and deliberate. Her dagger gleamed as it found its marks—slashes to throats, jabs to ribs—dispatching those who dared stand in her path. She was a shadow weaving through the crowd, her strikes precise and unrelenting.

But just as she reached the plank, a blow came from the side. An American privateer blindsided her, his weight knocking her to the deck. Her dagger flew from her grasp, skittering across the blood-slick wood. Ysábella gasped, struggling against the heavy man pinning her down. She twisted her body, trying to break free, her nails clawing at his arms, but the assault didn’t stop.

Before she could recover, more sailors converged, forcing her down with brutal efficiency. Their weight pressed her to the deck, her struggles growing more desperate as they restrained her arms. Her heart pounded in terror, her vision swimming as the sounds of battle roared around her.

In the chaos, she caught sight of Felipe near the mast, his sword clashing against two attackers. His movements were frantic but valiant, his determination pushing him to fight despite the odds. Ysábella’s voice caught in her throat as she saw one of the attackers slash across Felipe’s chest.

“Felipe!” she screamed, her voice raw and filled with anguish as his body crumpled to the deck.

Rage and grief surged through her, giving her strength as she lashed out against her captors. But it wasn’t enough. An American sailor grabbed her by the hair, dragging her across the deck as her legs kicked in protest, desperate for freedom. She clawed at his arm, but the man’s grip was iron.

Her crew was overwhelmed, and the Americans pressed their advantage with ruthless precision. Ysábella’s heart sank as she realized they were losing. All hope seemed lost as she struggled in vain, her strength fading, her screams swallowed by the chaos around her.

Ysábella’s vision blurred as she was dragged across the deck, her body bruised and battered. The taste of salt and blood lingered on her tongue, and every movement sent sharp pain coursing through her limbs. She clawed and kicked with everything she had left, but the sailor’s grip on her hair was unyielding.

“Let go of me!” she spat, her voice hoarse with rage and despair. But the man hauling her forward didn’t even flinch, his focus set on bringing her to the enemy captain who now loomed closer, his smug expression cutting through the haze of smoke.

Around her, the battle raged on. Isolde was still fighting, her cutlass flashing as she fought off two opponents at once, her movements feral and precise. Nearby, Diego had taken up position near the cannons, using whatever he could—a pistol, an axe, even a broken plank—to keep the attackers at bay. But even their combined efforts couldn’t stop the tide of American forces overwhelming the crew.

Ysábella’s captor yanked her upright, forcing her to face the enemy captain. He stood tall and confident, his pristine uniform a stark contrast to the bloodied chaos around him. His saber rested lazily in his hand, his expression one of satisfaction as he assessed her.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice dripping with smug condescension. “A captain, are you? Hard to tell, looking like a stray dragged from the gutter. How utterly disappointing.”

Ysábella glared at him, her eyes burning with defiance despite the tears threatening to spill over. “You’ll regret this,” she snarled, her voice shaking but fierce.

The captain chuckled, raising his saber to her throat. “I doubt that, my dear. Your little ship is finished, and so is your crew. Surrender, and I might consider sparing what’s left of them.”

Before she could reply, a loud, familiar voice cut through the din.

“I wouldn’t count on that, mate.”

All heads turned as Jack Sparrow emerged from the smoke, his pistol aimed squarely at the enemy captain’s head. His coat was tattered, his hat slightly askew, but his trademark grin was firmly in place.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve grown rather attached to the good captain here,” Jack said, his tone light but laced with menace. “And I’m not one for sharing.”

The distraction was all Ysábella needed. With a sharp twist, she broke free from the sailor’s grip, slamming her elbow into his face before dropping to the deck to grab her dagger. In one fluid motion, she was back on her feet, the blade flashing as she plunged it into the man’s leg, sending him sprawling.

Jack’s pistol fired, the shot narrowly missing the enemy captain’s head as he dodged with a curse. The American crew hesitated, their confidence faltering as Jack’s cunning presence threw their rhythm into chaos.

“Isolde! Diego!” Ysábella shouted, her voice rising above the clamor. “Push them back! Now!”

Isolde, bloodied but unbroken, rallied the crew with a fierce cry. “You heard the captain! For Felipe!” she roared, charging forward with renewed ferocity. Diego followed suit, his massive frame cutting through the enemy ranks like a storm.

Jack danced through the melee with his usual unpredictable flair, dodging strikes and firing shots with uncanny precision. He grinned as he fought his way to Ysábella’s side, his cutlass slicing through an attacker before he turned to her with a wink.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, parrying another blow.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Ysábella shot back, her dagger flashing as she took down another privateer.

“No, but you needed it,” Jack replied with a smirk, spinning to disarm an American sailor with a swift, fluid twist. “You’re lucky I have a soft spot for dramatic rescues.”

Together, they fought their way through the chaos, Ysábella’s crew regaining ground with every step. The Americans began to falter, their morale crumbling under the relentless counterattack. Smoke and blood filled the air as the battle reached its conclusion.

The enemy captain, realizing his forces were outmatched, shouted a retreat. The Americans scrambled back to their ship, cutting their losses as they disengaged from the fight. Jack Sparrow, standing triumphantly amidst the chaos, raised his voice with dramatic flair, “Let it be known that this is the day that you almost defeated…” He paused, turning to Ysábella with a smirk before finishing, “Captain Pigeon!” His grin widened as Ysábella shot him a glare, torn between rolling her eyes and laughing despite herself.

As the last of them disappeared into the smoke, Ysábella sank to her knees, her dagger clattering to the deck. The adrenaline drained from her body, leaving her trembling and exhausted. Around her, the crew cheered, their voices echoing in triumph, though the toll of the battle was painfully clear.

Jack crouched beside her, his grin softening into something almost sincere. “Not bad, Pigeon. Not bad at all.”

Ysábella looked at him, her breath still heavy. “I hate you,” she muttered, though there was no venom in her words.

“I know,” Jack replied, offering her a hand. “You’re welcome, all the same.”

She took it, letting him pull her to her feet as she surveyed the battered ship and her weary crew. The cost of victory weighed heavily on her, but for now, they were alive—and that was enough.

Chapter Text

The Dove and the Sparrow

Felipe’s lifeless body was wrapped carefully in canvas, his face hidden but his hands visible, calloused and worn from years of service. The crew gathered on the deck, their heads bowed in silence as the captain recited a brief but heartfelt farewell. The sound of the waves lapping against the hull and the soft creak of the ship’s timbers were the only sounds as they released the body into the sea.

As the crew dispersed, their faces heavy with the weight of the battle, Ysábella lingered at the railing, her nails digging into the wood. She felt the burden of every life lost, but Felipe’s death cut the deepest. He had been more than a crewmate—he had been family, a trusted voice, and a steady hand through countless storms. She stayed there until the sun had set and the stars began to appear, her tears silent but unrelenting.

When she finally retreated to her cabin, the emptiness felt unbearable. Sitting at her desk, she tried to focus on maps and notes, anything to distract herself from the aching void in her chest. But the ink blurred on the pages as fresh tears welled up, her head falling into her hands.

A knock at the door broke her solitude. She wiped her face hastily, trying to compose herself, but her voice betrayed her exhaustion. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Jack Sparrow entered, a bottle of rum in his hand. He closed the door behind him, his expression softer than usual. “You shouldn’t be mourning by yourself, Pigeon,” he said, moving to her desk and placing the bottle down. “It’s not healthy.”

Ysábella gave him a tired look. “What do you want, Jack?”

He pulled a chair closer and sat, uncorking the bottle with a practiced motion. “To drink. To Felipe,” he said, pouring two cups of rum and sliding one toward her. “He deserves a proper toast, don’t you think?”

She hesitated, then took the cup, the warmth of the rum spreading through her as she drank. “To Felipe,” she echoed softly, raising the cup in a small, solemn toast.

For a while, they sat in silence, drinking and letting the rum dull the edges of their grief. Jack’s usual mischievous demeanor began to creep back as the alcohol loosened his tongue.

“You know,” he began, a sly grin tugging at his lips, “for someone as sharp as you, you’ve got a knack for getting into trouble.”

Ysábella raised an eyebrow. “Trouble?”

He leaned back in his chair, swirling the rum in his cup. “Aye, trouble. You were half-dead on that deck when I swooped in and saved the day. You owe me for that, Pigeon.”

Ysábella shot him a glare, though it lacked its usual intensity. “Owe you? You’re insufferable, Sparrow.”

“Insufferable but useful,” Jack countered, raising his cup in a mock toast. “Without me, you’d be shark bait by now.”

She drained her cup and set it down with a clatter, reaching for the bottle to refill it. “I didn’t ask for your help,” she said, though her tone lacked bite as the rum worked its magic.

“True, but where would you be without me?” He leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on hers, the teasing glint in them now tinged with something deeper. “Face it, Pigeon, you need me.”

Ysábella opened her mouth to retort but stopped, the words dying on her lips as the air between them grew heavier. Jack’s grin softened, his gaze lingering a moment too long. She felt her pulse quicken, her body tense as she tried to look away, but his presence seemed to fill the room.

“Stop calling me that,” she murmured, though her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Pigeon?” Jack said, leaning closer. “Can’t help it. It suits you.”

The space between them seemed to shrink as the air grew heavier, the playful banter giving way to something unspoken, something electric. Ysábella’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind scrambling for a clever retort, but Jack’s gaze held her captive. His usual mischief was still there, but it was tempered by something deeper—something that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Careful, Sparrow,” she said, her voice quieter now, a hint of warning laced in her tone. “You’re treading dangerous waters.”

“Danger’s my favorite kind, Pigeon.” Jack replied smoothly, his grin softening into something gentler. The air between them crackled, the tension growing almost unbearable. Neither moved for a moment, as if caught in a precarious balance. Then Jack closed the gap, his lips brushing against hers, tentative but deliberate.

Ysábella didn’t pull away. Instead, she met him halfway, her hands instinctively finding the fabric of his coat. The kiss that followed was slow at first, but it deepened with an intensity that caught her off guard. The grief and anger that had clung to her all day melted away, replaced by a fiery need she could no longer contain. Jack’s arms slipped around her waist, drawing her closer.

Their kiss deepened, the tension that had simmered between them for days finally boiling over. It was messy, fueled by the heat of the moment and the rum coursing through her veins.

“Jack…” she started, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, love?” he replied, his tone softer now, the teasing replaced by something quieter, more deliberate.

She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. The grief, the rum, and the heat of his gaze muddled her thoughts, and before she could stop herself, she whispered, “Stay.”

Jack’s grin shifted, less playful now and more curious. “As you wish, Captain.”

Ysábella’s hands rested against the lapels of his coat, her fingers curling into the fabric as if grounding herself. Her chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, the weight of her grief momentarily displaced by the warmth of him so close. The flickering lantern light danced across his face, casting shadows that softened the sharpness of his features.

Jack leaned in again, his lips brushing hers with a careful deliberation that caught her off guard. There was no urgency, no arrogance—just a quiet patience that surprised her. He didn’t rush or push, giving her the space to decide. When she finally responded, tilting her head to meet him, the moment grew more intimate. The faint scent of rum lingered between them, their movements unsteady but deliberate, carrying the weight of emotions neither had dared to confront until now.

Her fingers slid from his coat to the back of his neck, pulling him closer as she allowed herself to let go—of the grief, the pain, and the burden she carried so heavily. For that moment, she let herself feel something else, something real and alive. Jack's arms circled her waist, his hold firm yet tender, anchoring her in the storm of emotions that swirled between them.

They moved together, slowly at first, as if testing the waters of this unfamiliar territory. Jack’s hand trailed down her back, his touch light but deliberate, as though he were memorizing every inch of her. Ysábella shivered under his touch, her breath hitching as a flicker of boldness overtook her hesitation.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered against his lips, though her actions betrayed her words as she drew him closer still.

Jack pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his lips curling into a faint grin. “Probably,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “But some mistakes are worth making.”

Ysábella couldn’t help the small, breathless laugh that escaped her, her forehead resting against his for a moment as she closed her eyes. When he kissed her again, it was slower, deeper, the tension between them melting into something softer. The weight of the day faded into the background, leaving only the crackling warmth of the present.

Ysábella’s hands explored the planes of Jack’s chest, fingers brushing over the fabric of his shirt before finding their way to his skin. His warmth was grounding, a tether to keep her from sinking beneath the weight of emotions she could no longer contain.

“You’re full of trouble, Sparrow,” she murmured, her voice soft but laced with a teasing edge. Her lips hovered near his, their breath mingling in the small space between them.

Jack chuckled, his hands moving to the small of her back, pulling her closer. “And yet,” he said, his voice low and rough, “you keep me around, love. What does that say about you?”

“Bad judgment,” she replied, though her words were softened by the faint smile playing on her lips.

Their teasing dissolved into silence as Jack tilted her chin up, his lips finding hers again. The kiss deepened, growing more insistent as the unspoken tension between them unraveled. Ysábella’s fingers tangled in his hair, her grip firm as if anchoring herself in the storm of emotions.

Jack’s touch grew bolder, his hands sliding up her sides with a care that surprised her. He paused, his dark eyes searching hers for a moment of silent permission. She answered with a kiss, her actions speaking louder than words as she let herself be swept away.

“Ysábella,” he murmured against her lips, her name unfamiliar on his tongue but spoken with a tenderness she hadn’t expected.

She shivered at the sound of her name, her breath hitching as his lips trailed along her jaw. “Jack,” she whispered, her voice catching. She wasn’t sure if it was meant as a warning or an invitation, but it didn’t matter. 

Ysábella’s hands trembled slightly as she worked to free Jack of his coat, her fingers clumsy but determined. The fabric slid from his shoulders, landing on the floor with a soft thud. Ysábella’s trembling hands fumbled with the buttons of his vest. Her touch was unsteady, but her determination didn’t waver.

Jack’s smirk softened, his teasing words fading into silence as he helped her, his fingers brushing against hers as he worked the fabric loose. She lifted his shirt up, her eyes lingering for a moment on the scars and marks etched into his skin—evidence of a life lived on the edge. Jack noticed her hesitation and tilted his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “See something you like, Pigeon?” he teased, his voice low and rough. 

Her cheeks burned, but she refused to let his smugness throw her off. “You really are insufferable,” she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness. Her fingers brushed against the top button of his trousers, hovering there for a brief moment before continuing. Each small movement felt heavier than it should. The fabric was warm beneath her fingertips, a tangible reminder of the heat radiating from him. Her breath hitched as she worked the button loose, the simple act somehow feeling like the beginning of something irreversible. The sound of the button slipping free barely registered over the pounding of her heartbeat, loud and erratic in her ears. As the final button came undone, Ysábella’s hands faltered, her breath catching in her throat. Looking at him fully for the first time, she knew—she wanted him.

She led him into her bunk, her pulse quickening as she pressed a hand to his chest, coaxing him to sit at the edge.

Ysábella’s fingers fumbled with the stubborn knots in the laces of her vest, frustration building with each failed attempt. A low growl escaped her lips, irritated and barely contained, as the fabric refused to yield. Her movements grew sharper, more frantic, as though sheer determination could force the knots to give way.

Jack, ever observant, raised an eyebrow at her struggle. “Need a hand, love?” he offered, his tone laced with amusement. 

Before she could snap back, she reached for the dagger at her belt and drew it in one fluid motion. The blade gleamed briefly in the lantern light before she slipped it under the stubborn laces and pulled, slicing through the fabric with precision.

Jack blinked, momentarily stunned by her audacity, before breaking into a crooked grin. “Well, that’s one way to do it,” he murmured, his gaze trailing over her now-loosened shirt as the fabric began to slip from her shoulders.

With the offending laces gone, Ysábella tossed the dagger aside, the sound of metal clattering against the wood floor lost in the charged air between them. She shrugged off the remnants of her shirt. 

Even with her body exposed, Ysábella barely noticed the cool air brushing against her bare skin. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on her chest, her heart pounding as she focused on the man beneath her. Jack lay back against the bunk, his dark eyes fixed on hers, a glint of curiosity and mischief shining in their depths. His gaze felt like a challenge, daring her to continue, yet there was a softness to it that steadied her, pulling her into the moment despite the storm raging inside her.

Taking a shaky breath, her hands pressed firmly against his chest, the warmth of his skin beneath her palms sending a ripple of energy through her—exhilaration, desire, and an edge of uncertainty all mixing together. She gave him a deliberate shove, forcing him to lie fully back. Jack’s grin widened, his hands resting lightly on her hips as she climbed over him, her knees bracketing his hips. She leaned forward, her hair falling around them like a curtain, obscuring the rest of the room.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Captain,” Jack murmured, his voice low and rough, the usual teasing laced with a quieter undertone.

“Don’t ruin this, Sparrow,” she replied breathlessly, her tone sharp but tinged with nervous energy.

His grin softened, his hands sliding along her sides as he tilted his head to meet her gaze. “Not a chance, love,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ysábella took another deep breath as she guided him into her, her body instinctively tensing at the overwhelming sensation. A quiet gasp escaped her lips, her hands sliding to his bare chest, her fingers curling against the warmth of his skin for balance. Jack exhaled sharply beneath her, his grip on her hips tightening, his fingers pressing into her flesh as she adjusted, feeling his full length inside of her. Their movements slow and deliberate as the intensity of the moment settled between them.

“Easy now,” he said softly, his tone a mix of teasing and encouragement. “You’re steering this ship, Captain.”

His words sent a thrill through her, the tension in her body giving way to a boldness she hadn’t realized she possessed. She began to move, the slow bucking of her hips testing the rhythm between them. The first motions were tentative, her breaths uneven as she adjusted to the intensity of the moment. Jack’s hands guided her, his fingers pressing into her skin as he met her movements with subtle gyrations of his own.

“Now that’s more like it,” he murmured, his voice huskier now, a faint smile tugging at his lips as his head tilted back slightly. “Knew you had it in you, love.”

Ysábella’s glare lacked its usual fire, her focus too consumed by the sensations coursing through her. “Shut up, Jack,” she said through gritted teeth, though her tone carried no real venom.

He chuckled, low and rough, his grip on her hips steadying her as she picked up the pace. The bucking of her hips grew more confident, her movements more deliberate as she let herself give in fully to the moment. Her hands slid from his chest to his shoulders, gripping tightly as she leaned forward, her forehead brushing against his.

“Better?” she whispered, her voice breathless but tinged with challenge.

Jack smirked, his dark eyes gleaming as he looked up at her. “Much,” he replied, his hands sliding lower to guide her rhythm further. “You’re quite the captain after all.”

She rolled her eyes at his comment but didn’t stop, her motions growing more fluid as the tension between them reached a fever pitch. The gyrations of their bodies fell into sync, the air around them thick with heat and the unspoken weight of everything they were letting go. In that moment, there were no walls, no pretenses—just the quiet connection forged in the rhythm they created together.

Ysábella’s movements grew desperate, her hips bucking against Jack’s as the tension between them built to a fever pitch. Every nerve in her body was aflame, the raw intensity of the moment overwhelming her as she chased the release she couldn’t hold back any longer. Jack’s hands gripped her waist firmly, his touch grounding and steady, guiding her through the storm with an uncharacteristic focus. 

Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps as the sensation reached its breaking point, her body trembling as the final wave crashed over her. A sharp cry escaped her lips, and before she could stop herself, the word slipped out, unfiltered and raw.  

“Daddy,” she gasped, her voice breaking with the force of her climax.    

Before she could register her own words, she felt him tense beneath her. Jack’s hands tightened on her waist, his fingers pressing into her skin as his own control snapped. His hips pressed upward, meeting hers with a sudden urgency that sent another shiver through her. A guttural groan escaped him, low and rough, and she felt his warm potent seed spill into her, hot and undeniable. The sensation stole what little breath she had left, leaving her trembling as the heat radiated through her body, grounding her in the raw intimacy of the moment.

The room was silent except for the sound of their labored breathing, the tension between them giving way to a heavy stillness. Ysábella’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her hands still pressed against his bare skin as she tried to steady herself. The warmth of his release lingered inside her, an intimate reminder of the line they had crossed—a line she hadn’t fully understood until now.  

Jack’s grip on her softened, his hands sliding up her sides as his dark eyes met hers. The teasing glint she expected was there, but it was tempered by something quieter, something she couldn’t quite place. “Well now,” he murmured, his voice rough from exertion, “you certainly know how to keep a man on his toes.”  

Ysábella flushed deeply, the weight of what had just happened settling over her like a crashing wave. She couldn’t meet his gaze, her cheeks burning as she tried to process the storm of emotions swirling inside her. But when she shifted slightly, the sensation of his warmth inside her sent another jolt through her, grounding her in the reality of what they’d just shared.  

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again, her mind scrambling for the right words. Jack, as always, broke the silence first, his tone light but tinged with something softer. “Relax, love,” he said, his hands still resting gently on her hips. “I’m not complaining.”  

Ysábella groaned, covering her face with her hands, the embarrassment and intensity of the moment crashing over her in equal measure. Yet, even in her flustered state, there was a small, quiet comfort in the warmth of his hands and the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her. It was messy and chaotic, but for a fleeting moment, Ysábella let herself simply exist in the aftermath. She closed her eyes, letting the tension in her body gradually melt away. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she allowed herself to breathe, unguarded and at peace.

Chapter Text

Ysábella stirred as the soft warmth of sunlight pierced through the small window of her cabin, casting golden streaks across the worn wooden walls. The first light of dawn always made the ship feel almost alive, yet this morning, it felt suffocating. Her eyes fluttered open, and she winced against the brightness, her head pounding with a dull ache that pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat. The remnants of rum were still clouding her thoughts, but there was something deeper now—something that gnawed at her stomach, a churning wave of emotion she couldn’t quite shake. 

She groaned, rolling onto her side, only to feel the cool touch of sheets against her bare skin. Her breath caught in her throat as memories of the night before came rushing back like a tidal wave, each detail painfully vivid—Jack’s hands on her waist, the heat of his body pressing against hers, the way her carefully constructed walls had shattered with every touch. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push it away, but the tension, the raw need that had pulsed between them, refused to fade. It lingered.

Her gaze darted to the floor, where her clothes were strewn in a tangled mess. The faint scent of rum, salt, and something far more intoxicating than either clung to the room. Jack. Her chest tightened with a familiar feeling she didn’t want to name—something like guilt, but twisted with longing, desire, and frustration. 

“What the hell was I thinking?” she muttered under her breath, the words coming out rough and hoarse. Her skin still tingled from where his hands had traced, and she could swear she felt him, in some strange way, lingering, squirming, inside her. She swallowed hard, trying to push the shame, the fear, the nagging hunger of something deeper. And how, despite her best intentions, she had let him. Let him in. She had never been this vulnerable, not in years. One mistake. That’s all it was.

Her fingers trembled as they brushed over the edge of the mattress, and the sharp pain of her headache seemed to amplify as she stood. Her body ached—reminders of the rum, the passion, the recklessness of it all. She wrapped the sheet tightly around herself, like a shield, and stumbled towards the floor, where her vest lay in a heap. As she grabbed it, the scent of Jack’s frock coat caught her attention, and for a moment, she hesitated. The urge to tear it from the chair and throw it into the sea gnawed at her, but instead, she tugged her own clothes on with rigid movements. The weight of her decision hung on her like an anchor.

Never again, she told herself. 

As she pulled on her vest, her gaze flickered to the open cabin door, and she almost feared that Jack might be standing there, with that infuriating grin of his—ready to mock her, tease her, or worse, make it feel like last night had been something else entirely. But the door was empty, and the quiet creak of the ship settling in the morning air was all that met her.

Ysábella squared her shoulders and stepped out onto the deck, the fresh morning air biting at her skin, her heart still heavy with the weight of what had transpired. She could hear the familiar bustle of the crew as they went about their duties, but for a moment, everything felt distant—like she was seeing the world from beneath a thick fog.

She made her way to the side of the ship, hoping the salt air would clear her head, but as she reached the railing, a wave of nausea hit her. Her stomach lurched violently, and her breath hitched as the contents of her stomach rose up. She barely made it over the edge before she vomited, the acid of the rum mixing with the unsettled feeling gnawing at her gut. She braced herself, her hands gripping the railing for support, but the feeling wouldn’t let up. It was as though her entire body was trying to reject everything that had happened, and in that moment, she didn’t know whether it was the rum, the guilt, or something deeper—something she didn’t want to name.

Get a hold of yourself, she thought, shaking her head as the taste of bile lingered at the back of her throat. She breathed through the nausea, willing herself to regain control. 

“Ah, Pigeon,” a familiar voice drawled behind her, smooth as ever, “I see you’re up and about. Was beginning to wonder if you were going to let the night linger a bit longer.”

Ysábella spun around with a sudden flare of irritation, only to find Jack leaning casually against the mast, arms crossed, his eyes gleaming with that cocky glint she both loved and hated. He was watching her closely, and even though his expression was as insufferably smug as ever, there was a hint of something else—a curiosity, maybe, or even amusement. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, wiping her mouth quickly, trying to ignore the way her heart hammered in her chest. She didn’t need to deal with his teasing right now, not when her body was still rebelling against her every choice from the night before.

“Oh, just enjoying the view,” Jack said with an exaggerated shrug, his eyes never leaving hers. “You looked like you were having a... delightful time with the ship’s rail. It’s rather romantic, I suppose, if you like a little drama in your mornings.” 

Ysábella shot him a look, her stomach still doing flips as she steadied herself. “You are insufferable,” she muttered under her breath, but despite herself, the edge of her lips twitched upward in spite of the nausea. 

Jack chuckled, clearly pleased with her reaction. “Come on, Pigeon,” he said, his voice dropping a little lower, his gaze softening. “I didn’t mean to rattle you. I know the feeling. But I have to say... I didn’t expect to see you so shaken up. Was last night that bad?”

Her stomach churned again, but this time, it wasn’t from the rum. It was the reality of what had happened, crashing down on her. The fact that she had let go, just for one night, and that it had felt... too real. Too good. 

“Don’t make it worse, Jack,” she growled, her voice tight. “You already ruined me once.”

Jack stepped closer, his presence closing the gap between them in an instant. He looked at her, studying her with that same piercing gaze that always made her feel like he could see right through her defenses. His lips curved into that mischievous grin she both loathed and secretly craved.

“Ruined you, Pigeon?” he asked, his voice low, like a purring challenge. “From where I stand, you seemed to be enjoying yourself just fine. In fact, I think I’ll definitely be seeing you again... in more ways than one.”

Ysábella bit back a groan. Damn him. He was right. She had enjoyed it. Too much. The kiss, the passion, the rawness of it all—it had made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t in years. And the worst part? She wasn’t exactly sure she regretted it, despite everything telling her to.

“In your dreams, Sparrow,” she retorted, her tone icy but with a flicker of something darker in her eyes. “You’ll never catch me off guard again.”

Jack smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. “We’ll see about that. Maybe you’re not as immune to me as you like to think.”

Ysábella narrowed her eyes, stepping back slightly to distance herself from his magnetic presence. “You’re delusional. It was a moment of weakness, that’s all. And it’ll never happen again. You won’t get the better of me twice.”

He shrugged nonchalantly, the playful glint never leaving his eyes. “Maybe... but I’m certain the next time I set my sights on you, Pigeon, you won’t be able to resist.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping away from him. “Keep dreaming,” she muttered, her mind already moving past the conversation, her chest tightening with the realization that part of her wasn’t entirely sure she could hold firm on that promise. 

It was then that Isolde appeared on deck, her eyes scanning the scene before locking onto Ysábella and Jack. 

“Seems like you two are getting along,” she said, her voice almost laced with something Ysábella couldn’t quite place—jealousy? Concern? The usual playful snark?

Ysábella felt her heart rate spike. She had been hoping to avoid this conversation. Damn it, Isolde was too observant. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ysábella snapped, though the edge in her voice was more from discomfort than true anger.

Isolde leaned in slightly, her gaze moving between Jack and Ysábella, a sly smile curling on her lips. “Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean. You two have been spending a lot of time together, lately. Not that I care...”

Ysábella bristled, her defensive instincts kicking in. “You’re reading this all wrong, Isolde. Nothing’s going on.”

Isolde chuckled, her voice soft and knowing. “Oh, I understand, alright.” She leaned back, giving Ysábella a pointed look before her eyes flickered to Jack once more. “Seems like it’s more than a passing interest, though. Or am I mistaken?”

Ysábella’s stomach twisted, her chest tightening as a wave of unease washed over her. “You’ve misunderstood,” she said quickly, but she could already feel the heat of the blush creeping up her neck. She had no idea how much Isolde had overheard from last night. The thought made her sick.

Isolde’s smile only grew, her gaze now resting on Ysábella with knowing amusement. “Oh, I understand, darling,” she said, almost too casually. “You said it yourself, didn’t you?”

Ysábella froze, her heart skipping a beat. The words Isolde was hinting at—the ones she had whispered in the heat of the moment—hung heavy between them.

“Daddy, was it?” Isolde added, her tone almost mocking, but there was something else in her eyes—something darker.

Ysábella’s breath caught, and her cheeks flamed redder than they ever had before. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. She could still hear her own voice, calling out to Jack in that moment of weakness... and now, the way Isolde had twisted it was too much to bear.

Jack, of course, couldn’t resist. He stepped forward, his grin widening as he looked at Ysábella. “Daddy? Now that’s an interesting choice of words, Pigeon.” His voice dropped lower, the playful edge unmistakable. “You did say it, after all.”

Ysábella felt the flush creep up her neck, her body rigid with humiliation. She had no idea how to respond. The last thing she wanted was for Jack to hold this over her. She could already hear him teasing her, using it against her at every turn.

No, she thought. Not again.

Ysábella’s heart hammered in her chest as Isolde’s words lingered in the air, the teasing undertone almost tangible. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and she fought to maintain her composure. Her thoughts scrambled, trying to find something, anything, to break free from the grip of embarrassment. The last thing she wanted was to let either of them see how deeply that one word had struck her.

Isolde, ever the perceptive one, leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with a mischievous twinkle. “Well, it’s quite the image, don’t you think?” she added with a playful lilt. “Daddy, huh? That’s a title I didn’t think I’d ever hear come from your lips, Ysábella.” 

Ysábella's gaze flickered to Jack, and she could see that his smirk had only grown, his eyes alight with the same playful challenge that had always made him impossible to ignore. Of course, Jack would latch onto this. He couldn’t resist a tease, especially one this juicy. 

“Is that so, Pigeon?” Jack’s voice was low, amused. He stepped closer to Ysábella, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, hungry for her reaction. “Seems like you might be a little more into this than you care to admit.”

Ysábella felt a flash of anger surge through her. She wasn’t going to let him get away with this—no matter how true or false it was, the idea of him twisting that moment into something to be ridiculed was unbearable. She straightened, pushing past the instinct to pull away or defend herself meekly. 

“Keep dreaming, Sparrow,” she retorted with a fire she hadn’t expected to feel. “You’ve had your little fun, but that’s it. It was a moment of weakness, and it’ll never happen again.”

Jack’s smirk faltered for only the briefest of seconds, but he recovered with that same cocky glint. He didn’t seem deterred by her dismissal. Instead, he leaned in even closer, his breath warm against her ear, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Never say never, Pigeon. We both know how you react when I get close.” He paused, letting the silence hang heavy between them before adding, “You didn’t exactly push me away, did you?”

Ysábella’s face burned with frustration. She wasn’t going to let him have the last word—not this time. She tilted her chin up defiantly, her voice as sharp as ever.

“I didn’t push you away because I was in charge, Jack,” she shot back, her gaze unwavering. “I let you think you were in control. But it’s over. One mistake was enough, and I’m not going to make it again.”

Jack’s eyes twinkled with that familiar challenge, a knowing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll take that as a challenge, then. But mark my words, Pigeon—if I ever get the chance again, I’ll make you regret that little vow of yours.” 

Ysábella held his gaze, refusing to back down. No. She wouldn’t let him win. This had to be a one-off, a moment where she slipped. She had never been caught like that before, and she wasn’t about to let it happen again.

“Keep dreaming, Sparrow,” she repeated, this time with a much firmer conviction. “You don’t know me as well as you think.”

But before Jack could reply with another one of his teasing remarks, Isolde’s voice cut in once more, this time tinged with something far more cutting. 

“So... is this how you two really get along? It’s hard to tell sometimes,” she said, her tone more amused than before, but there was a subtle edge of something else beneath it. Her eyes flicked between the two of them with calculating interest, her lips curving into a smile that was anything but innocent. “You’re both so good at playing games, but you’re also both so... predictable. It's uncanny.” 

Ysábella’s chest tightened. She could feel the weight of Isolde’s gaze, and for some reason, it felt like more than just an observation. Isolde wasn’t just talking about the playful jabs or the usual banter—they were both reading each other, and probably with far more depth than either of them wanted to admit.

Ysábella straightened again, lifting her chin as she met Isolde’s gaze. She wouldn’t let this conversation spiral out of control. “You’re misreading everything, Isolde,” she said, her voice steady. “There’s nothing more to this than what you see. It’s all just... banter. Nothing else.”

Isolde’s smile didn’t falter, but there was something in her expression that spoke volumes—understanding, maybe even knowing.

“Oh, I understand alright,” she said, her voice carrying just the right amount of weight that made Ysábella’s stomach drop. “I saw the way you two were looking at each other last night. Heard the way you were speaking... and I get it. You’re not fooling anyone, Ysábella. But if you really want to be the one in control, you’ll need to stop playing games with yourself.”

Ysábella felt the blood rush to her face again, her pulse quickening. She hadn’t realized just how much she had let slip—how much of her walls had come down in that single moment with Jack. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know, least of all Isolde. 

She swallowed hard, pushing past the sinking feeling in her stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Isolde,” she said, voice tight but trying to hold onto the confidence that had carried her through so much. “You’re reading everything all wrong. I’m in control of my own choices. I don’t need to explain myself to anyone.”

But Isolde’s smile only deepened, her eyes narrowing with subtle amusement. “Oh, I understand perfectly. Just like you said... ‘daddy.’” She let the word hang between them, an unspoken challenge in her tone.

Ysábella froze. She could hear the word in her head, that one moment of weakness she had regretted the instant it had slipped out. And now, here it was again, hanging over her like a weight she couldn’t shake. She looked away from Isolde quickly, her face burning with a mix of shame and frustration. She would have preferred to let that one word stay buried. 

Jack, of course, was watching her with amusement, his grin widening as he saw the tension that suddenly coiled in Ysábella’s posture. “Well, well, Pigeon,” he drawled, his voice thick with teasing mockery. “Seems like someone else remembers your little slip-up. Daddy, was it? I think I could get used to that.”

Ysábella turned to face him, fury flashing in her eyes. She was already too far gone into this banter for him to just walk away unscathed. 

“Don’t push your luck, Sparrow,” she said through gritted teeth. “That word means nothing. It was just a... moment. A weakness. You won’t ever hear it from me again. And don’t think I won’t make you regret bringing it up.”

Jack raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin still unrepentant. “Oh, don’t worry, Pigeon. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a harmless little slip, right?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a lower, more deliberate tone. “But don’t think for a second that I’ve forgotten it. I never forget anything.”

Ysábella felt the familiar tension between them crackle to life again, but this time, she was determined not to let it break her. She stepped back, putting some distance between them, and squared her shoulders. 

“You’re wrong if you think you’ve got me figured out, Jack,” she said firmly. “I won’t fall for your games again.”

For a moment, Jack didn’t speak, his eyes searching her face, weighing her words. He seemed to be considering something, perhaps wondering if she was truly as resolute as she seemed. Finally, he gave a slight nod, his grin softening just a fraction. “Alright, Pigeon. We’ll see if you can stick to that promise. But you know... I wouldn’t mind trying to catch you off guard again sometime.”

Ysábella gave him a pointed look, her voice laced with steel. “You won’t.”

Jack winked at her. “In your dreams.”

As the moment lingered, Ysábella couldn’t help but feel a flicker of uncertainty in her chest. She had always prided herself on being the one in control, but this... this was a different kind of battle, and for the first time, she wasn’t sure who would come out on top.

But one thing was certain—Jack Sparrow had a way of making her question everything she thought she knew about herself.

Chapter Text

A Compass That Doesn't Point North

Ysábella gripped the wheel tightly, her fingers digging into the smooth, weathered wood as the wind whispered through the rigging of the ship. The sails were trimmed just enough to catch the breeze, but something in her gut told her they weren’t going in the right direction. The sea, vast and unyielding, stretched out before her, and yet, her sense of purpose felt uncertain. 

With Felipe, their navigator, gone, the course had been lost. No one had stepped up to replace him, and the only thing that could be counted on now was the compass, but even it seemed to have turned traitor.

Her eyes narrowed as she glanced down at the small wood and brass instrument in her hand. The needle spun lazily, as if it had no care in the world. But no matter how she shifted its position, no matter how much she tilted it, the needle only pointed one way.

To Jack Sparrow.

Her heart gave a slight, annoyed lurch, and she slammed the compass against the wheel, cursing under her breath. “Why does it always have to be you?” she muttered, voice dripping with frustration. She was captain, for gods’ sake. She was in control of this ship, but right now, she felt as lost as the compass.

She tried again, spinning the dial, turning the compass this way and that, but it always settled back in the same direction—pointing to Jack. It made no sense. He wasn’t even at the helm, not anywhere near it. He hadn’t been near her at all, really. 

Her jaw tightened. She could feel the frustration building in her chest like a pressure cooker, every second of it taunting her, mocking her, just as it had every time Jack's presence had affected her over the past few days. He was avoiding her—deliberately, she was sure of it. 

She turned the compass around, gritting her teeth as the needle still defiantly pointed in his direction. There had to be a logical explanation for this. Felipe was gone—yes—but surely the needle should be pointing toward some land, some distant shore, something useful. Something that wasn’t Jack Sparrow.

“Gibbs!” she shouted, her voice snapping through the quiet of the deck. “Take this damn thing. I’ve had enough.”

The grizzled old man looked up from the ropes he was tending to, his brow furrowing in mild confusion. But he’d never been one to question his captain for long. “Aye, Cap’n.”

He walked over, taking the compass from her hand without a word, his weathered fingers brushing against hers. She held her breath as Gibbs slowly tilted the instrument in his hands, but the needle didn’t point to Jack. No, this time, it spun, as if it were looking for something. For anything. Then it settled—somewhere far off to the northeast.

“See?” she said, a satisfied breath escaping her. “It’s not broken.”

But when Gibbs handed it back to her, the needle swung once more, as though stubbornly refusing to point anywhere except Jack.

“Dammit,” she cursed under her breath.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, not entirely shocked, but definitely curious. “Funny, it’s always been reliable before... but that’s nothin’ new with you, eh, lass?”

Ysábella gave him a scathing look, but inside, she couldn’t help the flush that spread through her cheeks. The damn compass... Jack’s presence… everything felt like it was closing in on her. She couldn’t even escape her own thoughts, let alone control the direction of the ship. What was happening?

She threw the compass down on the wheel, frustrated beyond reason, and turned her gaze out toward the horizon. The ship creaked under the sway of the waves. The sea didn’t care about her problems, and neither did the damn compass. Everything just kept turning, moving forward without her, while she stayed locked in this ridiculous struggle with the universe, and with herself.

She tried to focus on the task at hand—getting the ship back on course. But with each passing hour, she couldn’t stop the gnawing feeling in her stomach that something—someone—was just out of reach.

☠️

Later that night, the silence in her cabin was deafening. Ysábella sat at her desk, the map sprawled in front of her like some jigsaw puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out. Her eyes traced the familiar lines and markings, each curve and notation reminding her of the countless hours spent navigating these waters. But her mind wouldn’t stay on the task.

She was alone. And she didn’t like it. Not in the slightest.

No Jack.

No banter. No mischievous grin. No teasing words that made her blood simmer and her pulse quicken. He was—where? She could barely even tell anymore. He had been avoiding her all day, just like she suspected. He hadn’t come to taunt her, hadn’t come to distract her from her duties. And the worst part? She found herself waiting for him. Craving his attention. Her stomach twisted at the realization, but she refused to give in. 

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, flipping over the edge of the map, trying to focus. Her eyes scanned the inked lines again, tracing the coastline she hoped was still out there. She needed to find land—soon—before the supplies ran out. The ship was in desperate need of repairs after the brutal battle with the privateers, its timbers groaning with every wave, the sails tattered and barely holding against the wind. But every time she thought of that damned compass, her heart gave a strange, unsettling lurch.

She was tired. Frustrated. And, oddly enough, she couldn’t stop thinking about Jack.

The soft tapping of her fingers on the desk echoed in the silence of the cabin, a small and insignificant sound, but somehow it felt like the only thing keeping her from unraveling. She kept glancing at the door, expecting—no, hoping—that Jack would wander in, disrupt her concentration with one of his ridiculous quips or a harmless comment. It was the routine she knew. The one that kept her balanced in the chaos of the sea.

But Jack didn’t come. And the cabin grew colder with every passing minute.

Her mind wandered again. She could almost hear him in her ear, teasing her. “Aye, Pigeon. I knew you’d be waiting for me.” 

Her lips twisted into a frustrated frown, but the thought of him, his voice, made her skin prickle with irritation and something else—something she refused to acknowledge. Why the hell couldn’t she get him out of her head?

The door creaked open suddenly, and Ysábella froze, her heart leaping into her throat. She didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

Jack stood in the doorway, his usual swagger evident in the way he leaned against the frame. His eyes were gleaming with amusement, his hands casually resting on his hips. 

“Well, well, Pigeon. Looks like you’ve been working hard. But something tells me you’ve missed me, eh?” His voice was thick with mischief, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Ysábella closed her eyes briefly, fighting the surge of relief and frustration that welled up in her chest. He knew exactly what he was doing, and she hated that she couldn’t play it cool.

“I’m busy, Sparrow,” she said, voice tight. “You’re not here to help me find land, are you?”

Jack raised an eyebrow, stepping into the cabin, his boots clicking against the wooden floor. “Land, eh? You don’t need me for that, Pigeon. You’ve got your maps, your compass...” He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. “But I suppose there’s a chance I could be more useful than you think.”

Her stomach did a flip at the implication, and she forced herself to look away, feigning disinterest. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m perfectly capable of finding land on my own.”

Jack chuckled, that lazy grin never leaving his face as he walked around her desk, inspecting the map. His proximity was maddening—he was so close, and yet... so out of reach. 

“You’re always so stubborn, Pigeon,” he teased, his fingers brushing across the map. “Don’t worry, though. If you need me, I’ll be around.” He gave her one last look, a smirk dancing in his eyes before he turned to leave. “Don’t keep thinking about me too much. You might find yourself lost.”

Ysábella opened her mouth to snap back at him, but the door shut softly behind him before she could say a word.

The silence returned to the cabin with a heavy weight, and for a brief moment, she closed her eyes, letting herself exhale in frustration.

He knew. He always knew how to get under her skin.

Chapter Text

Ysábella stood at the helm of La Doncella, her hands firm on the wheel as the ship cut through the calm waters. Warmth of the afternoon sun kissed her skin and casted shadows across the deck. The rhythmic creak of the timbers and the hum of the wind through the sails were usually enough to soothe her restless mind, but not today.

Her frustration had been building all day. Jack. That infuriating man. He’d been nowhere to be found since morning—not a word, not a teasing glance, not even a glimpse of his ridiculous hat. It shouldn’t have bothered her; she should have been grateful for the reprieve. But instead, it gnawed at her, a slow and persistent ache she couldn’t shake.

She knew his game. She’d played it herself before—withdraw, create distance, make the other person come to you. And yet, despite knowing the rules, she still found herself caught in his trap. Her knuckles whitened on the wheel as she cursed her own weakness. How did he manage to get under her skin so easily?

The crew milled about the deck, their voices a low murmur as they went about their duties. Ysábella barely registered them, her focus fixed on the horizon and the shifting thoughts in her mind. She needed to distract herself, to shake off the irritation that lingered like a shadow over her mood.

Her lips parted, and a melody escaped, unbidden but welcome. “Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies, farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain…”

The shanty rose softly at first, a half-hearted attempt to lighten her spirits. But as the familiar tune carried on the wind, she let herself get lost in it, her voice growing steadier, more playful. She swayed slightly with the rhythm, her earlier frustration ebbing away with each line. The song was an old companion, one that always brought her solace amid the vastness of the sea.

She barely noticed the crew pausing their tasks to listen. Diego grinned, humming along under his breath, while others exchanged smiles. The soft harmony of the shanty lifted the mood of the ship, even as Ysábella sang more for herself than for them.

By the second verse, her heart felt a little lighter, the melody weaving itself into the sounds of the ship around her. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the music fill the space Jack’s absence had left.

As she opened her eyes, a movement caught her attention. The water just off the port side rippled unnaturally, the smooth surface breaking into frothy waves. Her brow furrowed as she turned her gaze toward it, curious.

And then it happened.

A massive white shape surged from the water, its body gleaming in the fading sunlight as it arched high into the air. Ysábella’s breath caught in her throat, her song trailing off as she stared in awe. The whale was enormous, its sheer size and grace leaving her speechless. Its pale form twisted mid-air, water cascading from its back as it crashed back into the waves with a thunderous splash.

“By all the gods,” Diego whispered, leaning against the rail with wide eyes. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

The crew erupted into excited chatter, but it was Mr. Gibbs who pushed forward, his face pale beneath his weathered hat. He pointed a trembling finger at the spot where the whale had disappeared. “A white whale…” he murmured, his voice heavy with superstition. “That’s no ordinary creature. It’s an omen, mark my words. A sign, plain as day.”

Ysábella tore her gaze away from the water to glance at him. “An omen? Of what?”

Gibbs rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting uneasily. “Could mean anything, Captain. A warning of danger, a herald of change. White whales… they’re rare, aye, but they never show without purpose.”

Diego rolled his eyes, though there was an edge of nervousness to his tone. “It’s just a whale, Gibbs. A beautiful sight, nothing more.”

But Gibbs shook his head, muttering under his breath. “You don’t understand. The sea has its own ways of speakin’. You don’t ignore a sign like that.”

Ysábella turned her gaze back to the water, where ripples spread across the surface like echoes of the moment. For a fleeting instant, she felt a chill despite the warm evening air. She wasn’t one to entertain superstitions, but there was something about the sight of the creature that struck her deeply. Perhaps it was its majesty, its rarity—or perhaps it was the reminder that the sea was vast and full of mysteries they could never hope to control.

She straightened her shoulders, shaking off the thought. “We’ll take it as a sign of beauty, then,” she said firmly, her voice carrying just enough authority to settle the crew. “A reminder of why we’re here.”

The men nodded, returning to their tasks, but Gibbs remained by the rail, his expression troubled. Ysábella let him be. The sight of the whale had left her with a strange feeling as well—one she couldn’t quite name.

The whale had brought a moment of awe, a brief reprieve from the storm within her, but as the ripples faded, her thoughts returned to Jack. His absence felt like an itch she couldn’t scratch, a void she couldn’t ignore. She hated that she missed him, hated how easily he had worked his way into her mind. But most of all, she hated the uncertainty of what came next.

As the day wore on and land appeared on the horizon, the mood aboard La Doncella lifted. The jagged line of green and brown promised supplies, repairs, and rest—a chance to set things right. Yet, as Ysábella steered the ship toward shore, her thoughts remained clouded with questions, her gaze flicking once more to the shadows, where Jack should have been.

Even now, despite the clarity she had found in the maps and the course she had charted—no thanks to Jack and his compass, of course—she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was playing some game with her. His absence didn’t feel like the freedom she should have embraced. Instead, it gnawed at her.

The only sign that he was nearby was his ridiculous monkey, scampering all over her ship like a mad creature. She knew Jack would disappear eventually. It was only a matter of time. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized she didn’t want him to leave—not without figuring out how to keep him around, for good. 

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Ysábella couldn’t help but wonder—could she trust him? Or was she already caught in the web of his games?

Chapter Text

The dock came alive with the clamor of rowdy pirates and the unmistakable sounds of revelry. La Doncella’s crew had poured into the local tavern, their boisterous laughter and drunken singing spilling out into the humid night air. Ysábella leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed as she observed them. Despite their dwindling funds, she had begrudgingly allowed them this moment to unwind. The ship’s repairs would take days, and after their last harrowing battle, the crew deserved a reprieve.

Yet the din of the tavern grated on her nerves. The smell of stale rum and unwashed bodies clung to the air, and the lecherous gazes of the other patrons—pirates and sailors alike—had begun to wear thin on her patience. She wasn’t here to be ogled or propositioned by every drunken fool with a silver tongue and a filthy grin.

One particularly bold pirate swaggered up to her, his breath reeking of alcohol. “A beauty like you shouldn’t be drinkin’ alone, lass,” he slurred, leaning far too close for comfort.

Ysábella shot him a glare cold enough to make him falter. “Touch me, and you’ll be counting your fingers in the morning,” she snapped, her voice low and sharp. The man backed off with a nervous chuckle, mumbling an apology before retreating to his companions.

She exhaled, her frustration bubbling over. The tavern had become suffocating, its walls too close, the noise too loud. Without a word, she pushed off the doorframe and stepped out into the night, leaving the chaos behind her. The salty breeze off the ocean brushed against her skin as she made her way through the winding streets of the island’s port town, her boots crunching softly on the dirt path.

The moment Ysábella stepped away from the noisy tavern, the salty breeze from the ocean wrapped around her like a balm, cool against her flushed skin. The raucous laughter and shouts of her crew faded into the distance, the echoes of drunken singing dimming with every step she took away from the suffocating chaos.

She needed air—needed space to clear her mind. Or perhaps, more truthfully, she needed space from him. Jack Sparrow.

The man had been under her skin since the moment she met him, and no matter how much she tried to ignore it, his absence was maddening. She couldn’t explain it. He was nothing but trouble, a whirlwind of chaos and charm wrapped up in a ridiculous hat. And yet, the thought of him had been haunting her every waking moment, creeping in when she least expected it.

The path she wandered wound through the outskirts of the port town, the dense foliage of the island casting dappled shadows across her path. The moon was high now, its silvery glow guiding her as the sounds of the bustling harbor faded behind her. She told herself she was looking for a quiet place to think, to plan their next move, but deep down, she knew the truth. She needed to get him out of her head.

The trail opened up suddenly, revealing a secluded lake tucked away from the chaos of the town. The surface of the water shimmered under the moonlight, its beauty was captivating. Ysábella froze, her breath catching at the sight. For a moment, the frustrations of the day melted away, replaced by a rare sense of peace.

She approached the edge of the lake, her boots sinking slightly into the soft, damp earth. The water looked inviting, its cool surface promising to unwind her from the weight of everything pressing down on her. Before she could overthink it, she began unlacing her vest, her fingers working quickly to free its knots.

With a deep breath, she shed her clothing piece by piece, the cool night air brushing against her skin as she stepped out of her boots. Her clothes lay in a heap on the ground, forgotten as she waded into the water. The lake enveloped her, its chill shocking at first but soothing as she let it embrace her.

She floated on her back, her dark hair fanning out around her as she gazed up at the stars. The stillness of the moment settled over her, calming the storm inside her chest. She closed her eyes, the tension in her shoulders easing as she let herself drift.

But the peace didn’t last.

The faint sound of footsteps on the forest floor reached her ears, breaking through the silence. Her eyes snapped open, her heart leaping into her throat as she instinctively lowered herself deeper into the water.

A shadow emerged from the trees, stepping into the moonlight with an easy, unhurried gait. Her stomach sank.

Jack Sparrow.

Of course, it had to be him.

He stopped at the edge of the lake, his silhouette illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he took in the scene before him.

“Fancy finding you here, Pigeon,” he drawled, his voice laced with that infuriating charm. “I was wonderin’ where you’d disappeared to.”

Ysábella’s cheeks burned despite the cool water surrounding her. “Jack!” she hissed, sinking further into the lake. “What are you doing here?”

“Would you believe me if I said the monkey led me here?” he replied, gesturing vaguely behind him. He flashed her a grin, his teeth catching the moonlight. “Though I must admit, this is a far better discovery than a runaway hat thief.”

“Turn around!” she snapped, her voice sharp as she tried to hide her embarrassment.

Instead of obliging, Jack shrugged off his coat with deliberate slowness, tossing it onto a nearby branch. “Relax, love. I’m not here to ogle. Just thought I’d join you for a dip. Seems like the perfect night for it, wouldn’t you say?”

Before she could protest, he began unbuttoning his own vest, his movements casual and unhurried. Ysábella’s eyes widened in disbelief as she watched him. “Jack Sparrow, if you—”

But it was too late. He stepped into the water, the moonlight casting silver highlights across his bare chest. He waded closer, his expression relaxed, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“Stay where you are!” she warned, holding out a hand to stop him.

Jack raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin never faltering. “As you wish, Captain. I’ll keep my distance.” True to his word, he stopped a few paces away, lowering himself into the water with a contented sigh.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft ripple of the lake. Ysábella kept her arms crossed over her chest, her heart hammering in her ears. She hated how easily he disrupted her peace, how effortlessly he threw her off balance.

“You’ve got a way of findin’ the most interestin’ places,” Jack remarked, his tone light but not teasing. He glanced around, his gaze lingering on the moonlit water. “Not bad, Pigeon. Not bad at all.”

Ysábella didn’t respond, her throat tight with a mix of frustration and something she refused to name. She closed her eyes, willing herself to ignore him, to pretend he wasn’t there.

But Jack was impossible to ignore. He always was.

“Y’know,” he began, his voice softer now, “you don’t always have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You’re allowed to let go every now and then.”

Her eyes snapped open, her gaze locking onto his. For a moment, she thought she saw something genuine in his expression, something deeper than his usual bravado. But she didn’t trust it—didn’t trust him.

“Why are you really here, Jack?” she asked, her voice low and cautious.

He smirked, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Would you believe me if I said I missed you, love?”

Ysábella rolled her eyes, though her stomach flipped at his words. “Go to hell, Sparrow.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “Already there, Pigeon.”

She turned away, her arms tightening around herself as she tried to push him from her thoughts. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t ignore the magnetic pull of his presence. And deep down, she hated how much she didn’t want him to leave.

The water clung to Ysábella’s skin as she tried to steady her breath, the coolness of the lake doing little to calm the heat rising within her. She floated in silence for a moment, her back turned to Jack, hoping he would take the hint and leave. But Jack Sparrow was not a man who took hints—or left easily.

Behind her, he treaded water, his presence as prominent as ever. She could hear the faint splashes as he moved, his breathing steady and unhurried. It was maddening how unaffected he seemed, how effortlessly he managed to unsettle her while maintaining his own composure.

“You’ve been quiet,” he remarked, his voice soft but carrying over the still water. “Not like you, Pigeon. Usually, you’ve got a retort for every one of my charming observations.”

Ysábella clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening into fists beneath the water. “Maybe I’ve had enough of your observations,” she shot back, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Jack hummed, the sound thoughtful. “Or maybe,” he said, drawing the words out in that infuriatingly smooth tone of his, “you’ve been missin’ me.”

She spun around, water rippling around her as she glared at him. “Miss you? Don’t flatter yourself, Sparrow.”

But her words rang hollow even to her own ears, and Jack’s grin only widened, his teeth catching the moonlight. “Ah, but you have, haven’t you?” he teased, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mischief. “I can tell, Pigeon. You’re not as good at hiding it as you think.”

Ysábella’s cheeks burned, though whether from anger or something else, she couldn’t say.

“Why do you do this?” she muttered, her voice low but trembling with frustration.

“Do what, love?” he asked, his tone light but not mocking.

“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “You disappear all day, avoid me like I’m a plague, and then you show up here, acting like… like…” She faltered, unable to find the words.

“Like what?” he prompted, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.

“Like you belong,” she finished, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, there was only silence between them, the tension hanging thick in the air. Then, to her surprise, Jack closed the distance between them, stopping just a few feet away. He didn’t smirk or tease, didn’t say anything at all. He simply watched her, his dark eyes unreadable in the moonlight.

Ysábella’s heart pounded in her chest as she met his gaze, her breath catching. She hated how easily he disarmed her, how effortlessly he broke through her walls. She hated him for it—and yet, she couldn’t look away.

“Maybe,” he said softly, his voice like a whisper against the night, “I don’t belong anywhere. But for now, I’m here.”

Her chest tightened at his words, a pang of something she couldn’t quite name shooting through her. She wanted to push him away, to tell him to leave her alone, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she simply stood there, the water lapping gently against her skin, and let the silence stretch between them.

Jack was the first to move, his hand reaching up to brush a stray strand of wet hair from her face. His touch was light, almost hesitant, and it sent a shiver down her spine. She looked away, her cheeks burning as she fought to regain her composure.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

Jack chuckled softly, the sound warm and familiar. “Aye,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of self-deprecation. “That I am, Pigeon.”

The moment lingered, heavy with unspoken words and unacknowledged emotions. Ysábella didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to navigate the unfamiliar terrain they found themselves in. All she knew was that her heart was racing, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and longing.

“I should go,” she said finally, her voice trembling.

“Do you want to?” Jack asked, his eyes searching hers.

Ysábella didn’t reply, her mind too tangled with emotions she didn’t want to face. As she climbed onto the shore and dressed quickly in the cool night air, she couldn’t help but glance back at the water. Jack was still there, his figure a dark silhouette against the silver ripples, watching her with an unreadable expression.

She turned away, her footsteps quick as she made her way back to the ship. The night air was cool against her skin, but it did little to cool the fire Jack had ignited within her. She hated how easily he got under her skin, how effortlessly he dismantled her defenses. But most of all, she hated how much she wanted him to keep trying.

Back aboard La Doncella, Ysábella leaned against the rail, staring out at the horizon. The soft creak of the ship and the distant murmur of the crew were the only sounds as the night stretched on. She had wanted to clear her head, to find some peace away from Jack’s infuriating presence. But instead, she felt more tangled than ever.

As the stars twinkled above and the ship rocked gently beneath her, Ysábella let out a sigh, her fingers tightening on the wood. Jack Sparrow was a storm she couldn’t escape, no matter how hard she tried. And deep down, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Chapter Text

Ysábella wiped the sweat from her brow as she stood on the docks, the salty breeze doing little to cool the relentless heat of the sun. Her ship, La Doncella, loomed behind her like a wounded beast, its sails tattered and the hull still scarred from the brutal encounter with the privateers. The repair crews worked tirelessly, hammering nails into new planks and reinforcing the mast. Every strike of the hammer was a reminder of how much gold this endeavor was costing her.

She sighed, rolling up her sleeves as she turned her attention to the long list of tasks she still had to complete. A captain’s work never ended, especially not for a ship that had barely survived its last skirmish. Supplies were low, morale was shaky, and Felipe’s absence left a gaping hole in their ranks. Ysábella had taken on the burden of navigating herself for now, but the strain of doing so alongside everything else was beginning to show.

“Captain!” one of her crew called out, jogging up to her. His face was smeared with grime, his hair slick with sweat. “The carpenter says he needs more nails and another barrel of pitch to seal the cracks. Says what we’ve got ain’t enough to make her seaworthy.”

Ysábella gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to snap at him. “Tell him to make do with what he has for now. I’ll see if I can scrounge up more supplies later.”

The sailor nodded and hurried back to the ship, leaving Ysábella to wrestle with the ledgers she held. The numbers stared back at her like an accusation. They had enough coin to resupply and repair the ship, but barely. If anything unexpected happened—another fight, a storm, a misstep—they’d be sunk, quite literally.

Her stomach twisted at the thought. A captain’s responsibility wasn’t just to her ship, but to the lives of everyone aboard. These men and women had followed her through storms and battles, through hunger and fear. She couldn’t afford to fail them now.

With a determined sigh, she tucked the ledger under her arm and strode into the bustling marketplace. The air was thick with the smell of fish and spices, mingling with the sharp tang of salt. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking their wares to anyone who would listen. Ysábella weaved through the crowd with practiced ease, her sharp eyes scanning for what she needed: barrels of salted meat, fresh water, rope, powder for the cannons. And all of it had to be bought for as little as possible.

Her first stop was a fishmonger, a surly man with a gut like a barrel and a voice like gravel. His table was piled high with salted fish, the smell strong enough to make Ysábella’s nose wrinkle.

“How much for three barrels?” she asked, her tone brisk.

The man eyed her suspiciously. “Thirty silver each.”

Ysábella snorted. “You must think I’m daft. Fifteen.”

“Fifteen?” he scoffed. “I’d sooner throw it to the gulls. Twenty-five.”

“Twenty,” Ysábella countered, crossing her arms. “And that’s generous, considering the state of this fish.”

The fishmonger glared at her, but she held his gaze, unflinching. After a long pause, he muttered a curse under his breath and nodded. “Fine. Twenty.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Ysábella said with a sharp smile, tossing a small pouch of coins onto the table.

From there, she moved to the next stall, and the next, bargaining and bartering until her voice grew hoarse. Every coin spent felt like a dagger to the chest, but it was necessary. By the time she returned to the ship, her crew was already unloading the supplies she had purchased. She paused on the gangplank, watching them work. For all their flaws and complaints, they were loyal, and she knew she owed them more than she could ever repay.

“Captain,” Diego called out, approaching her with a grim expression. “The repairs are going slower than expected. The carpenter says it’ll take another day, maybe two.”

Ysábella pinched the bridge of her nose, suppressing a groan. “Tell him he has one day. We can’t afford to linger here longer than that.”

Diego nodded, though his frown deepened. “And the crew?”

“Give them what’s left of the rum,” Ysábella said, her voice softer. “They’ve earned it.”

Diego’s expression brightened slightly at that, and he hurried off to relay the orders. Ysábella leaned against the railing, her gaze drifting to the horizon. The sea stretched out endlessly before her, a constant reminder of the freedom she craved and the dangers that came with it.

She stood there for a long moment, the weight of command pressing heavily on her shoulders. Being a pirate captain wasn’t about glory or riches. It was about survival—making the hard choices, carrying the blame when things went wrong, and ensuring that everyone under her command had a fighting chance. It was exhausting, thankless work, but Ysábella wouldn’t trade it for anything.

☠️

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Ysábella retreated to her cabin, her body aching from the day’s efforts. She dropped the ledger onto her desk and sank into the chair, rubbing her temples. The soft creak of the ship was a familiar comfort, but tonight it did little to ease her tension.

She glanced at the compass lying on the desk, its needle motionless for now. That damned thing had been more trouble than it was worth, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to part with it. Jack’s gift—or curse, as she often thought of it—was a constant reminder of her tangled emotions. 

Her thoughts wandered to him, as they so often did. He had been unusually quiet all day, keeping his distance. It wasn’t like him. Jack Sparrow thrived on chaos and disruption, always finding a way to insert himself into the center of things. His absence felt like a deliberate game, one she hated to admit was working. She missed his infuriating quips, his insufferable grin, the way he seemed to see right through her no matter how hard she tried to hide.

“Damn him,” she muttered under her breath, dragging a hand through her hair. She had more important things to focus on—repairs, supplies, finding a heading. The crew was depending on her, and she couldn’t afford to let her thoughts stray to Jack Sparrow.

But as she picked up her quill and began to write, her mind kept circling back to him, and she cursed herself for letting him get under her skin.

Being a captain, it seemed, wasn’t just about commanding a ship. It was about managing the storm within. 

Chapter Text

Amihan

The sun bore down on La Doncella, its heat radiating off the polished deck as the crew scrambled to finish the final preparations. The brigantine rocked gently in the harbor’s shallows, her hull freshly patched and sails reinforced, waiting to reclaim the open sea once more. The scent of salt, tar, and freshly sawed wood filled the air, mixing with the familiar aroma of sweat and seaweed that clung to every dock in the Caribbean.

Inside her cabin, Ysábella sat hunched over her desk, her finger tracing the inked lines of a map she had been poring over for the past hour. It was an unnecessary exercise—she had already chosen their next heading—but she needed something to distract herself.  

She should have been feeling relief. Their provisions were stocked, the ship was repaired, and soon, they would be back at sea. And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of unease pressing against her ribs.  

Jack.  

She hadn’t seen him since the night at the lake.  

No teasing, no smug remarks, no sudden appearances at her side. Just complete, infuriating absence. And worse—she was falling for it.  

She knew what he was doing. The distance, the silence, the way he made himself scarce. A game of withdrawal, designed to make the other person come looking for you.  

And it was working.  

Ysábella exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. She hated feeling like this. Enough. She had more pressing matters to focus on.

With a huff, she pushed away from the desk and stood, adjusting her vest before storming out of the cabin. The fresh air hit her immediately as she stepped onto the sunlit deck, her boots thudding against the wood.  

Pushing herself to her feet, she strode toward the door and stepped outside onto the deck, blinking against the harsh sunlight. The ship was a flurry of activity.

Sailors carried barrels and crates aboard, their movements practiced and efficient. The creak of wooden pulleys echoed as men worked the rigging, tightening knots and checking the reinforced sails. The sound of hammering drifted from below deck, where the final repairs were being secured.

Ysábella descended the steps from the stern, her boots clicking against the planks as she moved through her crew.

“Captain,” Diego’s voice called from near the bow, and she turned to see him approaching, parchment in hand. He was as composed as ever, though sweat lined his brow from the relentless sun.

She met him halfway. “Report.”

Diego handed her the parchment. “Everything is accounted for—fresh water, powder, salted meats, dried goods, and enough rum to keep morale up. The blacksmith finished reforging the anchor chains this morning, and the hull patches have set properly.”

Ysábella skimmed over the list, nodding. “And the weapons?”

“Checked and ready,” Diego confirmed. “The armory’s stocked, and the powder stores have been secured.”

Satisfied, she handed back the parchment. “Good. Make sure the men are well-rested before we set sail.”

Diego nodded and turned away, moving toward the main deck where a few crew members were hauling a crate of ammunition below.

As Ysábella made her way toward the starboard side, she caught sight of Isolde standing near the railing, watching the activity with her usual quiet intensity.

Isolde turned as Ysábella approached, crossing her arms. “It’s strange seeing the ship in one piece again.”

Ysábella smirked. “A ship’s only as strong as her crew.”

Isolde gave a small, amused huff. “Then she must be bloody indestructible.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching as the last of the cargo was brought aboard.

“You’ve been restless all day,” Isolde observed suddenly.

Ysábella exhaled. “I’m always restless before we set sail.”

Isolde tilted her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

Ysábella shot her a sidelong glance. “Do you ever stop analyzing people?”

“No,” Isolde replied flatly, the corner of her lips twitching upward.

Ysábella rolled her eyes but said nothing. She wasn’t about to admit what was actually on her mind.

Still, Isolde was watching her too closely, so she changed the subject. “Have the men gotten their share of shore leave?”

Isolde nodded. “Aye. Most of them spent it drinking and gambling. Lost a few coins but kept their limbs, so I’d say that’s a victory.”

Ysábella smirked. “What about you? No late-night escapades?”

Isolde scoffed. “Someone had to keep the ship from getting robbed while you were busy… elsewhere.”

Ysábella’s smirk faltered.

Isolde didn’t elaborate, but the implication hung between them.

Ysábella cleared her throat. “Right. Well, come on, let’s double-check the supplies.”

They spent the next hour inspecting the cargo hold, making sure everything was properly secured for the voyage ahead.

By midday, La Doncella was whole again.

The crew moved with efficiency, finishing the last of the preparations. The midday sun burned overhead, casting sharp shadows over the deck as the final barrels of provisions were hauled aboard.

With nothing left to do but wait for the tide, Ysábella decided to stretch her legs before they set sail.

It would be a long while before she set foot on land again.

---

The town was a blur of movement and sound. Merchants shouted their wares, travelers bartered for supplies, and the thick scent of salt and roasted meats filled the air. Ysábella navigated through the winding streets, her boots kicking up dust as she took in the sight of port life at its busiest.

She had set out with the intention of clearing her head, of shaking off the irritation that had settled over her since the morning. Jack was still nowhere to be found, and while she had told herself she didn’t care, the gnawing frustration at the back of her mind betrayed her.

She passed through the market square, ignoring the leers of drunken sailors and the occasional merchant trying to sell her trinkets. Her destination was nowhere in particular—just away from the ship for a little while before they set sail.

But then, a commotion caught her ear.

A few streets down, raised voices cut through the usual chatter of the market.

“Witch!” one of them snarled.

Ysábella turned her head toward the sound, catching sight of a small group of men gathered around someone in an alleyway.

Her eyes narrowed as she moved closer.

The one at the center of it all was a woman—small in stature, yet she held herself with a quiet defiance. She clutched an apothecary’s satchel to her chest, her dark eyes sharp despite the clear tension in her posture.

Her features were striking, unlike the usual faces Ysábella saw in the Caribbean. Her skin was sun-kissed, her dark hair long and straight, framing a face that carried an almost delicate beauty. But there was something stronger beneath the surface—something unyielding in the way she stood her ground despite being cornered.

She was exotic, no doubt from the eastern lands where Spain still held its grip.

One of the men, likely a sailor, sneered at her. “Selling potions to the sick? Curses, more like.”

The woman’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s medicine.”

“Medicine, eh?” another jeered. “Or poison?”

Ysábella sighed. She didn’t have time for this.

She stepped forward, her boots crunching against the dirt. The movement drew the men’s attention, and she met their gazes with an unimpressed glare.

“Move along,” she said, her tone even but firm.

The nearest man, a burly brute with a patchy beard, scoffed. “And who the hell are you?”

Ysábella’s expression didn’t change. Instead of answering, she let her hands shift toward the twin daggers strapped at her belt—silent, but clear in its meaning.

The men hesitated.

One of them muttered something under his breath before spitting at the ground. “Not worth it.”

And just like that, they scattered, vanishing into the streets like rats sensing a predator.

The woman exhaled but did not immediately thank her. Instead, she studied Ysábella carefully, as if trying to assess what kind of person she was.

Ysábella arched a brow. “Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to tell me your name?”

There was a pause before the woman answered, her voice light but wary. “Amihan.”

“Amihan.” Ysábella tested the name on her tongue. “What’s in the satchel?”

Amihan’s grip tightened on it instinctively. “Salves. Bandages. Remedies.”

Ysábella’s curiosity piqued. “You know how to treat wounds?”

Amihan nodded once. “I do.”

A ship’s doctor was a rare thing to come by, and an even harder thing to afford.

Ysábella studied her for a long moment before making a decision.

“Come with me,” she said.

Amihan frowned. “Why?”

“You just said you can treat wounds,” Ysábella pointed out. “And I just lost a good portion of my crew in battle. I need hands I can trust, and I need a doctor. So unless you’d rather stay here waiting for more idiots to call you a witch, I suggest you follow me.”

Amihan hesitated, her fingers curling around the strap of her satchel. But then, after a beat, she nodded.

Ysábella turned, leading the way back toward the docks.

---

By the time they reached La Doncella, the preparations were nearly complete.

Ysábella walked up the gangplank with Amihan a step behind her, the woman’s gaze flickering over the ship with silent curiosity.

As they stepped onto the deck, the crew took notice. Isolde was the first to approach, her sharp eyes scanning Amihan before looking at Ysábella questioningly.

“Who’s this?”

“Amihan,” Ysábella said. “She’ll be our new doctor.”

There was a pause before Isolde nodded. “A doctor, huh? That’ll be useful.”

Amihan remained quiet, but her posture remained firm under the weight of all the eyes on her.

Ysábella turned to the crew. “She’s one of us now. You treat her like any other member of the crew.”

There was no argument.

Ysábella turned her gaze across the deck, scanning for Diego, but he wasn’t there.

Before she could think much of it, movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention.

At the far end of the docks, just beyond the crowd, a man stood in partial obscurity. He was speaking to two others, his stance relaxed but deliberate.

Then, as she watched, he gestured toward La Doncella.

Ysábella’s brow furrowed slightly, but before she could get a proper look at his face, he turned away, disappearing into the mass of bodies moving through the port.

She exhaled through her nose, shaking off the unease that threatened to creep up her spine.

It was probably nothing.

Probably.

Still, she didn’t have time to dwell on it.

☠️

The final preparations were made swiftly.

Barrels of fresh water were rolled aboard, the last of the gunpowder secured below deck, and the crew double-checked every line of rigging. The ship was finally ready.

Jack, however, was still nowhere to be found.

Ysábella pretended it didn’t bother her, but the longer the hours stretched on, the more it ate at her.

The only sign of his existence was the damn monkey, scampering around the masts like a demon let loose.

That bastard.

But she wouldn’t go looking for him.

No, she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

As the sun began to dip, casting warm hues over the water, the sound of boots on wood caught her attention.

She turned, and there was Diego, walking up the gangplank.

She just nodded. “Good you're here. We’re leaving.”

Diego met her gaze, nodded once, and then moved toward the crew.

Ysábella inhaled deeply, shaking off the last of her unease.

It was time.

As the final mooring lines were cast off, La Doncella drifted away from the docks, her hull groaning softly as she rocked free from the land’s hold. The crew moved with well-practiced efficiency—some hauling the ropes back onto the deck, others climbing the rigging to adjust the sails. The last of the dockworkers called out their farewells, the voices fading as the distance grew.

Ysábella stood at the helm, her grip steady on the wheel as the ship caught the wind. The familiar creak of timber beneath her feet and the rhythmic snap of canvas filled the air, blending into the song of the sea. The tide pulled them forward, and with each passing moment, the island behind them grew smaller, its flickering lanterns dimming in the encroaching twilight.

The scent of salt and woodsmoke clung to the evening air, but it was the scent of freedom that truly filled her lungs. The weight of the past few weeks—of battle, repairs, negotiations, and lingering tensions—eased, if only slightly. This was where she belonged.

She exhaled, a long, steady breath that carried away the remnants of doubt. The open sea stretched ahead, vast and endless, the horizon tinged with the last hues of sunset.

They were finally leaving.

Chapter Text

The cabin felt heavier tonight.

Ysábella sat alone at her desk, her fingers idly tracing the rim of the empty rum cup beside her. The lantern on the table flickered softly, casting long, wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The scent of the sea, of salt and wood and oil, filled the small space, but even the familiarity of it couldn’t ground her thoughts.

Jack Sparrow was gone. Or at least, she hadn’t seen him since the lake.

She exhaled, rubbing her temples as she stared down at the open compass in front of her. The needle, as it always did, pointed to him. But at least—at least—it wasn’t pointing back toward the island. That meant he was still on board, right? Unless… unless he left before they set sail.

Her gut twisted at the thought. 

No, it didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t just leave without at least saying something. Would he? Jack was an unpredictable man, that much she knew. But abandoning ship without so much as a word? It didn’t sit right with her.

Still, the way he had been avoiding her since the lake gnawed at her thoughts. No teasing remarks, no playful interruptions, no sudden appearances to worm his way under her skin.

He was keeping his distance. Again.

And she hated that it was working. Again.

She closed the compass with a sharp click, pushing it aside as she leaned back in her chair. Her mind was a storm, an endless barrage of thoughts she couldn’t sort through. There was a time when she would have sought solace in rum, in distraction, in anything that kept her from feeling this weight inside her chest. 

But not tonight.

Tonight, there was no running from it.

A knock at the door startled her. She straightened, eyes flicking toward it, half-expecting—hoping—that it was Jack. 

“Come in,” she called, composing her expression as the door creaked open.

It wasn’t Jack.

It was Isolde.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. There was something different in her stance tonight, something more hesitant than usual. Isolde was never hesitant. She was sure-footed, steady, always knowing exactly what to say. But tonight… tonight she was studying Ysábella in a way that set her on edge.

“You’re brooding,” Isolde said, her voice even but knowing. 

Ysábella scoffed, forcing a smirk. “I don’t brood.”

Isolde arched an eyebrow. “Really? Because you look like a woman who’s been staring at that compass so hard you’re trying to will it into pointing somewhere else.”

Ysábella huffed, crossing her arms. “What do you want, Isolde?”

There was a pause—too long. 

Then, Isolde sighed. “I need to ask you something,” she said, her voice quieter now. 

Ysábella frowned. “Then ask.”

Isolde stepped forward, closing the space between them. The flickering lanternlight cast sharp angles across her face, making the shadows under her eyes more pronounced. Ysábella could see it now—the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitched at her sides as if she were debating whether to reach out or keep her distance.

Isolde never hesitated like this.

Finally, she spoke.

“You’ve been keeping something from me.”

Ysábella stiffened. “I keep a lot of things from a lot of people.”

Isolde ignored the attempt at deflection. “But not from me.”

A beat of silence passed between them. Then—

“The doll,” Isolde said, her voice carefully measured.

Ysábella’s stomach twisted. “What about it?” 

“The doll your mother gave you.” Isolde’s gaze locked onto hers, searching. “It looks like him, Ysá. Like Jack.”

A cold weight settled in Ysábella’s chest.

Isolde took another step closer. “And then there’s the way you act around him. The way he doesn’t seem to realize what’s right in front of him. And I keep thinking—why haven’t you told me? Why does it feel like I already know the answer?” 

Ysábella’s breath was shallow now, her pulse a steady, deafening drum in her ears.

Then, Isolde’s voice dropped to a whisper. 

“He’s your father, isn’t he?”

Ysábella flinched as if the words had struck her. 

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. 

The silence was enough.

Isolde’s eyes widened slightly, the weight of the truth settling over her like a crashing wave. “Bloody hell…” she breathed. 

Ysábella clenched her jaw. “Keep your voice down.”

“So, it is true.” Isolde exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “Ysá… how long have you known?”

“Since I was a child,” Ysábella admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “My mother… she told me before she died.” 

Isolde’s expression shifted—understanding, anger, sorrow all flashing through her dark eyes. “And he doesn’t know.”

“No,” Ysábella confirmed. “He doesn’t.”

Isolde stared at her for a long moment before shaking her head. “And you don’t plan to tell him.” It wasn’t a question.

Ysábella swallowed. “No.”

“Why?” 

“Because he’s Jack Sparrow.” Ysábella let out a bitter laugh. “He doesn’t do family, Isolde. He doesn't stick around. And even if I tell him... he wouldn’t know what to do with the truth.”

Isolde’s gaze softened. “And you’re afraid.”

Ysábella tensed. “I’m not afraid.”

“You’re terrified.” 

Ysábella opened her mouth to argue but found nothing to say.

Because Isolde was right.

She was terrified.

Terrified of what it would mean to tell Jack. Terrified of how he’d react. Terrified that once the truth left her lips, there would be no taking it back. Terrified that the moment he knew, he would leave—just as he had before.

Isolde exhaled, her expression softening further. “I’m not judging you, Ysá.” 

Ysábella’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then what are you doing?” 

“Trying to understand.” 

The words settled between them, heavier than the silence.

Then, Isolde did something Ysábella didn’t expect.

She reached for her.

Her fingers brushed against Ysábella’s hand—light, hesitant, but grounding. “You don’t have to carry this alone,” she murmured.

Ysábella inhaled sharply at the contact, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “Isolde…”

Isolde’s fingers tightened. “I see you, Ysá. All of you. And I’m here.”

Ysábella’s resolve cracked.

The weight of the confession, the weight of the secret, the weight of everything—it all came crashing down at once. And before she could stop herself, before she could think, she moved.

Their lips met in a kiss that was raw, desperate, needed. Ysábella gripped Isolde’s coat, pulling her closer as if she could tether herself to something solid. The heat of their bodies pressed together, the sheer force of emotion between them making the air in the cabin feel too thick, too charged.

Isolde responded in kind, her hands sliding up Ysábella’s back, holding her steady. The kiss deepened, not with urgency, but with a quiet intensity that left them both breathless. 

Then, without breaking the kiss, Ysábella pushed them back toward the bunk.

Isolde let her.

They landed together, Ysábella settling onto the edge of the mattress, her grip firm as she pulled Isolde down with her. Their lips never parted, breaths mingling as hands found purchase—Ysábella’s fingers tangled in dark curls, Isolde’s resting on her hips, warm and grounding.

But then Ysábella hesitated. Her grip loosened just slightly, her body tensing in a way that did not go unnoticed. The weight of her own confession lingered between them, heavy and unshakable.

For the first time since the words had left her lips, Ysábella pulled back—just enough to meet Isolde’s gaze, their foreheads nearly touching. Isolde was still close, her hands still resting on her, but she didn’t push, didn’t demand.

She simply waited.

Ysábella exhaled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she tried to steady herself. “I’ve spent my whole life hiding,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when I was free… I wasn’t.”

Ysábella swallowed hard, something fragile stirring deep in her chest. She wanted to believe her—to believe that someone could see all of her and still stay.

She opened her eyes again, locking onto Isolde’s, searching for any hesitation, any flicker of doubt.

She found none.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Ysábella admitted, a quiet confession laced with frustration.

Isolde smiled, small and knowing. “Then let me show you.”

She kissed her again—slower this time, not urgent or desperate, but with a steady patience that unraveled Ysábella more than anything else ever could.

And Ysábella let her.

Ysábella swallowed. Her throat felt tight. The weight of everything—the past, the secrets, the fear—settled deep in her chest. She wanted to believe Isolde’s words, wanted to let go, to let someone else see her, hold her. But it was terrifying.

Isolde didn’t give Ysábella a chance to retreat. Instead, she moved slowly, deliberately, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers lingered along Ysábella’s jaw, her touch featherlight, as if waiting for permission. 

Ysábella didn’t move away.

She didn’t stop her.

And when Isolde finally leaned in, her lips brushing against hers in a hesitant, lingering kiss, Ysábella let herself fall.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, filled with something deeper than hunger. It wasn’t like the desperate, heated moments they had shared before—this was different. This was Isolde kissing her as if she meant it. As if she were trying to anchor her, to pull her away from the storm inside her.

Ysábella’s hands moved instinctively, fingers clutching the edge of Isolde’s corset, pulling her in. Isolde met her without hesitation, wrapping her arms around her waist, drawing them flush against each other. Their bodies aligned effortlessly—warm, familiar, shaped by years of closeness that neither had ever truly named.

Ysábella felt the tension leave her shoulders, her walls cracking just a little more.

Isolde pulled back just enough to look at her, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. “Stay with me,” she whispered.

Ysábella didn’t answer with words.

Instead, she kissed her again, deeper this time, tilting her head to take more, to let herself feel.

They moved together, slow and steady, as they eased toward the bunk. Ysábella’s back met the mattress, Isolde settling over her, their limbs tangling in quiet desperation. Hands moved with purpose—tracing, memorizing, relearning every inch of each other. 

Ysábella tugged at the laces of her vest, fingers working the knots loose as Isolde’s lips found the sensitive skin along her throat. A sigh slipped past her lips, her pulse thrumming beneath Isolde’s mouth. The fabric was pushed away, the cool air kissing her exposed skin, but the warmth of Isolde’s hands soon replaced it, grounding her, holding her in place.

She melted to Isolde's touch—her gentleness.

She craved it.

She needed it.

Isolde kissed a path down her collarbone, slow and deliberate, as if savoring every inch of her. Ysábella’s fingers wove into dark curls, tugging, guiding, urging her on. The way Isolde touched her—held her—made her feel wanted. Not just for a fleeting moment, not just for pleasure, but for something more.

When Isolde’s lips met hers again, Ysábella arched into her, pressing closer, wanting more. Needing more.

Their movements were slow, unhurried but deliberate, hands exploring, mapping out familiar territory with renewed purpose. There was no rush—only the careful unraveling of Ysábella’s guarded heart, piece by piece, under Isolde’s touch.

Ysábella let herself be seen.

She let herself be held.

Isolde whispered her name against her skin, the sound vibrating over her collarbone, warm and breathless, sending a shiver down Ysábella’s spine. Her fingers traced light, reverent paths across Ysábella’s bare skin, as if memorizing her like a map—like a place she had traveled a hundred times yet never tired of discovering.

The heat between them built slowly, a rising tide of unspoken promises. Isolde’s lips skimmed down Ysábella’s throat, lingering at the hollow of her collarbone before pressing soft, lingering kisses lower, tracing the curves of her body with a reverence that made Ysábella’s breath hitch.

The rhythm of their bodies synced, one responding to the other instinctively, effortlessly. Isolde’s hands moved lower, firm yet patient, parting Ysábella’s thighs as she settled between them. The dim glow of the lantern flickered, its golden light casting shifting shadows over their tangled limbs, over the slow rise and fall of Ysábella’s chest.

A gasp escaped Ysábella’s lips as Isolde’s mouth found the most sensitive part of her, her touch both soothing and electrifying. The tension, the years of carrying everything alone, the weight of secrets and silent battles—it all began to slip away beneath Isolde’s careful touch. Ysábella’s fingers tangled into Isolde’s hair, her grip tightening as pleasure built, cresting like a wave.

Isolde didn’t rush. She took her time, drawing out every shudder, every sharp inhale, every whispered plea.

She let herself feel—wholly, completely, without reservation.

Her walls shattered, her control slipping like sand through her fingers, until all that remained was the raw, unfiltered reality of what it meant to be known.

When Ysábella finally broke beneath her, trembling and gasping, Isolde held her through it, whispering soft reassurances against her heated skin.

“You’re not alone,” Isolde murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of Ysábella’s thigh, then to her hip, then finally back to her lips, sealing the words between them.

Ysábella’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, her forehead resting against Isolde’s.

For once, the weight she carried felt lighter.

For once, she believed her.

Ysábella lay still, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, Isolde’s warmth still pressed against her. Her body hummed from where Isolde had kissed her, held her, whispered her name like it was the only thing that mattered. Ysábella had never let herself be this open before—never let herself be tended to like she was something delicate, something to be cherished.

She had surrendered, truly, in a way that scared her. And yet, wrapped in Isolde’s arms, she had never felt safer.

But now… now it was her turn.

Ysábella shifted, pushing herself up onto her forearms. Isolde’s dark eyes met hers, laced with something tender, something that made Ysábella’s stomach twist—not with fear, but with need. A need to return everything she had just been given. To show Isolde, in the only way she knew how, that she felt everything too.

That this wasn’t just taking. This was giving.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at Isolde’s lips, her fingers brushing along Ysábella’s forearm, featherlight. “You’re staring,” she murmured, amusement laced in her tone.

Ysábella let out a soft breath of laughter, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she reached out, fingers ghosting over Isolde’s cheek, tracing the curve of her jaw, memorizing her in the dim glow of the lantern.

“I just like looking at you,” Ysábella admitted, her voice quiet, raw in a way she wasn’t used to.

Isolde’s expression flickered—surprise, warmth, something deeper beneath it all. Then she chuckled softly. “You’re getting soft on me, Ysá.”

Ysábella smirked, shaking her head. “Don’t get used to it.”

Before Isolde could retort, Ysábella leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was slow, deliberate. She poured herself into it, into the warmth of Isolde’s mouth, the way their breaths mingled, the way Isolde’s fingers curled into her waist like she was grounding herself.

Ysábella pulled back just enough to murmur against her lips, “Let me take care of you.”

She felt the sharp inhale Isolde took, the slight tensing of her muscles—not in hesitation, but in anticipation.

Isolde never asked for anything. She was the one who stood beside Ysábella in every fight, the one who caught her when she stumbled, the one who never demanded anything in return.

Tonight, Ysábella was going to change that.

She moved deliberately, her hands tracing down Isolde’s sides, over her ribs, feeling the way her breath hitched beneath her touch. She took her time, mapping out every dip and curve, letting her lips follow where her hands led. She wanted to memorize her, to commit every shiver, every sigh to memory.

Isolde’s fingers dug into her shoulders as Ysábella pressed kisses along her throat, her collarbone, the smooth plane of her stomach. She moved slowly, deliberately, savoring every reaction, every soft sound that spilled from Isolde’s lips.

For once, she was in control.

But it wasn’t about control. It was about giving.

And Ysábella had never been good at that—not in a way that wasn’t wrapped in sharp edges and wary glances. But with Isolde…

With her, she would do anything for her.

Isolde’s hands tangled in her hair as Ysábella continued her slow descent, her breath warm against her skin. There was no rush, no urgency—only the steady unraveling of barriers, the quiet promise of trust exchanged in the space between them.

Isolde’s voice was breathless when she finally managed to say, “Ysá…”

Ysábella smiled against her skin. “I’ve got you.”

And she meant it.

And as she showed Isolde just how much she meant those words, as she drew sighs and gasps from her lips, as she gave in a way she never had before—Ysábella realized something she hadn’t dared to before.

She had been afraid of being seen her whole life.

But with Isolde…

She wanted to be seen.

She wanted this.

She wanted her.

And as Isolde’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening in Ysábella’s hair, her body arching into her touch, Ysábella let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, this was enough.

The cabin was quiet now, save for the rhythmic creak of the ship and the gentle hush of their slowed breathing. The lantern flickered low, casting warm, golden light over the tangled sheets, the bare skin pressed together, the soft rise and fall of two bodies lying in a place that felt untouched by the world beyond.

Ysábella lay on her side, her fingers idly tracing shapes along Isolde’s shoulder, following the curve of her collarbone, the gentle swell of muscle beneath her skin. The touch was absent-minded, soothing—an intimacy she had never granted anyone else. Not like this.

Isolde, sprawled beside her, exhaled a breath of contentment, her fingers playing with a loose strand of Ysábella’s hair. She studied her with those deep, dark eyes—eyes that had seen Ysábella at her strongest, her weakest, her most guarded, and now… now, at her most open.

There had been no declarations, no grand confessions, but none were needed. This was something beyond words, beyond labels. Two women, best friends and lovers, bound by something stronger than fate, something neither of them could—or wanted to—define.

For a long time, they simply lay there, the warmth of each other’s presence enough.

Then, in a rare moment of unguarded softness, Ysábella murmured, “Thank you.”

Isolde arched a brow, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. “For what? I don’t recall you being shy with your thanks a moment ago.”

Ysábella huffed, rolling her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she reached up, tucking a loose curl behind Isolde’s ear, her touch lingering.

“For staying ,” she admitted, quieter this time. “For… understanding.”

Isolde’s expression softened, her hand coming to rest against Ysábella’s cheek, thumb tracing the faint scar just below her eye. “Always.”

The promise sat heavy between them, unshakable, unwavering.

No matter what storms came, no matter what destiny wove into their path, they had this.

Each other.

And as Ysábella rested her forehead against Isolde’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet, the weight of the world seemed lighter. The future remained uncertain, full of battles yet to come, but tonight—tonight, they had peace.

They had solace.

They had love, trust, and the unyielding bond that had carried them this far.

No matter what lay ahead, that would always be enough.

Chapter Text

Captain Jack Sparrow

The morning breeze carried the scent of salt and wood tar as Ysábella stepped out onto the deck, the remnants of warmth from last night still lingering beneath her skin. Isolde followed close behind, her presence grounding, a silent reminder of the peace they had found in each other’s arms from the night before.

The ship was alive with its usual rhythm—the creak of the rigging, the lap of waves against the hull, the crew moving about their tasks with easy efficiency. There was nothing different about the day, nothing unusual about the way she carried herself, yet there was a quiet satisfaction in the way Isolde remained just a step behind her, a shadow at her side.

And then she saw him.

Jack Sparrow, leaning lazily against the main mast, arms crossed over his chest, the morning sun catching in the deep red bandana tied around his head. A smirk played at his lips as he studied her, dark eyes glinting with amusement.

Her heart lurched before she could stop it. Damn him.

For a fleeting moment, relief washed over her. She had half-convinced herself that she had left him behind, that maybe this time, he had been the one to disappear. But no. There he was, in all his frustrating, infuriating glory.

Her relief quickly soured into irritation the moment he opened his mouth.

“Well, well,” he drawled, tilting his head, "Seems like you two are getting along." His voice was smooth, laced with an insufferable smugness.

Ysábella froze mid-step. Her brain took a full second to register his words, and then another to recall the last time she had heard something similar.

Isolde.

Isolde had said those same words to her and Jack days ago.

Ysábella’s jaw clenched.

"Really, Sparrow?" she said, arms crossing as she leveled him with a glare. "That’s the first thing out of your mouth?"

Jack spread his hands in mock innocence. “Well, I was going to say good morning, but it seems the two of you have already had a very good morning.” His grin widened as his gaze flicked between them. "What’s the phrase? Sharing secrets in the moonlight? Though I daresay you weren’t just talking."

Isolde huffed beside her, unimpressed. "Jealous, Jack?"

Jack placed a hand over his heart as if wounded. "Me? Jealous? Perish the thought, love. I’m merely an observer, here to appreciate the… camaraderie of my dear captain and her first mate."

Ysábella rolled her eyes. "You are not an observer. You’re a bloody menace."

"A charming menace," Jack corrected, straightening and taking a lazy step toward them. “And a well-informed one. Though I must admit, I did not expect you two to be quite so…” He gestured vaguely with a casual flick of his fingers. “Enthusiastic?”

Isolde smirked. "That’s because you lack imagination, Jack."

Jack lifted a brow. “Oh, Pigeon, I assure you, my imagination is vast and—”

Ysábella cut him off with a sharp look. "Finish that sentence, Sparrow, and I’ll have your tongue."

Jack grinned. “Well, now, that’s hardly an incentive to stop, is it?"

Isolde snorted. “You’re outmatched today, Jack. Two against one.”

Jack placed a hand over his chest again. "A most unfair fight. A gentleman would surrender."

"But you’re no gentleman," Ysábella pointed out.

Jack beamed. "That’s the spirit!"

Ysábella groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. Why had she missed him again?

Ysábella moved toward the stern, her steps firm, her patience nearly spent. Isolde followed easily, her arms crossed, amusement still flickering in her expression. Jack, of course, trailed behind them like an insistent shadow, his boots clicking against the wooden deck in an unhurried rhythm. He wasn’t done with them yet—not by a long shot.

He let the silence stretch, savoring it, waiting until she was just within reach of the helm before he struck.

"Before you go, Pigeon," Jack called, drawing out the nickname in that infuriating lilt, "I must ask… did you at least think of me?”

Ysábella came to an abrupt halt, her spine stiffening.

Her fists clenched at her sides. Oh, that insufferable, self-important—

"Not even once, Sparrow," she said over her shoulder, forcing indifference into her tone. "Though I did wonder if the monkey had finally replaced you as the ship’s most useful crew member."

Jack gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "Pigeon, you wound me."

"That’s the goal," she shot back, stepping up to the helm before Jack could fire off another quip.

Jack only chuckled, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

At the helm, Amihan stood with her small hands gripping the wheel, her knuckles slightly pale from the effort. The weight of it, the sheer force needed to command the ship, was more than she had expected. She had watched Ysábella and Diego steer before, but feeling it for herself—how the ship pushed back, how the wheel resisted—was entirely different.

Beside her, Mr. Gibbs stood with a practiced ease, one hand resting lightly on her hip under the pretense of guiding her, the other over hers on the wheel. “Steady now, lass,” he murmured, voice gruff yet patient. “Ye don’t force her—ye feel her. Let her tell you where she wants to go.”

Amihan, eager and entirely trusting, nodded, too focused on learning to notice how close he had positioned himself. “Like listening to the wind?” she asked, adjusting her grip.

Gibbs let out a pleased chuckle. “Aye, that’s the way of it.”

Ysábella, leaning against the railing a few paces away, observed with narrowed eyes. The old quartermaster was a seasoned sailor, no doubt about that, and she had no real reason to doubt his sincerity in teaching the girl the ways of the sea. But she had seen this kind of thing before—pirates could be too friendly, especially with women who weren’t accustomed to their world.

Ysábella exchanged a look with Isolde, who stood beside her with her arms crossed, watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement. “Think she even notices?” Isolde murmured.

“Not at all,” Ysábella muttered back, watching as Amihan nodded along to something Gibbs was explaining.

Before she could comment further, movement in her periphery caught her attention. Jack stood at the edge of the stern, one hand on the railing, the other shielding his eyes from the sun as he peered toward the horizon. The usual laziness in his stance was gone, replaced by something sharper, more alert. His fingers drummed absently against the wood, his rings glinting in the fading light.

Then, his voice rang out, casual yet edged with something Ysábella couldn’t quite place.

“Oi! I think those ships are tailing us.”

Ysábella frowned, turning toward him. “What?”

Isolde straightened as well. “Where?”

Jack gestured toward the horizon. “There. Just past that line of clouds.”

Ysábella squinted but saw nothing beyond the shifting blues of the sea and sky.

“I don’t see anything,” Isolde said, mirroring her stance.

Jack let out a breath, clearly unimpressed. “Pigeon, got a fancy spyglass for such an occasion?”

Ysábella glared at him but reached for the brass spyglass at her hip. She extended it, lifting it to her eye as she adjusted the focus. The blur of sea sharpened into detail, and then—

Her breath caught in her throat.

A ketch, smaller but fast, was cutting through the waves at an alarming pace. Behind it, a larger silhouette followed—a carrack, its sails full, trailing just enough distance to let the smaller ship make first contact.

Her stomach turned cold.

Her hands trembled as she lowered the spyglass, her grip slackening. The brass slipped from her fingers, clattering against the wooden deck with a thud.

“Ysá?” Isolde asked, her tone shifting.

Ysábella didn’t answer right away. She stared at the dropped spyglass, her mind caught in a whirlwind of memories she had tried to bury.

Jack’s voice cut through the fog in her mind. “Well?”

She froze.

Her chest constricted, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Isolde bent down, picking up the telescope, but her focus was on Ysábella’s face. “Ysá?”

Ysábella’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Villanueva’s men.”

Jack frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “Eduardo?” He scratched his chin. “That old bastard’s been retired for years. Can’t imagine him being much of a threat now.”

Isolde turned toward him, her usual smirk absent. Her voice was steady, but the weight behind it was undeniable. “Not Eduardo.” She met his gaze, and something cold settled between them. “His brother. Roderigo.”

Understanding dawned across Jack’s features, followed by something more unreadable. “Ah,” was all he said.

“That’s trouble!” Isolde barked.

The world around Ysábella dimmed.

The voices faded.

Ysábella was frozen. She could feel her pulse in her throat, hear the pounding in her ears. The memories came fast—ropes biting into her wrists, dark eyes watching her every move, the sound of his voice, thick with amusement and possessiveness.

A hand gripped her wrist. Firm. Grounding. Isolde.

The fog cracked, but she still couldn’t move.

The ships were closing in now. No longer just dark specks in the distance—now tangible, formidable. 

The ketch, smaller and faster, was gaining on them.

“They’ll be in range soon,” Isolde said, her voice sharp as she took charge of the moment. “We need to prepare for a fight.”

Diego, who had been silent up until now, took a step forward, his expression serious. “Captain, we’re outgunned and outnumbered—two ships against one.”

Ysábella didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, but she remained frozen, paralyzed by the fear coiling in her chest.

The crew hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. They were waiting for orders. Waiting for her.

And still, Ysábella didn’t move.

The fear held her, a vice tightening around her lungs, crushing her will to act.

Jack glanced at her, his expression unreadable.

“Well,” he drawled, stepping forward, “I s’pose it’s time someone took charge of this merry lot.”

Before anyone could argue, Jack Sparrow took command.

Jack Sparrow exhaled, then reached up and tapped the monkey perched on the rigging. Jack the Monkey chattered before hopping down, scurrying toward him. The creature carried something in its tiny hands—Jack’s tricorn.

The monkey leaped onto his shoulder, dropping the hat into Jack’s waiting grasp. He dusted it off with a flick, then placed it back on his head, adjusting it with a slow, deliberate motion, fingers pressing the brim firmly into place. 

A subtle shift passed over him, a transformation from his usual slouched posture to something more purposeful, more dangerous. He scanned the crew, his dark eyes flicking from face to face, noting the tension settling over La Doncella like an encroaching storm.

Then he looked back at Ysábella.

She hadn’t moved.

The knuckles of her clenched fists were stark white, her breathing shallow. She wasn’t just afraid—she was trapped in something deeper, something rooted far beyond the present moment.

Jack sighed. Loudly. Then clapped his hands together, the sharp crack of it breaking through the thick silence.

“Right then! Seeing as how our dear Captain appears to be temporarily indisposed, I s’pose that means I’ll be takin’ the wheel.”

Ysábella’s eyes snapped up, her gaze refocusing. “What?”

Jack was already moving, brushing past her toward the helm, boots clicking purposefully against the deck. He patted Gibbs on the shoulder. “Move aside, mate.”

Gibbs hesitated for only a second before stepping back. Jack took his place with the ease of someone born to command, gripping the wheel as though it were an extension of himself.

Ysábella’s breath stilled.

Jack Sparrow was many things—a liar, a scoundrel, a nuisance—but there was one thing no one could ever deny. He was a captain. And at that moment, it was clear why.

“Mr. Gibbs,” Jack said, his voice carrying the weight of command, “see to the powder. We’ll be needing it.”

“Aye, Captain.” Gibbs didn’t hesitate.

Jack turned to Isolde next. “I trust you’ll get the men organized?”

She smirked. “Already on it.”

Isolde turned to the men, her voice loud and commanding. “Get to stations! Ready the cannons, brace the starboard side!” 

Men scrambled to stations, loading muskets, sharpening blades, shoving powder and shot into the cannons. The air was no longer thick with fear—it was humming with readiness.

Jack then turned his attention back to the horizon. The ketch was nearly upon them, its sharp bow cutting through the waves with alarming speed. The carrack loomed further behind, moving at a steady, ominous pace.

Diego, standing just behind Jack, cleared his throat. “We are outgunned, you know.”

Jack didn’t even glance at him. “Outgunned, maybe.” A grin pulled at his lips. “Outmaneuvered? Let’s find out, savvy?”

He pointed toward the approaching ships. “The ketch is faster, but she’s light—won’t handle sharp turns well. The carrack? Heavy and slow, but she’s got the firepower.” His fingers drummed against the wheel. “If we can bait the ketch into overcommitting, we might just get her to drift where she don’t belong.”

Diego folded his arms. “That’s a gamble.”

Jack grinned. “Aye. But a good one.”

Ysábella swallowed, forcing herself to push past the fog clouding her thoughts. She stepped up beside him, gripping the rail. “What’s the plan?”

Jack Sparrow turned his head just slightly, that infuriating smirk still tugging at his lips. “Oh, Pigeon, you’re gonna love this.”

And then, with a sudden, almost careless motion, he spun the wheel sharply.

La Doncella lurched.

The ship tilted to the side, catching an unexpected gust of wind, propelling her forward with a speed that sent a ripple of surprise through the crew. Jack’s grip on the helm was firm, his movements precise, controlled.

The ketch had expected an easy chase. It had not expected this.

Jack chuckled to himself. “Let’s give ‘em a little run, shall we?”

Ysábella’s stomach knotted—not from fear, but from something else.

For the first time since spotting those ships, she felt it.

Hope.

And Jack Sparrow, damn him, was the reason.

The wind roared through the sails, La Doncella cutting through the sea as the enemy ships gained ground. Ysábella’s fingers clenched around the railing, her stomach twisting into knots as the ketch surged forward, its smaller frame allowing it to ride the waves faster. The carrack loomed behind, a massive shadow against the horizon, its black sails ominous as it prepared to reinforce its front line.  

Jack Sparrow stood at the helm, his expression unreadable. He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders like a man about to dive headfirst into a fight he had already won in his mind.  

Ysábella wanted to believe in the same confidence that radiated off him. But two against one wasn’t a fight she’d ever call fair.  

“We’re outgunned and outnumbered,” Diego called from the deck, confirming what they already knew. “That carrack alone could tear us apart if it catches us broadside!”  

Isolde stood beside Ysábella, pistol drawn, eyes narrowing at Jack. “What’s the plan, then? You do have a plan, don’t you?”  

Jack didn’t even look at her. “Of course I do.”  

The bastard smirked.  

Ysábella clenched her jaw. “Would you care to share it with the rest of us?”  

Jack finally turned to face them, dark eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement. “Run, and they’ll chase us down. Fight head-on, and we’re fish in a barrel.” He spun the wheel slightly, angling La Doncella against the incoming waves. “So we make them trip over themselves.”  

Ysábella’s brows furrowed. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”  

Jack grinned, unbothered by the sheer absurdity of the situation. “We make ‘em come to us, love. We let them think they’ve got the upper hand.”  

He yanked the wheel hard. La Doncella veered sharply to starboard, slicing through the water. The sudden movement sent the enemy ketch into a frenzy, the smaller ship adjusting to match their turn. But Jack was already in motion, his hands spinning the wheel like an artist at work.  

“Mr. Gibbs, trim the sails! Catch that wind!”  

Gibbs, who had been gripping the railing like his life depended on it, barked out the order. The crew scrambled to adjust the rigging, the sails snapping as the wind filled them once more. The sudden burst of speed sent La Doncella surging forward, momentarily pulling away from the ketch.  

The carrack, larger and slower, lagged behind.  

Ysábella’s heart pounded. She could see it now. Jack wasn’t running. He was baiting them apart.  

The ketch, confident in its speed, broke formation, gaining on them quickly. The carrack, unable to keep up, was being left behind.  

Jack was dividing them.  

The moment the ketch was close enough, its cannons roared.  

“Brace!” Ysábella shouted.  

The blast rocked La Doncella, wood splintering as the shot slammed into their hull. The ship groaned under the impact, but Jack barely reacted.  

“Hold steady,” he murmured, hands tight on the wheel.  

The ketch was committed now. Its crew smelled blood in the water, closing the distance, preparing to board. Ysábella could see their captain at the bow, barking orders, a cutlass already drawn.  

Jack waited.

Closer.

Closer.

And then—

“Now!” Jack spun the wheel violently, yanking La Doncella to port in an impossibly sharp maneuver. The brigantine lurched under the sudden shift, and for a split second, Ysábella thought the ship might tip. The crew held fast, bracing against the violent sway as the wooden planks groaned beneath their feet.

The ketch had no such warning. Moving at full speed, it was caught in its own momentum. The ship veered too sharply, overcorrecting just as La Doncella scraped against its side, the impact rattling both vessels. The sound of splitting wood cracked through the air like thunder.

Jack deftly maneuvered La Doncella, his hands steady on the wheel. He was a different man at the helm—no longer the carefree rogue but a seasoned captain whose instinct was nearly supernatural.

“Return fire!” Jack bellowed, the crew springing into action.

Ysábella’s hands found the railing, knuckles white as she watched the organized chaos unfold. The crew lit the wicks of the cannons, their movements precise despite the adrenaline surging through them. The roar of their own cannons shattered the air, the deck vibrating beneath her feet with each shot.

The first volley struck true.

A direct hit.

The cannonballs tore through the ketch’s hull, splintering wood and sending debris flying across the deck. One shot smashed into the stern, obliterating part of the rudder, while another ripped through the gunwale, throwing enemy sailors overboard. Smoke and dust clouded the air as the ship rocked violently under the assault.

Screams rang out from the ketch. Their gunners, caught off guard, scrambled to return fire, but the damage had been done. Their deck was in disarray, the crew staggering to regroup as their ship listed from the impact.

Jack’s grin widened. “That’s more like it.”

Another volley followed, hammering into the ketch’s side, further crippling its maneuverability. The smaller ship, which had once been darting around them with speed and confidence, now struggled to hold its course.

Isolde reloaded her pistol, her voice sharp. “They’re slowing down.”

Jack’s eyes gleamed. “Aye, they are. Let’s make sure they stop.”

The ketch, though battered from the direct hit, remained swift and agile. It darted around La Doncella, its cannons firing in a rapid succession, iron balls tearing through the air toward them.

But Jack Sparrow was faster. 

Just before the ketch’s volley could land, he pulled La Doncella into a sharp roll with the swell, tilting her hull at just the right angle. The cannonballs, meant to tear through their broadside, instead crashed into the sea with explosive plumes of water.

A near miss.

Ysábella found herself in awe of his seamless movements, the way he timed the enemy ketch’s cannon fire to match the roll of the waves, using the sea itself as a shield. 

The ketch circled back, readying another volley.

Jack spun the wheel hard, angling La Doncella to bring her broadside cannons to bear.

“Fire!” Isolde commanded from the main deck, her voice cutting through the chaos.

The cannons roared again, smoke billowing into the sky as the iron balls slammed into the ketch’s hull. Wood splintered, screams echoed across the water, and the enemy vessel lurched violently to port, struggling to keep its course.

Jack grinned, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he brought La Doncella around for another pass. The ketch was fast, but its movements were growing sluggish—its rudder damaged, its sails riddled with holes, and its crew scrambling to keep control.

“They’re weakening,” Isolde called, reloading her pistol, her gaze locked on the enemy ship.

Jack adjusted his grip on the wheel, the smirk never leaving his lips. "Aye, but let’s make sure they remember why they should’ve picked an easier target.”

He steered La Doncella dangerously close to the ketch, the hulls nearly scraping against each other as the ships exchanged a furious broadside. Jack’s voice rang out first, sharp and commanding—“Fire!”

A heartbeat later, Isolde echoed him, her cry just as fierce—“Fire!”

The cannons erupted in unison, their thunder shaking the deck as a volley of chain shot tore through the enemy vessel. The whirling metal projectiles spun through the air like scythes, striking true—one set slashed clean through the ketch’s already tattered mainsail, while the other found its mark at the base of the mast.

With an ear-splitting crack, the mast splintered, a sickening shudder rippling through the ketch as it snapped in half. The weight of the broken wood toppled sideways, crushing part of the deck and sending rigging whipping across the ship like a serpent’s tail.

Jack’s hat was snatched from his head by the violent gust that followed, spiraling away before vanishing into the chaos of battle. He barely spared it a glance, his eyes locked on the ketch as its sails crumpled, leaving it dead in the water. The crew of La Doncella let out a victorious cheer, but their celebration was short-lived as the carrack loomed closer, its cannons primed and ready.

La Doncella rocked from the last cannon fire, the scent of gunpowder thick in the air. Ysábella stood at the stern, hands clenched at her sides as she watched the battered ketch drift, its main mast gone, sails in tatters, and half its crew either dead or too wounded to fight. The fight should have been over—but Jack Sparrow never played fair, and he never left his enemies with options.

Jack the Monkey dropped the hat onto its captain’s head with a triumphant chitter before scrambling onto his shoulder like a miniature lookout. Jack adjusted his hat without missing a beat, surveying the crippled ketch with a casual air, though Ysábella knew better—every move Jack Sparrow made was deliberate, even when it looked like madness.

“She’s done for,” Isolde noted, glancing toward Ysábella. “We could board her now.”

“Not yet,” Jack cut in, spinning the wheel slightly to reposition La Doncella. “Let her sit in her misery for a bit.” His eyes flicked to the horizon where the carrack was closing in. “Bigger fish, love.”

Ysábella nodded, understanding his strategy. They had taken the bite out of the smaller ship, but the real threat was still bearing down on them. The carrack had the wind and the advantage of size—if they tried to flee, they wouldn’t get far.

Jack’s expression shifted, the gleam in his eyes hardening as he assessed their next opponent. The carrack was slower, but its sheer size and firepower posed a deadly threat.

“We’re not out of this yet,” he called, spinning the wheel again. “Reload, prepare for another run!”

Jack grinned, mischief sparking in his dark eyes. “Time to give them a reason to regret their career choices.”

Another cannon blast split the air, this time from the carrack. The shot was wild, off-mark, but the message was clear.

They were coming for La Doncella next.

Ysábella stayed close to Jack, watching him as much as the enemy ship. Jack Sparrow was at his best in moments like this—where everything could go wrong, and yet, somehow, he made it go right.

The carrack was within range now, its gunports open, cannons primed. The gunners on La Doncella stood ready, waiting for an order.

Jack’s eyes flickered across the enemy vessel, studying it. Then he barked, “Bring us to starboard! Aim for the rudder!”

The crew scrambled to obey. The gunners adjusted their aim, waiting for the signal.

The carrack’s cannons fired again.

The air cracked with the sound of cannonballs ripping through the sky. Ysábella braced as one shot slammed into the lower deck, sending wood splinters flying, but the damage was minimal.

Jack barely reacted. He turned the wheel slightly, squaring them against the oncoming carrack but not on a direct course. He wasn’t running, but he wasn’t engaging head-on either.

“Wait for it…” he murmured.

The carrack was closing in now, preparing to broadside them—an overwhelming show of firepower.

“Closer,” Jack whispered, fingers tightening on the wheel.

The enemy ship turned slightly, trying to align for a perfect shot.

“Now!”

Jack spun the wheel hard, and La Doncella suddenly lurched, veering toward the carrack instead of away. The unexpected movement threw the enemy gunners off, and the first volley of their broadside missed entirely, sending cannonballs crashing into the water.

Ysábella smirked. That’s why he’s a legend.

“Return fire!” she ordered.

The cannons of La Doncella roared to life.

The first shot struck true—slamming into the carrack’s rudder, sending a violent shudder through the massive ship. The second volley followed, pounding into the stern, shattering wood and sending men on the enemy deck scrambling for cover.

Ysábella watched, heart pounding. That should slow them down.

Jack wasn’t done. “Reload, fast!” he called. “We ain’t finished yet.”

The gunners worked furiously, ramming powder and shot into the barrels.

Jack spun the wheel again. “Cut across her bow!”

The La Doncella moved in an erratic, unpredictable pattern, throwing off the enemy’s aim. The carrack tried to turn to face them, but the damage to its rudder made it sluggish.

Ysábella exhaled sharply. “We have a chance.”

Jack gave her a sideways glance. “We always had a chance, love.”

Another volley of cannon fire tore through the air. This time, La Doncella struck the carrack’s broadside, tearing through its lower deck. A secondary explosion erupted—ammunition stores detonating below deck. Fire and smoke billowed from the side of the ship.

The carrack’s return fire was rushed, panicked. Their shots missed wildly, some landing in the ocean, others sailing overhead.

La Doncella’s cannons roared, their shots hammering into the carrack’s lower hull. Wood exploded from the impact, and one cannonball struck the enemy’s rudder.

Jack’s grin widened. “That’ll ruin their mood.”

The carrack, now struggling to steer, wavered slightly. It was still afloat, still a monster on the water, but La Doncella was faster, nimbler.

Jack spun the wheel again, this time keeping La Doncella out of the carrack’s broadside range.

The enemy ship fired again, but without proper alignment, their shots went wild. Meanwhile, La Doncella struck back with careful, calculated hits. 

Then, as if sensing the inevitable, the carrack hesitated.

Jack saw it first. “Ah, there it is. The moment a man values his own hide more than his honor.”

Ysábella watched as the carrack shifted course, its bow slowly turning away.

“They’re retreating,” Diego muttered, half in disbelief.

Jack dusted off his coat. “Smartest decision they’ve made all day.”

Isolde exhaled. “You’re letting them go?”

Jack tilted his head. “Let ‘em lick their wounds. We’ve already won.”

Ysábella nodded in agreement. It wasn’t worth the risk to chase them down. The threat was neutralized. That was enough.

With the carrack retreating, they turned back toward the ketch. The once-defiant enemy ship now floated like a wounded animal, its remaining crew watching La Doncella with wary, defeated expressions.

Ysábella stepped forward. “Bring us alongside.”

The crew obeyed, maneuvering La Doncella back to the crippled ketch. No one fought as they boarded. There was no resistance—only silence. The ketch’s captain, bloodied but alive, met Ysábella’s gaze with quiet acceptance.

“We surrender,” he said simply.

Ysábella nodded. “Good choice.”

Jack leaned in, smirking. “Now comes the fun part.”

The looting began swiftly. Barrels of powder, fresh water, crates of food, weapons—anything of value was taken. The La Doncella’s crew worked efficiently, stripping the ketch of anything useful.

Ysábella stood over the captured men, weighing her options.

“Prisoners?” Diego asked.

She shook her head. “We don’t have the space or the need.”

Jack, catching her decision, grinned approvingly. “Marooning it is, then.”

The surviving crew was left aboard their ruined ship with no means to follow, no weapons, and little hope. It was mercy in its own way—better than death, though not by much.

As they pulled away, Isolde leaned against the railing. “Do you think they’ll make it?”

Ysábella didn’t answer immediately. She watched the abandoned ship shrink in the distance before finally saying, “If the sea wills it.”

Jack clapped his hands together. “Well then, now that we’ve got fresh supplies and a bit of coin, I’d say it’s time for a drink.”

Ysábella sighed, shaking her head. “You never change.”

Jack flashed her a grin. “Pigeon, you wound me. You love me just as I am.”

She rolled her eyes.

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, La Doncella sailed onward, victorious, battered but unbeaten. They had survived another day.

With the battered ketch drifting further into the distance, La Doncella cut through the waves once more, her hull scarred but her spirit unbroken. The scent of gunpowder still lingered in the air, mixing with the salt of the sea, but the tension that had gripped the ship since the sighting of Villanueva’s men was finally easing.

Ysábella remained at the stern, arms crossed as she watched the remains of their battle disappear into the horizon. The fight had been won, but the weight in her chest hadn't lifted.

Jack, ever the unbothered rogue, stretched beside her, rolling his shoulders with a satisfied sigh. “Well, Pigeon, I must say—our little adventure just got a lot more interesting.”

Ysábella exhaled through her nose, still watching the empty stretch of ocean where their enemies had fled. “It’s not over.”

Jack hummed, tilting his head. “Oh, I’d wager not.” He glanced at her sideways. “I imagine Roderigo won’t take kindly to losing his men… or his pride.”

Isolde joined them, her expression grim. “He’ll be back. And next time, he’ll be ready.”

Ysábella knew that was true. Villanueva wouldn’t stop until he had her back under his control—or buried beneath the waves.

Jack adjusted his hat, smirking. “Then we best make sure we’re ready, eh?”

Ysábella turned to him, studying the man who had just pulled them from the jaws of defeat. Jack Sparrow—unpredictable, frustrating, but undeniably brilliant when it came to the art of survival.

She nodded. “Aye.”

For now, though, La Doncella sailed on, disappearing into the vast, endless horizon.

Chapter Text

La Doncella

Ysábella sat at her desk, her fingers absently tracing the edges of the map spread before her. The lantern’s flickering light cast shifting shadows over the inked coasts and islands of the Caribbean, but she found herself staring through them, her thoughts elsewhere.

To him.

Jack Sparrow.

Her fingers drummed absently against the desk, her eyes narrowing at the thought. Two against one. A ketch and a carrack, both fully armed, and La Doncella had barely taken a scratch. No lost crew, no devastating damage, no frantic repairs needed at port. If anything, their ship was in better shape than it had been after their fight with the privateers. And all of it—every maneuver, every perfectly timed cannon fire, every gamble that had paid off—had been him.

She had always known he was a capable captain, but witnessing his seamless command over the ship was something else entirely. He had played with their enemies, lured them into making mistakes, outmaneuvered them at every turn, and when it was over, he had simply adjusted his hat like it was all just another day.

Ysábella exhaled sharply, leaning back in her chair, the wood creaking beneath her. He had proven it today in a way she wouldn’t soon forget.

She hated that she was impressed. Hated how her chest felt tight when she remembered the way he had taken control when she couldn’t. Hated how, when it was all over, a part of her had wanted to tell him just how much she saw him, how much she felt the weight of what he had done.

But she hadn’t. Instead, she had scoffed, rolled her eyes, and pretended none of it had shaken her as much as it had.

Her gaze flicked toward the compass on her desk. Its needle still pointed stubbornly in one direction.

Her stomach twisted.

Now, alone in her cabin, it was harder to ignore.

She sat forward again, staring down at the desk, but the maps in front of her blurred. Her hands curled into fists, then relaxed. What was this feeling? Frustration? Admiration? Something else?

Her lips pressed into a thin line before she stood abruptly.

Maybe it was time she stopped fighting it—at least for one night.

With renewed determination, Ysábella left the cabin and made her way to the galley. The deck was quiet, the crew either asleep or occupied with their duties, the rhythmic creak of the ship and the gentle crash of waves filling the silence. Her steps were light but purposeful as she gathered what she needed, her plan forming in her mind. It wasn’t grand, but it was personal—a gesture she hoped Jack would appreciate.

Or at the very least, one that would make her feel a little less like a fool for wanting him around.

When she returned to her cabin, her hands were full. She carefully arranged the items on her desk: a bottle of rum and two glasses, a small candle she lit for ambiance, and a neatly folded cloth to mark the occasion. It was modest but thoughtful, a rare display of intimacy from someone so guarded.

Ysábella sat back and waited, her gaze flitting between the door and the setup before her. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the creak of the ship and the lap of the waves were her only company. Her heart thrummed with nervous energy, anticipation building as she imagined his reaction.

But Jack Sparrow didn’t come.

The weight of disappointment pressed against her chest, and she sighed, throwing on her coat. The cool night air greeted her as she stepped onto the deck, the Caribbean breeze tugging at her hair. She leaned against the railing, staring out at the moonlit sea. It was beautiful and serene, but it did little to quiet her restless thoughts.

Her mind spiraled back to him—to the clever maneuvering that had saved them all, to the way he had looked at her afterward, protective and serious. And then to his silence, which felt like an intentional torment.

“Lost in thought, Pigeon?”

Ysábella’s heart leapt at the familiar drawl. She turned sharply, her breath catching as she saw Jack leaning casually against a post, his hat tipped at a jaunty angle. The moonlight softened his sharp features, and his smirk sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

“Jack,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. She straightened, trying to compose herself, but his gaze—intense and unrelenting—made it impossible.

“Trouble sleeping, Captain?” he asked, sauntering closer with his signature swagger. “Or were you hoping to find me out here?”

Her usual wit deserted her. Ysábella turned back to the horizon, gripping the railing tightly. “Damn you,” she muttered under her breath, but the words lacked its usual sting.

Jack stepped beside her, his presence overwhelming. “Now, now,” he teased, his voice dipping lower. “I’m not here to bite. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

The comment drew a reluctant laugh from her, breaking the tension just enough to make her relax. She turned to him, her lips curving in a small, wry smile. “Thank you,” she said, her tone earnest. “For saving us. Again.”

Jack tilted his head, his smirk softening. “Part of the job, love.”

“No,” Ysábella pressed, her gaze locking with his. “I mean it. You didn’t have to stay—you never have to stay—but you do.”

Before she could second-guess herself, she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him. Jack stiffened briefly, caught off guard, but then his arms settled around her, his touch warm and grounding.

“Well,” he said lightly, though his tone carried a hint of emotion. “I might have to make a habit of it if this is the reward.”

She pulled back, just enough to look at him, her cheeks flushed. But instead of retreating, she held his gaze, her heart pounding. “Come with me,” she whispered.

Jack arched a brow but didn’t hesitate. “Lead the way, Captain.”

When they entered her cabin, his eyes immediately caught the carefully arranged items on the desk. His expression shifted to something unreadable, curiosity and amusement mingling as he turned to her.

“Setting a trap for me, are you?” he asked, his voice softening.

Ysábella smiled, her nerves easing under the weight of his charm. “You could call it that.” she replied lightly, though there was a spark of something more serious in her tone. “Or maybe I just wanted to talk.”

Jack’s expression shifted, something unreadable replacing his usual smirk, and he closed the door behind him with a quiet click. . “Talk, is it?” he said, pulling out the chair opposite to her and sitting down without hesitation. “I’d say this looks like more than talk.”

Ysábella leaned back slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. She gestured toward the chair, her tone lighter than usual. “Figured it was about time I returned the favor.”

Jack’s grin spread across his face, and he dropped into the chair with his usual flair. “You’ve outdone yourself, love,” he said, reaching for the bottle. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Ysábella replied, pouring them each a generous measure. “Just... a way of saying thank you.”

Jack watched her for a moment, his expression softening. “You didn’t have to do this, Pigeon.”

“I know,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But I wanted to.”

They drank together in comfortable silence for a time, the warmth of the rum spreading through them as the tension of the day began to fade. Jack regaled her with one of his many tales, his hands gesturing animatedly as he described his latest escapade. Ysábella found herself laughing more freely than she had in weeks, her walls slipping away piece by piece.

"Now," Jack began, leaning back in his chair with a dramatic sweep of his hand, the bottle of rum dangling loosely from his fingers, "have I ever told you about the time I crossed paths with Edward Teach?”

Ysábella froze for a fraction of a second, careful not to let her reaction show. Instead, she raised an eyebrow, her voice steady. "Edward Teach? The Blackbeard?"

Jack gave a solemn nod, his expression comically grave. "The very one, love. A nasty fellow, that one. Always with the whole 'Do what I say or perish' attitude. Quite tiresome, really.”

She forced a small smirk, hiding the storm brewing inside her. "And you somehow managed to outwit him?"

"Naturally," Jack replied with a feigned air of offense. "It’s what I do, love. Although, I’ll admit, the situation was… complicated by a certain delightful entanglement named Angelica."

Her stomach clenched at the mention of her mother’s name. She tightened her grip on the bottle, careful to keep her expression neutral. "Angelica?" she repeated, her tone casual despite the knot in her chest.

"Aye," Jack said, leaning forward as though sharing a great secret. "Blackbeard’s daughter. A real firebrand, that one. Beautiful, clever, and deadly enough to make you think twice before crossing her. She had a knack for making you believe she cared… and for stabbing you in the back when you least expected it."

Ysábella swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. She had heard stories of her mother’s complicated relationship with Blackbeard, but hearing it from Jack made it all feel too real. Still, she had to know more. "Sounds like you met your match," she said, forcing a teasing smile.

Jack chuckled, tipping his bottle toward her. "Match? Maybe. But I see it more as a game of wits. And sure, she may have bested me once or twice. Or thrice. But who’s counting?" He smirked, eyes glinting. "Now that I think about it, you keep me on my toes just the same. Though I’d wager you cheat."

Ysábella smirked, tilting her head. “Oh, Sparrow, if you can’t keep up, that’s hardly my fault.” She picked up her own bottle, taking a slow sip before adding, “Besides, I don’t cheat—I just happen to be better at the game.”

She swirled the rum in her bottle, gaze fixed on the rippling surface of the sea. She didn’t dare meet Jack’s eyes as the question formed in her mind, her throat tightening with the weight of it. Despite her effort to appear casual, the words came out hesitant, almost too soft to hear.

"Did you… ever love her?"

Jack paused mid-sip, his bottle hovering just shy of his lips as he glanced at her. His expression flickered—just for a second—the usual glint of mischief dimming. "Angelica?" he echoed, as if he needed clarification, though they both knew exactly who she meant.

Ysábella nodded, forcing herself to hold his gaze, though her heart pounded against her ribs.

Jack leaned against the edge of Ysábella’s desk, tilting his face toward the ceiling in exaggerated contemplation. "Love’s a fickle beast, Pigeon," he mused at last, his voice slower, more measured than usual. "Slippery, unpredictable… bit like sailing straight into a storm, thinking you’ll come out the other side with all your limbs intact."

He waved the bottle vaguely, the amber liquid catching the dim candlelight. "Angelica and I? Had our moments. Fireworks, even. She’s fierce, clever, resourceful—all admirable traits, really." He paused, swirling the rum in the bottle as if the answer lay somewhere in its depths. "But love? Ah, that’s where things get… complicated."

His dark eyes flicked toward Ysábella then, unreadable, as if weighing something in the silence between them. The air in the cabin felt heavier than before, thick with something unspoken. Something neither of them was ready to name.

Ysábella studied him, searching for sincerity beneath his usual performance. "And if," she ventured, fingers tightening around the bottle, "if she’d had your child? Would you have stayed? Or would you have done what you always do—run off before the tide even turns?"

Jack’s head snapped toward her, dark eyes narrowing slightly, as if measuring the weight behind her words. "Now that," he said, drawing out the words, "is a rather curious thing to be wonderin’, Pigeon. Any particular reason?"

Ysábella shrugged, feigning indifference, though a tightness coiled in her chest. "Just a passing thought," she said, tone light, teasing even. She took a sip of rum, masking the bitterness in her voice. "You seem the type to leave a trail of children in your wake, never looking back."

Jack smirked, but there was something unreadable in his eyes. "Now, that’s unfair. I happen to be very responsible… in a manner of speaking." He gestured loosely with the bottle. "Besides, if there was a Sparrow hatchling out there, I’d—well, I’d have to do something about it, wouldn’t I? Can’t have little mes runnin’ about unsupervised, causing all sorts of mischief. No, no, that sort of talent requires proper guidance."

Ysábella’s stomach twisted, the weight of her secret pressing down like an anchor. She turned her gaze back to the water, gripping the bottle a little too tightly. "I suppose Angelica would’ve had something to say about that," she murmured.

Jack chuckled, though there was an odd wistfulness to it. "Oh, she’d have plenty to say, no doubt. Probably with a pistol in one hand and a blade in the other." He paused, swirling the rum in his bottle, gaze distant. Then, after a beat, his voice softened. "Funny thing, though," he mused, tilting his head as he looked at her. "You remind me of her sometimes."

Ysábella’s breath hitched, though she kept her expression neutral, offering only a half-smile. "Is that so?"

"Aye," Jack murmured, his tone lighter, but his gaze sharp. "Same fire in your eyes. Same stubbornness. Same unfortunate knack for stumbling headfirst into trouble." He smirked. "Endearing, really."

Ysábella forced a small chuckle. "Endearing?" She lifted a brow. "I’ll take that as a compliment… though I don’t know if I should."

Jack grinned, tipping his bottle toward her. "Oh, it’s a compliment, love. Not every day you meet someone who can match wits with yours truly … and live to tell the tale."

Ysábella exhaled, her gaze lingering on the open sea, her mind as restless as the tide. Her mind was anything but calm, the truth pressing against her ribs like the pull of a relentless tide. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. But every word he spoke felt like a blade slicing too close to the surface.

"Well," she murmured, forcing her voice to remain steady, "I doubt Angelica would appreciate the comparison."

Jack smirked, lifting his bottle in a lazy toast. “Aye, probably not. Flattery was never her strong suit.” He took a slow swig, pausing just long enough for the moment to stretch before adding, almost too casually, “Still—bit uncanny, the resemblance. Just sayin’.”

Ysábella said nothing, her mind tangled in truths and half-lies. If he knew—if he ever found out—what would he think? The thought was a weight in her chest, heavy and relentless. She drowned it with another sip of rum, welcoming the burn as it chased away the ache she didn’t want to name.

“You’re impossible, Sparrow,” she muttered, shaking her head. “And one day, that fire of yours is going to burn you.”

Jack’s grin widened, easy and unconcerned. “Aye, but what a way to go.”

The cabin settled into a quiet hum, the flickering lantern casting warm, golden light over them, the near-empty bottle of rum sitting between them. The weight of battles, of scars, of everything unspoken still lingered, yet Ysábella felt at ease. It wasn’t the drink—though it helped. It was him . His laughter, his steady gaze, the way he stayed even when she expected him to leave.

Jack stretched out, kicking his boots onto the desk like he had every right to claim the space. His hat, long abandoned, sat near the empty glasses. “You know,” he mused, voice lighter now, “I don’t often get to sit and enjoy a quiet night. Always runnin’, always schemin’—too many close calls, too many people wantin’ me dead or indebted. But here?” He shot her a sidelong glance, smirk still lingering. “With you? Not half bad. ”

Ysábella arched a brow, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Not half bad? That’s high praise coming from you.”

Jack chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I don’t toss compliments ‘round lightly, love. But you—you’re somethin’ else entirely.”

She should’ve had a sharp reply, something quick and cutting, something to keep herself steady. But there was a weight to his words, something real in the way he looked at her, and it made her breath hitch. She wasn’t used to this. To being seen. Not just for her skill, her sharp tongue, or the reputation she carried—but for her.

Slowly, she stood, moving around the desk until she was in front of him. Jack watched her, his grin softer now, his dark eyes unreadable. “Somethin’ on your mind, Pigeon?” he asked, his voice quiet but knowing.

Ysábella hesitated for only a breath before lifting her hand, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “You’re insufferable,” she murmured, though there was no real bite to the words.

Jack smirked. “And yet, still no sign of me gettin’ tossed overboard.”

“Not yet.”

He chuckled, quieter this time, his gaze steady on hers. Then he reached up, covering her hand with his own, his touch warm, steady—certain. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, a fleeting thing, but it sent something sharp through her chest.

She swallowed. “You’ve done more for me than I can put into words,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “And I’m not used to that. To someone staying without wanting something in return.”

Jack’s expression shifted, his grin fading into something softer. Something real.

“Don’t owe me any words, love,” he said, and for once, there was no bravado in his voice. “I’m here ‘cause I want to be. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”

Her throat tightened. He said it so easily, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

She swallowed hard, then slowly leaned down, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, her face just inches from his. “Then let me thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “In my own way.”

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched her with that maddening, unreadable look in his eyes.

And then, without another word, Ysábella kissed him.

Jack responded without hesitation, his hands sliding to her waist, his grip firm but unhurried as he pulled her closer. There was no rush, no urgency—just the quiet hum of something inevitable. A moment suspended between them, unspoken truths lingering in the air like the taste of rum and salt on their lips.

For once, Jack Sparrow had nothing clever to say.

And for once, Ysábella didn’t need him to.

Ysábella’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. There was no hesitation now, no second-guessing—only the quiet hum of want curling in her chest, sharp and insistent. Jack’s hands slid down the curve of her back, steady and sure, as though anchoring her to him. His grip tightened slightly, his body pressing flush against hers, and she could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath against her skin.

It was intoxicating.

When they finally pulled apart, Ysábella’s breath came in uneven gasps, her forehead resting against his as she tried to steady herself. The air between them was thick, charged with something neither of them dared to name. Jack’s hands remained at her waist, fingers curled just enough to keep her close, his dark eyes searching hers in a way that made her stomach twist. He wasn’t smirking now, wasn’t teasing. There was something unreadable in his gaze—something that made her feel stripped bare, as if he saw far more than she intended to show.

A moment passed, heavy with silence, before Jack finally spoke, his voice lower than usual, roughened by something more than just the rum.

"Well, that was… rather unexpected," he murmured, though the way he looked at her said otherwise.

Ysábella huffed, a small smirk tugging at her lips despite the way her heart still pounded against her ribs. “Don’t act so surprised, Sparrow,” she muttered.

Jack arched a brow, his fingers grazing her waist with an easy familiarity. "Oh, I’m plenty surprised, love. Pleasantly so." His smirk returned, slower this time, almost lazy. "Care to elaborate on what exactly I did to deserve such generosity?"

Ysábella exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

Jack grinned, the familiar mischief returning to his eyes. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Still, he hadn’t loosened his hold. If anything, his fingers pressed deeper, his thumb tracing idle circles at her hip, a lazy kind of possession. Ysábella swallowed against the heat curling low in her stomach, her body thrumming with something she hadn’t felt in a long time—something dangerous.

Ysábella didn’t second-guess herself when she knelt before him.

Jack’s smirk didn’t falter, didn’t fade—if anything, it deepened, his fingers drumming lightly against the arm of the chair. “Well, now,” he mused, voice edged with something rich and knowing. “Didn’t expect to be so lucky this evenin’.”

Ysábella held his gaze, willing herself to remain composed, but her voice was softer than usual, the weight of her intent pressing between them. “I don’t do this lightly, Sparrow.”

Jack tilted his head slightly, watching her with sharp interest. “Never figured you for the sort to do anything lightly.”

She exhaled, slow and measured, ignoring the way her pulse thundered beneath her skin. He was watching her like he had all the time in the world, like he was more than willing to sit back and enjoy whatever came next. Typical. Infuriating. But it made her want him even more.

Ysabella’s hands skimmed the fabric at his waist, and Jack didn’t so much as flinch—if anything, he leaned back, one hand lazily draping over the chair arm, the other flicking open the nearest button with practiced ease. His smirk was knowing, indulgent.

“By all means, love,” he murmured, that smugness thick in his tone, “carry on.”

Her fingers trembled—not from doubt, but from something far more intoxicating. She moved deliberately, her fingers brushing against his skin as she lowered his trousers. Her fingertips grazed the coarse hair on his body, and she felt the warmth of him radiating out, making her more aware of the moment.

The next button slipped free. She felt the shift in him, subtle but there—a slight hitch in his breath, a flicker in his expression. The fabric rustled as she worked, slow and deliberate, breaking the heavy silence between them.

Her touch grew bolder, her fingertips grazing the edge of fabric between them. Jack’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly, but she caught it. His fingers twitched against the chair, his grip tightening for the briefest moment before relaxing again.

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t tell her no.

Didn’t smother that fire in her belly that burned hotter with every second.

Instead, he smirked, his voice dipping into something rough and edged with amusement.

“Careful now, Pigeon,” he murmured, his words laced with heat. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Ysábella swallowed against the coil winding tight in her stomach, her body already fully committed. She met his gaze, steady and unyielding, a slow smirk curving her lips as she pushed him past the point of no return.

“I never play fair.”

Jack let out a low, knowing chuckle, dark eyes gleaming with something dangerous, something entirely pleased. “Aye,” he murmured, lifting his hand to brush his fingers lazily against her jaw, the touch feather-light but possessive all the same. “That’s why I like you.”

And with that, she let herself fall—completely, without reservation.

No hesitation. No turning back.

Ysábella traced her lips over him, her breath warm against his skin. The scent of lantern oil, salt, and something deeply him filled her senses, grounding her in the moment. Her fingers curled against his thighs, feeling the tension in his muscles, the quiet anticipation that hummed between them.

She moved slowly, her mouth pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses, tasting the briny edge of him as she lingered. Jack’s breath stuttered, a low sound escaping as his hand found her hair, threading through the strands with a touch that was both steady and searching.

Her movements were deliberate, exploring him in unhurried strokes, savoring the weight of his presence beneath her lips. The air between them thickened, a quiet exchange passing in the rise and fall of their breath, the way he tensed and relaxed beneath her hands. Jack’s fingers curled slightly, not guiding, but holding, as if tethering himself to the moment.

As she sucked him harder, Jack's breathing got heavier. She could hear the catch in his breath each time she moved, and feel his fingers tighten slightly in her hair. His touch was gentle but reverent, and it made her feel a deep emotional connection to him.

Jack's hand stayed firm on her head, his fingers tightening slightly as if he knew how much this meant to her. She heard his breath catch, a soft and unsteady sound that sent a shiver down her spine. His reaction made her feel more connected to him, and she continued to suck him with a steady rhythm.

The room around them disappeared, leaving only Ysábella and Jack, lost in the intimacy of the moment. She was completely focused on the sensations: the heat of his body, the feel of the fabric against her lips, and the salty taste on her tongue. Every detail was etched into her memory, making the moment feel incredibly real.

As Jack's body tensed up, Ysábella felt his muscles tighten and heard a low sound come from his throat. It was more of a emotional expression than words. His hand stopped moving against her head, and his fingers gently curled into her hair as if to hold himself in place. She slowed down her movements, her lips softly brushing against him as she absorbed the intensity of the moment.

The air was thick with the smell of lantern oil, salt, and Jack's earthy musk. Ysábella breathed deeply, letting the scents keep her grounded in the present. The sounds of the ship and the waves outside faded away, leaving only the two of them in a quiet, intimate space.

Jack's breathing became more labored, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Each time he exhaled, Ysábella could sense his vulnerability. He whispered "Pigeon" in a low, rough voice, struggling to maintain control.

Ysábella looked up at him, their eyes meeting. For a moment, everything else disappeared. Jack's gaze was intense and dark, filled with emotion that made her heart hurt. He wasn't hiding behind his usual bravado or smile; he was completely open and vulnerable.

She smiled softly at him, trying to reassure him. "It's all right," she whispered back, her voice barely audible but steady. "Let go," she said, encouraging him to release his control and give in to the moment.

Jack exhaled sharply, his body relaxing beneath her touch as he nodded. His hand slipped from her hair, fingers grazing the arm of the chair as if to ground himself. And then it happened.

Jack did let go.

He tensed beneath her, his body coiling tight before shuddering as he came.

Ysábella swallowed instinctively, her body reacting before her mind had the chance to catch up. The taste hit her tongue—salty, sharp, unmistakable—mingling with the lingering warmth of rum from earlier. It was the taste of him—heady, intoxicating, and far too intimate.

The scent of Jack surrounded her—warm musk, salt, a faint trace of lantern oil. It filled her lungs, thick and intoxicating. Her throat moved on reflex, and her fingers tightened against his thighs, steadying herself against the intensity of the moment.

Jack’s body eased beneath her touch, tension unraveling into something softer, something she wasn’t sure she had ever witnessed in him before. The ship rocked gently outside, the rhythmic creaking of wood a quiet reminder that the world had not stopped for them, though it certainly felt as if it had.

Jack reached for her, his fingers brushing her cheek, a lingering warmth in his touch. “Ysábella…” he murmured, her name rough, unpolished, as though he wasn’t sure what else to say.

She allowed herself a small smirk, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she wiped the corner of her lips with the back of her hand. “You’re impossible,” she said, voice steady despite the heat curling in her chest.

Jack let out a quiet chuckle, something between amusement and fondness. “And you,” he mused, dark eyes fixed on her, “are full of surprises.”

She tilted her head, watching him. “Surprised, are you?”

His grin widened slightly, that signature mischief creeping back in. “Let’s just say I didn’t see that coming, love.” His fingers traced absently along the edge of the chair, as though turning something over in his mind. “Though, in hindsight… perhaps I should have.”

Ysábella arched a brow. “Should have?”

Jack’s smirk lingered, but his gaze turned thoughtful. “A woman like you—fierce, clever, unpredictable.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t do anything by halves.”

Her lips curled at the edges, but she said nothing. The silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. The air carried the weight of all the things neither of them dared to name.

Ysábella reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his, feeling the rough warmth of his palm against hers. He didn’t pull away. He never did.

She leaned in slightly, her voice quieter now, more certain. “Our night isn’t over, Sparrow.”

Jack’s thumb brushed over the back of her hand, a slow, deliberate motion. His expression shifted—less roguish, more intent.

“No,” he murmured, voice dipping lower. “No, I don’t suppose it is.”

Jack tilted his head, eyes darkening as she pulled him in. Their lips met, slow at first, then urgent, his hands gripping her waist, pressing her against him. Heat coiled in her stomach as his fingers traced her spine, his touch both patient and consuming.

She barely noticed reaching the bed, too lost in the feel of him. His hands moved to her vest, tugging the laces loose one by one. Knuckles brushed bare skin, sending a shiver up her spine. He worked slowly, deliberately, teasing the last cord free before slipping the fabric from her shoulders. The way his hands lingered, tracing down her arms, left her breath shallow.

Jack exhaled, gaze sweeping over her. He reached for her face, tucking a stray curl behind her ear before his fingers trailed lower. She trembled under his touch, heat pooling deep in her core.

“Ysábella,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

She swallowed, sliding her hands beneath the open fabric of his shirt, tracing the scars, the sun-worn skin. Jack let her, unmoving—until she tried to pull him down with her.

His hands caught her wrists—gentle, firm.

“No rush, love,” he murmured, lips brushing her throat.

Her breath hitched as he eased her onto the mattress, pressing over her, warmth searing into her skin. His hands roamed, teasing, lips ghosting across her collarbone, trailing lower. She arched into him, frustration curling inside her.

His breath faltered, his grip tightening as his eyes met hers.

“Make me your woman, Jack.” she said, fingers trembling as she pulled him closer.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes. His hands found hers again, pinning them above her head, anchoring her beneath him.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

Her lips parted, chest rising and falling beneath him. “I’m yours,” she breathed. “Only yours.”

Jack’s grip tightened, hips pressing into hers, his breath hot against her skin. The first thrust stole the air from her lungs, her back arching as a moan slipped free. He moved with a purpose that sent heat pooling in her belly, his body covering hers, taking her in a way no one ever had.

His fingers threaded through hers, pinning her hands above her head—not to restrain, but to keep her right there, beneath him. His touch was slow, deliberate, as if he wanted to memorize every inch of her, to leave something of himself behind.

He pushed her to the edge, again and again, only to pull back just as she gasped his name. She felt every inch of him—the way he filled her, the steady, deliberate thrusts that left her breathless. Heat coiled deep, tension building with every slow, measured movement, her body clenching around him, desperate for more.

When she whimpered in protest, his smirk deepened.

Jack chuckled, breathless, teasing. “What’s the matter, love? Thought you wanted to take your time?”

Her nails dragged down his back. “Jack,” she breathed, desperation creeping into her voice.

His smirk deepened. “That’s not quite beggin’ yet—”

“Please.” she pleaded.

Something in him snapped.

The bed groaned beneath them as his pace turned rougher, more relentless, his hands gripping her thighs as he pulled her against him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, anchoring herself to him, every thrust sending her higher, tightening the coil inside her.

And then, when the fire inside her wound so tight she thought she might break, the word slipped past her lips, unbidden.

“Daddy…”

Jack froze, his whole body going taut, his breath catching sharp in his throat. For a split second, he said nothing, did nothing. And then, in a voice rough with something dangerous, something almost primal, he growled,

“Say it again.”

Ysábella trembled beneath him, her heart pounding, her body already teetering on the edge. She dug her nails into his shoulders, holding him closer, and this time, she said it with intent.

“Daddy. ”

A guttural groan tore from his throat, his hands clamping down on her hips as he drove into her, harder, deeper, faster. She gasped as he took her like he wanted to mark her, claim her, as if he could carve himself into her very bones.

The pleasure built, overwhelming, unbearable, the sound of their bodies moving together lost between sharp breaths and muffled moans.

“Look at me,” Jack rasped.

She did, her eyes locking onto his, wide and dark, right as everything inside her shattered. A cry broke from her lips as the wave crashed over her, pleasure surging through every nerve, her body shaking beneath him.

Jack wasn’t far behind. His thrusts grew more erratic, his body tensing, his breath shuddering against her skin.

She pulled him to her, legs locking around his waist, keeping him where she needed him most. Jack wasn’t far behind—his rhythm faltering, his thrusts turning erratic as tension coiled tight within him. His breath shuddered against her skin, rough and uneven.

And then she felt it—the way he pulsed deep inside her, his release spilling into her in warm, slow waves. A sharp gasp left her lips, the heat of it spreading through her, making her tremble beneath him.

He groaned low in her ear, his body shaking as he thrust once more, deeper, holding himself there as he emptied into her completely.

The sensation overwhelmed her—him inside her, filling her, the warmth sinking into her, making her toes curl as her body pulsed around him, still raw from her own release. Ysábella clung to him, legs tight around his waist, her fingers gripping his damp skin, wanting to keep him there, to savor the way he felt—all of him.

For a moment, neither of them moved, their bodies pressed together, breath mixing, skin damp with sweat. Jack’s forehead rested against hers, his chest rising and falling heavily. His hands, once gripping her so tightly, softened, fingers brushing absently along her waist.

Ysábella inhaled a breath at the sudden emptiness, only to shudder as she felt the heat of his spill from her, sliding down her butt. The warmth dripped onto the mattress below, unmistakable, intimate, a reminder of everything they had just done.

Jack observed her, eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction. His thumb brushed her lower lip before he leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss.

“Would you look at that,” he murmured, the familiar tease in his voice edged with something warmer. “Never thought I’d see our feisty Pigeon so… thoroughly undone.”

Ysábella let out a breathy laugh, though her body was still trembling, her limbs weak. She could still feel him inside her, even though he was gone, a part of him still left behind.

Jack shifted onto his side, pulling her against his chest, one arm draped lazily around her waist. He was warm, solid, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek as she traced idle patterns across his skin.

A long silence stretched between them before she spoke, her voice quieter than she intended. “I love you, Jack.”

He went still. She felt it in the way his breathing hitched, in the slight pause before he moved again. Slowly, he lifted his head, looking at her with something unreadable in his dark eyes. Then, instead of teasing, instead of deflecting, he kissed her temple, his grip on her waist firming.

“Not sure I deserve that, love,” he murmured, voice lower, rougher. “But I’ll take it.”

A shaky laugh escaped her, tension slipping from her chest. Jack tightened his hold, tucking her against him, his lips brushing lazily over her hair. He didn’t need to say anything else. She could feel it in the way he held her, in the way he stayed.

She let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head as he kissed her temple, his arms tightening around her. Whatever came next, she wasn’t afraid. Not anymore.

She’d given herself to him completely.

And for now, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Text

The cabin was suffocating. The air, thick with damp wood, sweat, and the stale stench of rum, settled heavy in her lungs. But beneath it all, something fouler festered. Earthy, animal, unclean. A rank musk that clung low to the floorboards, sharp enough to sting the nose.

The single candle flickered weakly, barely casting light. Just enough to stretch long, distorted shadows across the walls.

Ysábella didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

The ropes bound her in place, biting into her skin with cruel precision. These were not crude knots but deliberate, meticulous restraints. Designed not just to hold but to shape. They forced her body into unnatural contortions, stretching her to her limits. Her arms, wrenched behind her, pulled her shoulders back in a vicious arch. Coiled bindings wound around her waist, tightening with every breath.

Her legs—spread and secured—left her exposed beneath his gaze.

Art, he had called it. A skill from the Far East.

Villanueva lounged in his chair, the dim light carving sharp shadows into his face. He sipped from a drinking glass, its contents dark, nearly black. Rum, perhaps. Or something stronger. His gaze was steady, calculating.

The glint in his eyes was not cruelty but something worse... amusement. He relished this. The waiting. The control. The slow, inevitable unraveling of whatever defiance she had left.

A soft clink. He set the glass down. His fingers moved, unhurried, toward the table beside him.

A small glass vial caught the candlelight as he lifted it between his fingers, rolling it lazily. The thick liquid inside swirled sluggishly. A soft, iridescent pink, shifting like silk, catching light in unnatural hues. He pulled the cork free, and an aroma filled the air. Sweet, cloying, almost floral, but with something sharper beneath it. Something unnatural.

“You’ll like this,” Villanueva murmured, watching her reaction. “A gift, really. A rare thing, from far across the sea.” His gaze flicked to the liquid, admiring it with the same casual reverence he might give fine silk or an expensive trinket. “The alchemist say it heightens every sense—pleasure, pain, need. Makes the body… eager.”

Ysábella swallowed hard but remained silent.

“Don’t worry,” Villanueva smiled, tipping the vial just enough to let a single drop slide onto his fingertip. "It’s not poison, chiquita." The words were almost soothing. Almost.

Ysábella clenched her teeth.

Villanueva moved closer, crouching beside her, his presence suffocating. His coated fingertip hovered near her lips.

“Open.”

She turned her head away.

His hand shot out, fingers gripping her jaw, forcing her still. Not painful. Just firm. Patient.

“Now, now,” he murmured, pressing against the seam of her lips. “No need to be difficult.”

The scent thickened, blooming into the air. She held her breath, but it didn’t matter. Villanueva’s fingers tightened. His grip shifting, just enough pressure to pry her mouth open. The drop slipped onto her tongue.

Silken warmth unfurled instantly, sweet at first, melting into something deeper. Then, the burn. Not a sting, not fire, but a slow, smoldering pulse rolling across her tongue, down her throat, and outward. Curling through her veins like a second heartbeat.

A flush crept up her neck, unbidden. A prickling awareness crawled over her skin, sharp, unwelcome.

She shuddered.

“It takes a little time,” Villanueva mused, straightening. His tone was almost idle, but his gaze was fixed, unwavering.

Then, he tilted his head slightly, lips curving. Expectant. Knowing.

Anticipating. 

Villanueva sat back, watching.

Then, a sound. Claws raking the floor in sharp, impatient scrapes across the boards. Long. Untrimmed.

Tremulous whimpers, thin and high with anticipation, cracked through the stillness.

Then, the weight of it.

A hulking form surged into the dim light. Massive, heavy-boned, every movement raw with restless energy. The mastiff’s ruined coat bristled, uneven tufts standing on end as it prowled closer. Patches of bare, angry skin showed through the mangy fur, scars ridging its thick hide, jagged and pale against the dark flesh.

It moved with an urgent hunger. Shoulders bunching, haunches tensed, whole body thrumming with need. One ear was torn, the other flicking and flattening at every sound. Its tail lashed behind it, hammering with chaotic rhythm against crates and walls.

Its jowls quivered, thick ropes of drool flinging and dripping in messy arcs as it panted, tongue lolling. Each ragged breath filled the air with the stench of unwashed fur. Musky. Primal. Impossible to ignore.

The beast circled her, barking in short, eager bursts. Then charged forward, nose twitching, sniffing wildly, drawn to a scent etched into its instincts.

Its eyes—deep amber, ringed with red—were locked on her.

Too aware.

Too knowing.

Ysábella forced stillness. Not just in body, but in breath, in thought. Stone. She had to become stone.

But the beast knew.

It could smell it.

The mastiff’s nails scraped over the floor as it lowered its head, its wet nose pressing to her collarbone. The cold snout dragged over her skin, slow, deliberate. Testing.

A deep inhale.

Slow. Drawn out. Savoring.

The mastiff’s nostrils flared, its breath rolling warm over her skin. It wasn’t just smelling her. It was taking her in.

Then, the broad, slick drag of its warm tongue across her bare shoulder.

Ysábella’s breath stuttered, broke.

It lingered.

Wet. Heat pooling where it touched, seeping in, curling beneath her skin.

A test.

The mastiff breathed her in again. Deeper. Slower.

It was searching for something.

And then, she felt it.

A flicker. A whisper of warmth at the base of her ribs. Faint. Barely there. But it had waited.

It had lingered.

And now, it reacted.

A slow curl of something. Heat threading through her veins, pressing against something she did not understand.

Every spike in her pulse fed it.

And the potion stirred inside her.

It was subtle at first, no more than a trickle of warmth in her gut, a foreign tingle humming beneath her skin. But it was there. Waiting. Coiling like a predator in the dark, patient, creeping. Feeding.

Every heartbeat carried it deeper.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to breathe slow, steady. She could control this. She had to.

Not from cold.

Not from pain.

But from the sickening certainty that this was exactly what Villanueva wanted.

And he was watching.

She could feel it. His gaze, drinking in every twitch, every forced breath.

He let the silence stretch, let her sit in it, let it sink beneath her skin.

The mastiff let out a low, guttural whuff, nudging against her, its bulk shifting closer.

Thick saliva dripped from its lips, pooling on her skin like warm oil. Its tail flicked lazily, a slow, deliberate slap against her thigh.

Not aggressive.

Not attacking.

Testing.

Toying.

Then came the scent. Heavy, warm, alluring. Unmistakable.

Musk.

Thick, animalistic, rolling off the beast in waves.

It coiled in the air, seeping into her lungs, settling on her skin like a second layer. She hated how it wrapped around her, how it clung to her breath.

And the potion stirred again.

The flicker of warmth slithered lower, like a slow-moving ember. Unwelcome. Unnatural.

It lingered there, thick and smothering, pressing between her thighs with an insidious patience.

Heat.

Slow.

Spreading.

Pulsing with every beat of her heart.

Ysábella clenched her fists behind her back. She would not let it take hold.

But the potion was patient.

It did not force.

It waited.

Each spike of her pulse fed it, the warmth inside her thickening, pressing deeper.

And the musk.

The musk only made it worse.

She tried to slow her breathing. Tried to smother the sensation before it could grow.

But the dog felt it. The mastiff’s breath hitched, nostrils twitching.

It lifted a massive paw and placed it on her thigh. The rough pads dragged against her skin as it adjusted, claws grazing. Not cutting, but there, pressing, waiting.

A question.

A silent request.

Its heavy head turned, eyes flicking toward Villanueva.

And the bastard only chuckled.

"Even he knows," he murmured, dragging his fingers through the beast’s thick fur, scratching behind its ears. His voice was lazy, drawn-out, savoring the moment.

"He can smell it on you."

Ysábella’s stomach twisted.

She knew what he meant.

And worse... so did the beast.

Villanueva hummed thoughtfully, his fingers still stroking through the animal’s fur.

Slowly, deliberately, he shifted closer. Not to touch her, not to force. But to watch.

Ysábella’s body tensed against the restraints, her breath shallow, measured. She would not react. She would not give him the satisfaction.

The beast moved. Massive paws pressed into the floor, framing her, the weight of it shifting with slow, measured precision. Not an attack. Not hesitation.

A low, guttural sound rumbled from its chest. Deep, possessive.

It loomed above her, heat radiating from its body, its hot, musky breath rolling over her face.

Ysábella’s pulse skipped, then hammered.

The dog smelled it.

A thick string of saliva stretched between its fangs, long, glistening strands snapping as they dripped onto her cheek.

She didn’t move.

Her limbs trembled against the slow, relentless warmth curling through her veins.

No.

Not real. Not her.

But the mastiff inhaled again, deeper this time.

It knew.

It smelled what she could not.

But she could feel it.

Thick, heavy. Clinging to her skin, wrapping around her like something unseen but inescapable.

The mastiff's broad head lowered, pausing, lingering, nostrils flaring wide at her throat.

It exhaled, breath hot against her skin, the deep sound in its chest shifting. 

She felt it.

The warmth of it. The weight of it.

Then—

“Ysábella!”

Jack’s voice cut through the dark like a blade, sharp and relentless, dragging her out of the nightmare’s suffocating grasp. Her body jerked upright, drenched in sweat, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. The cabin walls loomed around her, no longer shifting shadows filled with whispers of the past—just wood, just familiar. But her mind hadn’t caught up.

Her fingers dug into the thin blanket, yanking it up to her chest as if the fabric could shield her from the cold grip of memory. She was trembling, her body curled inward, her breath hitching as though she had just surfaced from drowning.

“Pigeon.” Jack’s voice was softer now, stripped of its usual teasing lilt. What remained was steady, real. His hands rested on her shoulders, firm yet careful, like he half expected her to bolt. “It’s just a dream.”

Her breath shuddered. “No.” The word scraped against her throat. “It wasn’t just a dream.” Her pulse pounded against her ribs. “He’s coming. I know he is.”

Jack went unnervingly still. The easy swagger, the ever-present glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes—gone. In its place, something colder. He already knew who she meant.

“Villanueva.”

The name landed between them like a stone thrown into a still ocean. No ripple. Just depth.

Ysábella swallowed, trying to steady herself, but the panic still clawed at her ribs. The words felt foreign on her tongue, like speaking them aloud might summon him from the depths of the sea itself.

She exhaled sharply. “Don Roderigo ‘El Cuervo’ Villanueva,” she whispered, his name tasting like rust on her tongue. “Feared from the Spanish Main to the Barbary Coast. A man with more ships than any crown would dare admit. A fleet so vast, so loyal, that his power rivals governors, even kings.”

Her throat tightened. “And worse than that… he’s patient.”

Jack’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

She pressed on, her words quickening, spilling out as if speaking them might lessen their weight.

“He doesn’t rule through fear alone,” she said, her voice quieter now, like the truth itself was something that could hear her. “He owns people. Not with chains, not with threats—but with something worse.”

Jack’s brows drew together, a flicker of something unreadable behind his gaze. “And what’s worse than that, love?”

Ysábella’s hands curled into fists, nails pressing into her palms. “He makes you believe you belong to him.”

Jack didn’t react, not immediately, but she saw the flicker of something in his expression—subtle, but there. Something beyond anger, beyond his usual devil-may-care defiance.

Slavery.

He loathed it. She had heard the stories—how he had freed captives before, how he had lost a ship doing it. But now, hearing her words, knowing what Villanueva had done to her… it was different. More personal.

She forced herself to continue. “He called me his palomita,” she whispered, voice fractured, eyes burning as she met his gaze. “Not as a term of endearment. As a reminder. A joke, his favorite one. He said I was a bird—fragile, delicate. A pet. And when he opened the cage…” She exhaled sharply. “I never flew. I stayed. Because he had made me forget how.”

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose, his fingers twitching once before stilling.

His hands shifted, pulling her forward, steady arms wrapping around her in an embrace that wasn’t fragile or hesitant, but solid. Present.

“You’re not that girl anymore,” he murmured, his voice edged with quiet certainty. “And you’re not alone.”

Something in her cracked.

The sobs came soundlessly at first, hot tears slipping past the defenses she had spent years fortifying. The shaking followed—small, at first, then consuming. She buried her face against him, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping her from slipping back into the past.

Jack didn’t speak. He didn’t offer empty reassurances. He just held her. Solid and steady, the way the ocean met the shore—relentless, but constant.

When her tears finally slowed, when the tremors subsided into exhaustion, she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “He’ll come for me,” she said, voice trembling but certain. “He won’t stop.”

Jack’s eyes flickered, dark as the abyss, and for a moment, he looked every inch the pirate legend he was. “Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t get that chance.”

She wanted to believe him. Needed to. But Villanueva was a force of nature—calculated, precise. He didn’t need chains or threats to keep her in line.

He never had to force her to stay.

Because he had trained her to.

Her fingers curled tighter into Jack’s shirt. The weight of what she had to say settled in her chest like a stone.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered. “What I did for him.”

Jack didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just waited.

She swallowed, the words thick on her tongue. “He didn’t just take me. He… shaped me.” Her laugh was bitter, empty. “He enjoyed it—loved it. Watching me fight him at first. Watching me lose. Until there was nothing left to fight.” She exhaled sharply. “Until I stopped trying.”

Jack’s fingers twitched against her back, the only sign of the fury simmering beneath his stillness.

“I got used to his rules. His demands. His desires.” Her voice was barely a breath. “He never needed to hurt me. He didn’t have to. I learned how to give him what he wanted before he asked.” A sick sort of pride twisted inside her, shame coiling tight around it. “And when I did, he praised me.”

The words tasted like bile.

Jack said nothing, but she felt his anger—silent, controlled, lethal.

Her chest ached. “I don’t know what’s worse,” she admitted. “That I did those things, or that I made myself believe I wanted to.” Her grip on Jack’s shirt loosened slightly, her voice breaking. “Because if I wanted it… then at least it was mine.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. She braced for disgust, for judgment.

Jack exhaled, slow and measured. Then—so soft she almost missed it—

“He doesn’t get to have you.”

She blinked, breath catching.

Jack’s hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up. His gaze met hers, dark and steady. “Not in the past. Not now. Not ever.”

Ysábella exhaled shakily, the weight of her past still pressing against her ribs, but for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t the only thing she felt.

She felt something else.

Something dangerous.

Something like hope.

And as the ship creaked softly around them, the night stretching on, Ysábella couldn’t shake the feeling that Villanueva was already closing in.

Chapter Text

The cabin was thick with the scent of salt and aged wood, the ship swaying slightly as La Doncella moved with the restless sea. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting sharp lines across the weathered map spread across the heavy oak table. The atmosphere inside was thick with tension, the weight of what was about to be discussed pressing on everyone in the room.

Ysábella sat at the head of the table, her arms crossed, her dark eyes scrutinizing Jack Sparrow as he paced before the map, a thoughtful frown tugging at her lips. Across from her, Diego leaned against the wall, arms folded, rolling a dagger between his fingers, his silence unreadable. He occasionally flipped the blade, catching it effortlessly, as if the movement soothed him.

Isolde stood stiff-backed, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the hilt of her sword, her brows furrowed as she studied the map. “And you’re certain about this?” she asked, not bothering to mask her skepticism.

Jack didn’t even look up. “Certain as the tide, love.”

Amihan sat perched on the edge of a chair, spinning a silver coin on the table’s surface, watching it wobble before it stilled. She huffed, flicking it into the air before catching it deftly. “Madness, if you ask me,” she muttered, but there was no real protest in her tone—just acceptance of the inevitable.

Mr. Gibbs, standing near her, stroked his beard, his other hand resting heavily on the table—though it occasionally drifted, brushing against Amihan’s waist. The first time had been subtle. The second? More deliberate. He did it again, fingers grazing the worn leather of her corset waist belt, lingering just a moment too long. Amihan didn’t pull away. Instead, she shifted slightly, her shoulder pressing against his arm, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “Careful, old man,” she murmured, barely audible, though there was no heat to her words.

Jack, ever the dramatist, traced a finger along the map, tapping a spot along the coastline.

“This, dear Captain Paloma, is what we call a foolproof plan,” Jack declared, pausing dramatically. “Not a flaw in sight. A touch of deception, a sprinkle of misdirection, and a grand reveal at just the right moment.”

Ysábella’s brow arched. “A foolproof plan? You mean the kind where I march straight into Villanueva’s hands and hope I don’t end up in shackles?”

Jack wiggled his fingers. “Shackles, ropes, chains—semantics, love. But aye, that’s the general idea.”

Her fingers curled into her sleeves, knuckles white. Jack Sparrow had his ways, and despite the madness that always trailed him, he was still standing. That meant something. But this? This was a different kind of madness.

Jack leaned onto the table, both hands pressing into the map before them. “Listen closely, darling. You make the offer—your surrender, no questions asked. Let Villanueva think he’s won, that you’re handing yourself back to him willingly. On one condition.” He tapped the map. “He comes alone. No fleet. Just him and his Man o’ War. That’s the only way he gets you back.”

Ysábella’s stomach twisted. Giving herself back? The thought alone made bile rise in her throat.

She inhaled, steadying herself, and for the briefest second, something else touched the edge of her senses. Faint, unfamiliar—or maybe not.

She exhaled sharply, forcing it away.

Jack continued, “While Villanueva, in all his pompous self-importance, believes you’re crawling back, Gibbs and I will be securing reinforcements. A ship, a crew—two against one on our terms, in shallow waters, under cover of night.” He grinned, as if it were all some grand adventure.

She stared at him, disbelief simmering under her skin. “You’re asking me to place myself back in the hands of the man who ruined my life.”

Jack exhaled, straightening. “No, love. I’m asking you to give him what he wants just long enough to take it away.”

Ysábella’s fists clenched. Everything inside her screamed against it. The risk, the trap within a trap —she would be alone in that moment, truly alone. And yet… Jack Sparrow had never once looked at her with pity. He wasn’t coddling her, wasn’t telling her she was weak or incapable. He was telling her she was the key to Villanueva’s downfall.

And that, more than anything, made her falter.

She swallowed hard. “And if it doesn’t work?”

Jack’s expression softened—just for a flicker of a second. Then, he smirked. “Then we die very, very painfully.”

Ysábella let out a sharp exhale, closing her eyes briefly. She had known pain under Villanueva. If this was her only chance to make sure it never happened again—to anyone —then she had no choice.

“…Fine.” Her voice was steel. “But if I end up regretting this, I’ll haunt you to the ends of the earth, Sparrow.”

Jack grinned. “Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he leaned back, tapping his fingers along the map. "Right, then. This isn’t something we can rush. Gibbs and I will need two weeks —time enough to find a crew, a proper ship, and make it all believable."

Ysábella frowned. "Two weeks?"

Jack nodded. "Anything less, and it’ll look suspicious. Villanueva’s no fool—he’ll expect you to be alone, abandoned. We let the rumor simmer, let him believe you’ve lost everything. Then, when he least expects it…" He made a grand sweeping motion, mimicking an explosion. "Boom! Chaos, confusion, and before he knows what’s hit him—poof! We’re in control."

Ysábella inhaled sharply, unimpressed. "You make it sound too easy."

Jack wagged a finger. "Ah, but therein lies the brilliance, love. Simplicity is deceptive. Now, onto the important bit—Tortuga."

Gibbs groaned. "Ah, hell. Here we go."

Jack ignored him. "Now, Tortuga, as we all know, is a beacon of debauchery and lawlessness—a pirate’s paradise! But, mind you, also the absolute worst place to recruit respectable men of the sea. So, naturally, it’s the best place for us."

Ysábella pinched the bridge of her nose. "You’re making no sense."

Jack continued as if she hadn’t spoken. "The plan is simple! First, we find a ship, preferably one not infested with barnacles or actively sinking. That’s step one. Step two—recruitment! Now, this part requires finesse , which is where my charm comes in. We’ll need men who can hold their rum and a cutlass, but not so much rum that they forget which end of the cutlass is sharp."

Ysábella stared at him. "That is not a plan. That is wishful thinking. "

Jack held up a finger. "Aha! But you forget the third step —a secret weapon."

Gibbs looked pained. "Jack, please tell me you ain’t talking about that mad blacksmith from last time."

Jack grinned. "Mad? No. Brilliant? Questionable. Reliable? Absolutely not. But, he does owe me a favor, and he does have a rather fascinating knack for explosives."

Ysábella's stomach sank. "You’re putting our lives in the hands of an unstable blacksmith?"

Jack waved a dismissive hand. "Details, darling. Point is, he makes a spectacular distraction. And while chaos unfolds, Gibbs and I shall sneak aboard a perfectly good ship—one preferably unoccupied, but, you know, we’ll make do."

Gibbs groaned again. "We’re gonna get shot."

Jack patted his shoulder. "Only if you’re slow. Now, once we have our fine vessel, we make a grand exit!"

Ysábella narrowed her eyes. "Define ‘grand exit.’"

Jack rocked back on his heels, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful. "Well, last time involved an exploding dock, a horde of angry Frenchmen, and one particularly vengeful goat , but this time I’m thinking something far more elegant. Perhaps a controlled explosion? Maybe a mild ship fire. Nothing too dramatic."

Ysábella ran a hand down her face. "This is madness."

Jack beamed. "Exactly!"

She turned to Gibbs. "And you’re going along with this?"

Gibbs sighed, rubbing his temples. "Lass, if I had a coin for every insane plan that somehow worked, I’d have my own fleet."

Jack clapped his hands together. "Excellent! Now, love, do you feel reassured?"

Ysábella did not feel reassured. In fact, she was more convinced than ever that she was about to die in a spectacularly ridiculous fashion. "Jack, if you get yourself killed, I will find a way to drag your soul back just so I can murder you myself."

Jack winked. "I admire the dedication." 

He leaned forward, tapping the map. "Now, we'll be pinning Villanueva’s Man o’ War in a two-to-one fight. That means we need someone at the wheel of La Doncella. We need a strong captain to keep her in line while Ysábella plays the willing little dove."

Isolde glanced up sharply. "Who, exactly, do you have in mind?"

Jack grinned as if the answer was obvious. "You, of course. I mean, let’s be honest, love—you handled yourself in that fight better than half the men I’ve sailed with. Kept La Doncella steady while cannon fire rained down, led the crew like you had the sea running through your veins."

Isolde’s expression flickered between disbelief and annoyance. "Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes ," Jack countered smoothly. "You’ve got the fire, the skill, and the proper amount of reckless abandon required for such an endeavor."

Isolde scoffed. "I’ve never captained a ship in battle before."

“Oh, come now.” Jack leaned closer, grinning. "You weren’t just holding your ground, love. You fought like a woman with something to prove. And if memory serves, you didn’t flinch once—not when the odds were stacked, not when they closed in. If you can do that, you can steer a ship into battle."

"That’s not how this works!" Isolde snapped. "It’s La Doncella ! She’s Ysábella’s ship! If I lose her—"

"Then don’t lose her," Jack said simply, shrugging. "Problem solved."

Ysábella, watching the exchange with growing amusement, finally leaned in. "Jack, you do realize you’re asking her to step into my boots, right?"

Jack turned toward her with a lazy smile. "Aye, and you don’t pick just anyone to take the wheel of your ship, now do you?"

Isolde faltered, clearly caught between exasperation and something dangerously close to flattery. She opened her mouth, closed it, then glared at Jack. "I’m not saying yes."

Jack smirked. "You’re not saying no. You kept the crew steady in the thick of it, gave orders like you’d been doing it for years. You might not have noticed, but I did. And so did they. You’ve already captained a ship in chaos—you just didn’t realize it."

Isolde’s face heated. "I—"

Jack tilted his head. "Are you blushing?"

Isolde scowled, crossing her arms. "Absolutely not."

Jack chuckled. "No shame in it, Captain. "

The crew exchanged amused glances, and Ysábella smirked.

Isolde inhaled deeply, steeling herself. "Fine. But if this goes sideways, I’m blaming him." She jabbed a finger at Jack.

Jack clasped his hands together. "Perfect. See? All settled. Knew you were the right woman for the job."

He then turned his attention to Diego, straightening his posture and adjusting his coat like a man about to bestow the most crucial mission of all. He fixed Diego with an expectant look, then clasped his hands behind his back as he began to pace.

"Now, Señor Diego, the success of this entire operation—this intricate, daring, and, dare I say, ingenious trap—rests upon a single, most vital component. A cornerstone, if you will. Without it, the plan crumbles like a poorly baked biscuit in the hands of an ill-tempered admiral. And that, dear friend, is where you come in."

Diego raised a skeptical brow. "You’re saying I’m the most important part of this plan?"

Jack held up a finger, as if silencing a lesser man. "I wouldn’t say it, per se—I’d let history remember it that way. Because you, my good man, will be the whisper in the wind, the ghost in the taverns, the architect of Villanueva’s certainty. You will spread the news—the most delicate of rumors—that Captain Ysábella Paloma is surrendering herself to the esteemed Don Villanueva." He gestured broadly. "No embellishments, no unnecessary theatrics—just the right amount of truth to make it irresistible."

Diego’s expression didn’t shift. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"

Jack waved a dismissive hand. "Details, darling. Improvise! A knowing glance here, a hushed conversation there, an ‘accidental’ mention over rum in just the right ports. Let the rumor take root. Let it fester in the minds of those desperate to curry favor with the wrong kind of people. Let it roll through the waves until it reaches Villanueva’s ears, and he will believe it was his own good fortune that led him to this knowledge."

He  clapped his hands together. "So, we set course for land, Diego spreads the word, and before you can say ‘undead monkey,’ Gibbs and I will be off to gather our reinforcements. Brilliant , I know. But don’t say it too loudly, or it’ll go straight to my head."

The plan was set. Now all they could do was wait.

The cabin fell into a restless silence after the meeting dispersed. Jack had left first, off to gods knew where, leaving Ysábella to sit with her thoughts while the others trickled out.

Near the door, Amihan leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a small smirk playing at her lips as Mr. Gibbs lingered beside her.

“Two weeks without me,” she mused, tilting her head slightly. “Think you’ll survive?”

Gibbs huffed, stroking his beard. “I should be askin’ you the same, lass.”

Amihan chuckled, stepping just a little closer. “Oh, I’ll manage,” she teased, voice low, deliberate. “But I do wonder—when you’re off with Jack, who’s going to ‘accidentally’ brush against my waist every time I walk past?”

Gibbs’ hand, which had been resting comfortably at his belt, twitched. He cleared his throat. “Ah, well… I suppose I’ll have to make up for lost time when I return.”

Amihan’s smirk deepened. “I’ll hold you to that.”

With a slow turn, she slipped past him and out the door, leaving Gibbs standing there for a second too long, watching her go.

Diego gave a parting nod before disappearing into the shadows of the ship, and Isolde lingered near the door for a moment longer than necessary.

“You trust him?” Isolde asked, her voice low.

Ysábella exhaled through her nose, fingers drumming against the table’s surface. “Jack?”

Isolde’s eyes rolled slightly. “Who else.”

A humorless smile flickered across Ysábella’s lips. “I don’t have to trust him. I just have to trust that he wants to win.”

Isolde didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she gave a short nod and disappeared into the corridor.

Now alone, Ysábella leaned back in her chair, rolling the tension from her shoulders. The ship swayed gently beneath her, the rhythm of the sea steady, grounding. She should rest—should gather her strength for what was ahead.

She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a brief second. Something was different.

She frowned.

The air felt thicker than before.

She exhaled, rubbing her temple, and sat forward again. It was nothing. Just the weight of the meeting, the strain of what was coming.

Pushing off the chair, she made her way to the door, her boots soft against the wooden planks. The floor creaked as she stepped over a loose board, and for a fleeting second, a strange, damp scent brushed past her senses.

Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t stop moving.

A dead rat, maybe. It wouldn’t be the first time.

She pulled the door open and stepped into the corridor, pushing the thought aside. There were bigger things to deal with.

Chapter Text

Ysábella sat at her desk, quill poised over parchment, yet the ink remained untouched. The candlelight flickered beside her, casting restless shadows across the wooden surface. She had read the same sentence twice, but the words refused to stay in place.

It wasn’t the weight of Jack’s plan, nor the looming danger of Villanueva that unsettled her.

It was the scratching.

Faint, intermittent, coming from the wall to her right.

A rat, perhaps. The ship always had its share of them.

And yet…

Ysábella’s grip tightened around the quill as another delicate scratch echoed through the cabin. Too light to be claws scuttling, too steady to be the ship settling.

Her shoulders tensed.

She exhaled slowly, shaking off the unease. It didn’t matter. Not now.

Pushing back from the desk, she rose to her feet. A breath of cool night air might help clear her mind.

She unlatched the door and stepped outside, the salty breeze sweeping over her. The deck was quiet, save for the gentle creak of La Doncella rolling over the waves. The sea stretched endlessly before her, dark and endless, a mirror of the thoughts she couldn’t quite settle.

She barely took two steps before a familiar voice drifted from the shadows.

"Trouble sleeping, love?"

She turned, unimpressed, as Jack Sparrow emerged from the darkness with a lazy sway, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers. His hat sat at an angle, his coat slightly askew, like he’d either just rolled out of someone’s bed or had been caught in a bar fight. With Jack, either was equally possible.

"Didn’t think I’d find you skulking about my ship like a ghost," she said, arms crossing over her chest.

Jack lifted the bottle in an easy salute. "Ah, but ghosts don’t drink, love. And if they do, they’re terrible at sharing." He took a swig, watching her over the rim.

She sighed, rubbing at her temple. "It’s late, Jack."

"That it is." He leaned against the railing, squinting at her as if he were studying something unseen. "And yet, here you are. Thinking, worrying—plotting something, I’d wager. Care to share?"

"It’s the plan," she lied. "Too many pieces moving at once."

Jack hummed, rolling the bottle between his fingers. "Aye, plans do have a way of keepin’ people up at night." His dark eyes flickered, searching. "That, or something else is nipping at your heels."

She ignored the way her pulse quickened. "You shouldn’t be drinking before battle."

Jack smirked, taking another deliberate sip. "Who said I’m drinking before battle? I’m drinking before sleep. Entirely different affair."

Ysábella shook her head, exasperated, but the tension in her spine eased just a fraction.

Jack watched her a moment longer before pushing off the railing, closing the distance between them with that effortless, lazy gait of his. "You’re worried."

"Of course, I’m worried," she said, forcing steel into her voice. "This isn’t a gamble I can afford to lose."

"Ah." Jack tilted his head, his fingers tapping idly against the bottle. "But that’s where you’re mistaken, love. The best gambles—the ones worth making—are the ones you can’t afford to lose. Otherwise, they wouldn’t mean a damn thing."

Ysábella frowned, her stomach twisting at the truth beneath his words.

Jack watched her, his expression shifting—just barely. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. “That’s not why you’re out here, though. Is it?”

She held his gaze, unwavering. “What’s it to you?”

Jack was close now, closer than she realized. His voice dipped lower, barely more than a murmur. "It’s to me because you’re the one steering this ship, and if the captain’s mind is elsewhere, we’re all bound to crash, savvy?"

The words should have been teasing. They weren’t.

Ysábella exhaled sharply. "I’ll be fine."

Jack didn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he leaned in just enough that she could smell the rum on his breath, could see the way the moonlight caught the depths of his gaze, shifting like the tides.

"See that you are," he murmured, before stepping back, offering her the bottle.

She hesitated, then took it, bringing it to her lips. The burn of rum was a welcome distraction, but it did nothing to steady the unease curling in her chest.

Jack sauntered up to the railing, the bottle swaying between his fingers like an extension of his own careless rhythm. The sea stretched before them, dark and endless, stars scattered across the sky like spilled gold dust.

"You’re quiet," he observed.

Ysábella exhaled, her fingers gripping the railing a little tighter. "Is that unusual?"

Jack smirked. "A bit. You’re usually busy remindin’ me of how much trouble I am."

"You are trouble," she muttered, not looking at him.

"And yet, here we are." He took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving her.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The weight of something unspoken pressed against her chest, heavy as the tide, and Jack— damn him —had an uncanny ability to feel the shift in the wind before anyone else.

"Tell me, Captain," he continued, setting the bottle down on the railing with a deliberate clink. "What is it that keeps you awake tonight?"

Ysábella inhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders as if to shake off the question. She didn’t trust herself to speak the truth. 

"Nothing," she lied. "Just thinking."

Jack let out a thoughtful hum, unconvinced but not pressing.

He shifted closer, just enough that she felt the warmth of him against the night chill. His presence was steady, solid, real—so unlike the things that crept at the edges of her mind.

"A word of advice," he said, his voice softer now, slower. "Thinking’s a dangerous pastime."

Ysábella scoffed. "You don’t say."

Jack tilted his head, eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Aye. Gets people into all sorts of trouble. Usually ends with bad decisions… or very good ones."

Ysábella turned to face him fully, arching a brow. "And which kind are you?"

Jack grinned, slow and knowing. "Depends on how much rum’s involved."

She shook her head, but the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

Jack stepped closer, his hand brushing the railing beside hers. A touch so casual, so natural, yet deliberate in its intention. He was watching her again, reading her as he always did.

"You’ve got that look in your eye," he murmured.

She lifted a brow. "What look?"

"The one that says you’re considering a choice you’ll either regret… or never forget."

Ysábella’s breath caught. Not because he was wrong—but because he was exactly right.

The night was heavy.

Jack was close now, the space between them vanishing with the tide. The scent of rum and salt clung to his skin, mixing with something distinctly him. A presence that lingered, that stayed even when the man himself was prone to slipping away.

Her pulse thrummed, sharp and unsteady.

She should walk away.

She didn’t.

Instead, she reached out, fingers curling into the lapel of his coat.

Jack stilled. Not in hesitation, but in waiting. Watching. Letting her lead.

For once, she didn’t think.

She pulled him in, and his lips met hers with the kind of reckless inevitability that could only belong to Jack Sparrow.

The kiss was slow at first—exploratory, teasing, a game neither of them were willing to lose. But then Jack shifted, deepening it, fingers tracing along the curve of her waist with practiced ease.

Ysábella pressed against him, heat curling low in her stomach. His mouth was warm, tasting of rum and mischief, of trouble she shouldn’t want but did.

Jack made a low sound, something between amusement and approval, before pressing her back against the railing, trapping her between him and the sea.

She let him.

Her hands moved instinctively, sliding beneath his coat, fingers brushing over the warmth of his skin. Jack’s breath hitched, and she felt the smirk against her lips before he pulled back just enough to speak.

"Careful now, love," he murmured, voice roughened with something more than humor. "Wouldn’t want you getting attached."

Ysábella smirked against his mouth, eyes half-lidded. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Jack chuckled, low and knowing. "Liar."

And then he kissed her again.

This time, she didn’t stop him.

Jack’s lips moved against hers with an easy confidence, slow and unrushed, as if he had all the time in the world. Ysábella knew better. He was a man who never lingered too long in one place, never let himself be caught—not by chains, not by commitments, not by anyone.

But for now, he was here. And so was she.

His hands slid along her waist, pulling her closer, the night air cool against the heat of his touch. She could taste the rum on his tongue, feel the smirk that lingered even in the kiss—because of course he would be amused by this. Jack Sparrow, the great escape artist, was wanted —by the navy, by the law, by legends themselves.

And now, by her .

Her fingers tangled in his coat, pulling him flush against her. He responded in kind, pressing her against the railing, deepening the kiss with a flicker of teeth against her lower lip. A shiver ran through her—not from the cold, not from fear.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at her, breath uneven, his smirk lazy and edged with something darker. "Now, I do believe this qualifies as a very bad idea ."

Ysábella smirked. "Then why are you still here?"

Jack tilted his head, his fingers toying with the hem of her shirt, barely ghosting over the skin beneath. " Curiosity, love. Could be I just want to see how much trouble you’re really capable of."

"More than you can handle," she murmured, her lips brushing his again.

Jack let out a low chuckle, his hand sliding up her spine, fingers pressing just enough to make her inhale sharply. "Now that sounds like a challenge."

Ysábella didn’t answer. She grabbed his collar and pulled him back into her, their kiss turning rougher, more insistent.

Jack’s hands roamed over her, mapping out what was his to take for the night, and Ysábella let him—let herself forget everything else. The weight of Villanueva’s name, the plan that could cost them everything.

Right now, there was only Jack.

His hands, his lips, the way he felt against her—the solid, unyielding proof that he was real.

And that she wasn’t alone.

She bit down on his lower lip, dragging him back into the present when his mind—like always—threatened to drift. Jack groaned, fingers tightening at her waist.

" You’re a dangerous one, " he muttered against her skin, trailing kisses along her jaw, down the side of her throat.

Ysábella let her head tip back, eyes fluttering shut. "And you’re too drunk to stop me."

Jack laughed, a breathless, wicked sound, his hands slipping beneath her shirt. " Drunk? Oh, no, love, I’m perfectly sober for this. "

She gasped as his lips found her collarbone, hands warm against her skin, tracing patterns she wasn’t sure she wanted to memorize. But she would. Because it was Jack . Because there was something in him she wanted —even if she wasn’t sure what.

Her hands slid lower, slipping beneath the belt at his waist, and Jack inhaled sharply, losing his infamous composure for just a second.

Ysábella smiled against his lips. " Thought you were sober? "

Jack’s grip tightened on her hips, eyes dark and unreadable. " Don’t test me, love. "

She did.

And this time, he was the one who lost control.

Jack was many things— a scoundrel, a rogue, a man who made a habit of slipping away before anyone could hold him down —but at that moment, Ysábella had him exactly where she wanted.

His breath was uneven, his body pressed against hers, and for once, he wasn’t running.

He was here.

Her fingers danced along the waistband of his trousers, deliberate in their slowness, teasing just to see how far she could push him. Jack let out a low chuckle, but it was strained, his control slipping like sand through his fingers.

" You’re playing a dangerous game, love, " he murmured, voice roughened with something far deeper than amusement.

Ysábella smirked, lips brushing his as she whispered, " Then play it with me. "

Jack inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on her waist as if anchoring himself. His hands slipped beneath her shirt, calloused fingers dragging over bare skin, memorizing every curve and scar.

" You do know, " he muttered between kisses, trailing his lips down her throat, " this is the sort of thing that leads to complications. "

Ysábella’s fingers curled into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. " You don’t believe in complications, Jack. "

" No, but they believe in me. "

She laughed softly against his mouth, but whatever sharp remark she had was lost when Jack pushed —a sudden shift of control that had her back against the wooden railing, his hands gripping her hips, his lips everywhere.

He was thorough— teasing, tasting, taking.

Jack Sparrow kissed like a man who was both reckless and calculated all at once, letting just enough slip before reeling it back in—never fully giving, never fully surrendering.

Ysábella refused to let him keep that control.

She bit his lip again, dragging him back from wherever his mind threatened to drift, and Jack responded with a sound that sent heat curling low in her stomach.

" You’re a menace, " he breathed against her skin.

" And you’re stalling, " she countered.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark with something unreadable. " Oh, love, I don’t stall. I simply… draw out the experience."

Ysábella rolled her eyes but barely had the breath to argue when his hands moved lower —sliding down her thighs, gripping, pulling her against him.

The heat between them burned like a fuse, like something inevitable, like a storm that had been brewing since the moment they met.

Jack studied her, gaze flickering between her lips and her eyes, as if waiting for something.

Permission?

Invitation?

A reason to stop?

Ysábella didn’t give him one.

She kissed him again, pulling him in, swallowing whatever smart remark he might have made.

Jack’s breath was warm against her lips, his grip firm at her waist, fingers tracing slow, maddening circles over her skin. He kissed like a man who knew he could leave at any moment, but tonight— tonight —he wasn’t going anywhere.

Ysábella knew that. And yet, the thought of him slipping away still lingered at the back of her mind, like an instinct she couldn’t silence.

She wouldn’t give him the chance.

Without a word, she grabbed his coat and pulled him with her, her grip firm, deliberate. Jack barely had time to smirk before she was leading him across the deck, her steps unhurried, her intent unmistakable.

He followed without protest, without question.

She pushed the cabin door open and stepped inside, knowing he was right behind her.

The room was dim, lit only by the flickering candle on her desk. The papers she had abandoned earlier were still there, the ink still untouched, forgotten. The scratching at the edge of her mind lingered, but she shoved it aside.

They stepped inside, and the door shut behind them.

A second later, Jack was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of rum and salt thick in the air.

His hands found her waist, his grip steady—no teasing, no hesitation.

"You’re sure, love?" The words were softer, but his voice hadn’t lost its edge. He was watching her now, waiting. Not for permission, but for something unspoken.

Ysábella didn’t answer. She just reached for him, fingers curling into his coat, pulling him with her as she walked backward toward the bed.

Jack followed.

He always followed when the moment called for it.

His hat hit the floor first, then his coat. His hands moved over her with practiced ease, fingers unfastening, peeling away layers until there was nothing left between them but the space that neither of them wanted.

And then there was no space at all.

Jack was skilled in many things. And, as Ysábella soon realized, he was very skilled at this.

His hands, his mouth, his breath against her skin—every movement was deliberate, every touch measured. He didn’t rush. He didn’t fumble. He took his time, watching her as he went, reading every reaction, every sound, every shift in her breath.

He liked to win.

And tonight, he had decided that winning meant unraveling her completely.

Ysábella had never been one to surrender easily. But as Jack moved lower, his lips pressing against her skin in slow, deliberate kisses, her breath hitched, her fingers twisting into the sheets.

Jack grinned against her thigh, his breath hot against her skin. "Steady now, love. We’ve only just begun."

He kissed her once—slow, deliberate. Then again, lingering this time, savoring the way she tensed beneath him.

And then he stopped.

Ysábella’s breath hitched as she felt the absence of movement, of heat. Her fingers, which had been tangled in the sheets, twitched impatiently, as if reaching for something just out of grasp.

Jack let out a slow, thoughtful hum.

His hands smoothed over her hips, thumbs circling the sensitive skin there. He was watching her. Studying her.

As if contemplating his next move.

She lifted her head slightly, opening her mouth to speak—

Then he kissed her again.

Lower.

Slower.

This time, his tongue flicked against her skin, testing, teasing. He heard the sharp intake of breath, felt the way her legs tensed beneath his grip.

"Patience, love," Jack murmured, his lips brushing against her in a whisper of a touch. "Let me enjoy myself."

Ysábella’s breath caught, her grip tightening. Jack was thorough—painstakingly thorough. Every movement, every flicker of his tongue, every shift of pressure was calculated with the same precision as a man navigating through uncharted waters.

And he never once looked away.

That same sharp, knowing gaze that had always unnerved her was locked onto her now, watching every reaction, every twitch, every breathless sound.

He was testing her. Seeing how far he could push.

How much she could take.

And as he quickly found out— she could take a lot.

Her breath came in short, uneven gasps, her body arching, pressing against him, but Jack didn’t let up. If anything, her reaction only encouraged him.

He enjoyed this.

He enjoyed watching her lose control, knowing that, for once, he was the one making her come undone.

And then— she broke.

Her body tensed, breath hitching into something sharp, desperate, uncontrollable. And Jack didn’t stop—didn’t let her slip away from it, didn’t let her hold on to whatever composure she had left. He kept her there, pushed her past it.

A strangled cry broke from her lips as pleasure crashed over her, sharp and overwhelming. Her body tightened, trembled—then gave way.

And Jack felt it all.

The sudden heat spilling over his mouth, coating his tongue, soaking his skin.

He groaned at the taste of her, at the way she pulsed against him, broke for him. He didn’t move away. Didn’t let her escape it.

He took his time, letting her ride the high, letting her feel every last wave of pleasure as he lapped it up—slow, indulgent, never breaking eye contact.

Only when she sagged back against the sheets, spent and shaking, did he finally—finally lift his head.

His lips were wet , slick with her, glistening in the candlelight.

Ysábella was still catching her breath when Jack crawled back up, hovering just above her, his lips grazing the corner of her mouth.

"Satisfied, Captain?" he murmured, his voice thick with something between amusement and pure, wicked satisfaction.

She was still gasping for air when her fingers tangled into his hair, dragging him down into a kiss— hungry, breathless, unrelenting.

"Not yet," she managed, her voice unsteady, a plea and a challenge all at once.

Jack grinned. "Now that’s what I like to hear."

He shifted, rolling them over effortlessly, pinning her beneath him with that same lazy confidence. His hands smoothed over her hips, warm and steady, guiding her into place.

"Let’s try something different, love."

There was something in his voice, something dangerous and undeniable that made her pulse quicken.

Jack’s grip tightened slightly, his lips ghosting along her jaw as he shifted her forward, tilting her with practiced ease.

"Trust me."

Ysábella exhaled sharply, steadying herself as Jack positioned himself behind her, his hands firm, guiding.

She didn’t hesitate. She trusted him, even when she knew she shouldn’t.

And Jack— damn him —knew exactly what he was doing.

Jack hovered over her, his gaze locked onto hers as he lined himself up, pressing in slowly—agonizingly so. He took his time, letting her feel it, letting her adjust, letting the tension coil tight between them.

A sharp gasp left her lips as he pushed deeper, stretching her inch by inch, filling her completely. He stilled for just a moment, letting her take him, letting her feel every part of it.

Then he moved .

His movements were slow at first—coaxing, deliberate—making sure she felt every shift, every inch, every careful adjustment.

Then he pressed in deeper, setting a rhythm, controlling the pace with his hands at her waist, keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

Ysábella’s breath broke, her fingers tightening around the sheets as Jack moved with a steady, relentless precision—pushing, claiming, dragging her deeper into the fire with every stroke.

"There you go," he murmured against her shoulder, voice thick with approval.

She shivered.

He chuckled, fingers pressing deeper into her hips. "Told you, love—thinking’s dangerous. Much better to just... feel."

And she did.

Jack Sparrow was patient . He took his time, adjusting, pushing her limits with every shift. He let her fight for control, let her push back, let her think she had the upper hand—until he took it back.

She gasped as he changed the angle , sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through her, her body tensing under his grip.

Jack let out a low chuckle against her shoulder. "That’s the spot, isn’t it?"

Ysábella clenched her jaw, refusing to answer.

Jack let out a soft, knowing hum. "Let’s see how long you can keep quiet then."

He didn’t give her time to think. He moved , slow and steady at first, then faster, pushing her into a rhythm that stole her breath.

Ysábella broke first.

She let out a sharp gasp, her body giving in to him, pushing back against his every move, every deep, deliberate thrust.

Jack groaned, his grip tightening.

"That’s it, love. Just like that."

He was watching again— feeling every shift, learning what drove her wild, what made her lose control.

And when he found it—when he knew he had her completely— Jack didn’t stop.

Her body tensed, pleasure curling hot and sharp, her breath unsteady, broken.

Jack was relentless.

"Come on, love," he muttered against her skin, his voice rough, coaxing, wicked. "Let go."

Ysábella did.

A strangled cry tore from her lips as pleasure crashed over her—raw, overwhelming, undeniable. Her body trembled, pulsed, then gave way completely.

She felt it again.

The release was sudden, unstoppable. A rush of wet heat spilled between them, coating his thighs, soaking his skin.

Jack groaned at the sensation, at the sheer force of it, at the way she unraveled beneath him. He didn’t stop, didn’t let her slip away— he kept her there, pushed her through it, dragged every last wave from her until she had nothing left to give.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice thick with something dark and utterly satisfied.

He felt everything. Held her through it, letting her fall before pulling her back up, keeping her grounded as he finally lost himself.

His breath broke, his grip tightened—then she felt it.

The sudden warmth spilling deep inside her, pulsing, throbbing, filling her completely. Each slow, shuddering wave sent a fresh rush of heat curling through her, the sensation raw, overwhelming, undeniable.

Jack groaned low, his body tensing, shaking against hers as he pulsed inside her, each surge drawing a fresh gasp from her lips.

She felt everything. Every twitch, every pulse, every lingering aftershock as he gave her all of him.

And then— silence.

Heavy. Warm. Real.

Jack collapsed forward, catching himself at the last second before rolling onto his back, pulling Ysábella against his chest.

The cabin was still, save for the sound of their breathing, the distant crash of waves against the hull.

Jack’s fingers traced lazy circles along her spine, his breath still uneven but content .

"So," he murmured after a long pause.

Ysábella hummed against his skin, barely awake.

Jack grinned. "I take it you’re satisfied now?"

She smirked, eyes still closed.

"Ask me again in the morning."

The cabin was still, save for the sound of their breathing, the distant crash of waves against the hull.

Ysábella lay against Jack’s chest, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, her mind teetering on the edge of exhaustion. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along her spine, absentminded yet deliberate, as if committing her to memory.

She should move. She should say something. But for now, she simply listened—to the steady rise and fall of his breath, to the ship rocking beneath them, to the faint creak of the wood settling around them.

Jack shifted slightly beneath her, stretching, and Ysábella felt the familiar way his hand slid lower, fingertips brushing idly over her waist before trailing down, tracing the dip of her hip. His touch was softer now, absent of intent, more exploration than seduction.

Then he stilled.

His fingers had brushed against the mark just above her lower belly.

It had been dark before. Shadows had hidden the details of skin against skin, their hands moving blindly, guided more by touch than sight. But now, with the candle flickering low, casting a faint glow across their tangled limbs, Jack could see.

She felt his pause before she saw it.

His thumb brushed over the small mark—a tattoo, the shape of a paw, inked into the skin just above the soft curve of her hip.

Ysábella barely tensed, but she felt the shift in the air, the subtle change in his breath.

He had seen it before. He must have. But maybe he had been too distracted, or maybe he had mistaken it for something else in the dim candlelight of past nights.

Now, she knew he noticed.

His finger traced over it, slow and considering. Not questioning. Not prodding.

Just… noticing.

She swallowed, her face unreadable as she turned her head slightly, resting her chin against his chest.

"Thought it was a birthmark," Jack finally murmured, voice quieter than usual.

Ysábella’s fingers curled slightly against his skin, her nails barely scratching over his ribs in a silent acknowledgment. Not a rejection, not an invitation—just a response.

Jack didn’t push. He didn’t ask.

Instead, his thumb traced the tattoo once more, lighter this time, as if testing the weight of it, the permanence of ink on skin. His movements were uncharacteristically careful, a stark contrast to the way he had touched her before—when there had been no hesitation, no second thoughts.

She knew what he was doing. Jack didn’t need words to pry; he let his hands do the talking.

And she hated that it almost worked.

Ysábella exhaled slowly, her chin still resting against his chest. "It’s nothing."

Jack let out a soft hum, the kind that told her he didn’t believe a word of it.

"Suppose everyone’s got their own version of nothing," he mused, voice lazy but laced with something deeper. "Some nothings mean more than others."

Ysábella’s jaw tightened, her fingers pressing just a little harder against his ribs, feeling the solid warmth beneath her touch.

Jack didn’t let go. His arm remained draped around her waist, his body loose, relaxed, as if he wasn’t paying attention to the weight of the moment. But she knew better.

He had noticed.

She had known he would.

And yet, for once in his insufferable life, Jack Sparrow let it be.

He exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly, settling back into the pillows. "If it’s nothing, then I s’pose I won’t lose sleep over it," he muttered, though his fingers still hovered near the mark, as if unwilling to forget.

Ysábella said nothing.

Jack sighed, finally letting his hand drift away, his palm resting flat against her lower back instead.

"Y’know," he murmured, his voice slipping into something softer, heavier with exhaustion, "you’re a bloody terrible distraction."

Ysábella huffed a quiet laugh, her breath warm against his chest. "And you’re a terrible habit."

Jack smirked against her hair. "Aye, but you don’t seem keen on breaking it."

She didn’t answer.

Jack didn’t push.

The candle flickered lower, the cabin filled with nothing but the sound of their breathing, the slow, steady rock of the ship.

For now, the conversation was over.

For now, Jack let her keep her secrets.

Chapter Text

Amihan

The ship rocked gently on the water, the hum of the sea filling the quiet night. The crew had long since settled, the ship’s lanterns casting long shadows across the deck.

Amihan and Mr. Gibbs sat near the railing, a nearly empty bottle of rum between them, the last remnants sloshing lazily as the ship swayed.

"You’ve got that look," Gibbs muttered, stroking his beard as he squinted at her.

Amihan arched a brow, taking the bottle from his grasp. "And what look is that, old man?"

Gibbs huffed, shifting where he sat. "Like you’re thinkin’ too hard ‘bout things you shouldn’t be thinkin’ about."

She smirked, bringing the bottle to her lips but stopping just short. "You don’t say."

"Mm." Gibbs eyed her, his own smirk creeping in. "Like maybe you’re just lookin’ for trouble."

Amihan let out a mock gasp, pressing a hand to her chest. "Me? Trouble? I’d never."

She took a slow sip, letting the sting of rum coat her tongue, before passing it back to him.

Gibbs chuckled, low and knowing, but didn’t argue.

It was his fault, really.

The way his hands would brush against her waist in passing, the way his voice would drop just a little lower when they spoke in quiet corners, the way he looked at her sometimes—like he was testing just how far he could go before she pushed back.

And Amihan loved to push back.

"Must be a shame," she mused, tilting her head, watching him over the rim of the bottle as he drank.

He paused, swallowing. "What’s that?"

She shrugged, feigning innocence. "Well, you’re about to be gone for a while. Two whole weeks. Must be rough, leaving all this behind."

She gestured vaguely to herself, her smile downright wicked.

Gibbs choked on his drink.

He coughed, setting the bottle down with a clunk, shooting her a look that was equal parts amused and exasperated.

"Lass," he grumbled, clearing his throat, "you’re playin’ a dangerous game."

Amihan smirked, pleased. "Am I?" she asked, leaning in slightly. "I seem to recall it was you brushing my waist earlier."

Gibbs grumbled something into his beard, shifting like a man suddenly too aware of his surroundings.

Amihan leaned back, victorious.

He may have been a seasoned pirate, but when it came to this, she had him outmatched.

"You’re terrible," Gibbs muttered, shaking his head.

"Only because you let me be," she said, grinning.

Gibbs sighed, picking up the bottle again, muttering something about temptresses and bad luck.

Amihan only laughed.

Because for all his grumbling—he never did pull away first.

The bottle of rum wobbled as Gibbs set it down, his hand not quite as steady as it was a moment ago.

Amihan noticed. She always did. A slow smirk tugged at her lips as she leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee, chin propped against her palm. "You look warm," she mused, studying the way he tugged at his collar.

Gibbs exhaled through his nose. "Might be the drink."

"Might be," she agreed, though they both knew better.

A warm breeze curled around them, carrying the scent of salt and old wood, the whisper of the sea rocking La Doncella . The rest of the ship had quieted, save for the distant murmurs of the crew who hadn’t yet turned in. It left them here—alone, bathed in dim lantern light, tension thick as the air before a storm.

Gibbs picked up the bottle again, but before he could bring it to his lips, Amihan’s fingers caught his wrist. He froze.

Her touch was light, barely there, but it burned all the same.

"Now, now," she murmured, plucking the bottle from his grasp, her fingers lingering just a moment too long. "Drinking won’t save you, old man."

Gibbs huffed, shifting in his seat. "Save me from what, exactly?"

Amihan took a slow sip, the corner of her mouth curving as she swallowed. She licked the stray drop from her bottom lip, eyes locked on his.

"From me," she purred.

Gibbs swallowed hard.

His fingers curled into his knee, as if physically restraining himself from touching her.

And Amihan?

She liked it.

Liked watching him war with himself. Liked seeing just how much he’d let her get away with. She set the bottle aside and shifted closer, her knee brushing against his.

Gibbs stiffened, his breath shorter now.

"You’re dangerous," he muttered.

Amihan grinned.

"And you’re tempted."

Gibbs exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

"Yer gonna be the death of me, lass," he murmured.

Amihan tilted her head, pretending to consider. "Mm. Maybe."

Then she moved in.

Closer.

So close, he could feel the heat of her breath, the softness of her skin as her fingers skated up his arm, trailing slowly, deliberately.

Gibbs shuddered.

Her lips barely brushed his ear as she whispered—

"How lucky do you feel tonight, sailor?"

Gibbs snapped.

With a gruff growl, his hands found her waist, pulling her behind a stack of barrels, the hesitation gone, replaced by something raw and wanting.

Amihan let out a soft, pleased laugh, curling her arms around his neck, pressing against him as he pushed her against the rough wood, their bodies flush.

Distant voices drifted through the night, blurred by the lull of the waves. The subtle risk of it sent a shiver down Amihan’s spine as she let her hands explore, daring to push his limits.

Gibbs groaned, burying his face against her neck, his breath hot and heavy.

Her fingers fisted in his shirt as she rocked against him, reveling in the heat pooling between them. His grip tightened at her hips, desperate, claiming. She gasped as his lips found the curve of her throat, pressing hard enough to leave a mark, a reminder.

The sound of a bottle tipping over nearby snapped them from their daze. Gibbs stilled, his breath ragged as they listened—waiting, straining for any sign that they'd been caught.

Nothing.

Just the creak of the ship, the steady lull of waves, the distant laughter of drunken pirates.

Amihan exhaled a breathy chuckle, her lips brushing against his ear. "Close call, old man."

Gibbs muttered a curse, his fingers digging into her thigh. "Ye’ve got no shame."

She grinned, pressing her body flush against his. "And you love it."

His response was lost between the press of her lips and the heat of the night, as the sea whispered its approval around them, carrying them deeper into the thrill of forbidden indulgence, both knowing the consequences yet unwilling to stop.

Gibbs’ hands roamed, rough and sure, his fingers pressing into the dips of her waist, drawing her flush against him. Amihan let out a quiet hum, her nails teasing against the nape of his neck. They moved in sync, the heat between them intoxicating, each touch igniting a deeper need.

His breath came out ragged, his restraint slipping as Amihan’s teasing fingers dipped lower. He caught her wrist, his grip firm, halting her.

“Ye play too much, lass,” he murmured, his voice thick with warning, yet he made no move to step away.

Amihan’s smirk was devilish. “And you take too long, old man.”

With a growl, Gibbs shifted, pressing her firmly against the barrels, the rough wood at her back doing nothing to cool the fire between them. His lips found her pulse, lingering, teeth scraping just enough to make her breath hitch. She arched into him, her body alight with the rawness of it all.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of boots clunked against the deck, a reminder of where they were, how reckless this was. But neither of them cared. Not when they had this, this stolen moment, this urgency between them that refused to be ignored.

Gibbs’ fingers trailed lower, his touch sending a delicious shiver up her spine. Amihan bit back a gasp, her nails digging into his arms, grounding herself as the world around them faded, leaving only the rhythm of the sea and the fevered exchange between them.

“Damn you,” Gibbs breathed, his forehead pressing to hers, his restraint hanging by a thread. “Ye’re gonna ruin me.”

Amihan grinned, breathless. “That was always the plan.”

Gibbs’ hands slid down, tracing the curve of her waist before dipping lower, his fingers gliding over the fabric of her skirt. He found the slit, parting it effortlessly, his calloused hand sliding against the smooth skin of her thigh. He gripped her leg, testing, teasing, his thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles. Amihan’s breath hitched, her eyes locked onto his, daring him to take what they both knew she was offering.

The ship rocked beneath them, a subtle reminder of the world beyond this moment, but it might as well have been miles away. Nothing else mattered—only the heat between them, the undeniable pull drawing them closer.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Gibbs gave in, his mouth crashing against hers, all rough desperation and need. Amihan melted into him, her fingers twisting into his hair as his grip tightened, claiming her in a way that left no room for doubt.

Her back pressed against the barrels as his body covered hers, the tension snapping like a rope pulled too tight. Every inch of her burned beneath his touch, his calloused hands leaving trails of fire in their wake.

A muffled laugh echoed from the other side of the deck, and they froze, breathless, hearts hammering. Gibbs swallowed hard, his forehead resting against hers as they listened, waiting.

The laughter faded into the distance, and he exhaled sharply. “Ye really are trouble, lass.”

Amihan smirked, her fingers grazing down his chest. “And yet, here you are.”

He chuckled, a deep, rough sound that sent another shiver racing down her spine. “Aye. Here I am.”

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Gibbs exhaled, his grip on her tightening as if anchoring himself to this moment, to her. His lips brushed along her jaw, trailing down the curve of her neck, tasting the salt on her skin. Amihan sighed, tilting her head to give him more, fingers slipping beneath his coat, nails dragging lightly over his back.

The ship rocked again, the distant clatter of crates shifting reminding them of the risk, the razor-thin edge of getting caught. But it only fueled the fire between them, the urgency thickening like the humid night air.

Gibbs’ hands roamed lower, his breath uneven as he pressed against her. “Ye’re drivin’ me mad, lass.”

Amihan hummed, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low growl from him. “Then stop thinking.”

He did. For once in his life, he let himself take what was offered without second-guessing—take what he can, and give nothing back. His mouth covered hers again, claiming, devouring, stealing every sound she gave him. The barrels behind her creaked under their combined weight, but Amihan barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the press of Gibbs against her, the rough drag of his hands, the way he fit against her as if molded by the sea for this very moment.

His name left her lips in a breathless whisper, her body arching to meet his touch. Gibbs cursed under his breath, his restraint fraying at the edges, giving way to something primal. The realization sent a rush of heat through her, leaving her dizzy, wanting.

The ship groaned, another reminder of the world beyond them, yet neither moved to part. If anything, Gibbs pressed closer, his grip possessive, protective, as though daring the night itself to take this away.

Amihan’s pulse thrummed against his lips as he kissed the hollow of her throat, his hands mapping every curve, every dip, committing her to memory. She clung to him, her body alight with need, her breath a whisper against his ear.

“Gibbs…”

His name had never sounded like that before, had never carried the weight of longing, of surrender. He stilled, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against hers once more.

A choice hung between them, unspoken yet understood. One step further, and there’d be no turning back. Not for either of them.

Gibbs’ fingers traced her cheek, rough yet achingly gentle. “Are ye sure, lass?”

Amihan searched his face, seeing something in his eyes that made her heart clench. A tenderness she hadn’t expected, a quiet reverence hidden beneath the rugged exterior.

She answered the only way she knew how.

By pulling him back to her, sealing the moment between them with a kiss that left no room for doubt.

Gibbs deepened the kiss, his hands exploring the familiar terrain of her body with renewed purpose. The weight of the night, the scent of salt and wood, the distant hum of the ocean—it all blurred into the urgency between them. Amihan pressed closer, feeling the heat of him through layers of fabric, her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw before sliding down his chest.

The realization hit her in that moment—this was different. There was no turning back, no teasing game left to play. The hunger between them was matched only by something deeper, something unspoken yet understood in the way Gibbs held her, the way his touch was both possessive and careful.

His lips brushed against the shell of her ear as he whispered, "Ye don’t know what ye do to me."

Amihan’s breath hitched, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Then show me."

Gibbs didn’t need to be told twice. With a swift motion, he lifted her just enough to shift them further into the shadows, where only the sea bore witness to what was about to unfold.

The press of his body against hers deepened, the last vestiges of hesitation slipping away. Amihan gasped as his hands roamed, his touch deliberate, reverent in a way she had not expected. Every inch of her felt claimed, every kiss a promise, a quiet declaration between two souls who knew the sea could take everything in an instant.

Their breaths mingled, the taste of rum and salt between them, the night air thick with heat and anticipation. The ship rocked beneath them, a silent spectator to the passion unfolding in the dim shadows. Amihan’s fingers tangled in Gibbs’ hair as she arched into him, her body singing under the weight of his touch.

He moved with a certainty that left no doubt, his hands charting a course over her skin like a seasoned sailor navigating familiar waters. Amihan surrendered to him, her body pressed into the rough wood, the ache of longing finally finding release in the storm between them.

The sounds of the ocean swallowed them whole, and in that moment, nothing else mattered—only the two of them, lost in each other, carried away by the tide of something neither could name but both refused to let go.

The heat between them pulsed like the steady rhythm of the waves, unrelenting and boundless. Gibbs’ fingers traced the curve of Amihan’s spine, his grip both possessive and reverent. Her breath hitched as his lips moved lower, pressing against her collarbone, his touch igniting a fire that neither the cool sea air nor common sense could extinguish.

A deep groan rumbled from Gibbs' throat as Amihan tugged him closer, her nails scraping lightly against the exposed skin beneath his coat. "Ye drive me mad, lass," he muttered against her skin, his voice rough, unraveling.

She smirked, breathless. "Then let yourself go."

With a hushed curse, he did. The last of his restraint snapped like a frayed rope, and suddenly, there was nothing between them but need, the hunger of two souls drawn together by fate and folly. The ship rocked, and they moved with it, their bodies in sync with the ocean’s rhythm, their whispers lost in the creak of the wood and the distant laughter of oblivious crewmen.

His grip on her waist tightened as he pulled her flush against him, the force of it pressing her back against the barrels. She gasped, his hands steadying her before his hips rolled against hers, sending a shockwave of pleasure through her core. Amihan grasped onto his shoulders, her body responding instinctively to the unrelenting push and pull between them.

Gibbs’ breath came in rough, uneven bursts, each movement a deliberate claim, his body pressing her deeper into the wood with every thrust. But when he felt resistance, his movements faltered. His hands gripped her hips, his breath hitching in realization. He pulled back slightly, eyes searching hers, confusion flashing across his face.

“Lass…?”

Amihan swallowed hard, her fingers digging into his arms. She held his gaze, her breath unsteady, her body trembling beneath him. Understanding dawned on him, and for the first time in years, Gibbs hesitated.

“You’ve never—”

She shook her head, her lips parting, but no words came. Instead, she only tightened her grip on him, her legs pulling him closer. "Don't stop."

Gibbs’ chest rose and fell with the weight of what she had just given him. His touch softened for just a moment, his fingers brushing along her cheek, down her jaw, as if committing her to memory. And then, with careful reverence, he pushed forward, sinking into her slowly, his breath shuddering as he felt her body yield to him.

Amihan tensed, a sharp gasp escaping her lips, her nails biting into his skin. The sting of pain flickered across her features before it was replaced with something deeper, something raw. Gibbs clenched his jaw, holding still, his hands gripping her tightly as he fought the urge to lose himself completely.

“Breathe, lass,” he murmured, his forehead pressing to hers, his voice rough yet impossibly gentle. “Let me take care of ye.”

She exhaled shakily, her fingers slipping from his shoulders to the back of his neck, anchoring herself to him. The burn eased as her body adjusted, the pain giving way to something else, something unfamiliar yet intoxicating.

Then, he moved.

A slow, steady rhythm, careful at first, until he felt her body relax beneath him. She gasped again, but this time, it was different. A new kind of ache took hold—deeper, warmer. Her hips rolled in response, and when she moaned his name, breathless and wanting, Gibbs lost the last of his restraint.

His grip tightened, his pace deepening, claiming every inch of her, filling the space between them with nothing but heat and movement. The ship rocked, the ocean roared, and their bodies followed the same rhythm, rising and falling with the waves.

Her breath hitched each time he thrust deeper, her body molding to him, taking all that he gave and asking for more. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him in, urging him closer, until there was no space left between them, only the desperate push and pull of their bodies.

“Damn it, lass,” he groaned, his forehead pressing against hers, their sweat-slicked skin melding as they lost themselves in the fire that had been simmering between them for far too long.

Amihan gasped as his pace quickened, his movements deep and purposeful, pushing her to the very edge. She clawed at his back, her body arching, chasing the raw pleasure he gave so freely.

The ship lurched beneath them, the waves rising, but neither faltered. Their bodies surged together in a frantic rhythm, each motion building toward something inevitable, unstoppable.

His name tumbled from her lips, breathless and raw. Gibbs growled, his grip tightening on her hips as he drove into her, his body pressing her down, holding her there as if he needed to feel every inch of her. Heat coiled in her core, building with every rough, hungry movement, her nails digging into his shoulders. When she broke, it ripped through her, leaving her gasping beneath him, her body clenching around his. A sharp cry escaped her as a sudden wave of pleasure surged through her, liquid wetting her skirt and pooling onto the floor beneath them.

He wasn’t far behind, a low groan escaping as he spilled into her, his body jerking with the force of it. She felt the warmth of his seed filling her, spreading heat deep inside, making her shudder as the sensation overwhelmed her. Their breathing was ragged, the night air thick around them, sweat clinging to their skin. Amihan's grip on him didn’t loosen, her fingers curling against his chest, holding onto the heat between them. There was no regret, no second thoughts, only the weight of what had just happened between them.

Gibbs let out a breath, his hand moving to her face, his thumb running along her cheek, rough against soft. His voice was quieter now, more grounded. "What have ye done to me?"

Amihan, still catching her breath, smiled against his lips. "Something you’ll never forget."

He let out a husky chuckle, pressing his forehead to hers. "Aye, that be the truth."

The moment lingered between them, heated and unspoken, before reality called her back.

Slipping from Gibbs’ hold, Amihan smoothed down her skirt, adjusting the fabric where it had bunched up around her thighs. The lingering warmth of him still pulsed through her, a reminder of what had just transpired. Quietly, she slipped out of his quarters, moving through the dimly lit corridors of the ship, her heartbeat still unsteady.

When she finally pushed open the door to her shared cabin, Isolde was wide awake, arms crossed, smirking in the flickering lantern light.

"I didn’t know you were actually gonna do it," she mused, tossing a pouch full of coins to Amihan.

Amihan barely caught it, blinking in confusion before realization dawned. Her face flushed as she shot a glare at Isolde.

"So, how was the first?" Isolde quipped, her smirk widening.

Amihan froze mid-step, her entire body stiffening. "You bet on me?" she sputtered.

Isolde let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. "Virgin," she muttered, just loud enough for Amihan to hear, the teasing edge unmistakable.

Amihan groaned, quickly shutting the door behind her and tossing herself onto her cot, dragging the blanket over her head in a feeble attempt to disappear.

Isolde leaned back against the wall, grinning to herself. "Welcome to the club, Chickadee."

Amihan peeked out from under the blanket, her glare half-hearted. "Chickadee? Seriously?"

"Oh, you better get used to it, Chickadee," Isolde teased, the name already rolling off her tongue like it had always been hers.

Amihan groaned again, burying her face into the pillow as Isolde’s laughter echoed through the cabin. Then, with a wicked grin, Isolde added, "I’ll let Ysá know that she owes you too."

Chapter Text

Heat clung to Ysábella’s bare skin as she stirred, the golden light of morning spilling through the cracks in her cabin. The sheets tangled around her legs, cool where they hadn’t been pressed against her body. The scent of salt and aged wood filled the air, laced with something deeper—something unmistakably him. A warmth that did not belong to her alone.

She stretched, the motion slow and languid, feeling the pleasant ache deep in her limbs. The remnants of the night before still pulsed beneath her skin, a memory branded into her flesh, lingering where his hands had been. Jack had been here. His touch still clung to her, his heat fading but not yet gone.

For once, she woke with a strange sense of peace. No exhaustion weighing down her bones. No unease creeping at the edges of her mind. Just the rare, fleeting sensation of being alive.

The sheets slipped from her as she sat up, cool air rushing to replace the warmth he left behind. A shiver rippled down her spine as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her skin bare to the open air of the cabin.

She reached for her clothes, the fabric brushing against her as she dressed. The shift from heat to chill was stark, sobering—a reminder that the night was over, and so was his presence.

By the time she stepped onto the deck, the salty breeze rushed to meet her, crisp and invigorating. The ship rocked gently beneath her, the sea steady and endless beyond the bow. La Doncella hummed with life, her crew moving with practiced ease, the rigging creaking above.

Then—a voice rang out.

"Land ho, Captain!"

Ysábella’s gaze snapped toward the helm, where Isolde stood, one hand gripping the wheel, the other thrust forward toward the horizon.

She followed the direction of her outstretched finger, and her heart thumped.

There, just past the veil of clouds, an island rose from the sea.

Even from this distance, she could make out the ships docked along its port—large vessels and smaller merchant crafts, their sails furled and waiting. A place of trade. A place of whispers.

A place where Jack Sparrow would disappear the moment his boots touched the dock.

A small pinch pressed against her chest, something she quickly pushed down.

Two weeks.

That’s how long it would take for Jack to return. If he returned at all.

Her stomach coiled tight at the thought.

The plan was set—Jack and Gibbs would leave to gather a crew and find a ship, while she stayed behind to face Villanueva alone.

Alone.

The word churned in her gut like a slow-building storm.

Something in her whispered that today would be the day.

Today, Jack would leave.

Now that he’d had his fun, what reason did he have to stay?

She tried to push the thought aside, burying it beneath logic and the plan—but it kept creeping back, tightening around her like an unseen vice.

And he certainly did not stay for anyone.

A familiar presence settled beside her, the scent of rum and something distinctly him wrapping around her like an old song.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Jack mused, leaning against the railing. His rings glinted in the sunlight as he gestured toward the island ahead. “A place you've never been, yet you already know what’s waiting for you.”

Ysábella didn’t look at him. “And what’s waiting for you, Jack?”

He smirked, but she heard the pause before he spoke. “Opportunity. A bit of adventure. Might even stumble upon something valuable, if luck’s on my side.”

Her grip on the railing tightened. “And will you come back once you’ve found it?”

Jack turned to her then, his expression unreadable. “Now, Pigeon, have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Jack sighed dramatically. “I always come back, love.”

She wanted to believe him—desperately. But something inside her whispered otherwise.

A sudden call rang out from the crow’s nest.

A moment later, chittering filled the air as Jack the Monkey scampered down the rigging, his tiny hands clutching a stolen trinket—Ysábella’s dagger.

“Oi! You little—” Ysábella lunged for him, but the monkey was faster, leaping onto Jack Sparrow’s shoulder with an impish screech.

Jack chuckled, plucking the dagger from his furry companion. “Now, now, no need for violence. He’s just appreciating fine craftsmanship.”

Ysábella crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Control your rat before I skewer it.”

Jack the Monkey bared his teeth in what could only be described as a smug grin before skittering onto the railing, tail flicking playfully.

Jack Sparrow twirled the dagger between his fingers before handing it back to her, palm up. “There you go, love. No harm done.”

Ysábella took it without a word, but her fingers brushed against his for a heartbeat too long. She pulled away first.

Jack’s gaze lingered on her before he turned his attention back to the island ahead, eyes shadowed by something she couldn’t quite place.

"Port ahead!" came the call from above.

Ysábella’s heart clenched.

And something deep inside her whispered—he might never return.

The afternoon light stretched long across the deck, casting wavering reflections upon the polished wood. The rhythmic creak of the ship blended with the distant murmur of waves, a steady, unrelenting reminder that time was slipping through her fingers. Ysábella remained at the railing, her hands gripping the grain like it was the only solid thing left in her world. The sun dipped lower, gilding the horizon in a blaze of amber and crimson, turning the waters into molten gold. The beauty of it felt like a cruel mockery—like the world was celebrating something she wasn’t ready to let go of. The island loomed ever closer, its docks lined with ships, its streets no doubt teeming with whispers and opportunities. A place where fortunes were made and lost, where promises held weight only for as long as it was convenient. Jack had once told her that ports were like crossroads—meant for arrivals and departures, never for lingering.

She exhaled, trying to steady the warring thoughts inside her. The scent of tar and brine filled her lungs, grounding her for a moment. But the weight in her chest refused to settle, as though her very soul was reaching for something already slipping away. Jack was leaving. She had always known this moment would come, but that knowledge did nothing to quell the storm unraveling in her chest. Had she truly expected otherwise? Expected that, after everything, he might linger a little longer? That he might—for once—choose to stay?

The weight of uncertainty pressed against her ribs as she turned, eyes scanning the deck for him. It didn’t take long. Jack stood at the quarterdeck, hands on his belt, talking to Mr. Gibbs. Perched on his shoulder, Jack the Monkey chattered softly, his tiny hands clutching at the worn fabric of Jack’s coat. The creature’s beady eyes flickered with mischief as he observed the bustling port, as if already plotting his next theft. He looked at ease, unbothered, already halfway in another world—one filled with new adventures and distractions.

For a fleeting second, she considered walking away. Letting him go without another word. If she did, she could pretend none of this mattered, that she hadn’t foolishly let herself hope for something more.

But she wasn’t the kind of woman to turn away, nor was she one to deceive herself with empty comforts.

Ysábella found him near the gangplank, the port bustling with traders and sailors, the scent of spice and fish thick in the air. Jack stood with his back to her, speaking in low tones with Mr. Gibbs, their words carried away by the wind. But she knew what they were saying. The ship. The crew. The plan.

She stopped just short of him, her throat tightening.

Jack turned before she could speak, as if he’d sensed her there. His gaze swept over her, lingering for a fraction longer than usual, searching her face with something unreadable—curiosity, perhaps, or hesitation—before a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Come to see me off, Pigeon?”

She hated how easy he made it sound. As if he were merely stepping out for an evening drink and not leaving her behind—to face Villanueva alone.

"You’ll be back,” she said, testing the words on her tongue.

Jack’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Aye,” he drawled, “wouldn’t dream of missing the grand finale.”

Ysábella hesitated for only a breath before she stepped closer. Jack’s smirk didn’t waver, but his eyes darkened as she reached for him. She caught the collar of his coat, pulling him in—just enough to feel the heat of him against her. He didn’t resist.

Their lips met, slow and deliberate, the kiss laced with the weight of everything unsaid. Jack responded in kind, deepening it, his hands finding her waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of her coat. The world around them dimmed—the sounds of the port, the shifting tide, the murmurs of the crew—all fading into the space between them.

When they finally broke apart, he lingered, his forehead nearly touching hers. “That almost makes me want to stay,” he murmured, voice teasing yet softened by something real.

She wanted to believe him. Desperately. But something inside her whispered otherwise.

She swallowed hard, the weight of unsaid things pressing against her ribs. “Jack…”

He tilted his head slightly, waiting.

"I love you." The words tumbled out, quieter than she intended, but no less certain.

For a moment, Jack simply looked at her. Studied her. Then, with a slow, knowing grin, he leaned in.

“Love you too, darling.” He paused, voice lowering as he searched her face. "You do know that, don’t you?”

It wasn’t what she wanted—what she needed—but it was Jack, in all his infuriating, elusive truth.

He kissed her, soft at first, then deeper, as if he could make up for the uncertainty, for the unspoken things neither of them dared name. She clung to him, wanting to etch this moment into her skin, to anchor herself in something real before he slipped away.

When he pulled back, his hands lingered on her arms, his thumbs brushing her skin. “I’ll be back,” he promised again, his voice lighter now, teasing. “Try not to get into too much trouble without me.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving behind only the ghost of his touch.

Ysábella stood frozen as he and Mr. Gibbs disappeared into the crowd.

She watched, heart hammering, waiting—hoping—that he would look back.

If he did, she would take it as a sign that he truly meant it. That he truly loved her.

But he never did.

And as the sea of people swallowed him whole, Ysábella felt something inside her splinter—a fragile thread of hope snapping under the weight of reality. But belief had never kept a man from staying. But as his figure disappeared into the crowd without looking back, the ache in her chest deepened, leaving her with nothing but the cold certainty that she had been foolish to hope at all.

Diego approached Ysábella just as the crew finished securing the rigging for docking. His usual smirk was in place, his movements light and casual as he adjusted his coat.

"I’ll be off to spread the news, Captain," Diego announced, brushing off his coat. "Villanueva’s men will be expecting a whisper or two. Best we make sure they hear exactly what we want them to."

Ysábella nodded without hesitation. "Be quick about it. We don’t have time to waste."

Diego offered a dramatic bow before slipping down the gangplank, vanishing into the crowd of merchants, sailors, and misfits that made up the bustling port city.

With him gone, Ysábella turned her attention to La Doncella’s resupply and repairs. The last battle had left its mark—several torn sails needed mending, barrels of fresh water and food needed restocking, and the hull bore scars from cannon fire. The crew worked tirelessly under her command, some hauling supplies while others labored over the damaged rigging.

She inspected the ropes, running her fingers over frayed edges. "These won’t last through another storm," she muttered.

Isolde, sweat gleaming on her brow, joined her. "We’re doing what we can with what we’ve got, but some of these will need proper replacements."

Ysábella nodded. "We’ll get them. Prioritize the sails first. I want La Doncella in full fighting shape by nightfall."

The afternoon sun bore down on them, heat thick in the air as the deck bustled with activity. Every clang of a hammer, every snap of fabric being sewn back together, felt like another tick of a clock counting down to Jack’s departure. The weight of responsibility settled on her shoulders heavier than ever.

Time crawled forward, the afternoon dragging into the late hours. Shadows stretched across the deck as the sun inched toward the horizon, casting everything in deep gold. The crew worked tirelessly, their chatter growing quieter, their movements more deliberate as the day waned. The scent of tar and salt lingered, mixing with the sweat of labor, while the occasional cry of a gull echoed overhead, a lonely reminder of the shifting tides. Ysábella watched over it all, feeling the silent press of inevitability tightening around her. Every task completed was one step closer to the moment she wasn’t ready to face.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Diego finally returned, stepping onto the deck with five men in tow. Their boots thudded against the wooden planks, their gazes flicking over the ship with practiced ease. The scent of salt and sweat clung to them, their clothes bearing the wear of countless days at sea. Each bore the unmistakable marks of a sailor’s life—calloused hands, sunbaked skin, and the quiet, measured movements of men who had spent years working the decks of different vessels. They exchanged glances with the crew, offering nods but keeping mostly to themselves.

Diego clapped a hand on the shoulder of the nearest man, who gave a short nod in return, his lips pressing into a thin, knowing smile. There was a flicker of familiarity in his eyes, a quiet understanding shared between men who had spent years braving the same seas. He turned to Ysábella, a lopsided grin playing on his lips, as if pleased with his own resourcefulness. "Since Jack and Mr. Gibbs have left and we’ve yet to find a replacement for Felipe, I thought it wise to bring in extra hands. They know their way around a ship. Figured we could use more crew."

Ysábella let her gaze sweep over them, noting the way they carried themselves—not with the desperation of men seeking refuge, but with the quiet confidence of those accustomed to the deck. Their stance was firm, movements efficient, as if they already knew their place aboard a ship. Her brow lifted slightly. "And you’re sure they’ll do what they’re supposed to?"

Diego nodded confidently. "I’ll vouch for them. I know two of them personally. They’ve got steady hands and know their way around a ship. I’ll make sure they pull their weight."

She hesitated for only a breath, weighing her options, then gave a short nod. If they could work, she wouldn't turn away extra hands. "Fine. Put them to work."

...

As dusk neared, Ysábella guided La Doncella into a secluded cove on the island’s eastern side. The cliffs shielded the waters from prying eyes, and the dense jungle loomed just beyond the rocky shore, a natural barrier against unwanted visitors. The crew worked swiftly, anchoring the ship in the shallow inlet, their movements efficient despite the quiet unease hanging in the air.

A small group descended onto the beach, their arms laden with provisions—barrels of rum rolled onto the sand, sacks of dried fruit slung over shoulders, and loaves of bread passed carefully between hands. At the center of it all sat a whole roasted lechón, its golden skin glistening in the dimming light. The scent of crisped pork and salted air mingled, filling the cove with an almost festive air, though the occasion was anything but celebratory.

Ysábella stepped onto the shore, watching as her crew set up the supplies. They murmured among themselves, exchanging glances heavy with unease. She exhaled, steadying herself before turning to face them.

"You've all done more for me than I ever deserved," she began, her voice even yet weighted with gratitude. "I won’t lie to you—the road ahead will not be easy. Some of you have families waiting. Others have their own paths to follow. If any of you wish to leave, now is the time. I will not hold it against you."

Silence settled over the group, broken only by the distant cry of gulls. Then, after a long pause, a man stepped forward—Reuben, one of her older deckhands. His grizzled face was lined with years at sea, and his weathered hands clenched at his sides.

"Captain," he said, voice rough but steady. "I’ve sailed many battles, but this... this isn’t a fight I can see myself coming out of. Not with the odds stacked against us."

Another stepped beside him—Santiago, a wiry sailor who had joined her crew after a skirmish with the navy. He nodded, shifting uneasily. "I’ve got no love for Villanueva, but this isn’t my fight. It never was."

Ysábella gave a slow nod, taking in their faces. “This fight was never yours. Go, if you must. No shame in it.”

She reached into her coat and tossed them both a small pouch of coins. Reuben caught his with a slight nod, while Santiago hesitated before clutching it. "Find safe passage. Spend it well."

They accepted the gesture with murmured thanks before stepping back into the shadows of the cove, disappearing into the jungle-bound path leading inland.

Isolde had been silent throughout, standing near the water’s edge.

Beside her, Amihan sat quietly, running a cloth over the wavy edge of her kris with hesitant strokes. The faint moonlight traced its jagged curves as she studied the weapon with quiet determination—new to its weight, still unfamiliar with its use, but trying nonetheless. Though her posture remained relaxed, her gaze flicked to the treeline now and then, keenly aware of the shifting darkness beyond.

As the waves lapped against the shore, Isolde finally spoke. "And what of us, Ysábella?" Her tone was steady, but something deeper lurked beneath it—something searching.

Ysábella met her gaze, the moonlight catching the glint of uncertainty in Isolde’s eyes.

She glanced at Amihan, who gave a quiet nod, her presence a silent show of loyalty. "We stay," she answered. "We fight. And if we fall—" her gaze sharpened, "—we make sure it’s not in vain."

Isolde exhaled, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a fraction. Her fingers curled briefly into fists before she relaxed them, as if steeling herself for the battle ahead. "Then let’s make sure we don’t."

Chapter Text

Ysábella plunged the sponge into the barrel, squeezing out the excess water before dragging it over her skin. The coolness barely registered. The damp cloth traced over her collarbone, down the slope of her breast, her stomach. She repeated the motion, slow, methodical, yet the heat clinging to her refused to dissipate.

Then, something in the air shifted.

Her hand stilled.

Faint, just a whisper at first. A scent.

She inhaled, brow furrowing.

Salt. Wood. Damp cloth. Sweat.

But beneath it—something else.

A deeper musk, laced with something warm , almost animalistic . It curled in the back of her throat, creeping under her skin.

Her grip on the sponge tightened.

Again, she dragged it across her arms, her neck, her chest. The water dripped down her body, pooling at her feet, but the sensation did little to rid her of the scent. It wasn’t her, was it? The heat of the day, the salt on her skin? Maybe—maybe that was all it was.

She scrubbed harder, but an unease crept beneath her skin, deeper than just the lingering musk. It wasn't just a scent—it was a memory, a presence, something that stirred within her like an echo.

The scent didn’t just linger —it seemed to bloom , unfurling through her senses, as if awakened by her very touch.

Her pulse stuttered, caught between recognition and denial, her body reacting before her mind could catch up.

She exhaled sharply, pushing the sponge across her stomach, over her hips, pressing until her skin burned. But the more she fought it, the deeper it sank—seeping not just into her skin, but into her breath, her blood, something more than physical.

A warmth stirred low in her belly.

She sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening.

No.

Her thighs pressed together, a slow throb curling at the base of her spine, spreading outward, insistent , crawling under her flesh like a sickness .

The cabin suddenly felt smaller. Closer. Suffocating.

The scent was everywhere now.

Lodged inside her lungs.

Wrapping around her like an embrace.

Her breath came in shallow bursts. She shoved the sponge into the water with a splash, staggering back. The room was too hot. Her skin prickled. Her muscles tensed, wound tight, coiled—

Her hands shook as she grabbed her dress, barely managing to pull it over her damp skin before she threw the door open.

The night air hit her like a slap.

Cold. Crisp. A relief that barely reached her.

She gulped in a breath, then another, pressing a hand against her stomach, grounding herself, willing the warmth to fade, to smother the lingering heat curling inside her like embers refusing to die.

A voice cut through the pounding in her ears.

"Everything alright, Ysá?"

Ysábella jerked, turning sharply.

Isolde stood a few feet away, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one leg, expression unreadable beneath the silver glow of the moon. Her gaze flicked over Ysábella’s face, lingering a moment too long.

Ysábella forced her lips into something like a smile. "Yeah, yeah, I’m fine."

Isolde’s brow lifted.

"You sure?"

Ysábella nodded, too quick. "Just need a rest."

Isolde didn’t look convinced.

A pause stretched between them, the creak of the ship filling the silence.

Finally, she gave a slow nod, though her gaze didn’t soften.

"If you say so."

Ysábella turned back to the sea, gripping the railing, knuckles white.

The scent was gone now.

But the feeling still crawled beneath her skin, whispering in the back of her mind, lingering just enough to make her wonder if it had ever truly left. She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling the salt air, letting the wind cool the fever still burning in her veins.

The deck creaked as Isolde shifted beside her, arms crossed, gaze distant. The ship rocked gently beneath them, the hum of the crew below nothing more than background noise—muted laughter, the occasional clink of bottles. The illusion of control. Of normalcy.

She exhaled slowly. Then, without looking at Isolde—"If I fall, you take command of La Doncella."

Isolde scoffed, shaking her head. "No."

Ysábella turned her head slightly, catching the hard set of Isolde’s jaw, the way her shoulders stiffened.

"No," Isolde repeated, firmer this time. "We’ll get you out before that happens."

Ysábella’s fingers curled around the railing, knuckles white. "This isn’t an option, Isolde."

"You’re talking like you’re already dead."

A slow exhale.

"I’m being practical."

Isolde said nothing. Just shook her head, looking out at the horizon as if she could will away the inevitability of Ysábella’s words.

"Listen to me," Ysábella continued, quieter now, but steady. "You and I both know how Villanueva is. If something happens, if things go wrong—"

She hesitated.

"If Jack doesn’t come back in time," Isolde muttered, finishing the thought for her.

Ysábella clenched her jaw. She wanted to believe he would. But if he didn’t…

"The crew needs a leader. Someone they trust. And they trust you."

Isolde exhaled, rolling her shoulders like she could shake off the weight settling between them. "You don’t get to do this."

Ysábella raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

"Act like you’re giving me a choice when we both know you’ll do whatever the hell you want."

Ysábella let out a breathless laugh.

Isolde pushed off the railing, stepping closer. "Fine."

But instead of nodding, she gripped Ysábella’s arm. A silent promise.

Something twisted in Ysábella’s chest.

For a moment, she almost told her everything.

The fear. The doubt. The weight pressing down on her like an anchor tied to her ribs.

But instead, she kissed her.

Brief. Deliberate. A choice made in a single breath.

When they parted, Ysábella whispered, "No goodbyes. I’ll see you at the end."

Isolde let out a soft scoff, shaking her head. But her grip on Ysábella’s arm lingered before she finally let go.

She exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders, then—"Did he?"

Ysábella blinked. "Did he what?"

" Live up to your expectations ."

Ysábella hesitated. "Who?"

Isolde smirked slightly. "Your father."

The question settled between them, heavier than Ysábella expected.

She thought of Jack.

Thought of his ridiculous antics, the way he never truly answered a question directly, the way he seemed to float through life as if the world bent around him.

She had already decided he wouldn’t, had steeled herself against the disappointment. And yet, against all odds, he had returned.

Thought of his devil-may-care charm, the way he moved through the world as if nothing could touch him, as if everything would always turn in his favor because, for him, it usually did. The way he could be infuriating, impossible, but also—

The way he made her feel whole.

Like something that had been missing all her life had suddenly clicked into place .

Like no matter how unconventional—and by the gods, was he unconventional—he fit.

Even in the most intimate of ways.

Her pulse skipped slightly, warmth curling through her in a way that had nothing to do with the earlier haze in the cabin.

Ysábella inhaled sharply, shaking off the thought before it could take root.

Then—"I don’t know yet."

Isolde hummed. "You don’t say."

A pause.

Then—quieter now— "I wish I knew mine."

Ysábella turned to her.

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant crash of the waves and the rocking of the ship.

Then, a thought struck her.

"Didn’t your mother sail with Jack?"

Isolde frowned. "What?"

"Anamaria." Ysábella studied her now, head tilting slightly. "She sailed with Jack, didn’t she?"

Isolde’s lips parted slightly, but no words came.

The realization landed between them like a dropped anchor.

She did the math—her age, Ysábella’s age. It fit, almost too well.

Jack Sparrow—leaving a trail of little sparrows behind.

Ysábella smirked. "Wouldn’t that be something?"

Isolde scoffed, shaking her head. "Ridiculous."

Ysábella arched an eyebrow. "You sure? I mean, look at us. Maybe I should start calling you—"

"Don’t."

"—Sis."

A beat of silence. Isolde exhaled softly, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

Then—laughter.

And then, under the moonlight, their lips met again. Slower this time. Deeper.

Forgetting everything.

Forgetting the whole world.

Chapter Text

The Devil's Fortune

The night air in Tortuga reeked of rum, salt, and the promise of sin. Fires flickered from hanging lanterns, casting restless shadows across the uneven cobblestone streets. The Devil’s Fortune , one of the rowdier taverns on the island, was alive with drunken brawls and raucous sea shanties. Pirates of every creed and caliber crowded the place, reveling in their temporary shore leave.

At a long wooden counter lined with empty bottles and half-conscious drunks, Jack Sparrow sat nursing a bottle of rum. His fingers drummed absentmindedly against the wood, and his dark kohl-rimmed eyes lazily scanned the room. Perched on his shoulder, Jack the Monkey chittered impatiently, his tiny hands reaching for the bottle.

"Not for you, mate," Jack muttered, swatting the little creature away as it bared its sharp teeth in protest. The monkey scampered down his arm, snatching a peanut off a passed-out sailor’s plate before retreating back to his perch.

Jack smirked. "That’s the spirit."

He was waiting for someone. Someone important. Someone who might tip the scales in his favor.

And then, he walked in.

Edward Kenway.

A ghost of the old pirate republic. A legend among men.

He was clad in his signature long coat, its blue fabric faded by time and sea. Pistols with ivory-inlaid grips lined his chest in twin holsters, and two gleaming cutlasses with intricately designed guards rested at his sides. His golden hair, shot through with silver, was still pulled back, revealing piercing green eyes that missed nothing. He moved with the grace of a seasoned predator—the kind who had lived and fought long enough to know exactly when to strike, and when to walk away.

Edward was no longer the man who had chased the Grand Temple’s secrets. He had left that life behind, retired from the Assassin’s cause, and had settled into a quieter existence. But even now, something in his demeanor said he was still dangerous. Still sharp. Still a man few would dare cross.

Jack smiled, his signature lazy smirk slipping into place as he leaned back against the bar. Jack the Monkey let out an excited screech, grabbing at his sleeve as if sharing in the excitement.

"Well, well, if it isn’t the great Edward Kenway."

Edward barely spared him a glance as he walked past. "Jack Sparrow. Thought you’d be dead by now."

Jack held up his bottle. "A common misconception, mate. I’m like a bad penny—always turn up when least expected." He motioned to the seat beside him. "Have a drink with me. You look positively parched."

Edward hesitated, then sighed and sat down. "Make it quick."

Jack poured him a glass of rum, sliding it across the bar. The monkey, ever opportunistic, tried to snatch it before Jack slapped a hand over the glass. Jack the Monkey hissed, tail flicking in irritation.

Jack wagged a finger. "Manners, lad. Guests first."

Edward took the glass, rolling it between his fingers before taking a slow sip. 

Jack leaned in with a knowing smirk. "Now, I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t offer you a proposition, seeing as how we’re both fine, upstanding men of fortune." 

Edward chuckled dryly, taking a sip. "Upstanding, is it? If memory serves, last time we crossed paths, you were running for your life from Spanish galleons with nothing but a rowboat and a prayer."

Jack tapped his temple. "Ah, but what you call running, I call strategic retreat. And I survived, did I not?"

Edward shook his head, unimpressed. "What do you want, Sparrow?"

Jack leaned in, his voice lowering slightly. "I’ve got a bit of a problem, see. There’s a certain pirate lord—goes by the name of Villanueva. Nasty piece of work. The kind of bloke who thinks he’s entitled to every bit of plunder he sets his eyes on. And wouldn’t you know it, he’s decided he rather fancies a bird that don’t belong to him."

Edward frowned. "A bird?"

“Aye, a bird.” Jack’s smirk remained, but there was a knowing glint in his eye. "A rare one. A pigeon, really. Worth more than all the gold in the Caribbean. And before you go thinking I’m just being sentimental, let’s just say this particular bird happens to have a mind of her own. A dangerous one, at that."

Edward’s expression darkened slightly. "Yours?"

Jack wagged a finger. "Now, I see what you’re doing. You’re thinking, ‘Jack, you’ve probably stolen that bird from him yourself,’ and you wouldn’t be entirely wrong. However—this one’s personal."

Edward studied him for a moment, then leaned back. "Not my problem."

Jack sighed theatrically. "Oh, but it is. You see, Villanueva’s not just after me. He’s been expanding his influence—taking out crews, claiming ports, making sure every pirate worth their salt bows to him. He’s got half of the Caribbean under his thumb, and if no one stops him, he’ll take the rest. Now, if that happens, well—there won’t be any room left for the likes of us."

Edward didn’t flinch. "That sounds like a you problem, Jack."

Jack tilted his head, studying him. "You’ve changed, mate. Once upon a time, you would’ve jumped at the chance to stick it to a tyrant. What happened? Did the great Edward Kenway finally decide he’s had enough of the sea?"

Edward’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.

Jack tapped his ring against his bottle, feigning nonchalance. "You know, I heard tales about you. About a time when you stood against men like Villanueva. When you fought for something bigger than yourself. But I suppose that was another life, eh?"

Edward met his gaze with a cold stare. "That life cost me everything."

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

Jack exhaled, then stood, dusting off his coat. Jack the Monkey leapt onto his shoulder, small hands gripping the fabric. “Right, well, can’t say I didn’t try.” He downed the rest of his rum in one go, then slapped a few coins on the counter. “But if you change your mind, I’ll be sailing at dawn. I’ve got a rather persuasive piece of timber that’s always open to those looking for a fight.”

Edward didn’t respond.

Jack turned to leave, but before he could take more than a few steps, Edward spoke.

"Be careful, Jack."

Jack paused, glancing back.

"Villanueva is not like the others you’ve bested. He’s ruthless. Cunning. And if you cross him, he won’t just kill you—he’ll make sure you wish you were dead first."

Jack’s smirk widened, but there was something different in his eyes. Something sharper.

"Then it’s a good thing I’ve got a knack for the impossible, savvy?"

Jack the Monkey chattered excitedly, as if agreeing.

Edward took a slow sip of his drink, then muttered, “Aye. You’ll need it—with that wreck you call a ship.”

Jack stopped mid-step.

Slowly, he turned back, tilting his head. His smirk didn’t falter, but his fingers twitched where they rested on his belt.

Edward didn’t look up, swirling the last of his rum in the glass. "I hear she’s held together more by luck than wood these days."

Jack scoffed. "She’s held together by legend, mate."

Edward finally met his gaze, unimpressed. “That so? From where I’m sitting, she sounds like a ghost story waiting for an unhappy ending.”

Jack grinned, but there was an edge to it now. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not in the habit of dying, savvy?”

Edward merely raised his glass in mock salute.

Jack tipped his hat, muttered something under his breath—bloody amateurs—and swaggered out of the tavern into the darkened streets of Tortuga.

Edward remained at the bar, staring into his drink.

He knew Villanueva’s kind. And he knew Jack Sparrow.

One would not survive the other.

The only question was—who would be left standing?

Chapter Text

Redd

The tavern was alive with the scent of rum, sweat, and the sea, its wooden beams groaning under the weight of drunken pirates. The air buzzed with raucous laughter, the clatter of dice rolling across tables, and the occasional crash of a broken mug.

Ysábella leaned back in her chair, half-listening to the chatter around her as she clutched to her drink. It wasn’t often the crew had time to relax, drink, and pretend the world outside didn’t exist. Tonight was one of those rare nights—at least, it was supposed to be.

Isolde sat beside her, kicking her boots up onto the table, smirking as she wiped ale from her lips. Amihan was quieter, watchful, her eyes scanning the room. She wasn’t used to places like this yet—not the way Ysábella and Isolde were.

Diego sat across from them, playing cards with a few of the men from La Doncella . He was winning, of course, but not enough to make enemies. Just enough to keep them all laughing.

The crew were relaxed, but Ysábella never truly was. Not in a place like this. Too many men, too many hands drifting where they shouldn’t, too many eyes lingering too long.

She felt it before she saw it—the weight of a gaze, slow and assessing.

Then, the voice came. Slurred. Thick with drink.

"Now what’s this pretty little thing doin’ here? Don’t see your kind ‘round these parts."

The words weren’t meant for her.

Ysábella’s grip on her mug tightened.

They were meant for Amihan.

The space around them did not immediately shift. The men at the other tables were still playing their games, drinking, laughing. The bartender still poured ale from behind the counter, uninterested. But the few sitting nearby? They noticed. And they were waiting.

Ysábella could feel Isolde’s smirk fade. She didn’t even have to look to know the sharpness in her friend’s gaze had returned.

Amihan did not move. She did not speak. But Ysábella saw the way her fingers curled around the wooden cup in front of her, the tension in her shoulders.

The drunk took another step closer, a slow, deliberate lean.

"Bet you’re soft. Tighter than these wenches here, eh?"

Ysábella took another slow sip of rum, letting the heat settle in her throat, ignoring the way her pulse quickened.

"Ain’t no way a girl like you is a real pirate. Too dainty. Too clean. But that’s alright, sweetheart—I got a use for that mouth."

Amihan went still.

Isolde exhaled through her nose, her fingers tapping against the hilt of the dagger at her hip. A lazy movement, but Ysábella knew the threat beneath it.

Diego set his cards down. Not abruptly. Not forcefully. Just enough to be noticed.

The drunk grinned wider, his breath thick with cheap rum and filth.

"Me and my boys got a table in the back. If you and your little lady friends wanna have some real fun tonight—"

Ysábella set her drink down, her fingers resting lightly against the rim.

The tension wasn’t just there anymore—it was crawling, sinking into the wood of the table, the air between them.

Ysábella exhaled, tension coiling in her chest. The night was heading in only one direction.

The moment hung there—thick, charged, suffocating.

The pirate grinned, licking the ale from his lips, drunk on more than just liquor. He wasn’t just talking to Amihan anymore—he was performing, putting on a show for the men watching from the nearby tables.

"Come on, love. No need to be shy. I’ll make it worth your while—"

Click.

A small, precise sound.

The flick of a blade snapping open.

The grin on the pirate’s face faltered. His gaze dropped.

Amihan twirled the exotic folding dagger between her fingers, the metal flashing under the dim lantern light—a seamless, fluid dance, unnatural in its grace. The blade spun between her hands, closing, opening, twisting in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic, as if the weapon had a mind of its own.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She didn’t have to.

Ysábella watched the pirate’s throat bob as he swallowed.

The dagger flicked open one final time—then slammed into the table.

The blade hummed in the wood, its handle catching the glow of the lantern light. Ysábella dragged her mug closer, fingers curling around the rim, but she didn’t drink. She was watching.

The tavern hadn’t fallen silent, but something in the air had shifted. A crack in the atmosphere, a thread pulled too tight, waiting to snap. It was in the way the men at the nearby tables leaned slightly forward, the way the laughter at the bar still carried, oblivious to what was about to happen.

Amihan had not moved. Her hand rested beside the blade, her fingers loose and unbothered. The flickering light cast sharp shadows across her face, her expression unreadable.

Ysábella barely breathed.

She had spent enough years in places like this, enough years reading people, knowing how these moments ended. The outcome had already formed like storm clouds on the horizon. This man wasn’t going to walk away. Not after that.

The room was still moving—dice rolling, boots shifting, drinks spilling—but those closest had quieted. Some had turned, not enough to be obvious, but enough to watch.

She could feel Diego’s stillness. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved, but he was aware, reading the moment just as she was. Calculating.

Then, the shift.

Ysábella saw it before it happened. The way his stance adjusted, how his shoulders squared, his fingers twitched.

She exhaled.

She already knew how this night would end.

His hand shot forward, reaching for the knife.

The moment shattered.

The folding dagger ripped free of the table, Amihan’s hand moving quick, fluid—faster than Ysábella had ever seen. A flick of her wrist—sharp, precise. The steel whispered across flesh. A thin red line bloomed across his knuckles.

A sharp inhale. A step back.

Then—a roar.

It didn’t matter if it was pain, shock, or humiliation. It was loud, ugly, and the exact kind of sound that turned a night into a fight. A chair scraped back. Someone laughed—too close, too amused. A tankard tipped, its contents spilling across the wooden floor.

Ysábella didn’t blink.

She saw it coming before the fist even moved.

The man lunged.

She ducked under the wild swing, boots skidding across the ale-slicked floor. The pirate’s fist crashed into the table where her head had been a moment ago, rattling the mugs and knocking over the candle, sending wax splattering.

Then, the tavern exploded into chaos.

Chairs scraped back. Boots stomped against the wood. A punch landed across someone’s jaw, followed by the heavy crash of a body hitting the ground.

Ysábella barely had time to register who threw the first punch before the whole room turned into a battleground.

The drunk who had targeted Amihan turned, snarling, ready to strike again—

A tankard of ale smashed into the side of his head.

Isolde stood over him, shaking the last of the spilled drink from her fingers, lips curling into a grin.

"Didn’t see that coming, did you, love?"

The man staggered, roaring, and lunged toward her—just as Diego’s boarding axe hooked around his arm. With a brutal yank, Diego sent him sprawling over a table, tankards and dice scattering everywhere.

Ysábella was already dealing with another man—one of the drunk’s friends, who grabbed her by the shoulder, yanking her backward. She twisted, her dagger flashing in the dim light, dragging the tip along his wrist just enough to make him recoil with a sharp curse.

Then, from the corner of her eye—movement.

Another man charged her, a broken bottle in hand.

Ysábella turned to meet him head-on—

CRACK.

The pirate dropped mid-stride, collapsing like a sack of grain.

Standing behind him, grinning wildly, was a redheaded woman in a deep crimson coat with gold embroidery. Sun-kissed skin, untamed curls catching the lanternlight, sharp eyes filled with mischief. She wielded her blunderbuss with practiced ease, gripping it near the barrel, ready to use its sturdy wooden end as a club.

With an effortless swing, she drove the heavy end of the weapon into another man’s ribs, the impact sending him gasping to the floor. She moved with a practiced ease, like someone who had done this before—more than once, and with enthusiasm.

“Well, now. This looks fun.”

Ysábella barely had time to process her before the woman twirled the blunderbuss in her grip, adjusting her stance as another pirate lunged.

She caught his arm, shifted, and drove the heavy wooden end of her blunderbuss into his gut, doubling him over before smashing it across his face.

Blood sprayed. The pirate crumpled.

She turned back toward Ysábella, flashing a wolfish grin.

"Mind if I join in?"

Ysábella caught Isolde’s eye for a fleeting second—no words exchanged, just an unspoken understanding before the fight raged on.

Ysábella exhaled sharply, spinning her dagger in her grip.

"Just try to keep up."

The redhead grinned, resting her blunderbuss against her shoulder.

"Oh, love. You’ll be the one trying to keep up with me."

For a brief second, the world held its breath—the last moment before chaos. Then, like a storm breaking over the sea, the fight erupted around them.

The crack of fists meeting flesh, the splintering of wood, the dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor—the brawl raged around them like a storm.

Ysábella ducked low as a bottle shattered against the wall behind her, pivoting as a pirate swung wildly in her direction. She caught his wrist, twisting sharply until he yelped, then drove the hilt of her dagger into his gut. He staggered, winded, but before she could finish the job—

CRACK.

The redhead slammed the wooden stock of her blunderbuss against the side of his head, sending him sprawling onto the ale-slicked floor.

"Bit slow, Captain." She smirked, stepping over the groaning man.

Ysábella only scoffed, turning just in time to dodge another attacker.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Isolde handling two men at once, grinning as she parried a clumsy strike with her cutlass before driving her elbow into the closest man’s ribs. Diego was more direct, swinging his boarding axe in wide, brutal arcs, knocking men off their feet with sheer force.

And Amihan—quiet, precise, lethal—moved between the chaos like a shadow. Her dagger flashed, cutting through gaps in armor and exposed flesh, small wounds that bled quickly.

The brawl dragged on in a blur of fists, blades, and broken furniture.

Then—the last man standing took a step back, realizing his mistake too late.

A low whistle.

The redhead spun the blunderbuss in her grip, gripping it near the barrel.

One hard swing.

The heavy wooden stock cracked against his temple, sending him crumpling like a sack of grain.

Silence followed—brief but absolute.

The tavern was a wreck.

Blood pooled in the cracks of the floorboards, mixing with spilled ale. Chairs lay broken, tables upturned, and a handful of unconscious or groaning men littered the space. Somewhere in the back, a bottle tipped over, rolling lazily across the wood before clinking against a boot.

Ysábella wiped her lip, exhaling as she took in the aftermath.

Isolde flexed her bruised knuckles, smirking. Amihan knelt beside one of the bodies, retrieving her dagger with a sharp tug. Diego rolled his shoulders, rubbing at a fresh bruise on his jaw.

And the redhead?

She looked pleased with herself.

She propped her boot onto the nearest unconscious man, grinning lazily at Ysábella.

"Not bad, Captain. You fight like you belong here."

Ysábella arched a brow. "And who exactly are you?"

The redhead chuckled, adjusting the high collar of her coat.

"People call me Redd. Not my real name, but it sticks."

Ysábella let her gaze flick over her. Redd carried herself with the ease of someone who had seen too many fights to be fazed by them—commanding attention not by force, but by presence alone.

"And where exactly is here?" Ysábella asked.

Redd swept a hand toward the tavern doors, beyond which the salty night air and the distant sound of crashing waves awaited.

"Welcome to Isla del Tesoro, love. Ain’t no place like it on the map. You’ll either make your fortune here—or lose everything trying."

Ysábella hummed, stepping over a groaning pirate as she moved toward her.

"Sounds like my kind of place."

Redd grinned, giving her blunderbuss a lazy spin before resting the wooden stock against her hip.

"Then you’re in luck. ‘Cause I’ve been looking for a new crew. And from where I’m standing, looks like you lot know how to handle yourselves."

Ysábella studied her. Confidence radiated off the woman in waves, but there was something else beneath it. Not arrogance—experience. She had the presence of someone who had survived too many battles to bother proving herself anymore.

"You looking to sign on, or just looking for trouble?"

"A bit of both, if I’m being honest," Redd admitted with a smirk. She glanced at Isolde, then Amihan, then back to Ysábella. "But mostly, I go where the fun is. And you lot? You seem like my kind of fun."

Ysábella flicked a glance toward Isolde. Isolde shrugged, clearly amused, before flicking a bit of blood off her blade.

"She’s got a hell of a swing."

Redd grinned, tapping the wooden stock of her blunderbuss against the floor. "And I shoot just as well, when I’ve got the space."

Ysábella drew in a slow breath, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders, the tension of the night lingering in her muscles.

"Fine. But you pull your weight, or you swim."

Redd clapped a hand over her heart, mock solemn. "Aye, Captain. Wouldn’t have it any other way."

The bartender groaned from behind the counter, looking at the destruction with an exhausted glare.

"You lot better be leaving."

Ysábella chuckled, tossing a coin onto the bar.

"Consider that a thank-you for the hospitality."

Redd smirked as they turned for the door, stepping outside into the humid night air.

"So tell me, Captain—what’s next?"

Ysábella led the way through the winding streets, the scent of salt and damp wood growing stronger with each step. The distant murmur of the tide mixed with the laughter of drunken sailors, the clinking of coin, the occasional brawl spilling onto the cobbled paths. When they finally reached the docks, her gaze lifted to La Doncella waiting in the darkened harbor, her crimson sails barely visible beneath the moonlit sky.

"We sail."

Redd grinned. "Good. I was getting bored anyway."

The air outside the tavern was thick with salt and the distant hum of crashing waves. The streets of Isla del Tesoro were still alive despite the late hour—pirates stumbling out of brothels, merchants counting the last of their coin, gamblers hunched over makeshift tables under the flickering glow of lanterns.

Ysábella took a deep breath, rolling the tension from her shoulders. The fight had left its mark—bruises forming beneath her clothes, the sting of a split lip—but none of it mattered. They had won, and more importantly, the night had brought something unexpected.

A new recruit.

Redd strode beside her, hands tucked lazily into the pockets of her deep crimson coat, her blunderbuss slung casually across her back. There was a lightness to her steps, as if the weight of the world had never once settled on her shoulders.

"So, Captain," she drawled, casting Ysábella a sideways glance, "you got a grand destination in mind, or are we just sailing wherever the wind takes us?"

Ysábella smirked. "That depends on how fast we can get off this island without drawing more attention."

"Oh, you’ll draw attention, all right," Redd said with a chuckle. "We did just tear apart half of the tavern and leave a pile of unconscious fools behind."

"We?" Isolde snorted. "You jumped in halfway through."

Redd lifted a shoulder. "Seemed like the kind of party I’d regret missing."

Diego, walking a few steps ahead, exhaled sharply. "Another stray. We collecting them now?"

"Relax, Diego," Ysábella muttered, eyeing him. "She earned her place."

"Aye, I did," Redd agreed, grinning. "And I’ll prove it again, if you’re doubting me, love."

Ysábella waved them off, not in the mood for bickering. "The ship’s not far. Let’s just get moving."

Isla del Tesoro was not a place to linger when you’d made enemies.

The La Doncella waited in the harbor, her crimson sails barely visible in the moonlight. Ysábella felt her pulse steady at the sight of her ship. It was the only place in the world that still felt like home.

As they reached the docks, Redd let out an impressed whistle.

"Now, that’s a beauty," she mused. "Didn’t take you for the sentimental type, Captain."

"She’s not just a ship," Ysábella replied, stepping onto the gangplank.

Redd hesitated for only a second before following.

The moment her boots hit the deck, the crew stirred, murmurs rippling through them as they eyed the newcomer. Some recognized her from the tavern. Others simply looked to Ysábella for confirmation.

"This one’s with us now," Ysábella called out, making it official.

Redd gave a casual salute. "Pleasure, lads."

A few nods, a few murmurs of approval—but not everyone seemed convinced.

Ysábella wasn’t surprised.

Trust wasn’t given freely aboard La Doncella . It was earned.

She just hoped Redd was as good as she claimed to be.

Because there was no room for dead weight on this ship.

And no second chances.

Ysábella turned to Redd, her voice lowering just enough that only she could hear. "We’re being hunted. And not by just any pirate—Villanueva. He doesn’t forgive, and he doesn’t forget. He’ll burn the sea itself if it means getting his hands on me again."

Redd’s smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it grew sharper. "Aye, I know. Word spreads fast when a pirate lord wants someone bad enough. You don’t need to warn me, Captain—I signed up knowing exactly what kind of trouble I was stepping into. Wouldn’t want it any other way."

Chapter Text

The Rogue Wave

The midday sun poured over the ocean in a golden haze, turning the waves into endless ripples of light. The air was thick with salt, warm against Ysábella’s skin, but she hardly noticed. Her focus was on the ship behind them.

The barque was closing in. A three-masted hunter's vessel, built for speed, with sails full and taut as it carved through the sea. Not a lumbering warship weighed down by cannons, nor a sluggish merchant vessel bloated with cargo—this was something else. It was a predator.

Ysábella tightened her grip on the helm, fingers pressing into the worn wood. The familiar creak steadied her, but the rhythm of the sea did not. Something was wrong. The waves, so reliable in their rise and fall, felt off beneath her feet, shifting as though whispering a warning she couldn't yet decipher.

The crew moved about the deck, the weight of their unease pressing down as heavily as the sun above them. Shadows stretched long, cast by the towering masts and restless figures, each movement clipped with the tension of those who knew danger was at their backs.

“They’re still gaining,” Isolde muttered, arms folded, her dark eyes never leaving the ship behind them. There was no panic in her voice, just sharp, focused observation.

“They know what they’re doing,” Diego added, standing near the railing, his boarding axe slung across his back. “They’ve been trailing us for hours. Keeping steady. They’re waiting for us to make a mistake.”

Ysábella let the wind fill her lungs, feeling the way it tugged against La Doncella’s sails. She watched the sea, eyes narrowed, searching for something beyond the relentless pursuit. And then—she saw it.

The wave.

Not the rolling crests of the tide, nor the steady rhythm of the ocean’s breath. This was something else. Something alive. A rogue wave, rising slow, gathering its strength from the deep.

The kind of wave that swallowed ships whole.

She felt her pulse quicken, her hands tightening around the helm as a single thought struck her.

What would Jack Sparrow do?

And then—she knew.

“We’re not outpacing them,” Redd said, adjusting the grip on her blunderbuss. “If we fight, we lose.”

Diego exhaled sharply. “Not if we spill enough of their blood.”

“Not if they spill ours first,” Isolde shot back.

Ysábella exhaled slowly.

“We’re not running,” she said, voice steady as she turned the wheel. “And we’re not fighting.”

Isolde frowned, her sharp gaze flicking to her. “Then what the hell are we doing?”

Ysábella didn’t look at her.

She looked at the wave.

“We’re chasing the wave.”

A beat of silence hung between them, thick as the humid air.

Amihan’s fingers curled around the hilt of her kris.

“That is madness,” she whispered.

Ysábella exhaled again, deeper this time, steadying herself.

“No. That is survival.”

The sails shuddered, catching the wind anew.

The rudder groaned beneath the force of the turn.

La Doncella veered toward the rising wall of water, her crimson sails snapping in defiance of the sea’s wrath ahead.

And the hunters behind them had no idea what was coming.

The sea stirred beneath them, shifting like a restless beast, its deep currents pulling in unnatural rhythms. The air was thick with salt, heavy with the weight of something unseen, something waiting.

Ysábella kept her hands firm on the helm, her knuckles white as she held the ship steady. The rogue wave loomed ahead, rising from the depths like a wall of shifting glass, its movement deliberate, unstoppable. It was not just another swell but a rare and dangerous force, the kind sailors whispered about in cautionary tales. The sea beneath them drew back, the water vanishing into the approaching surge, leaving the ship momentarily adrift in eerie stillness. Ysábella could feel the air change, the pressure deepening in her chest as the ship tilted ever so slightly. The wave grew, stretching toward the sky, and she knew there would be no outrunning it.

She felt the crew’s unease, thick in the air, pressing against her like the midday heat. Feet shuffled against the deck, hushed voices exchanged uncertain words, but none dared to question her. Not yet.

Isolde exhaled sharply. "This is insanity." Her voice was firm now, no longer just an observation but a warning. "Even for you." Isolde murmured, her voice barely carried by the wind. There was no fear in it, no challenge, just a simple, quiet truth.

“Aye,” Redd muttered. “Can’t argue with that.”

Ysábella’s grip tightened. The wave was close enough now that she could see the water beneath it pulling back, draining toward its base with a force that sent smaller currents spiraling inward, devouring all in its path. It was not merely a wall of water—it was a living force, dragging everything toward an inevitable reckoning. It was like a great beast inhaling before the strike, sucking everything toward its core, devouring debris, dragging helpless currents into its maw before it would surge forward again. That was the danger—not just the towering wall of water, but the vacuum it left behind, ready to seize anything foolish enough to be caught in its grasp.

A ship caught wrong wouldn’t just be struck—it would be dragged backward, spun like driftwood, torn apart before the weight of the sea crushed it completely.

The hunter’s barque faltered, its sails snapping erratically as its crew scrambled, shouts of confusion rising over the wind. Their captain had spent too long chasing, too long believing he had the upper hand. Now, faced with the monstrous wave and the realization of his folly, his hesitation doomed them. They had chased too deep into treacherous waters, their ship committed to the pursuit yet too uncertain to escape. And in that moment of indecision, the sea itself took control of their fate.

But they were too deep in the chase.

Ysábella saw the hesitation in their movement, the flickering uncertainty in their sails.

Good.

She turned back to the wave, feeling the way La Doncella moved beneath her feet. Fast, but speed alone would not save them now.

“We’ll have one shot,” she murmured.

Isolde’s head snapped toward her, brow furrowing. “One shot at what?”

Ysábella didn’t answer immediately. She tilted the helm ever so slightly, adjusting their approach, her mind calculating the timing, the angle, the thin thread between survival and destruction.

“We need to hit the wave at the exact moment it crests,” she said at last, her voice even, unwavering. “If we catch it too soon, we won’t have enough lift. If we catch it too late, it’ll break over us.”

Diego, leaning against the railing, let out a low breath. His grip tightened. “And if we catch it just right?”

Ysábella exhaled, a slow, measured breath. “We ride it.”

Silence settled over the deck.

Then, a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Redd shook her head, amusement flickering across her face. "You are absolutely mad." The words carried no hesitation—only admiration laced with disbelief.

“She’s serious,” Amihan said softly, eyes locked on Ysábella.

Ysábella turned the wheel again, another small adjustment, each motion fine-tuning their trajectory. She felt the resistance in the rudder, the ship pushing back as if it too feared what lay ahead. But she held firm, carving a path with careful precision. Every shift in the rudder sent a ripple through La Doncella. The ship creaked beneath her hands, resisting, then yielding. The rogue wave had drawn closer now, a towering juggernaut of water that eclipsed the horizon. Shadows rippled through its body, twisting like spirits trapped in the deep, while foam churned violently at its base, as if the ocean itself was bracing for impact. The water at its base churned violently, a vortex of shifting blues and foamy white, the deep pull of the ocean resembling the gnashing teeth of a predator, hungry and unforgiving.

Ysábella’s gaze flicked to the rigging. “Amihan, be ready to take in sail. Too much wind and we’ll pitch forward. Not enough, and we won’t make it over.”

The girl nodded without question, already moving, nimble hands working against the ropes. The wind shifted slightly, the mast groaning in response.

She turned to Isolde. “Get the crew below deck. Secure everything that can be tied down. This is going to be rough.”

Isolde studied her for a moment. Whatever she saw in Ysábella’s face was enough—no challenge, no remark. Just a sharp nod before she moved, barking orders to the crew.

That left Diego and Redd.

Ysábella met Diego’s gaze. “You’re on the starboard lines. If we tilt too hard, you’ll need to cut loose.”

He said nothing, just gave a firm nod, fingers flexing on his axe handle.

“And me?” Redd asked, a hint of anticipation in her voice.

Ysábella’s eyes flicked to the enemy ship. The barque had slowed further, but it had not stopped. Their captain was still trying to maneuver, still debating whether to turn away or push forward.

“If they try to follow us,” she said quietly, “make them regret it.”

Redd’s grin was sharp. “With pleasure.”

The rogue wave was nearly upon them now, an unrelenting behemoth swelling with the raw force of the abyss. It loomed above, blotting out the sky, its crest curling forward like the open jaws of some ancient leviathan, ready to consume all that dared to stand in its path. The ship groaned beneath Ysábella’s grip, the deck trembling as though the very wood could sense the oncoming storm. Every beam and plank vibrated with tension, the sound of straining wood swallowed by the roar of the rising water.

Ysábella could feel it in the shift of the wind, the way the ship tilted ever so slightly as the force beneath them changed. The ocean was no longer still—it was moving, the entire sea bending toward the force that was about to break upon them.

The barque was too close.

She could almost hear the enemy captain shouting orders, scrambling to adjust—but it was too late.

She took a deep breath, her voice steady as she called the only command that mattered.

“Hold fast.”

The sea roared.

And the wave towered higher, reaching its peak, gathering power before the inevitable collapse.

The sky seemed to shrink as the rogue wave rose over them, blotting out the sun.

Ysábella kept her hands steady on the helm, feeling the ship strain beneath her grip. The ocean lurched, its familiar rhythm shattered by the force pulling La Doncella toward the base of the monstrous wave. The ship groaned, resisting, but the sea would not be denied.

"All hands, hold fast!" Ysábella’s voice sliced through the roaring wind, urgent and commanding.

Rigging snapped taut above, sails billowing and straining as Amihan worked quickly, adjusting for the climb. Just enough sail to carry them up—not so much that they’d be thrown off balance. The wind shrieked through the masts, a furious howl as the ship tilted.

The sea was no longer beneath them. It was a wall, rising, rising—until La Doncella’s bow pointed skyward, as though trying to touch the heavens.

The deck beneath her feet felt like it might splinter under the sheer force. Wood creaked and groaned in protest, the mast swaying precariously. Every plank, every rope, every bolt in the ship screamed against the strain.

Behind her, the crew held on as best they could, their bodies thrown back by the climb.

Isolde cursed.

Diego let out a wild laugh, gripping the rail with one hand, his axe in the other.

Redd whooped, her voice lost in the howling wind.

Amihan clung to the rigging, her knuckles white, her eyes locked on the mast.

Then—the crest.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. The world held its breath, the wind cutting out in eerie stillness. Ysábella felt the shift—the weightless, unnatural pause before the inevitable drop.

For a moment, everything hung in a fragile balance. Weightless. Suspended in time.

Ysábella’s breath hitched.

This was it. The moment that would decide their fate.

If they pitched too far forward, they would capsize.

If they fell too fast, they would be swallowed whole.

If they lost control, it would all be over.

She wrenched the wheel.

La Doncella tilted forward, the bow slicing through empty air.

The fall began.

The entire ship lurched downward, gravity pulling them into a rapid descent. Ysábella’s stomach flipped, her fingers biting into the wood. The deck pitched violently, the force nearly tearing her from her stance.

Behind them, the rogue wave collapsed—a thunderous explosion that split the world apart.

The ocean swallowed the sky. The horizon flipped, the world tilting as gravity seized them in a sickening plunge. The sea rose to meet them—an unforgiving wall of force.

Ysábella gritted her teeth and yanked the helm.

"La Doncella, hold!"

The ship shuddered, the stern pitching up too far—too close to flipping.

Then—the keel hit water.

A deep, gut-punching impact. A shockwave through the hull.

Spray exploded, waves crashing over the deck as La Doncella skidded across the wave’s back, momentum carrying them forward.

Ysábella barely heard the wind anymore. Just the trembling deck beneath her feet. Just the reality that—they were still upright.

They had done it.

A shaky breath left her lips, relief washing over her. But then—a new sound.

A scream, sharp and raw, cutting through the aftermath like a blade.

Not from her crew—it was distant, desperate, carrying over the chaos of the sea.

Ysábella whipped her head around—just in time to see the hunter’s barque caught in the wave.

They had tried to follow.

But they had been too slow.

The rogue wave engulfed them, lifting them too high, pulling them at the wrong angle.

Ysábella could hear their crew shouting—orders, panic, desperation.

The ship pitched sideways.

The wave took hold, twisting the barque in its grip. The ship heaved, battered by the force of the collapsing water. Crew members clung desperately to the rails, some losing their footing, tumbling across the deck as the hull groaned in protest. It was no longer a question of if they would survive—but in what condition.

But it did not sink.

The barque reeled, nearly capsizing as the wave threw it sideways.

It listed hard, sails torn, water pouring onto the deck as the crew scrambled to right themselves. They had survived—but just barely.

The barque remained, battered and struggling, yet afloat—its masts crooked, its rigging tangled like the remnants of a beast that had barely survived a predator's strike.

Ysábella watched, her grip tightening on the helm. Their enemy was wounded, vulnerable. And this was their chance.

Then, slowly, she turned forward again, adjusting the helm, guiding La Doncella back onto the wind.

A deep silence settled over the deck, the moment stretching as they took in what they had just survived. The water still churned behind them, the dying remnants of the rogue wave rolling away like a beast retreating to the depths.

Redd threw her head back, shaking the water from her hair like a dog before laughing like a woman possessed. “Oh, I like you, Captain.”

Diego wheezed a laugh, dragging a hand over his face before gripping the railing. "I’ll drink to that."

Ysábella allowed herself a long, slow breath. The tension in her limbs refused to ease, but a ghost of a smile flickered on her lips as she took in the crew—grinning, panting, touching their limbs as if to confirm they were all still in one piece. They had done the impossible, cheated death itself.

Isolde leaned against the mainmast, shaking her head. "Madness. Absolute madness."

"And it worked," Amihan murmured, hands still clutching the ropes she had braced herself against.

The wind carried their ragged laughter across the waves, mixing with the creak of the ship and the distant, battered moans of the hunter's barque still fighting to stay afloat.

Ysábella’s smile faded as she turned her gaze back to the enemy ship. The fight wasn't over. The enemy crew was still moving, still trying to regain control. The sea had spared them—but she would not.

She straightened, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders before lifting her chin.

Ysábella kept La Doncella just beyond reach, her grip firm on the helm as she guided them in a wide arc around the crippled ship. The hunter’s vessel was vulnerable, its men shaken, but still dangerous. The waves carried them forward, drawing predator and prey into their deadly dance, the water narrowing the distance with each passing moment.

The two ships moved in a slow, deliberate dance. La Doncella circled the barque like a predator, its crimson sails stark against the dark water, its crew a shadow of motion against the deck. The battered vessel rocked with each swell, its men still scrambling, some coughing up seawater, others gripping the rails with shaking hands.

Ysábella narrowed her eyes. The enemy had yet to recover, but hesitation meant giving them time to regroup. They needed to strike before the men found their footing.

"Portside guns," she called out. "One shot—make it count."

Her order carried across the deck, met with swift execution. The gunners adjusted their aim, locking onto the weakened ship. A tense moment stretched, the sound of shifting wood and creaking ropes filling the air. Then—

A thunderous blast cracked through the air, shaking the deck beneath them.

The cannon roared, the force rattling through La Doncella's hull. A moment later, the barque lurched violently, a section of its railing splintering into a shower of wood and iron. The shot was well-placed—near the waterline, just enough to shake their resolve but not sink them outright.

A chorus of shouts rose from the enemy ship. Some men scrambled away from the impact, while others hesitated, momentarily stunned. Ysábella saw it—the flicker of fear, the wavering grip on weapons. They were already shaken from the wave. Now, they were questioning whether they could fight at all.

She allowed them no time to decide.

"Prepare the boarding hooks," she ordered, her voice steady. "We circle first."

The crew snapped into action. Lines were checked, weapons readied, hands gripping tight to the ropes that would soon bridge the space between them and their quarry. The metallic clink of hooks being fastened echoed across the deck, punctuated by the low murmur of anticipation.

Ysábella watched them with a sharp eye. They were still armed, still standing—but they were not ready. Not yet.

She held the helm steady, guiding La Doncella ever closer. The two ships, locked in their deadly waltz, swayed with the current, their hulls groaning under the shifting waves. The enemy crew scrambled along the barque’s deck, their movements frenzied and uneven. They knew what was coming.

Her own crew moved with sharp, practiced precision, positioning themselves at the rails. Muscles coiled, hooks gripped tight, eyes locked on their prey—the moment of impact drawing ever closer. They were poised, waiting—predators ready to strike.

The midday sun bore down, glinting off steel, turning the sea into a field of restless silver. The air was thick with salt and gunpowder, the acrid sting of spent cannon smoke still lingering. Shadows shifted across the deck as La Doncella loomed alongside her wounded prey.

The ships slammed together with a teeth-rattling impact, wood splintering, iron groaning under the strain. For a heartbeat, there was only the groan of wood and the crash of waves. Then—shouts. The enemy rushed to their railing, scrambling to regain balance, weapons raising in desperate defiance.

The enemy, regaining enough sense to fight back, rushed to their railing, weapons drawn, trying to block the inevitable assault. Some raised muskets, hoping to fire before the pirates could cross. Others crowded the boarding plank, determined to meet La Doncella's crew before they even set foot on their deck.

They never got the chance. For a heartbeat, the battle froze—enemy fingers tightening around triggers, blades glinting mid-swing—before chaos erupted once more.

Ysábella seized the moment.

"Now!" she shouted.

The first hooks cut through the air, their curved iron claws glinting before sinking into the barque’s railing with brutal finality.

Ropes snapped taut, the wooden hulls groaning as La Doncella hauled itself closer. The enemy crew staggered from the sudden jolt, hands tightening on their weapons, nerves fraying with each passing second.

More hooks sailed through the air, embedding deep into the barque’s railing. Lines snapped taut, locking the ships together. The enemy crew recoiled, some scrambling back, others gripping their weapons tighter—trapped.

One after another, the ropes coiled and strained, tightening the noose around the crippled ship. There was no escape.

Ysábella unsheathed her daggers.

“Board!”

A surge of bodies followed her command.

Redd had already vaulted onto the boarding plank, leading the charge. "Time to make some space," she muttered.

She leveled her blunderbuss, bracing against the recoil, her blunderbuss erupted with a deafening blast, the storm of lead tearing through the first wave of men that funneled toward the boarding plank, sending bodies sprawling. The deck became a slaughterhouse—bodies crumpling, blood misting in the golden light as the air filled with the screams of the wounded and the acrid scent of gunpowder. The impact was immediate—some were flung aside, others crumpled where they stood, and those behind them hesitated, suddenly unsure if they wanted to be in the next volley’s path. Smoke curled around her as she reached for her powder flask, but the next rush was too close—she had no time to reload. Without hesitation, she swung the weapon like a club, smashing the stock into a pirate’s temple, sending him crumpling to the deck. The chaos around her thickened, but Redd was already moving, fluid and unrelenting.

The deck was a blur of movement. La Doncella’s crew carved their way through the disoriented enemy, pressing their advantage. The fight was fast, brutal. The men of the barque had already been battered by the wave, further demoralized by the cannon shot and Redd’s opening blast. They fought with desperation rather than skill.

Isolde was right behind her. She landed on the enemy deck with fluid grace, immediately meeting a charging pirate. He swung wide with a boarding axe—she ducked low, her cutlass flashing as she sliced across his exposed ribs. He gasped, stumbling, but Isolde didn’t pause. She twisted, yanking her blade free before driving her boot into his chest, sending him crashing to the deck.

Amihan followed swiftly, landing lightly, already in motion. A desperate pirate came at her—she sidestepped, her kris slipping between his ribs before he even registered the pain. His breath hitched; then he crumpled.

Ysábella landed last, her boots thudding onto the wood, her daggers gleaming in the sunlight.

Amid the chaos, the enemy captain stood unmoving, his broad shoulders squared, a jagged scar slicing down his cheek. His men faltered—he did not. He raised his cutlass, his grip firm despite the fear in his men.

The battle surged around them—shouts, clashing steel, the scent of gunpowder thick in the humid air. La Doncella's crew pressed forward, cutting through their faltering opponents. The enemy, already shaken, buckled beneath the relentless assault.

Redd, still in the thick of it, rammed the stock of her blunderbuss into another pirate’s gut, doubling him over before swinging upward, cracking his jaw. A wolfish grin on her lips. "Who's next?"

Ysábella scanned the battlefield, absorbing the chaos—then, a glint of steel cut through the mayhem. Her senses sharpened, instincts guiding her through the fray. She barely had time to react, stepping back as a blade slashed through the space where she had stood. A pirate swung at her with a desperate, clumsy strike—a last-ditch effort to stop her advance. She twisted out of reach, her daggers flashing in the afternoon light as she caught his wrist and drove one blade deep into the space beneath his ribs. He choked on his own breath, staggering back, his sword slipping from his fingers. Ysábella ripped her dagger free and shoved him aside without a second thought.

Her senses sharpened as she searched for threats, instincts guiding her through the fray.

Isolde had carved her way toward the main mast, her cutlass dancing between opponents. A pirate lunged at her from behind—she spun, parrying his strike before driving the edge of her blade into his throat. He gurgled, eyes wide in shock as she yanked it free. Without missing a beat, she turned, using his collapsing body as cover before cutting down the next fool who came at her.

Amihan was smaller, faster, moving through the fight like a shadow. She slipped between the clumsy swings of her opponents, striking in precise, deadly bursts. One man lunged at her—she twisted sideways at the last second, letting his momentum carry him forward before slashing across his thigh. As he faltered, she drove her sword into his chest. He gasped, stumbling back, but she was already gone, darting toward her next target.

Ysábella exhaled, steadying herself as she turned back to the one man who had yet to enter the fray.

The enemy captain.

He stood at the far end of the deck, cutlass gripped tight. The battle raged around them, but for a moment, it might as well not exist. Ysábella’s world narrowed to him alone. He was watching her, waiting. Unlike the others, he wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t foolish enough to charge blindly into the chaos.

He was waiting for her.

A slow smirk curled at the edge of Ysábella’s lips.

So be it.

She started forward, weaving through the chaos, her boots steady against the blood-slicked deck. The sun caught the gleam of her daggers as she twirled them in her grip, testing their weight. The enemy captain shifted, his movements deliberate, measured. He wasn’t just adjusting—he was waiting, assessing her every step.

Good. He wasn’t going to run.

He lifted his chin, eyes narrowing as he finally stepped forward to meet her.

Ysábella flexed her fingers around her daggers, anticipation thrumming beneath her skin. The weight of the moment pressed against her, thick as the humid air around them.

The enemy captain fired.

Ysábella twisted, the shot missing her by a breath. The gunpowder smoke curled between them as she surged forward, closing the distance before he could draw another. His cutlass flashed in an upward arc—she barely dodged, feeling the steel slice through the air just past her cheek.

She ducked low, shifting her weight as she struck out with one dagger. He deflected it with his cutlass, the ringing clash of steel lost in the symphony of battle around them. Their movements were sharp, precise—a deadly rhythm dictated by instinct and experience.

He swung again, this time aiming for her side. Ysábella twisted away, but his blade caught the edge of her coat, slicing fabric but missing flesh. In retaliation, she feinted left, only to slash right, her dagger carving a thin red line across his forearm. He hissed but did not falter.

“You fight well,” he muttered, voice rough with exertion.

Ysábella grinned, wicked and sharp. “Better than you.”

She lunged, aiming for his ribs. He barely parried in time, the force of the impact sending him staggering back a step. But he was quick—too quick. He pivoted, slashing at her legs, forcing her to leap back or risk being cut down.

The deck beneath them was treacherous—slick with blood, littered with bodies. Ysábella’s boot slid slightly as she adjusted her stance, but she kept her balance, rolling her shoulders as the enemy captain circled her.

Then he struck.

A brutal downward swing—she caught it on her crossed daggers, the sheer force jarring her arms. He pressed down, leveraging his weight, their blades locked between them. Ysábella felt the cutlass inch closer, the strain burning through her muscles.

She kicked him square in the gut.

The captain stumbled back with a grunt, his grip loosening for half a second. It was all she needed.

Ysábella lunged—dagger slicing to his side.

The enemy captain was still standing. He fought hard, a cutlass in one hand, a pistol in the other, his movements slower than before but no less dangerous. His crew fell around him, but he held his ground, chest heaving, fingers tightening around his cutlass as if willing himself to keep standing. As Ysábella advanced, his eyes locked onto hers, and in a swift, desperate motion, he raised the pistol and aimed it at her chest.

Ysábella locked eyes with him, breathing hard, her daggers dripping red.

He exhaled sharply, his stance wavering for the first time, as though shaking off exhaustion. His lips curled in a sneer. "You fight well," he admitted, voice hoarse. "But do you know when to stop?"

His finger tensed on the trigger. Ysábella’s breath hitched, her muscles coiling in readiness—but she was too far. A heartbeat stretched into eternity. Then—steel flashed. Isolde struck fast, her blade slicing clean through his wrist. The pistol clattered to the deck, his severed hand falling beside it. A choked cry tore from his throat as he staggered back, clutching the bleeding stump. Isolde didn’t hesitate—she drove her boot hard into his side, sending him crashing to the planks, breathless and broken.

Ysábella flicked blood from her blade, watching as the captain writhed on the deck. "That depends. Do you know when you’ve lost?"

The battle was nearly over. The enemy crew was crippled, scattered, defeated. The captain groaned, dragging himself across the bloodstained deck, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. His good hand trembled as he pressed against the wound, his eyes darting to Ysábella, to Isolde, then to the bodies of his men.

He coughed, "Villanueva," he rasped, his voice brittle. "He—he promised me a fortune. Said he was growing impatient. I—" His gaze flickered between Ysábella and the bodies of his fallen men. "I thought—"

The battlefield noise faded. The weight of his words pressed into her, suffocating. Ysábella froze, her breath caught in her throat. Villanueva. The name slithered through her mind like a curse, coiling tight, suffocating, pressing into her chest like an iron weight. Her stomach twisted, the metallic scent of blood suddenly overwhelming. Her fingers curled around her daggers, the fresh stain of blood still warm against her grip. She had known this fight wasn’t random, had felt the shadows of his influence creeping closer. But hearing it confirmed, spoken by a dying man who had wagered his life on a promise—

Her lip curled in disgust. Fool. They were all fools to believe they could hand her over so easily, that she would simply surrender to him again.

Ysábella didn’t speak. She met his gaze for a lingering moment, unreadable, then turned away, the scent of blood thick in the air between them. When she finally spoke, her voice was cool, unwavering. "Loot the ship."

The crew moved swiftly, tearing through the enemy vessel, stripping it of anything worth taking—gold, weapons, supplies. The defeated sailors lay where they had fallen, groaning, clutching wounds, their spirits shattered along with their captain.

When the work was done, Ysábella gave a final glance at the man still crumpled on the deck, his good hand trembling as he held his ruined arm. He had made his choice, and now he would live with it.

Without another word, she stepped off the barque and back onto La Doncella. Behind her, the captain gasped for breath, the rasp of his pain swallowed by the endless sea. The ship rocked beneath her feet, the salty wind biting against her skin. She did not look back. The cries of the wounded faded as she stepped forward—toward the next battle, toward whatever lay ahead.

Chapter Text

The heat between them lingered, thick and suffocating. Ysábella’s skin glistened with sweat, her breath shallow as she lay tangled with the beast. The mastiff’s body pressed against hers, its warmth sinking into her bare flesh, every inch of her still raw and sensitized from their union. The musky scent filled her lungs—deep, cloying, inescapable. It clung to her skin, a claim that could not be undone.

She did not move. Could not. Her limbs were weighted with exhaustion, her body slack in the aftermath. The mastiff’s broad head rested against her chest, its breath rising and falling in time with hers. It nuzzled closer, its nose brushing against the slickness of her skin, seeking the scent of her surrender. A low, satisfied rumble vibrated through its chest as its tongue flicked out, warm and wet, tracing the curve of her breast.

His spent member, slick and pulsing, pressed against her belly, smearing warmth across her skin. His seed trickled from her, thick and slow, pooling between her thighs.

A tremor passed through her. She sucked in a breath, her chest heaving, and then—an ache. A deep, pulsing ache beneath her navel.

Her fingers drifted down, hesitantly pressing against the tautness of her belly. The skin was stretched, firm beneath her touch, cradling something unseen—something alive.

A shift. A flutter of movement.

The realization crept over her, heavier than the weight of the beast still locking her in place.

Her breath caught as the mastiff’s tongue found her nipple, the sensitive peak beading under its touch. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, her body betraying her even as horror twisted deep within her gut. The warmth of its mouth closed around her, suckling, drawing from her. She could feel it—the pull, the wet heat, the tingling response that sent a forbidden thrill up her spine.

She should move. Should fight. But the weight of the moment held her still. Her body welcomed it.

Her belly shifted again, the child stirring within her, responding to the presence of its father.

Her stomach clenched. A wave of nausea, of sick realization, churned through her, but her limbs remained limp, ensnared in the haze of musk and warmth. She felt the mastiff’s heavy breath against her skin, felt the press of its still-throbbing arousal against her thigh. The scent of mating, her heat, his musk, thickened the air, wrapping around her like chains.

The child inside her moved again, shifting, stretching against the confines of her womb. A strangled noise caught in her throat. Her vision blurred, the world narrowing to the steady rhythm of the mastiff’s tongue, the pulse within her belly, the all-consuming heat.

And she belonged to him.

A slow clink of glass.

The sound rippled through the thick, stifling air, barely cutting through the heavy musk that clung to Ysábella’s skin.

She froze.

A shadow moved in the corner of her vision.

The mastiff’s weight still pressed against her, its warmth sinking deep into her flesh, its slow breath curling over her chest. The scent of heat, musk, and sweat was suffocating—a brand upon her body, upon her soul.

A quiet chuckle.

Low. Amused.

She hadn’t heard him enter. Had he always been there?

Her breath stalled in her throat.

Slowly, she turned her head, the movement sluggish, like pushing through molasses. Her limbs were heavy, her body uncooperative—exhausted, spent, ruined.

He stood by the window, bathed in the flickering glow of candlelight. A goblet of dark red wine swirled lazily in his hand, the liquid catching the dim light, staining the glass like blood.

His lips curled.

"Qué hermosa."

The words slid from his tongue like silk, smooth, indulgent, savoring the moment like one savored a fine vintage. His eyes raked over her, slow, deliberate, enjoying the sight laid before him.

Heat prickled up her spine.

The mastiff shifted beside her, a deep, contented exhale rumbling through its chest, its muzzle still nestled against her.

Villanueva’s smirk deepened.

"I must say, Palomita… I never imagined you like this."

Her stomach twisted.

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

And yet—she felt everything.

The slickness on her skin. The soreness in her limbs. The slow, aching roll of her belly as the child inside her shifted, stretching against her ribs.

Villanueva took a sip from his goblet, his dark eyes gleaming over the rim.

"Tell me, chiquita… did you enjoy it?"

Her breath came shaky, uneven.

His gaze flicked to the mastiff, still curled against her, still pressed into her. His smile widened.

"He certainly seems satisfied."

The room spun.

She wanted to move. To speak. To deny.

But she was still trapped in the heat, in the scent, in the weight of what had been done.

Villanueva sighed, swirling his wine.

"Don’t look so distressed, Palomita." He tilted his head. "You were made for this."

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

No.

No, no, this isn’t real.

She tried to move, but her limbs wouldn’t obey.

The mastiff stirred beside her, its muzzle nudging against her skin once more. A low whimper. A familiar, eager sound.

Villanueva chuckled.

"Ah. You hear that? He already wants more."

Her stomach lurched.

A sharp kick pressed against her ribs.

Inside her.

The child.

Her vision blurred. Her pulse pounded in her ears, the weight of the nightmare suffocating her.

And Villanueva?

He simply watched.

Smiling.

The world was splitting apart.

A sharp, searing ache tore through her belly, deep and relentless, like her body was being ripped open from the inside.

Ysábella gasped, arching off the damp sheets, her fingers digging into the mattress, nails scraping against the wood beneath.

The mastiff’s warmth still pressed against her, its paw heavy over her waist, holding her still.

Villanueva’s voice drifted through the haze—smooth, indulgent, dripping with satisfaction.

“Ah, mi Palomita… it is time.”

Her breath hitched.

No.

No, no, no—

A sharp contraction clenched inside her, wrenching a strangled sound from her throat.

The mastiff’s weight shifted, its muzzle lowering to her belly, breathing her in, huffing against her stretched, sweating skin.

Her pulse pounded against her ribs.

The scent of musk and sweat and blood thickened around her.

She wasn’t ready.

She couldn’t do this.

And yet—her body moved on its own.

Her hips rolled, her thighs trembled, an unbearable pressure building between them.

The mastiff let out a low, rumbling whimper, nuzzling against her swollen belly.

Her body seized.

A guttural cry tore from her lips as a sharp, unbearable pressure forced its way down.

Villanueva sighed.

“Good girl.”

Something stretched. Tore.

Her vision blurred, the world fading in and out, a wave of heat and pain and unbearable fullness consuming her.

The mastiff’s muzzle pressed against her neck, soothing, possessive.

She felt it.

The slow slide, the unbearable stretch.

The moment of release.

A wet, slick rush of warmth between her thighs.

And then—a sound.

Soft. Weak.

A cry.

Ysábella’s breath caught.

A child’s cry.

The mastiff let out a slow, pleased whimper, pressing its nose to the newborn’s tiny, wet body.

Ysábella’s vision dimmed, her body shuddering, convulsing as the heat finally drained from her.

Villanueva laughed.

Low. Triumphant.

She tried to lift her head.

She needed to see.

She needed to know.

What had she—

Her breath shook.

The newborn writhed against her, slick and small, trembling in the mastiff’s breath.

Her stomach twisted.

She saw its eyes first.

Amber. Burning.

Not human.

Her lips parted in a silent scream.

And then—

The nightmare shattered.

She gasped.

The sheets beneath her were cold, damp with sweat.

Her hands gripped at them, at herself, at her belly.

No movement.

No child.

Nothing.

It had never been real.

And yet—it had been.

Hadn’t it?

The scent still clung to her—musk, salt, something too real to be a dream.

Her stomach churned. Her hands shook. Her breath refused to steady.

And then—

A sound.

A whimper.

Soft. Distant.

Real.

Chapter Text

The Ghost in the Fog

The dim glow of early dawn barely touched the edges of La Doncella’s deck, casting the world in cold, muted shades of blue and gray. The sky was still heavy with the weight of night, reluctant to give way to morning. The sea, vast and endless, stretched into the fog, its surface shifting in slow, deliberate movements, as if the depths themselves were stirring.

Inside her cabin, Ysábella lay awake.

She had not slept.

She could not sleep.

Every time she neared unconsciousness, it came for her—again and again. The nightmares, relentless and inescapable, dragged her down into visions so vivid they left an imprint on her waking world. Each one blurred the lines between memory and dream, past and present, real and unreal.

She could still feel the echoes of the last one.

Her fingers twitched against the thin sheet covering her. Beneath the fabric, her body felt raw, as if it had truly endured the things her mind had conjured.

Her stomach ached with a phantom weight. Empty now. But was it ever full? The thought crawled through her, unwelcome, unwarranted, but impossible to dismiss. She swallowed hard and let her palm press against her abdomen, as if confirming to herself that she was whole, that she was as she should be.

But the sensation remained. The weight. The fullness. The knowing.

She sucked in a slow breath.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t have been real.

And yet, when she closed her eyes, she could still feel it—that cursed thing inside her, shifting, moving, alive.

A tremor ran through her fingers.

She forced her hand away.

The dream lingered in her body, in the raw ache of her chest, the unnatural sensitivity of her skin. The kind of exhaustion that went beyond simple lack of sleep. It was draining, like something had been pulled from her in the night, taken in a way she couldn’t understand.

She woke damp, her breaths uneven—the air in her cabin thick, too warm. It had taken her a long moment to gather herself, to remind herself that she was here, on her ship, alone.

But was she?

That thought unsettled her more than the dream itself.

Ysábella sat up slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor beneath her was cool against her bare feet, grounding her for the first time since she had woken.

She reached for the small basin of water resting on the table near the lantern, her fingers trembling slightly as she dipped them in. The water was cold, the bite of it sharp against her skin. She let it run through her fingers before bringing them to her face, pressing them against her temples, the back of her neck.

Steady.

She exhaled slowly, willing herself back to the present, back to something tangible.

The nightmares were getting worse.

Or perhaps—perhaps they weren’t nightmares at all.

That was the thought that kept her from closing her eyes again.

That was the thought that made her feel as if she were standing on the edge of something, staring into a void that stared back.

She needed air.

The cabin felt too small, the walls pressing in, the scent of wood and salt and something else—something faint but lingering—curling in the stillness.

Her hand reached for the latch before she had fully decided to move.

And then—

A scent.

Salt. Musk.

Faint, barely there. But enough. Enough to make her breath hitch.

Her fingers tightened around the latch.

She did not hesitate.

Ysábella yanked the door open and stepped out onto the deck.

The air outside was damp, thick with the weight of the sea. A cold morning wind curled through the rigging, carrying the briny scent of salt and wood, but it did little to clear Ysábella’s mind.

She breathed deeply, filling her lungs, willing herself to feel present. Awake. Grounded. But something in the air felt off, wrong, as if the ship were floating through something unseen, something that clung to it like an unwelcome presence.

It was too quiet.

The crew was still asleep, but La Doncella had never been a silent ship. The usual sounds—the creak of the hull, the groan of the ropes, the gentle slap of the waves against the wood—were muffled, distant. As if swallowed by something far greater than mere silence.

The fog curled around the ship like a living thing.

Ysábella lifted her gaze, and her stomach tensed.

There was no horizon.

A dense mist stretched in every direction, a wall of pale gray that blurred the world into nothingness. It did not shift with the wind, did not swirl or roll like mist upon the sea should. It settled—thick, unmoving, unnatural.

She had seen fog before. But not like this.

Not this still.

Not this unnatural.

Her grip tightened on the railing.

It had started as an unease she couldn’t quite name, an instinct buried deep in her chest that something was wrong. Now, as she stood under the eerie quiet of dawn, with the weight of sleepless nights pressing against her skull, it became something heavier. Tangible.

She turned toward the helm.

Isolde and Redd were already there.

Their figures stood dark against the mist, cut in faint silhouette by the ship’s dim lanterns. Redd leaned against the railing near the wheel, arms folded, her posture relaxed, but her eyes were sharp beneath the brim of her hat. Isolde stood near her, one hand resting on the hilt of her cutlass, her gaze locked on the shifting void beyond the ship’s bow.

Neither of them spoke as Ysábella approached.

The wood beneath her feet was damp with condensation, the planks slick from the mist settling over the ship like a second skin. The moisture curled along the rigging, beading against the ropes in heavy drops that did not fall.

Redd was the first to break the silence.

"This ain't natural. Feels like the sea's holding its breath."

Ysábella stopped beside them.

Isolde’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t take her eyes off the fog. "Or we’re about to be boarded by the damned."

There was no humor in her tone.

Ysábella followed their gaze.

From the helm, she had a higher vantage point, but it made no difference. The fog stretched endlessly in all directions, thick and impenetrable. It swallowed the sky, the sea, even the edges of La Doncella’s sails.

"How long has it been like this?" Ysábella asked.

"An hour, maybe two," Isolde murmured. "Started slow, then swallowed the whole damned sea."

Ysábella’s fingers curled against the railing. "You should’ve woken me."

"Figured you needed the sleep," Redd said, tilting her head toward her. "Though, judging by how you look, I’d say that didn’t go well."

Ysábella didn’t answer. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

Redd studied her for a beat longer, then exhaled, shifting her stance. "Never seen it this thick before. It’s too damned still. Feels wrong."

Ysábella nodded absently, her thoughts still weighted by the haze of exhaustion. The past few nights had taken their toll. The nightmares. The scratching. The scent that was there and not there. It was bleeding into her waking world now, creeping in like water seeping through the cracks of a ship’s hull.

Or perhaps it had been there all along.

She stared into the fog, the vast stretch of nothing.

The mist shifted, curling like a restless thing.

And still, the ship moved forward, gliding through the endless gray, blind to whatever lay ahead.

A deep, aching stillness hung over the ship, thick as the fog itself. La Doncella glided through the dense gray, its hull cutting soundlessly through the water. There was no wind, no shift in the air, only the slow pull of the current. The mist pressed in from all sides, swallowing the world beyond the deck.

Ysábella stood at the railing, her fingers curled tightly around the damp wood. Her breath came slow, steady, yet something within her was anything but calm. The unease from before, the same gnawing sensation that had taken root in her chest the moment she stepped onto the deck, was growing.

The fog was unnatural.

She knew this now, deep in her bones. Fog should move. It should roll and swirl, thinning at the edges, shifting with the sea breeze. This mist did none of that. It was thick, unmoving, watching.

A quiet tension had settled over the helm. Even Redd, who had been the most dismissive of the eerie weather, no longer looked at ease. She tapped her fingers absently against the railing, her gaze flicking toward Ysábella, as if waiting for her to speak, to give some order, to make sense of the unnatural quiet.

Ysábella said nothing.

She was too busy watching.

Staring into the void beyond the ship, her eyes searching for anything—anything—beyond the mist. But there was nothing. Just a wall of gray. An endless stretch of nothingness.

A flicker of movement.

A shape in the fog.

It was closer this time.

A looming figure in the distance, its form barely distinguishable against the shifting mist.

The sails were black.

Not just black—tattered.

A shiver ran down her spine.

Her mind whispered a name before she could stop it.

The Black Pearl.

No. It couldn’t be.

And yet—

The ship was moving.

Gliding through the mist without a sound.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared—

It was gone.

The mist swallowed it whole.

Ysábella’s breath hitched, her grip tightening on the railing.

"Did you see that?" Her voice was quiet, tense.

Isolde turned her head slightly, her sharp eyes narrowing. "See what?"

Ysábella exhaled through her nose, trying to steady herself. "A ship. Just for a moment. Out in the fog."

Redd straightened, her usual lazy stance gone. "Didn’t see a damn thing, Captain."

Ysábella barely heard them.

Her heart pounded. She knew she had seen it.

Had it been real?

Or was it just another trick—like the scratching, like the musk, like the nightmares?

Her body was betraying her, her mind playing tricks, pulling at the frayed edges of her exhaustion.

She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. "You're sure you saw nothing?"

Isolde was still watching her, eyes unreadable. "Nothing but fog."

Redd exhaled, shifting her weight. "Whatever you saw, Captain, it ain’t there now."

Ysábella knew that.

And yet—

She had seen it.

The black sails. The dark hull.

And now, the question burned in her mind, refusing to be ignored.

Was it real?

Or was she finally losing herself?

Ysábella stayed at the railing long after the ship had vanished. Her breath came shallow, her pulse uneven. The silence pressed against her skin, as if waiting. The fog curled and shifted, but the dark silhouette never returned. Yet the image of it—black sails, tattered at the edges, moving without wind—was burned into her mind.

She swallowed, forcing her hands to unclench. Her fingers ached from how tightly she had gripped the railing.

"You see something?"

Isolde’s voice was quiet, but Ysábella could hear the weight behind it, the careful way she chose her words. She wasn’t just asking about the fog.

Ysábella hesitated.

"Just fog," she murmured.

The words felt wrong even as she said them.

Not with her.

Not with Isolde.

Ysábella could feel the way Isolde was watching her, studying her. Ever since their first run-in with Villanueva’s men, she had been watching. Not overtly, not in a way that would make the others notice, but Ysábella had seen it—the fleeting glances, the quiet observation, the way Isolde's sharp eyes lingered when Ysábella thought she wasn’t looking.

"You sure?" Isolde pressed.

Ysábella turned toward her. There was no mockery in her expression, no amusement, just quiet concern.

"I’m sure," Ysábella lied.

Isolde exhaled, quiet but pointed. She didn't believe her.

Redd, either unaware of the tension or deliberately ignoring it, let out a slow whistle and rolled her shoulders. "If it’s just fog, then it’s some cursed fog, I tell you that much. Feels like we’re sailing through a graveyard."

Ysábella said nothing.

She turned back toward the mist, searching again—half-expecting the ship to return, half-dreading that it would.

Nothing.

No movement.

No sign that anything had ever been there at all.

She had seen it. She knew she had seen it.

And yet…

Her mind was already betraying her, whispering doubts between the cracks of her exhaustion.

Like the scratching.

Like the musk.

Like the nightmares.

Was it real?

Or was she slipping?

A sudden gust of wind stirred the mist, curling it around the deck before it settled once more. It was the first shift in the air since she had stepped outside. The first proof that the world beyond the fog still existed.

Ysábella let out a slow breath, stepping back from the railing.

"Keep the course steady," she said.

Redd gave a lazy salute, though her usual smugness was missing. "Aye, Captain."

Isolde didn’t move.

She was still watching Ysábella.

Still waiting.

But Ysábella had no answers to give.

Not for her.

Not for herself.

She turned away, the mist thick behind her, clinging to the edges of her thoughts.

Chapter Text

Diego

The sun sat high in the sky, its unforgiving light spilling through the cabin, casting sharp streaks across the wooden floor. Afternoon heat pressing in, thick with salt and something else—anticipation, dread.

Ysábella had not meant to fall asleep.

It was not true rest—it did nothing to ease the exhaustion buried deep in her bones. If anything, it had made it worse. Her head ached, a dull, persistent throb behind her eyes, and her limbs felt heavier than before. It was the kind of sleep that blurred the lines between waking and dreaming, leaving her feeling more drained, more vulnerable.

The lantern swayed from the beam above, its flickering glow stretching and shrinking the shadows along the wooden walls. The flame barely reached the farthest corners of the room, where darkness pooled, untouched. The scent of salt and aged wood clung to the air, settling deep into La Doncella’s timbers.

Outside, the ship groaned softly, moving with the slow, steady tide. It should have been comforting. It wasn't. The sea was too still, the hush before a storm.

She lay stretched across the bed, half-dressed, her blouse slipping loosely from one shoulder, baring the soft curve of her collarbone. Her bare legs tangled in the sheets, the linen twisted from restless movement. She had not planned to sleep—not fully—but exhaustion had settled into her bones, dragging her into a light, uneasy slumber.

In two days, she would surrender.

That was the plan. That was the promise.

The words echoed in her mind, circling like vultures.

She had agreed to it—to hand herself over to Villanueva. She had dictated the time and place. And Jack —he was supposed to be waiting at the edge of it all. That had been the deal. That had been his promise.

But what if he wasn’t? The thought curled around her throat, tightening like a noose. She had trusted before—once, long ago—and it had nearly cost her everything. Memories of broken promises and abandoned hopes scraped at the edges of her mind. Jack was different. He had to be. But what if—just like the others—he wasn't?

A thought she had been avoiding all night crept back in, a whisper of doubt curling around her throat.

Jack Sparrow had left La Doncella two weeks ago, swearing he would return in time. She had held on to those words, even as the days stretched longer, even as his absence gnawed at something deep inside her. But what if he didn’t come?

What if she was walking into this alone?

Ysábella’s jaw tightened. She did not like how small that thought made her feel. Anger flared beneath her ribs, hot and unwelcome, warring against the quiet, creeping fear she refused to name. She clenched her fists, forcing the feeling down, replacing it with the sharp edge of resolve. She would not let doubt sink its claws into her— not now.

Her fingers brushed absently against the dagger beside her on the mattress, the cool hilt pressing into her palm. The blade was a comfort—something real, something she could trust.

She should not have expected more than that.

Then—a soft creak outside the door.

Ysábella tensed.

Her breath stilled, muscles coiling beneath her skin.

The ship was old, and she knew its every sound—wood settling, ropes straining, waves lapping against the hull. But this was different.

Soft. Deliberate.

Someone was there.

Her grip tightened around the dagger. She remained still, listening. Waiting.

Silence.

Then—a faint rustle of fabric. A shift of weight.

The unease curled deeper in her stomach, creeping into her veins like ice.

She exhaled, slow and measured, trying to quell the quickening of her pulse. Maybe it was just her nerves—just the weight of what lay ahead pressing too hard against her thoughts, making her imagine things.

Still, she sat up, her movements careful, controlled.

The sheets whispered against her skin as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

Her bare feet met the wooden floor, the planks cool against her soles. She listened. Waiting. Nothing.

Her pulse slowed, her breath evening out. Perhaps it was just her thoughts betraying her, feeding her anxieties, making her imagine something that wasn’t there. The past two weeks had been a waiting game, stretching her nerves thin. Perhaps her mind was simply playing tricks on her.

And yet— she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming.

She exhaled softly, tilting her head to the side, stretching the tension from her neck. Her hair spilled over one shoulder, the loose strands brushing against her bare skin.

She had almost convinced herself there was nothing to fear—

Then it came.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The sudden, shrill clang of the alarm bell ripped through the midday calm, fracturing the air like a crack of thunder.

The sound slammed into her chest like a cannon blast, setting her nerves on fire.

Ysábella snapped her head up, muscles tightening.

Then— a scream.

A voice, raw and guttural, carved through the sweltering midday air before being swallowed by the chaos.

Her breath caught.

Then— a gunshot.

The single, deafening crack sent a jolt through her spine, reverberating through the ship like a death knell.

Then came the chaos.

The distant, frantic clash of steel against steel. The heavy pounding of boots on the deck. Voices shouting, barking orders, pleading—dying.

It was happening.

Ysábella shot to her feet, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her fingers tightened around the dagger, the cool steel biting into her palm.

She reached for the second blade tucked beneath her pillow—then stopped.

A shadow moved beneath the thin sliver of light at the base of her door. Someone was there.

She took a step back, her breath coming too fast. The ship was under attack.

She had to move—now.

The door burst apart, a violent crash of splintered wood as it was kicked open with brute force. Jagged shards flew through the air, some grazing Ysábella’s skin, while others clattered against the floor. Dust swirled in the lantern’s flickering glow, thickening the air as the sudden force sent the room into chaos.

Ysábella barely had time to raise an arm, shielding her face as jagged shards flew across the room. The lantern swung wildly, its glow spilling erratic shadows against the walls. The rush of movement blurred in her vision as figures stormed inside.

Armed. Wild-eyed.

Too many.

Ysábella moved.

Her body reacted before thought could catch up—she lunged forward, dagger raised.

But she was too slow.

Hands seized her, gripping her wrists, yanking her forward.

She twisted, kicking out, but another hand fisted in her hair, yanking her back.

Her blouse slipped lower, the fabric pulling against her shoulder, baring more skin than she wanted seen.

Laughter.

A low whistle.

One of the men Diego had brought aboard. A new face, unfamiliar, but his intentions were clear.

"Didn’t think we’d catch the captain like this."

The amusement in his voice made Ysábella’s skin burn—not with shame, but with fury.

Her vision blurred with rage, but the weight of them—the sheer number of them—was suffocating.

They shoved her forward, her body lurching under the force, her arms wrenched painfully behind her back. Rough, calloused fingers dug into her skin, yanking, restraining, claiming.

A sharp pull. A hard jerk.

The dagger was ripped from her grasp.

She twisted, fighting against them, her muscles straining, her nails clawing against unyielding hands. The ropes came next— fast, merciless, biting into the flesh of her wrists as they looped, cinched, and tightened.

She snarled. Kicked. Thrashed.

The men only laughed.

"Feisty little thing."

"Think she bites?"

"She should. Might make this interesting."

The scent of sweat and sea salt pressed in around her, suffocating. She felt the weight of them, the heat of their bodies too close, the stink of rum on their breath. Their confidence was sickening.

She refused to stop fighting.

A sharp yank sent her collapsing forward, her bound wrists preventing her from catching herself. Her shoulder slammed into the floor, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. She gasped, her cheek pressing against the worn planks, the taste of salt and blood already filling her mouth.

Boots stepped into view, the dark leather scuffed and coated in grime. One pair. Then another. And another. The room felt smaller, shrinking with the bodies that loomed above her.

Someone crouched beside her, too near, too at ease with this. A hand fisted in her hair, forcing her head up.

"Look at her," the man sneered. "Not so high and mighty now, are you, Captain?"

Her chest heaved, fury and breathlessness mixing in a dangerous concoction.

Another voice—rough, thick with amusement. "She was on her knees for us already. That was easy."

More laughter.

Rage burned beneath her skin, hot and consuming.

Ysábella lunged, throwing her weight forward, slamming her forehead into the man’s nose.

A sharp crack.

He howled, stumbling back, hands flying to his face as blood gushed between his fingers.

The laughter stopped.

A heavy boot drove into her stomach, sending her sprawling onto her back.

Pain exploded through her ribs, a sharp, suffocating ache that stole the breath from her lungs. She gasped, curling inward instinctively, but the ropes held her firm.

"Bitch!" the injured man snarled, voice thick with rage and pain.

She didn’t care. Let them be angry. Let them bleed.

She gritted her teeth, breathing through the sharp throbbing in her ribs.

Then, heavy footsteps. A new presence.

A hush fell over the room.

The men shifted, moving aside, parting like waves.

Someone else was here.

The air changed.

A bootstep. Then another. Slow. Purposeful.

Then a voice.

"That’s enough."

A voice Ysábella knew.

Her blood turned to ice.

Diego.

The name coiled through her mind like venom, sharp and suffocating.

Ysábella forced herself to breathe, her body still aching from the blow. She rolled onto her side, her bound wrists digging into the floor as she turned her head. Through the mess of shadows and flickering lantern light, she saw him— Diego.

He stood at the ruined entrance, framed by the splintered remains of her door. His expression was unreadable, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage—her cabin, the men, the blood. Light caught the steel at his hip as he stepped inside, his boots moving with slow, deliberate ease.

"That’s enough," he repeated, his voice smooth, authoritative.

The men obeyed immediately. They stepped back, giving him space as he approached. The momentary hush was suffocating.

Ysábella clenched her jaw, forcing herself upright despite the pain slicing through her ribs. The ropes bit deeper into her skin as she shifted, but she refused to let them see her struggle. She would not kneel before him.

Diego came to a stop just in front of her, his gaze lowering to meet hers. A flicker of amusement danced behind his eyes.

"Didn’t think it would be this easy, Captain," he said, tilting his head.

Ysábella said nothing. She only stared.

The air between them simmered, thick with something unsaid.

Diego crouched, resting his forearms on his knees, studying her like a beast that had finally cornered its prey.

"You know," he mused, reaching down, brushing a strand of hair from her face, "I almost thought you’d put up more of a fight."

She jerked her head away from his touch, her glare burning.

Diego’s smirk widened, pleased by her defiance.

"Still got some fire in you, I see," he murmured, rising to his full height.

His attention shifted toward the open doorway. The sounds of battle had faded, replaced by the heavy silence of defeat.

The alarm bell was still ringing.

Just beyond her cabin, a lone crewman clung to the bell, his grip desperate. His arms moving mechanically as he continued to sound the warning.

Ysábella’s breath hitched.

Diego let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Persistent, isn’t he?"

He reached for his pistol.

"No!"

The gunshot rang out before she could stop him.

The bell stuttered mid-ring as the crewman’s body jerked violently, his grip loosening.

For a fleeting second, he remained there, frozen, fingers still curled around the rope. Then his knees buckled, his body crumpling to the deck.

Silence.

Diego exhaled, lowering the pistol as smoke curled from the barrel.

"No need for that anymore."

Ysábella stared at the fallen man, her breath shallow.

The bell’s final echo lingered in the air, fading into the darkness.

She felt something crack inside her.

Not rage.

Not grief.

Something colder.

Diego turned back to her, slipping the pistol into its holster.

"Now," he said, voice softer than it should have been. "Let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be, hm?"

Ysábella lifted her chin, her gaze unwavering.

She would not beg.

Would not break.

Even as the weight of defeat settled like an anchor in her chest, she refused to let him see it.

The bell had rung.

The fight was over.

A heavy hand closed around her upper arm, yanking her onto her feet. Her balance wavered, the sharp tug on her bound wrists forcing a hiss from her lips. Someone grunted as she twisted against their hold, but they only tightened their grip, fingers digging bruises into her skin.

The cabin spun briefly in the dim lantern light as they dragged her forward. The broken remnants of the door gaped open before her, framing the carnage outside.

Her chest tightened.

They shoved her forward, and La Doncella’s deck sprawled before her—warped, foreign, no longer her own.

The bodies of her crew littered the planks, some slumped against the railing, others crumpled where they had fallen. Blood pooled, streaked across the wood in wide, uneven smears. The tang of iron mixed with the salt air, thick and suffocating.

Survivors had been rounded up, forced to their knees, their hands bound. Some bled from fresh wounds; others were too still, their expressions vacant with the shock of loss.

But it was the sight near the mainmast that made Ysábella’s stomach lurch.

Isolde. Amihan. Redd.

All three of them restrained, bound at the wrists, held in place by Diego’s men.

Isolde was glaring, her lip split, dried blood darkening the corner of her mouth. A fresh bruise was forming along her jaw, but she sat straight, unmoving, her dark eyes locked on Ysábella’s.

Beside her, Amihan was breathing hard, her face pale beneath the lantern light. Her small frame was trembling, but whether from fear or rage, Ysábella couldn’t tell.

And Redd —

The redhead’s head was tilted slightly, watching the chaos with cold detachment. But Ysábella didn’t miss the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenched.

She had fought.

They all had.

And they had all been taken.

A rush of fury surged through Ysábella’s veins, burning away the numbness threatening to settle in her limbs. She tore against the hands gripping her arms, teeth bared, but her captors wrenched her back into place.

"Not so fast, Captain," Diego murmured, stepping beside her. His hand came to rest against the small of her back, his touch almost mockingly gentle.

She recoiled, disgust curling through her stomach.

"You made your choice, Ysábella," he said, voice low. "This was always how it was going to end."

She whipped her head toward him, rage flashing white-hot behind her eyes.

"You think this is the end?" she hissed.

Diego smirked. "For you? No. But for them—" his gaze flickered toward her captured crew, "—it depends entirely on how much you fight me."

The words sank like a stone in her gut. The weight of his words settled, pressing like a vice around her ribs. Diego had won. He had taken La Doncella. He had her crew.

Ysábella turned back to Diego, her breath slow, steady, controlled. Rage still simmered beneath her skin, but she swallowed it down.

"If you so much as touch them—" she started, her voice low.

Diego laughed.

Not loud. Not cruel.

Worse.

It was soft. Amused. Like she had just said something endearing.

"Oh, Paloma," he murmured, stepping closer.

The name sent a wave of nausea rolling through her.

She jerked back instinctively, but the hands on her arms tightened, keeping her in place.

"Why would I waste my time punishing them," Diego continued, voice smooth, pleasant, "when I already have you?"

She stilled.

"You see, Captain—" he said the word mockingly, like it didn’t belong to her anymore, "—it’s much more fun watching you squirm."

Her breath hitched.

"But," he went on, shrugging lazily, "if you insist on making things difficult…"

He trailed off, glancing over his shoulder toward the captured women.

Then, without hesitation, he lifted his hand and pointed directly at Isolde.

"Especially her."

Silence.

A silence so sharp it could have cut through steel.

Ysábella froze, a cold, visceral dread twisting beneath her ribs.

Isolde stilled beside Amihan and Redd, her dark eyes locking onto Diego’s in unflinching defiance.

There was no hesitation. No fear.

Only understanding.

"You bastard," Isolde spat, her voice thick with venom.

She knew.

They all knew.

And Ysábella knew too.

This had never been about the ship. Never about loyalty.

This had always been about Isolde.

Diego merely smiled, slow and calculated, tilting his head in that infuriating way of his.

"You knew," he said smoothly, voice soft but cutting. "You knew how I felt. And yet, you chose her over me."

His words were meant to sting. To fester.

They didn't.

Isolde remained unmoved, her jaw tight, her shoulders squared.

"You could have had me," Diego continued, stepping closer. "I would have given you everything. But instead, you threw yourself at—" his gaze flicked toward Ysábella, his lip curling, "—this."

The venom in his tone coiled around Ysábella’s throat, sharp and suffocating.

A muscle in Isolde’s jaw twitched.

And then, without hesitation, without thought, she spat in his face.

The glob of blood and spit struck Diego’s cheek, sliding down toward his jaw in a slow, crimson streak.

A sharp intake of breath came from Amihan.

The moment stretched, thick with something dangerous.

Diego didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

The world seemed to narrow around them, the distant creak of the ship, the rustling of the sea—all of it drowned beneath the tension thickening the air.

His expression didn’t change as he slowly lifted a hand, wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, slow and methodical.

Ysábella didn't breathe.

The men standing closest to them shifted, their hands tightening on their weapons, their boots scraping against the bloodstained deck.

Then he struck.

The sharp crack of his palm against Isolde’s cheek ripped through the afternoon silence.

The force of it sent her head snapping to the side.

But she made no sound.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t react.

She only breathed, slow and controlled, her shoulders squaring as she turned her face back toward him.

Then she smiled.

Not soft. Not gentle.

But mocking.

"That all you got?"

Her voice was calm, steady, cutting through the cold night like a blade.

Something shifted in Diego’s expression.

The flicker of rage was brief, but Ysábella caught it.

She felt the moment stretch, Diego staring at Isolde, jaw tight, breath controlled, knuckles curled at his sides.

And then, with an exhale so sharp it could have been a curse, he turned away.

"Lock them up," he ordered, voice void of emotion.

The men obeyed instantly.

Ysábella barely felt the ropes biting into her skin as they yanked her toward the hatch leading below deck.

Her bare feet scraped against the wood as she fought against the hands holding her, but she was exhausted, outnumbered, beaten without ever having drawn her blade.

She heard the scuffle of Isolde, Amihan, and Redd being hauled to their feet, the sharp grunt from Isolde, the restrained but angry breath from Redd, the quiet tremor of Amihan’s breathing.

The finality of the moment settled deep in Ysábella’s chest like an iron weight.

La Doncella was no longer hers. The weight of the realization settled into her bones, pressing against her ribs like an anchor dragging her into the abyss. A hollow ache bloomed in her chest—rage, grief, something she couldn’t quite name. She had fought, bled, endured for this ship, and now—now it had been wrenched from her hands. The air felt heavier, the walls of the brig closing in, suffocating. But even through the crushing finality, through the rawness of her loss, a fire still smoldered within her. This was not the end.

Her crew was no longer hers.

The fight was over.

And yet, as they dragged her toward the darkness below deck, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the worst had only just begun.

The descent into darkness was slow and suffocating.

The wooden steps creaked beneath them as they were forced below deck, the humid, stagnant air pressing in around them like a second skin. The further they were dragged, the less light remained—the glow of the lanterns above fading into flickering ghosts on the walls.

The scent of damp wood, old sweat, and the lingering stench of blood and rot thickened with every step.

The brig was deep within La Doncella, past the crew quarters, past the storage holds. Ysábella knew this place well —it had been used to hold prisoners, traitors, or men too drunk to function.

Now, it would hold them.

Boots scraped against the floor, heavy hands shoved them forward, and soon the clanking rattle of iron bars filled the air.

The cell was small, damp, and empty.

One by one, they were pushed inside. First Amihan. Then Redd. Then Isolde.

Then Ysábella.

She stumbled as they threw her forward, her knees nearly hitting the rough wooden floor. She caught herself against the cell’s wall, her bound wrists burning as she braced her weight.

The iron bars slammed shut behind them.

A thick rusted lock clicked into place.

A moment of silence followed, filled only by the sound of labored breathing and the soft creak of the ship shifting with the tide.

Then the footsteps retreated.

No mocking words. No taunts.

Just the sound of men leaving them behind.

Only when the footsteps fully disappeared into the belly of the ship did Ysábella finally let herself move.

She exhaled slowly, lifting her arms as much as she could in their restraints. The ropes were tight, unforgiving, digging into her skin with each movement.

"Well, this is new." Redd’s voice broke the silence, low and dry. She sat herself against the farthest wall, one knee bent, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

"For you, maybe," Isolde muttered, shifting against the bars as she tested the ropes on her wrists.

"It is for me too," Amihan admitted, voice quiet.

She was the only one still standing, her hands clenching and unclenching, as though resisting the instinct to pace.

"First time being thrown in a brig?" Ysábella asked, glancing toward her.

"First time being betrayed and thrown in a brig."

There was no bitterness in Amihan’s voice, only a quiet, resigned acceptance.

Ysábella sighed, rolling her shoulders. The fabric of her blouse had loosened even more, slipping dangerously from one shoulder. She had never been given pants.

She glanced down at herself, bare-legged, feet dirty from the ship’s floor.

"They could’ve at least given me some damned breeches before throwing me in here," she muttered.

Redd let out a short, breathy chuckle.

"Might be the first time a captain’s been thrown in her own brig half-dressed," she mused.

"If we’re keeping track of firsts," Isolde interjected, tilting her head toward Ysábella, "this is also the first time your ship isn’t yours anymore."

The words landed heavier than expected.

Silence followed, thick and suffocating.

Ysabella knew it. She had felt it the moment Diego took her weapons, the moment the alarm bell stopped ringing, the moment she was dragged below deck like nothing more than spoils of war.

"Not forever," she said finally.

Isolde watched her for a long moment.

"No," she agreed. "Not forever."

A pause.

"But what now?" Amihan asked, her voice softer, more uncertain.

None of them answered immediately.

There were no weapons. No leverage. No allies left aboard the ship.

They had nothing.

And yet, Ysábella refused to accept that Diego had won. She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders, the tension settling into something sharper—something unyielding. Her fingers curled into fists, her nails pressing against her palms as she glanced at her crew. A flicker of defiance burned in her chest. This wasn’t over. Not yet.

She sat back against the wall, exhaling through her nose, her jaw tight with thought.

"Now," she murmured, tilting her head up toward the darkness above, "we wait."

Chapter Text

Ysábella Paloma

The brig of La Doncella stank of sweat, salt, and blood. The air was thick with the weight of defeat, the wooden planks creaking beneath the shifting bodies of those imprisoned. Ysábella sat with her back against the cold iron bars, wrists bound behind her. The chill of the metal seeped through her thin clothing, pressing into her spine like an unrelenting reminder of her captivity. But beneath her waist—there was nothing.

Her legs, bare, sprawled over the damp, splintered floor, the rough wood biting into her skin. The bruises along her thighs had deepened into sickly shades of violet, stark against the raw scrapes left by unforgiving hands. Salt clung to the wounds, a sharp sting that pulsed with every breath. The remnants of torn fabric still hung from her hips, useless, offering no modesty nor warmth. A dull ache radiated from deep within, but she refused to acknowledge it.

The damp air settled over her skin like an unwanted touch, crawling, suffocating. Her body bore the evidence of their cruelty, but she would not grant them the satisfaction of her shame. The bruises throbbed, her wrists ached, but the worst pain nestled beneath her ribs—a fury so sharp it threatened to carve its way out. She refused to let exhaustion take her—refused to let them see her broken.

She wasn’t alone.

Scattered throughout the brig were not just her own— Isolde, Amihan, and Redd—but others. Seeing them bound and beaten, their defiance dulled but not extinguished, sent a sharp pang through her chest. Guilt gnawed at the edges of her anger, but she forced it down—she had to stay strong, for them. Men who had once served La Doncella with loyalty, who had fought against Diego’s mutiny and lost. Some sat slumped against the bars, their faces bloodied from the struggle. Others glared in silence, their rage simmering beneath the surface.

They had fought for her. And now, they were here.

The heavy thud of boots descending the steps silenced the murmurs.

Diego.

He descended into the brig like a man who already owned everything he set foot on, flanked by two of his men. His eyes flicked over the captives before settling on Ysábella. A smirk curled at his lips.

"Get her up," he ordered.

One of his men grabbed her by the arm and yanked. Ysábella sucked in a sharp breath as she was hauled to her feet, her legs unsteady from hours of confinement.

"Where are you taking her?" Isolde demanded, her voice sharp.

Diego tilted his head slowly, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make the tension unbearable before finally speaking. "She’s not meeting Villanueva like this, is she?" He gestured vaguely at Ysábella—disheveled, dirt-smudged, and, most notably, bare from the waist down, leaving her vulnerable.

She had no choice but to stand in it.

Diego’s men chuckled, their gazes lingering too long.

"If any of you so much as look at her wrong, I’ll—" Isolde’s voice was cut off as one of the guards shoved her back against the bars.

Ysábella kept her chin high. She forced a steady breath through her nose, willing her heartbeat to slow. The fire in her chest burned against the weight of humiliation, but she refused to let it consume her. She would not give them the satisfaction of shame.

Diego let out a slow, measured sigh, his amusement evident in the lazy tilt of his head and the smug curve of his lips. "Come along now, Paloma. Time to get you dressed for the occasion."

With that, she was dragged forward, her bare feet scraping against the rough wood. Each step sent a fresh wave of fury through her, but she bit it down, forcing herself to think. There had to be a way out—an opening, a moment of hesitation she could seize. But as the grip on her arms tightened, crushing her resistance, the bitter truth settled in—there was no escape. Not yet.

The last thing she saw before being pulled away was Isolde's burning glare, and the silent, steeled rage of the men who had fought for her. A knot tightened in her stomach—not of fear, but of helpless fury. She wanted to fight, to reach for them, to scream, but the grip on her arms was ironclad, dragging her toward a fate she refused to accept.

Ysábella hit the wooden floor hard, her shoulder striking the wreckage strewn across the cabin. She barely caught herself before her knees scraped against the splintered planks.

Or what was left of it.

The door was gone, reduced to jagged remnants clinging uselessly to the frame. A shiver ran down Ysábella’s spine, her muscles tensing at the exposure. There was no barrier now, no illusion of safety—only the open void where her sanctuary had once stood.

The scent of splintered wood lingered in the air, mixing with the faint, salty breeze drifting in from outside, carrying the weight of intrusion. The broken threshold yawned open, offering no privacy—just a clear view to anyone who cared to watch. The room itself was a ruin. Her furniture was overturned, drawers ransacked, belongings scattered, some missing entirely. The bed was stripped bare, its sheets torn away, leaving the mattress exposed like a carcass picked clean. The trunk at the foot of it had been pried open, its contents gutted and discarded.

Her cabin.

For a moment, she could almost pretend it was still hers—that if she turned quickly enough, she would find it as she left it. But the truth settled like lead in her stomach, undeniable and suffocating.

A hollow ache settled in her chest, the weight of violation pressing heavy against her ribs. This was more than destruction—it was possession, a reminder that nothing truly belonged to her.

Her ship.

Stripped, gutted, stolen. As if she had never commanded it at all.

And yet, she owned nothing. Not anymore.

Footsteps followed behind her, slow and deliberate. Diego.

He stepped inside with maddening ease, surveying the wreckage with mild amusement before tossing a bundle of fabric onto the floor before her.

"Villanueva wants you in this," he said.

Ysábella didn’t move. She didn’t need to look. The fabric unfurled slightly at her feet—white, untouched, pristine. A cruel mockery of purity. A reminder. A leash.

She stayed kneeling, her fingers twitching against the wooden floor, her wrists still raw from the rope that had bound them earlier.

Diego’s man leaned against the broken doorway, arms crossed, his gaze raking over her with an arrogance that made her stomach churn.

"Not that she needs a dress," he muttered, his lips curling as his eyes dragged down the length of her legs.

Ysábella remained motionless, willing the fire in her chest to stay contained. Her fingers curled against the wooden floor, nails pressing into her palms as she forced her breath to steady.

The rage simmered beneath her skin, but she swallowed it down, feeling the strain in her jaw as she clenched her teeth against the heat threatening to consume her. Her fingers curled against the wooden floor, nails pressing into her palms as she forced her breath to steady. The rage simmered beneath her skin, but she swallowed it down, letting it burn slow instead of explode. Her loose blouse, wrinkled and hanging off her frame, offered little coverage. It fell low over her thighs, but it did nothing to shield her from their stares.

"Change," Diego ordered.

She hesitated.

His smirk deepened. "What’s wrong, Paloma ?" he taunted. "We need to make sure you’re not hiding anything. Or would you rather change in front of the others?"

Ysábella clenched her jaw, her pulse steady despite the fury burning beneath her ribs.

Slowly, she reached for the gown, fingers brushing over the fabric as if it might bite.

"Turn around," she ordered, her voice even.

Diego exhaled, feigning amusement as he did—though not fully. A flicker of something else passed behind his eyes, too brief to name. Was it doubt? Resentment? He masked it quickly, his smirk settling back into place, but the moment did not go unnoticed. He shifted just enough to appease her, angling his body rather than giving his full back. He wasn’t foolish enough to trust her.

His man, however, did not move.

Ysábella inhaled through her nose, slow and controlled. She knew better than to ask twice.

With careful movements, she pulled the gown over her head. The fabric slid down her skin, heavy despite its softness, swallowing her whole.

A low chuckle followed.

"A shame, really," the man muttered, his voice thick with something lecherous. "Villanueva always gets the best ones."

Diego chuckled under his breath.

Ysábella forced herself to keep moving. Forced herself to breathe.

She had learned long ago—monsters thrived on reactions. Her shoulders squared, her chin lifting a fraction higher. Silence was her weapon, stillness her shield. To flinch was to lose.

The gown felt heavier than it should have as it settled against her skin, draping her in a veil of false surrender. Scent of salt and damp wood clinging to her lungs. 

Ysábella took a breath—slow, steady—before stepping forward. For a fleeting moment, she hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides. Was this truly the only path left? 

The answer had been stolen from her the moment Diego betrayed them. Swallowing the doubt, she forced her feet to move. The weight of the gown dragged against her legs, each step a reminder of the surrender it represented. The damp air pressed against her skin, thick with the scent of salt and splintered wood, clinging to her like a second skin.

As she stepped beyond the wreckage of her cabin, she saw them.

The others.

Isolde, Amihan, and Redd were being dragged from below deck, their arms wrenched behind them as Diego’s men forced them onto the main deck. The struggle was brief but brutal—Isolde spat at one of them, earning a backhand across her face. Amihan twisted in their grip, her feet barely catching the deck as she was hauled forward, her expression torn between rage and fear. Redd, though silent, was not complacent—she kicked at her captor’s shin, only for another to grab her by the hair and yank her head back, grinning.

Ysábella forced herself to keep walking, her expression unreadable. Her jaw tightened, a flicker of tension betraying the storm within. Each step felt heavier, but she refused to falter, her fingers curling slightly at her sides.

"Come along, Captain," Diego called lazily from behind her, his voice drenched in amusement. "Wouldn’t want to be late to your own reunion."

She did not respond.

Instead, she let her gaze sweep over La Doncella —what remained of her. The once-proud ship felt smaller now, its deck overrun with enemies, its soul gutted by betrayal. Her crew—those who had resisted—were gone. Some taken, some killed. And now, she and the last of her people were being paraded before the fleet that awaited them.

Ysábella’s stomach twisted. A shudder ran through her, her breath hitching for just a moment before she forced it steady. The nausea clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it down, refusing to let it take hold. Her knees felt weak, the weight of the moment pressing down on her like an unseen force. She swallowed hard, willing herself to stay upright, to not let the nausea consume her.

It was not just El Impoluto waiting beyond the horizon.

It was an entire fleet.

Her breath stilled.

The sea stretched endlessly before them, dark and foreboding beneath the heavy sky. The air was thick, stagnant, carrying only the low groan of La Doncella's hull as it sliced through the waters. Ysábella stood on the deck, her hands clenched at her sides, the weight of the gown suffocating against her skin.

At the center of it all— Villanueva’s Man o’ War. El Impoluto.

Flanked by two more Man o’ War, a fleet of frigates surrounding them like wolves circling prey.

Dread coiled around her ribs, heavy and unshakable.

This was not where she was supposed to surrender. Jack had planned for shallow waters, an advantage. This? This was a slaughter waiting to happen.

The weight of her realization sank like iron into her stomach.

Jack didn’t make it in time. The waves slapped against the hull in steady defiance, their rhythm indifferent to her unraveling world. For a fleeting second, she thought she heard a voice carried on the wind—his voice—but the empty horizon mocked her with its silence. The realization struck, sending a cold wave through her veins. Her pulse pounded against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat to match the storm brewing inside her. Fingers curled against the fabric of her gown, gripping it as though she could anchor herself against the impending disaster. The thought struck like a cannon blast, hollowing her chest. He had promised. He had looked her in the eye and promised. And yet, the sea remained empty of salvation.

Whatever he had planned—it failed.

Dread curled around her ribs, suffocating, sinking deep. Her breath came shallow, each inhale catching in her throat as a cold sweat pricked at her skin. The weight in her chest pressed tighter, as if the very air conspired to crush her from within.

They had lost. She had lost.

Doomed.

A hand clamped onto her arm. She barely registered Diego’s voice as he barked orders to his men. Around her, Isolde, Amihan, and Redd were corralled toward the edge of the ship.

"Move," one of the men snapped, shoving her forward.

She barely caught herself before colliding with the railing. Below, the water lapped ominously against the hull, and floating beside La Doncella was a rowboat—waiting.

One by one, they were forced down into it.

Ysábella hit the wooden planks hard, a sharp jolt shooting up her spine. Pain flared across her knees, but she forced herself to remain still, swallowing the instinct to groan. She curled her fingers against the rough wood, steadying herself before slowly lifting her head, her expression unreadable. Isolde was shoved in beside her, her wrist still bleeding from where she had fought too hard. Redd and Amihan followed, both seething but silent.

The boat rocked violently as Diego’s men climbed in.

And slowly, the oars dipped into the sea.

Rowing them toward the monstrous, floating fortress that loomed ahead.

El Impoluto.

Ysábella did not look back. She straightened her spine, steeling herself against the weight of what was to come. The rhythmic creak of the oars echoed in the silence, each stroke pulling them farther from the ship that had been her home. La Doncella grew smaller with each passing moment, its tattered sails fading into the misty horizon. The boat rocked gently with the motion, the water lapping insistently against its sides, but the emptiness within her outweighed the rhythm of the sea. The salty breeze pressed against her skin, but it did nothing to quell the hollowness settling in her chest.

There was nothing left behind her.

Only ruin ahead.

La Doncella in front of El Impoluto

Chapter Text

Don Roderigo 'El Cuervo' Villanueva

The deck of El Impoluto was slick with seawater and blood, the air thick with salt and something rotting beneath the surface.

One of Villanueva’s men seized Ysábella, his fingers locking around her arm like iron. It wasn’t painful, but it didn’t have to be. It was a claim, not a restraint—a silent declaration that she was no longer in control.

She did not resist.

Beside her, Isolde, Amihan, and Redd were thrown to their knees, their wrists bound tight behind their backs. Redd landed first, the impact sending a hollow thud through the deck. Amihan wobbled, barely catching herself before her shoulder hit the wood. Isolde dropped onto one knee, breathing sharply, her head tilted low, but Ysábella saw the tightness in her jaw—the rage simmering beneath the surface.

None of them spoke. There was nothing to say.

The crew of Villanueva’s ship stood around them, forming a loose half-circle. Some leaned against the rigging, arms crossed, watching like spectators at a hanging. Others whispered, their eyes darting between Ysábella and Villanueva, as if waiting for the moment the real spectacle would begin.

The murmurs and shifting figures around her faded into the background, blending into the ship’s oppressive atmosphere. Ysábella’s gaze slipped past them, drawn instead to something far more unsettling.

To the side of the ship, near the railing, a man swayed unsteadily. His shirt hung in damp, bloodied strips from his shoulders, the fabric barely clinging to his ruined body. His back—what little could be seen of it—was a mess of ragged, torn flesh, barnacle-ripped and bleeding freely. Salt clung to his wounds. 

Ysábella inhaled slowly, staring at him without reaction. She had seen this before—had learned long ago that death, when drawn out, became a spectacle. A lesson. There was no use flinching now. He was still alive. Not for much longer.

A shadow moved beside him.

The mastiff.

It sat next to Villanueva, a hulking beast, its muscles coiled beneath patchy fur. For a moment, it remained still. Then its head lifted. It sniffed once. Then again. Its ears pricked forward, its body went rigid.

Ysábella felt it before she saw it. The shift. The moment recognition clicked into place. A low, throaty whimper rumbled in its chest—not a growl, not a warning. Something closer to excitement. Its tail gave a slow, deliberate thump against the deck. Its nostrils flared, drinking her in—familiar, remembered.

Then it moved.

Ysábella’s breath hitched, sharp and sudden. The mastiff surged forward, raw force propelling it toward her, muscles tightening with anticipation.

Villanueva let out a low, sharp sound. A flick of his fingers followed. That was all it took. The mastiff froze mid-motion, panting heavily, inches from Ysábella. A frustrated chuff pushed from its throat, its breath heavy and expectant. It was waiting. Waiting for permission.

Villanueva didn’t give it. Instead, his fingers dragged lazily behind the mastiff’s ear, a slow, measured stroke. It was absentminded, effortless—a quiet display of control. The beast shuddered beneath his touch before melting into stillness, obedient to the silent command woven into his movements. Villanueva smirked, his touch gliding with deliberate ease, savoring the absolute power he held. Without sparing a glance at the man by the railing, he lifted his gaze to Ysábella.

"Ah, Palomita." The weight of his attention settled over her, heavy, suffocating. His voice was easy, casual. Knowing.

"Just in time."

Ysábella didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The prisoner let out a sharp, wet gasp, the sound tearing through the silence. A shudder ran through Ysábella, but she remained motionless, unwilling to betray the unease pooling in her stomach. From the side of the ship, the prisoner convulsed against the railing, his breath hitched in ragged bursts, his body betraying the fear he tried to suppress.

Then his voice broke the silence, trembling and raw. "I—I didn’t even do it." A sharp tremor ran through his body, his legs buckling beneath him. "Please," he rasped. "I swear—I didn’t—"

Villanueva didn’t blink. The prisoner’s voice, thick with panic, hung in the air, unanswered. A few crew members shifted uncomfortably, but none dared to intervene. Villanueva’s expression remained impassive, his voice devoid of cruelty, devoid of mercy. "I don’t care." The words carried no cruelty, no malice—just an undeniable finality.

He lifted a gloved hand. "Again."

The crew moved instantly, their hands tightening around the ropes with grim efficiency. The man let out a choked cry, his breath stuttering in sheer terror. His legs thrashed, feet scraping against the deck as if clawing for purchase, for anything to delay the inevitable. The ropes dug into his skin, pulling him taut like a marionette before the strings were severed. A last, desperate sob wracked his body before he was wrenched overboard. "No—please—" His words barely left his lips before he was hauled overboard.

The splash was immediate, sharp, and final.

The prisoner hit the water with a choked gasp, his body dragged beneath the ship before he could even attempt to fight. The ropes whipped taut, groaning under the weight of his struggling limbs. Then—the pull.

Ysábella heard the shift in the ropes, the slow, methodical rhythm of the crew hauling him beneath the hull. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t listen for the moment his body met the barnacles. Didn’t imagine the skin splitting, peeling away like soaked parchment.

She had witnessed this before. She knew what came next. And yet, knowing did nothing to soften the weight pressing down on her chest. It was always the same—pain, blood, the slow unraveling of a man beneath the waves. The inevitability of it clawed at her, a brutal reminder that mercy had no place here.

The first time, she had counted.

One.

The weightless moment before flesh met the barnacle-crusted hull.

Two.

The first scream—raw, wet, bubbling from a mouth filled with salt.

Three.

The scrape. That awful, inhuman sound of skin tearing open, salt pouring into raw wounds.

Four.

The gurgling, the way lungs flooded when there was nothing left to scream.

Five.

The silence.

This time, she did not count.

The mastiff stirred beside Villanueva, shifting its weight as the man’s screams pierced the air. It was a different sound now. Not pleading. Not desperate. Just pain. Wet, thick, suffering.

Villanueva exhaled, fingers gliding behind the mastiff’s ears in an absentminded stroke, his gaze never leaving the unfolding spectacle. A low, thoughtful hum left his lips. Then—he gestured lazily with two fingers.

The ropes strained again. Ysábella heard them pulling—dragging him back up. A long, agonizing moment passed. Then—the body emerged.

Water cascaded over the railing, mixing with fresh blood as the man was hauled onto the deck. For a brief, fleeting moment, she wondered if he was still alive.

Then—the gasp.

It was faint at first, a shallow wheeze swallowed by the sounds of the sea. Then it hit—sharp, desperate, the body’s last defiance against death. A sick, choking inhale followed, the lungs instinctively convulsing, refusing to surrender. His limbs spasmed in weak, useless movements, his body barely clinging to the remains of life. Blood and seawater spilled from his mouth, a wet, guttural retch that cut through the thick, oppressive air like a blade scraping against bone.

Ysábella didn’t need to look. The scent of blood and salt was enough, thick in the air, clinging to her skin like an unwanted memory. She had seen enough, but her senses refused to let her forget. It was all around her, pressing in, making the horror impossible to ignore. His back—what remained of it—was no longer flesh. Only stripped muscle and torn skin, salt still eating through him, the barnacle wounds gaping and raw. And yet, his chest still moved.

Villanueva sighed, disappointed. He crouched beside him, tilting his head in mock curiosity. Then, with the back of his fingers, he tapped the man’s cheek. It was almost gentle. Almost.

"Still breathing?"

The man didn’t respond. His chest heaved, struggling for air. His glassy eyes barely focused, his body ruined beyond recognition.

Villanueva grinned. "Oh, you’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?"

The prisoner let out a sound that wasn’t quite human anymore—a broken, strangled whimper, the last remnants of defiance stripped away by agony. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, his body caught in the cruel limbo between life and death. Ysábella forced herself to watch, though every muscle in her body begged her to look away. This was suffering beyond reason, beyond mercy. And yet, Villanueva was not done. His breath came in shuddering gasps, his body twitching as if unsure whether to fight or surrender to the inevitable. Ysábella saw his fingers twitch. Not a plea. Not a fight. Just a body trying to cling to something that wasn’t there.

The crew tightened the ropes, the coarse fibers biting deep into the man’s raw skin. He twitched, a feeble shudder rather than a struggle. His breath came in shallow, rattling gasps, his body barely clinging to what remained of life. There was no real fight left in him. Just the final, instinctive resistance of a body that had already given up.

His voice cracked, the last remnants of fear surfacing in a frayed whisper. "Just... kill me."

They yanked him overboard. The sea swallowed him whole.

For a long, agonizing moment, the ship was silent. Only the creak of rope and the gentle slap of waves against the hull remained.

Then—the pull. The ropes groaned under the strain, taut as the man was wrenched beneath the ship. For a moment, there was nothing but the deep, echoing silence of the sea. Then—contact. Barnacles tore into him, jagged edges splitting skin like wet parchment. Saltwater flooded his wounds, a searing bite against raw, exposed flesh. The ship rocked gently with the weight of his suffering, indifferent to the agony playing out beneath its hull. Ysábella clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms. The sound of tearing skin, the gurgled struggle beneath the waves—it was a cruelty she had no power to stop. She forced herself to breathe, to keep her expression still, though every fiber of her being recoiled at the brutality before her.

The man barely fought this time. His body slumped forward, twitching involuntarily. As they pulled him toward the edge again, Ysábella saw it—his fingers weakly clutching at the deck. A silent, pitiful plea. But no one listened. He was dragged overboard one last time, his final resistance slipping away like sand through fingers.

The ropes tightened, pulled, strained. The sea devoured him again, an abyss with no mercy. Ysábella stared at the water, unblinking. The crew was silent. Even the air felt heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken understanding. There was no saving him—there had never been a chance.

Villanueva grinned, the cruel amusement flickering in his eyes. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation, the weight of his command hanging like a blade poised to fall. "Again."

The crew obeyed instantly, hands tightening on the ropes as they heaved his limp body over the edge, the weight of him pulling hard against their grip. The splash followed—sharp, final. The ropes snapped taut, groaning under the strain of the dead weight. Another splash echoed, lost in the vastness of the sea. The water lapped hungrily, the darkness swallowing him whole, as if the ocean itself had been waiting to claim another soul.

This time, silence followed—no screams, no desperate gasps. Only the rhythmic creak of the pulleys, the steady drag of rope pulling him beneath the hull—a body barely fighting, barely there. Ysábella remained still, her gaze locked on the churning water. The cold weight of dread coiled in her stomach, pressing against her ribs like an iron grip. She felt it settle, heavy and unmoving, sinking deeper with every passing second. The silence around her wasn’t empty—it was watching, waiting, stretching thin like a rope pulled taut. She had seen this before. She knew what came next. And yet, knowing changed nothing.

She didn’t shift, didn’t betray the weight pressing against her ribs. Her breath remained steady, measured, unchanged. Yet, she felt it—heavier than the salt in the air, deeper than the ache in her bones. The weight of inevitability, of cruelty dressed in patience. Not the horror—she had burned through that long ago. Not pity—there was none left to offer. Only certainty remained. This was the end, and everyone aboard knew it.

The mastiff huffed beside Villanueva, shifting slightly, its amber eyes flicking toward the railing. Its tail twitched once, then stilled. Even the beast knew. It could smell it—the moment the living became dead. The body dragged beneath the ship was not coming back. And yet, they waited, suspended in the hush that followed suffering. The stench of salt and damp iron settled like a phantom over the deck, a scent Ysábella knew too well.

The ropes didn’t move immediately. Villanueva let the moment linger, drawing out the suspense with calculated precision. Every second felt stretched, suffocating, the silence pressing down like a weight upon the deck. Ysábella watched the way his fingers traced absently against the mastiff’s fur, slow and idle. It was a long pause. The kind meant to make men wonder if they would be brought up again at all. The kind meant to remind everyone who controlled the moment their lungs filled with salt.

At last, Villanueva gave a single motion. The crew hesitated for just a breath, the weight of the moment pressing down like the tide before a storm. Then, with a flick of Villanueva's hand, the order was given. The crew braced, muscles tensed as the ropes groaned under the weight. Ysábella held her breath, her chest tightening as the moment stretched, heavy and unrelenting. The inevitability of it all coiled around her, suffocating, inescapable. The final haul began, slow and deliberate, as if the sea itself hesitated to relinquish its grip. The ropes strained, pulling dead weight from the depths. Slowly, the sea surrendered, revealing what remained. The body surfaced—limp, unrecognizable. The bones of his hands protruded through shredded flesh. His face hung slack, mouth ajar in a frozen, unfinished plea, yet no sound would ever come. His eyes, dull and empty, stared unseeing, reflecting nothing but the vast, indifferent sky. Water dripped from his lifeless form, pooling beneath him, as if the sea itself still clung to its lost claim. The crew heaved. And the sea gave up its dead.

Ysábella exhaled, the breath barely audible over the shifting waves. The salt-tinged air clung to her lips, thick with the taste of iron. A shiver prickled down her spine, not from the cold, but from the suffocating quiet that followed. The wind, once restless, seemed to still, as if even the elements held their breath in uneasy reverence. The world around her seemed to contract, each sound growing distant, muffled by the weight of what had just transpired.

The hush stretched unbearably. Villanueva moved, nudging the corpse with his boot. It slumped over without resistance. Slowly, he turned to Ysábella. Slow. Deliberate. Amused.

The crew chuckled—low, nervous, uneasy. Ysábella didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She knew now—knew exactly what Villanueva wanted from her. And she knew, with terrifying certainty, he would enjoy taking his time. He smiled, satisfaction seeping through his expression like a slow-spreading stain, a sickness creeping under her skin.

He stepped closer, savoring the moment, his gloved fingers barely grazing her chin. The touch was nothing, yet it was everything. A reminder. A claim. An unspoken promise.

"I do hope you’ll last longer, Palomita." The mastiff exhaled, a deep, slow breath as if sensing the shift in power, its breath warm against the stillness of the night. Ysábella remained motionless, unflinching, letting the moment slip past like a shadow dissolving into the waves. Villanueva’s smile deepened. Without a word, he turned away, the moment left hanging, unresolved. The weight of it, however, remained.

The third round had ended, yet Villanueva remained. His game was far from over.

Villanueva turned to his officer, his voice smooth, deliberate. "Destrúyanla." No anger. No urgency. Just cold certainty. "Quemen su barco. Quemen La Doncella."

Ysábella heard it. The weight of the words settled in, slow and suffocating. Her throat tightened, breath catching before the plea escaped her lips.

As the ship turned its starboard toward La Doncella, Ysábella felt the dread settle deep in her chest. "Please, Villanueva," she begged, her voice cracking. "There are still people aboard."

Villanueva didn’t even spare her a glance. "That is not my concern, Palomita." His voice was light, almost amused. "They are already dead."

With the flick of his hand, one of his officers nodded before shouting—

"¡Fuego!"

The cannons roared. The force of the blast sent a shockwave through Ysábella’s spine. One of Villanueva’s smaller escort ships—a sloop—was caught in the explosion. Screams erupted, swallowed by the inferno.

And then—La Doncella burned.

Her main mast snapped like a felled tree. Fire swallowed her hull, turning wood and sail to ash. The screams of those still aboard tore through the night. Ysábella watched, frozen, as the only home she had ever known disintegrated before her eyes.

The flames roared, their glow dancing in her empty gaze. There was no saving it. No saving them. The life she had carved out for herself, her crew, her ship—it was all reduced to embers. And in that moment, something inside her cracked, a splintering that ran deep, jagged, irreparable.

She looked down at the body slumped on the deck. Water streamed from mangled flesh, pooling beneath him, merging with the bloodstains already seeping into the wood. The sea had stripped him, just as it had taken La Doncella. He was unrecognizable, ruined. So was she.

Villanueva had won. He had always won.

Her breath shuddered. Her gaze dulled, the weight of inevitability pressing against her ribs. She didn’t resist. She didn’t look away.

Jack had been a dream—fleeting, untouchable, a mirage on the horizon. But dreams end. And she was meant to remain—trapped, drowning in reality.

Yet even now, his warmth lingered. A ghost of something she could never keep.

Then reality struck like a knife, clean and undeniable.

And yet… the thought didn’t hurt the way it should. It should have devastated her. But all she felt was quiet acceptance. She had him—just for a fleeting, blindingly perfect moment. He made her feel free. Alive. Wanted. But freedom was never real. Not for her. Not for Palomita.

Her friends were damned. She knew what would happen to them. What had already begun. Enslaved. Used. Broken. And there was no way out.

A hollow numbness crept into her chest, spreading like ink in water.

The air felt too still, thick with the weight of inevitability.

Villanueva moved. He stepped over the corpse like it was nothing more than a pile of rags. Boots clicking against wet wood —slow, measured, deliberate.

She exhaled—soft, slow, final. The moment was imperceptible, yet Villanueva saw it. He felt it. A predator recognizing the moment his prey had stopped running.

Villanueva watched, savoring the moment. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He exhaled, his voice thick with amusement. "There it is." His gaze lingered on Ysábella, studying her. He had seen it—the shift, the resignation settling in her eyes. The moment her defiance cracked and the weight of inevitability crushed her. He relished it.

He reached forward, deliberately slow, his presence looming over her like an inescapable shadow. His fingers hovered just above her skin, as if savoring the moment before claiming it. The air between them felt heavier, thick with the unspoken. With the barest touch, his gloved fingers brushed her chin, tilting her head—just enough to make her look at him, just enough to remind her that she was his to command.

Ysábella didn’t pull away. What was the point? Running had only ever led her back to him.

"I knew you’d come back to me, Palomita."

His voice was gentle, almost inviting. As if he was welcoming her home. And she? She let him touch her. Let him see the surrender in her eyes. For once, it didn’t feel like losing. It just felt… inevitable.

Villanueva’s grin deepened, slow and knowing.

"Welcome home, mi Palomita."

The words settled deep, sinking into her bones.

Ysábella closed her eyes. And she let herself believe it.

She didn’t resist as Villanueva leaned in, his breath warm against her lips. The kiss was slow— possessive. Not a gesture of affection, but a mark of ownership. His gloved hand gripped her jaw, sealing what had already been decided. She didn’t flinch or fight. She simply let it happen. The weight of surrender was no longer settling. It had already won.

But then—a sound. A sharp inhale. A movement too small to catch anyone’s attention except hers.

Ysábella slowly opened her eyes and met Isolde’s gaze. The defiance still burned in Isolde’s eyes—the rage, the fire, the hatred. And Ysábella … had none of it left. She wondered if Isolde saw it, saw how empty she’d become. She hoped she didn’t, because she couldn’t bear it.

She let her gaze drift to Amihan, who was shaking. Tears welled in her dark eyes, but her lips were pressed into a thin, silent line—she was trying not to break. But Ysábella knew she would. They all would. Just like she did. Her gaze lowered; she couldn’t look at them anymore. She didn’t want to.

She let herself drift into the silence, embracing the comforting numbness.

Villanueva brushed a lock of hair from her face.

"Good girl."

She said nothing.

Because what else was there to say?

He chuckled lowly, his breath ghosting against her ear. "Voy a disfrutar de ti esta noche, Palomita." The words were a promise, a claim. He would take his time. He would savor her. And she… she wouldn’t fight it.

Ysábella gave the smallest nod—barely noticeable, but there.

Villanueva cast a glance at the horizon. The fog had begun to creep in, thick and slow, curling over the waves like grasping fingers.

"Nos vamos." His voice was sharp, cutting through the eerie quiet.

The wind was shifting, Ysábella realized, watching the fog roll in thicker. It would make their retreat harder. He wanted to move before it trapped them.

"Move before it’s too late."

The order was swift. His men obeyed without question.

The ship stirred, ropes pulled taut as the crew prepared to set sail.

They were leaving.

With Ysábella.

With all of them.

Chapter Text

The ship swayed gently beneath them, its wooden hull groaning under the weight of the tide. Rhythmic creak of the rigging filled the silence, an eerie counterpoint to the stillness of those gathered on deck. The air was thick—too thick—with the scent of salt, sweat, and something more insidious. Anticipation. The kind that settled like a noose around the throat, tightening with each drawn-out second.

They knelt before the assembled crew.

Isolde’s wrists were bound tight behind her back, the muscles in her arms flexed in resistance. Her chin remained high, gaze unwavering, daring any of them to meet it. Even without a weapon in her hand, she carried herself like a woman who could still carve a man’s throat open if given the chance.

Amihan trembled but did not break. Her breaths were shallow, controlled, though her fingers twitched where they curled against the restraints. She stole a glance at Ysábella, searching—not for reassurance, but for something to ground herself in. For proof that they were still here, that this was not a nightmare from which she would wake.

Redd remained eerily still, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. A muscle twitched in her jaw, her fury burning quiet and slow beneath the surface. She had the look of a woman already weighing her chances—already plotting how many she could take down before the end.

And then there was Ysábella.

Unbound.

She knelt beside them, hands resting loosely on her thighs, fingers neither clenched nor trembling. There were no ropes biting into her skin, no marks of struggle. She did not fidget. Did not shift.

The mastiff pressed against her, its musky scent thick in her nose, its heavy body molding against her side. The heat of it seeped into her skin, its presence a silent, suffocating weight. She did not recoil. She did not move at all.

The crew watched in silence. None of them reached for her. None of them touched.

Because they knew.

Villanueva’s boots thudded softly against the deck, each step measured, deliberate—like a man savoring the first sip of an aged vintage. Silence clung to his presence, heavy and oppressive, spreading across the ship like an unseen weight, pressing down on all who dared to breathe.

He stopped before her, his shadow casting long in the dimming light.

For a moment, he only looked at her, head tilted in quiet amusement. His gaze traced the curve of her face, the slope of her throat, lingering as if committing them to memory.

Then—finally—he spoke.

"You should be grateful, Palomita."

His voice was soft, coaxing, the way one might speak to a bird that had flown back to its cage.

Ysábella’s breath was even. Slow. Measured.

"I could have let them have you first."

A smirk ghosted his lips, curling in satisfaction as he leaned slightly closer.

"But I am not so cruel, am I?"

His words hung between them, waiting.

Ysábella did not answer.

She did not need to.

The murmurs of the gathered crew had faded into nothing, the creak of the wood beneath her knees the only sound she could hear, save for the slow, deliberate footsteps of the man before her. Villanueva moved with ease, unrushed, his presence thick with something suffocating. He was a man who had already won.

He crouched before her, his movements slow, patient, as though he were settling into a moment he had long anticipated. The sea air carried the scent of brine and tar, but beneath it, clinging to him, was something heavier. Tobacco. Leather. The lingering musk of the mastiff beside him.

His fingers brushed against her skin, deceptively soft as they found her chin, tilting her head up. He forced her to look at him, forced her to see the satisfaction gleaming in his dark eyes.

"He’s not coming for you."

The words should have sent a dagger through her chest, but they did not. They only settled inside her, sinking deep into the hollow space that had been carved out piece by piece over the past weeks.

"You know that now, don’t you?"

His voice was quiet, almost tender, as though he were comforting her, as though he mourned the loss of the foolish hope she had clung to for too long. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, slow, familiar, as if she belonged to him.

She did not flinch.

She did not look away.

Because there was nothing left to deny.

Villanueva exhaled through his nose, a small huff of amusement.

"You believed in him."

His voice was coated in mockery now, his smirk deepening.

"Thought he would come back for you."

His grip on her chin tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to remind her that he could. That he always could.

"But you were always a fool for hope."

A chuckle rumbled from his chest, dark and knowing.

Jack.

She had waited.

She had stared at the horizon, her heart clenching at every shift of the waves, every shadow cast by the setting sun, hoping—praying—to see the ship he had promised, to hear the familiar, roguish laughter of the man who had spun her dreams in his own reckless way.

She had trusted him.

But the sea had remained empty.

And the days had stretched on, slow and merciless, until hope had been stripped from her, until it was nothing but another lie she had told herself to survive.

Villanueva’s breath was warm against her cheek, his smirk now a sharpened blade.

"I wonder… does he know?"

There was something dangerous in his voice now, something heavier than before. The moment shifted. His grip on her chin tightened, his fingers pressing harder, dragging her into the weight of what was coming.

"That he was fucking his own daughter?"

The words were a gunshot.

A cannon blast.

The world seemed to tilt, but Ysábella did not move.

She did not gasp.

She did not recoil.

But for the briefest moment—so brief it barely existed—her breath caught.

Villanueva saw it.

And he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a grin. A slow, satisfied smile, stretching with something deep and cruel, something that had been waiting beneath the surface all this time.

"Ah."

He let the silence stretch, his fingers digging into her skin, holding her there, making her sit in it, making her feel every word, every implication, every truth she had long since buried.

"I kept you because I knew."

His voice dropped lower, heavy with something dark and triumphant.

"Oh, I knew."

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze dragging over her face, searching, savoring. His fingers curled against her jaw, possessive, unyielding.

"You are Jack Sparrow’s daughter."

The words did not strike her like a revelation.

They were not new.

They were a brand, a mark seared into her flesh, something she had always known but never spoken, something she had carried in the pit of her stomach like a sickness.

Villanueva exhaled, slow, letting the moment breathe.

"And he had no idea, did he?"

His smile widened, his satisfaction nearly tangible.

"Wouldn’t that be a tragedy?"

Ysábella lowered her gaze.

Not in shame.

Not in fear.

But because none of it mattered anymore.

Because Villanueva was right.

Villanueva did not move at first.

He let the weight of his words settle, his smirk barely shifting as he studied the three kneeling before him. His hands clasped lazily behind his back, his stance relaxed, as if this moment was nothing more than another amusement in a long stretch of endless games.

His gaze flickered over Isolde first. A fighter. The fire in her eyes had not dimmed, not even as her wrists remained bound behind her. If anything, it had only sharpened, burning bright as steel just before it met the forge.

Then Redd—expressionless, unreadable. There was no submission in her posture, no plea for mercy. Only stillness, a patience that spoke of a woman who had spent too much of her life waiting for the right moment to strike.

But Amihan—

Villanueva’s smirk deepened.

She was trembling. Barely. Just enough.

Slowly, he moved toward her, his boots striking the deck with a steady, deliberate rhythm. The closer he came, the stiffer she became, her shoulders rising slightly as if she were trying to make herself smaller. When he finally crouched before her, tilting his head slightly, she did not meet his eyes.

"I think," he mused, voice low, silk-smooth, "that this one could be made an example of."

Ysábella’s pulse quickened.

Villanueva reached out, brushing a knuckle against Amihan’s cheek in a mockery of tenderness.

"She’s new to all this, isn’t she?" His voice had softened, but the venom remained. "Still untouched. Still naive to the ways of our world."

Amihan’s breath stuttered, her dark eyes flickering—not with defiance, but fear.

"Perhaps it’s time she learns."

The words sent a cold wave through Ysábella’s veins.

Villanueva didn’t look at her, but she knew he was watching—waiting.

He was doing this for her.

Not to punish her, not yet, but to remind her.

To remind her what happened when she chose to care.

Villanueva’s fingers trailed down to Amihan’s chin, gripping it just firmly enough to keep her from turning away. Her breath had become shallow, her hands bound too tightly behind her back for her to hide their trembling.

"I think she’ll be quite entertaining, don’t you?"

Ysábella’s nails pressed into her palms.

Villanueva exhaled, slow and indulgent, before reaching into his coat.

The moment his fingers brushed against glass, the mastiff beside him stiffened.

Its ears perked, nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of what lay hidden in his pocket. The beast’s body tensed, its breath hitching, muscles coiling as though some instinctual force had gripped it from within.

Villanueva’s smirk widened.

"Ah." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Even he remembers."

Ysábella did not blink.

He withdrew the vial, rolling it between his fingers, letting the liquid shift inside. The crew had begun to stir now, a ripple of anticipation moving through them. Some straightened with interest, others muttered low, amused. They had seen this before. They knew what came next.

The mastiff let out a slow, heavy exhale, shifting closer to Ysábella’s side. Its breath was warm against her arm, its body pressing against her as though drawn to something unseen.

Villanueva uncorked the vial.

The reaction was instant.

The mastiff inhaled sharply, its head snapping toward him, pupils blown wide. A tremor ran through its body, muscles tensing, breath turning heavy. Its mouth parted slightly, tongue flicking out as it caught the scent—thick, potent, unmistakable. Its breath came quicker now, chest rising and falling in short, eager bursts, its weight shifting as if drawn closer by something it could not resist.

Ysábella felt it too.

Not the scent—no, not yet—but the weight of it.

It clung to the air like the first drop of blood in the water, a silent signal, a call that did not need to be spoken.

Villanueva crouched beside Amihan, the open vial poised between his fingers.

"Now," he murmured, tilting the vial between his fingers, "open your mouth, little one."

A hush settled over the deck.

Amihan’s lips parted—hesitant, uncertain. No words came. No protest. But no acceptance either.

Ysábella knew that look.

She had worn it once herself.

Villanueva hummed in mock disappointment, tapping the side of the vial with his finger.

"Oh? Not so willing after all?" His head tilted slightly, amusement flickering behind his eyes. He glanced toward his men, letting the moment stretch, letting them anticipate. "Perhaps she needs some encouragement?"

Murmurs rippled through the gathered crew, a few chuckles, a few eager voices.

And Ysábella acted before he could make them part of the show.

"No."

The word struck the air, sharp, immediate.

Villanueva paused.

Slowly, he turned his head, his dark eyes settling on her with renewed amusement.

Ysábella was already on her feet, the first time she had moved of her own will since they had been dragged onto the deck. Her hands were loose at her sides, but her breath was controlled, her expression unreadable.

Villanueva lifted a brow.

"No?"

She swallowed, her pulse thrumming at the base of her throat.

"Not her," Ysábella said, steady, even. She did not blink, did not waver. "If you must, then…" A breath. A choice. A surrender. "Give it to me instead."

Something dark flickered behind Villanueva’s eyes.

He turned the vial between his fingers, considering.

The mastiff let out a low, eager whine.

Villanueva exhaled slowly, then offered a slight shrug.

"Well," he mused, "I suppose that’s fair."

He closed the distance between them with a single step, his free hand lifting to trace the line of her throat.

"Always so self-sacrificing," he murmured, brushing a thumb over her pulse. "So eager to fall for their sake."

Ysábella did not speak.

Villanueva chuckled, lifting the vial between them.

"Open your mouth, Palomita."

The words were a command, a test.

Ysábella did not hesitate.

Her lips parted.

The glass brushed her lips. The liquid spilled over her tongue—its taste familiar—sweet at first, then sharp and bitter, leaving a slow burn as it coursed down her throat.

The warmth hit her immediately.

It coiled deep, slow at first, then faster. A sick, creeping heat, curling through her veins, sinking into the spaces she had tried to forget.

The mastiff shuddered beside her, inhaling deeply, shifting closer, drawn in by the invisible pull now clinging to her skin.

Villanueva’s thumb traced her jaw, his smirk widening.

"By the time the night is over," he murmured, "you will remember where you belong."

He stepped back, tucking the empty vial away, his satisfaction evident.

The mastiff pressed against her, warm, possessive, its breath heavy with something she did not want to name.

Ysábella exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.

Because she knew what came next.

Because there was no escape.

Because she had always been his.

Villanueva watched her closely, a flicker of dark satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. He took his time, savoring every second of her silence. The crew stood still, watching, waiting.

Ysábella stood frozen, her breath shallow, her pulse betraying her. The heat of the potion coiled within her, seeping through her veins like slow, insidious poison. With every breath, it pulsed stronger, creeping deeper, settling into her bones like an unshakable fever. It ebbed and surged, dulling her thoughts, coaxing her body into submission. It made her aware—too aware—of everything. The creak of the wood beneath her, the damp air clinging to her skin, the way Villanueva’s eyes lingered on her—patient, knowing, waiting.

"Tell me, Palomita." His voice was smooth, coaxing, mocking. A man who already knew the answer. "Why did you come back?"

Ysábella swallowed, her throat tight. She could feel the words clawing to stay buried, but there was no point in fighting. Not anymore.

"Because you sent your men after me," she murmured, her voice quiet, even. “You freed me, but I was never free.”

Villanueva exhaled through his nose, slow, measured, shaking his head as if in disappointment. "Ah, chiquita, that was a small misunderstanding."

Ysábella knew better than to believe him.

And yet, what did it matter?

He smiled, brushing a lock of hair from her face. It was an intimate thing. Gentle. Cruel.

"But it does not matter, does it?" His fingers traced down to her chin, tilting her face toward him. "You are here now."

Her gaze flickered to her crew— Isolde, Amihan, Redd. Their wrists were bound, their expressions wary. They were watching.

She could not let him turn to them. She would not let them suffer.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, the potion's warmth creeping up her spine, licking at the edges of her mind like fire, making her limbs heavy, her resistance distant. The mastiff stirred, a quiet growl rumbling in its chest, its hackles rising briefly before flattening again.

She took a step forward. Then another.

And then, she sank to her knees before him.

A hush fell over the deck. The creak of the ship, the distant lap of the waves, the murmurs of the men—it all faded. Villanueva watched her, the corner of his mouth twitching, but he said nothing. He waited.

Ysábella bowed her head, resting her forehead lightly against his boot. She had fought. She had run. She had lost. And now, there was nothing left but this. The surrender. The offering of herself in place of those she swore to protect.

Villanueva exhaled, slow. Pleased. "Oh, Palomita …" His fingers curled beneath her chin, tilting her face up to him. His triumph. His prize.

"Say it," he murmured. "Tell me what you are."

Her lips parted, but her voice failed her. The heat in her veins, the thick weight of the potion’s presence, the knowledge of how far she had fallen—it all pressed down, swallowing her whole. She was no longer Ysábella. She was what he had always wanted her to be.

"Yours," she whispered.

Villanueva smiled. She had broken so beautifully.

He caressed her cheek, his thumb tracing the shape of her lips, a cruel reminder of his victory, of her defeat. Ysábella could feel the shiver of disgust creeping up her spine, but she held her ground. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter. Not when Isolde, Amihan, Redd's lives hung in the balance.

Then, he spoke, his voice low, intimate. "Show them, mi Palomita. Show them what it means to belong to me.”

Ysábella did not flinch, did not hesitate. She let him guide her, let herself move through the motions as if this were the only thing left in the world. A dove bowing to the crow.

Her hands shook as she struggled with the buttons of his trousers, her fingers clumsy and slick with sweat. She could feel the crew watching, their eyes heavy on her, waiting, expecting. The air was thick with their anticipation, their hunger.

She had already lost. The potion whispered through her veins, a slow, insidious thing, urging, searing beneath her skin, melting away the last remnants of her will. What more could she lose?

She could feel the weight of him, the slow, pulsing beat that spoke of his pleasure, of his power over her. It coiled around her like a noose, tightening with every breath. She did not recoil, did not resist. There was no fight left in her.

Not with the crew watching. Not with their eyes pinned to her every move.

She swallowed down the bile rising in her throat, forcing her fingers to steady. Her touch was hesitant at first, light, testing. The heat of him throbbed against her palm, a silent demand, a reminder of the control he wielded. The first slow stroke made him exhale sharply, his fingers threading through her hair in silent command.

Slowly, she took his length into her mouth.

The taste of him was bitter, overwhelming—salt, sweat, and the acrid bite of rum clinging to her tongue. It burned at the back of her throat, thick and suffocating.Ysábella willed herself not to recoil, not to shudder at the intrusion. Instead, she forced herself to lean in, to accept it. This was the path she had chosen—the only path left.

Villanueva’s hand tangled in her hair, his grip tightening as he pulled her closer. Not a request. A command. The sharp tug sent a jolt through her scalp, burning against her skin, a cruel reminder of the power he wielded over her. A gasp caught in her throat as her breath hitched, sharp and uneven. The air was thick, suffocating, laced with the scent of him—spiced cologne masking something darker, something raw and unclean.

She did not gag, did not resist. The potion would not let her. She had already surrendered. The mastiff let out a restless huff, shifting closer to Villanueva, as if drawn to the shift in her submission.

She took it as if it were the only thing she had ever known. She did not pull away. She could not. To resist now would be to undo everything. The weight of her choice pressed against her ribs, each breath a battle against the instinct to recoil.

So she steadied herself, forced her trembling fingers to curl against the fabric of his coat, anchoring herself to the weight of him. The edges of her nails bit into the worn leather, grounding her in something tangible, something real. If she focused on that—on the roughness beneath her fingertips, on the steady rise and fall of his chest—then she could drown out the rest.

The taste, the scent, the feel of him.

Her fingers curled against the fabric of his coat, pressing into the hardened muscle beneath. She met his gaze—dark, expectant—before lowering her lashes, letting the illusion of submission settle over her. Something that made his grip falter for just a second, as if pleased by the illusion of compliance.

He let out a low chuckle, his thumb stroking along her jaw, tracing the line of her throat with maddening patience. He was savoring this—savoring her.

“You remember, don’t you?” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “How well you fit in my hands. How good it felt to obey.”

Ysábella did not answer. She could not—not with the bile rising in her throat, not with the way his touch made her stomach lurch.

She remained still, her jaw relaxed, allowing herself to take him in without hesitation. There was no faltering. Not now. Not ever.

Villanueva’s fingers curled tighter into her hair, not punishing, but possessive, his satisfaction rolling through the low, guttural sounds spilling from his throat. His breath, hot and uneven, brushed against her skin, thick with the sour bite of liquor and the stench of sweat.

Her stomach twisted.

It was rancid—he was rancid.

The taste of him would linger, sinking into her tongue, into her body, as if marking her from the inside out. But she endured.

And when he shuddered, sighed, collapsed against her just slightly, Ysábella knew it was over.

She swallowed.

The act was slow, deliberate. A final, unseen concession. She swallowed, willing herself not to gag. The burn of him was like spoiled wine, thick and cloying, sinking deep into her senses. But she took it all.

Because this was all that remained.

Villanueva groaned, tilting her chin up with lazy, sated fingers. His thumb ghosted over the corner of her mouth, collecting whatever remained.

"Good girl," he murmured, smirking down at her. His voice was silk and steel, indulgence and command.

Ysábella did not speak.

She licked her lips, swallowing again, ensuring there was nothing left. Ensuring he saw only what he wanted to see.

She did not speak.

She did not move.

This was how it was always going to end.

She knew that whatever came next would be worse. The thickening fog swallowed the torches, the night itself seeming to hold its breath. As Villanueva had promised, he would take his time with her.

A voice interrupted. Sharp. Uneasy.

"Capitán. The fog—it’s thickening."

Villanueva exhaled, irritation flickering in his eyes. His fingers remained tangled in Ysábella’s hair, but the weight of the crewman’s words settled uneasily in the air. He did not look up at his crewman. He was not done with her.

The man hesitated before speaking again. "Sir. It is not normal."

Villanueva’s smirk lingered for a breath longer, as if dismissing the concern outright. But then, his fingers flexed against her skin, a flicker of tension betraying his ease. He paused. He lifted his gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly, scanning the thickening air as if to confirm what he already knew but did not want to acknowledge. The torches barely cut through the thickening air, their glow swallowed by the unnatural weight of the fog. The mist curled unnaturally, thick as oil, creeping toward the ship as if it had a will of its own. Even the mastiff stirred, a low rumble in its throat.

Ysábella remained still. Her breath was ragged, shallow. The potion flared once more, the heat licking through her veins, tightening around her thoughts, dragging her deeper into the void of all that she had given up. The mastiff’s ears flattened against its skull, letting out a quiet, uncertain whine as it pressed itself to Villanueva’s side.

Villanueva’s thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, his voice almost regretful. "Ah, Palomita… our game isn’t over yet."

Chapter Text

Ysábella felt it first—the shift in the air, dense and oppressive, clinging to her like a damp shroud. The weight pressed into her skin and settled deep in her bones, as though the mist itself carried intent. Each breath grew heavier, laced with salt and a faint, acrid edge that set her nerves alight.

The musk lingered—subtle, yet undeniable. It was a scent she had learned to recognize, woven into her memories like a phantom of the past. It called to something deep inside her. It drifted through the air in slow, curling tendrils, wrapping around her like a ghost of something long buried. She noticed it before she acknowledged it, before her mind could catch up with what her senses already knew. The scent curled around her, insidious, teasing at the edges of her resolve. It did not demand—it beckoned. A slow, patient pull, subtle but constant.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, tension locking in her shoulders, fingers curling into fists at her sides. The potion’s grip had dulled over time, but it had not released her. It lurked beneath her skin, coiled and waiting, a patient predator. It was quiet now, watching, waiting for weakness. She fought against it, pushing it down, refusing to let it take hold. But the heat lingered, threading through her veins like an ember waiting to ignite.

The sea had been clear hours ago. Now, it was nothing but a shifting, impenetrable blanket of gray.

A dense fog swallowed the fleet, stretching endlessly in every direction. It crept over the decks, seeped into the crevices of the wood, softened every sound until all that remained was a deafening hush. The ship beneath her feet felt unmoored, as if the ocean itself had disappeared, leaving them stranded in some nameless void between worlds.

El Impoluto sat dead in the water. No wind. No current. Just the endless, stifling silence.

Villanueva’s jaw ticked as he stared into the suffocating fog that smothered his fleet, his fingers tapping a slow, measured rhythm against the hilt of his sword. Each second stretched into eternity, gnawing at him, a cruel reminder of his powerlessness. He had an entire fleet at his command, yet they were stranded, trapped in this cursed fog. His grip tightened. The fog did not simply hinder them—it mocked them.

Ysábella swallowed. Her gaze flickered toward the mastiff, half-expecting it to confirm her fears—to react, to growl, to give her some sign that she was not imagining the wrongness in the air. 

The beast was restless.

Its breath came in short, sharp bursts, nostrils flaring as it tested the air. Its ears flicked back, muscles tensing beneath its coarse fur. It felt the shift in the air, the wrongness of it. It knew.

The mastiff turned its head, slow and deliberate, and looked at her, its amber eyes dark with something unreadable—an awareness, a quiet knowing, as if it too could sense the presence lurking just beyond the veil of mist. A chill crawled up her spine.

A cold ripple of dread slithered through her, tightening around her ribs. Her breath hitched, the sensation crawling over her skin like the first whisper of a storm.

Ysábella’s fingers curled into tight fists, her nails biting into her palms. She drew a slow breath, forcing herself to steady her racing pulse. The thick air curled around her, weighing heavily in her lungs, leaving her lightheaded as if the very air sought to drown her. The world felt distant, dreamlike.

She forced herself to breathe.

She would not let it take her.

The silence stretched long, heavy as the fog itself, dense and unmoving. It was not the kind of quiet that soothed—it suffocated.

The men shifted, their boots scuffing against the damp deck. Their eyes darted through the mist, searching for something—anything—beyond the gray abyss. But there was nothing. No stars. No horizon. Just an endless, shifting void that swallowed light and sound alike.

A sailor muttered a curse under his breath. Another reached for the hilt of his cutlass, fingers tightening around the worn grip. The ship creaked beneath them, a sound so familiar, yet in this silence, it felt like a scream.

The crow’s nest remained eerily silent. No warning calls, no reassurances. No sign that anyone still watched over them from above.

A man with a jagged scar curling from his temple to his chin cleared his throat. The sound, small and insignificant any other day, thundered in the oppressive hush.

“Captain,” he tried, hesitant. “We can’t see a damn thing.”

Villanueva did not turn. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders squared, his fingers still drumming—always drumming—against the hilt of his sword.

“Should we wait it out?” another voice broke in, uncertain.

The mastiff let out a low, breath. The deep rumble of it vibrated through the deck, curling through the damp air.

A sharp call from the crow’s nest, strained, disbelieving. “I can’t even see the next ship over!”

The words landed heavily, dragging a cold realization over them all. The fog had rolled in thick, severing them from the world beyond, a veil of gray that dulled both sight and sound.

Ysábella swallowed hard. The uncertainty in her gut gave way to creeping dread.

The fog had wrapped around them, obscuring the fleet until only faint outlines remained, swallowed in the shifting gray. The once-mighty ships, their sails once proud and commanding, now loomed as faint outlines in the shifting gray, their presence reduced to ghostly silhouettes swallowed by the fog. 

Villanueva finally moved. He rolled his shoulders, the motion deliberate, slow. The tension in his muscles remained, a barely contained thread of frustration beneath his controlled exterior. His patience, thin to begin with, was fraying.

“Silencio,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the fog like steel. “It’s just fog.”

Still, he did not turn to them. He listened—to the ship, to the silence. His fingers curled tighter around his sword’s hilt.

“Keep your posts,” he ordered, the sharp edge of his voice leaving no room for disobedience. “And stop whispering like old women.”

The men obeyed, but the tension did not ease. It lingered, thick in the air like the fog itself—coiling, pressing, waiting.

The mastiff let out another slow breath, ears twitching. Its nostrils flared, drinking in the air, and a low, growl vibrated in its chest. It had caught something—something beyond sight, beyond reason. A presence, looming just beyond the mist.

Ysábella watched in silence, knowing the worst had yet to come.

The air felt thicker now. The silence had stretched too long, and silence at sea was never a good omen. It was unnatural.

Ysábella stood near the mainmast, her body tense, her senses sharpening against the smothering stillness. The fog curled around her, heavy. It seeped into her lungs, weighing down each breath.

The crew felt it too—their movements were hesitant, uncertain. Even the most hardened among them were waiting, bracing for something to emerge from the mist.

But it wasn’t just the fog tightening around her. The potion was still there, waiting, shifting beneath her skin like a serpent coiled around her bones. It had not left her. It lingered, quiet but present, pulsing with each heartbeat, watching, waiting for the moment she let down her guard. She could feel it stirring, curling in the depths of her being, whispering things she dared not acknowledge. The heat was distant, but it had not faded. Not completely.

Villanueva stood at the helm, his posture rigid, his fingers curling and uncurling around the hilt of his sword. The fog had stolen more than just their sight—it had taken their bearings, their sense of direction. Even the water beneath them felt unsteady, the usual rhythm of the sea disrupted, dulled. The ship rocked only slightly, barely shifting in the absence of wind. They were drifting, but where to, no one could tell.

Villanueva exhaled sharply, his patience diminishing with each silent second. The fog pressed against him, thick with unspoken dread. His hands curled into fists.

He would not risk sailing blind. Not in this.

"Sound the bell. We hold position until dawn."

A crewman hesitated before relaying the order, his voice uncertain as he called out to the men. The low, eerie toll of the bell echoed across the deck, a heavy sound that signaled the rest of the fleet to stop. Somewhere beyond the rails, deep within the mist, the faint chime of another bell responded—a ghostly reply, distant and hollow.

Ysábella swallowed. She waited, listening.

From somewhere in the fog, a second chime rang out, then another. Their chimes came slow, sluggish—haunting. As if the mist stretched time itself.

“Get those lanterns lit!” Villanueva barked, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. “And keep the powder dry—we are not sitting here like lambs for slaughter.”

The men glared at one another. Their reluctance bleeding into their movements.

Ysábella adjusted her stance, watching as the men scrambled to obey. She could feel the tension in the air, the way it seeped into their bones.

A sailor near the bow shifted uneasily, peering into the fog as though he could will it to part with his stare alone. Another man, younger, too green to have seen the worst the seas could offer, muttered something beneath his breath, fingers tracing a protective symbol against his chest.

Superstition, Ysábella thought. But even she could not shake the growing anxiety curling in her gut.

“Eyes open! This is no time for cowardice.” Villanueva’s voice carried across the deck, harsh and unrelenting. “If anything moves, you call it. I don’t care if it’s a damn fish breaking the surface. You call it.”

A soft growl rumbled from beside him, low and deep. The mastiff, usually indifferent to the motions of the ship, stood stiff-legged, its nose twitching in the air, its ears pinned back. It was alert now, tense in a way that set Ysábella’s nerves even further on edge. The beast knew something they did not.

Villanueva turned sharply, his boots thudding against the deck, eyes scanning faces. “You all know who you sail for. If there’s a devil lurking in this mist, let him come and find out what hell truly is.”

The men straightened at his words, their grips tightening on their weapons, their gazes hardening. They still feared, but fear alone did not kill a man—hesitation did.

Ysábella exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers against the wood of the ship. The mastiff did not move. The fog did not lift.

And dawn felt very far away.

Ysábella moved toward her friends, each step careful, controlled. The fog curled around them, dampening their voices, pressing close like something alive. Each breath felt thick, laden with moisture and an unnatural chill that settled deep into the bones.

She could feel Villanueva's eyes observing her, heavy and unyielding, a silent warning that kept her hands from their bindings.

Isolde was the first to reach her. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice hushed but firm. The others watched, waiting for her answer, their gazes shifting between her face and the empty space behind her, as if expecting something—or someone—else to emerge from the mist.

Ysábella tasted the bitterness that lingered in her mouth but swallowed it down. It stuck to the back of her throat. She gave a slow nod. "I’m fine."

No one looked convinced.

Redd was the only one who kept her wits about her, sharp as ever. "This fog—it’s the same one," she muttered, gaze scanning the thick mist. "The same one from before."

Ysábella stilled. The same one. Redd, Isolde, and she had experienced it days ago. That unnatural thickness, the way it swallowed sound, the way it clung to the skin like a second layer of sweat, suffocating and relentless.

Redd crossed her arms, her tone turning grim. "It’s cursed. I heard stories when I was a child. Ships disappearing into mist that never lifts, sailors wandering for days, hearing voices that weren’t there. One by one, they’d vanish." Her words came slow, deliberate, meant to unsettle.

It worked.

Amihan shifted uncomfortably. "Stop that," she muttered, her voice smaller than before. "You’re scaring me."

Redd smirked, but there was little humor behind it. "Maybe you should be scared."

The ship creaked underfoot, the sound eerily loud in the hush that had settled over them. The fog thickened, swirling like ghostly tendrils around their legs, coiling as if listening, watching. Ysábella tried to shake the feeling creeping up her spine, but it clung to her, whispering in the back of her mind.

It wasn’t just the fog. It was something deeper, something inside her. The potion —it was gone.

The fire, the heat that had burned inside her for so long had simply... vanished. Like a candle snuffed out in the wind, the sudden absence left her cold, empty in a way she had never felt before. It had never happened like this. Not once.

Her body had adjusted to it, lived with it, suffered under it. And now, with it gone, there was nothing but a hollow quiet where it once burned. That silence frightened her more than the fog ever could.

She exhaled slowly, pressing a hand against her stomach. She felt nothing but the slow rise and fall of her breath. It was as if her body had been abandoned by something vital, something that had taken root deep within her. Yet, she knew—it was waiting.

It would return.

A distant sound echoed through the mist—a faint, eerie bell tolling from somewhere far. The group fell silent, listening, their breath shallow, their bodies tense.

The fog seemed to move with the sound, shifting like a living thing. The mast creaked. A rope groaned under strain. The ship felt wrong, as if the sea itself had changed beneath them.

Ysábella clenched her fists. Whatever was coming, she was certain of one thing—

They were not alone.

They were never alone.

The fog had been thick before, but now it was suffocating.

A distant creak. A rope straining under the weight. The faint rustle of fabric moving against the still air, followed by a sharp, metallic click—a sound too deliberate to be the mere groan of the ship.

A thunderous blast shattered the silence, ripping through the mist with violent force, deafening, violent. The night fractured under its force, and for a single heartbeat, everything stood still—before the sound of ruptured wood, shredded sails, and human screams filled the void.

Then—Silence.

The air was thick with groans and cries—those caught in the blast, still clinging to life.

A pause—long enough for dread to settle deep into the bones.

A second explosion erupted, rocking the ship, sending shockwaves rippling through the mist. A different ship this time. The blast came from the opposite direction, sending men crashing into the rails, knocking the breath from their lungs. The very air seemed to tremble as fire bloomed in the darkness, its glow devoured almost instantly by the rolling mist. The sound was worse than the impact—the deep, guttural wail of men being ripped apart, their bodies flung like ragdolls into the unknown.

Screams.

Some were short, cut off by the wet, sickening crunch of bodies colliding with debris. Others were long, drawn-out howls of agony, twisted by the fire that burned flesh and charred bone. The smell hit next—thick and acrid, the pungent stench of burning tar, gunpowder, and something far worse.

The alarm bell clanged, desperate, its chime muffled by the ever-thickening mist. It rang again, but the sound warped, stretched into a haunting echo before vanishing altogether. The ship groaned beneath their feet, its timbers splitting, breaking. Something was collapsing—

A dry sob broke the hush, cut short by sheer terror. The wounded moaned. The fog thickened further. Shadows flickered in the firelight. Where was it coming from?

Then that sound. cannons being reloaded—mechanical, methodical, preparing for more death. Gunports opening with agonizing slowness.

The men froze.

Their faces, smeared with sweat and soot, contorted in raw terror. Eyes wide, hands trembling over weapons they could not hope to use.

Someone swallowed loudly. Another gasped, breath catching. A sailor gripped the railing so hard his nails cracked. Someone mouthed silent prayers.

Others paled, clutching their chests, breath coming in panicked bursts. The taste of despair coated the air like oil.

They all knew what was coming.

Another explosion ripped through the air. A scream, sharp and sudden, was cut off in a gurgle.

The force of the next explosion sent a wave of pressure surging through the mist, knocking men off their feet, ripping canvas from its rigging, splintering beams that had held firm for decades. The fog didn’t just distort the world—it consumed the destruction whole, allowing only flashes of hellfire and suffering to be seen before swallowing everything again.

The predator circled them—silent, efficient, merciless. Each strike deliberate, carving through the fleet with cold precision. It did not rush. It did not falter.

Shouts rang out in the dark, voices calling names that would never be answered. Somewhere beyond the mist, a hull splintered apart, followed by the unmistakable sound of rushing water. A ship was sinking. Distant, unseen—but the terror carried in the wind, in the sheer, primal shrieks of men being dragged into the abyss.

A sailor near the mainmast gritted his teeth, knuckles tight around the hilt of his sword. He braced his stance, as if sheer defiance could ward off the next assault. His breath came hard and fast, eyes darting through the mist. For a fleeting second, it seemed the barrage had ceased, that the unknown assailant had relented.

Silence again. The pause between death. The men on Villanueva’s ships listened, their breaths ragged, their hands gripping cutlasses, pistols—anything to ground themselves against the horror unfolding around them.

Another blast erupted, sending a violent tremor through the ship, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and blood. Another ship. It was hunting them.

The fire spread, its flickering glow barely visible through the dense fog, licking at the rigging, crackling like a living thing. The heat was suffocating. The smoke filled their lungs, thick and cloying, choking the words before they could form.

The sound came again—the cannons roaring like a vengeful storm, splitting the night apart with another devastating barrage. The deliberate, practiced rhythm of doom.

The final explosion was not a blast—it was a reckoning.

It did not just hit—it ripped through the ship’s spine, cracking timbers, splitting decks wide open. The air became fire, the sea became blood, and the men—

The men became nothing.

Ysábella’s breath hitched, her lungs thick with the stench of gunpowder and blood. Each inhale burned, acrid and sharp, poisoning the air. Her pulse thundered against her ribs, erratic and uneven, betraying the stillness she forced upon herself. Her fingers curled against the damp wood of the railing, seeking something—anything—solid in the chaos. The air was heavy with death, thick with suffering, and every breath carried the metallic tang of spilled blood, a lingering ghost of the screams that had already faded.

This was no simple battle—it was the violent unraveling of control, a storm of fire and death breaking through the unnatural hush that had smothered them moments before.

This was a massacre.

And it had only just begun.

Villanueva snapped his head toward the noise.

His world was unraveling. The once-mighty fleet, his fleet, was splintering apart in the fog, ripped apart by an unseen force.

Cannons roared from the void, their thunderous blasts consuming ship after ship, leaving behind nothing but fire and wreckage. Wood shattered. Sails crumbled. Men screamed. Bodies were flung into the sea, dragged under by the weight of their own destruction.

The fog was no longer a shroud—it was a graveyard, swallowing the dead.

Villanueva's fingers twitched at his sword.

"¡Hijo de puta!"  he snarled, his voice raw with fury. "Esta maldita niebla es una maldición."

Ysábella caught the edge of his frustration—the sharp bite of his words. He thought the fog was cursed.

Another explosion—

Closer.

The ship lurched violently, the deck tilting beneath his feet as wood splintered, cracked, screamed. A mast from a nearby vessel crashed into the water, its fall sending a tidal wave over the wreckage. The ocean foamed red, bodies bobbing amidst the wreck as flames devoured the ruined ships piece by piece.

Gunfire cracked from the mist. Not from his men—but from them.

Then a barrage.

The cannons tore through another ship, the explosion so powerful that men were flung into the air like broken dolls, their screams cutting off as the sea swallowed them whole. Debris rained down, planks and rigging turned into jagged spears, impaling those who had not yet been claimed by the fire.

Villanueva gritted his teeth, hands clenching into fists, nails digging into his palms. He would not fall to ghosts. He would not die in silence.

He had conquered oceans. He had razed cities. He had bent men to his will.

But now—

He had no control.

Another blast—

El Infierno, one of his strongest warships, split apart, its hull cleaving open like shattered bone. Villanueva's breath caught for a fraction of a second—then his face twisted in rage. His grip on the sword hilt tightened until his knuckles turned white, but what use was steel against an enemy he could not see? The cannonfire had ripped clean through its hull, severing it like rotting fruit. The screams from the crew as the ship folded in on itself, swallowed by the merciless sea, were drowned beneath the next explosion.

Villanueva kicked the mastiff in frustration, his foot connecting hard with the beast’s ribs. The animal yelped but did not move away. It stood its ground, stiff, unmoving, ears pinned back, nostrils flaring as if scenting something in the fog beyond the flames. His grip on the sword hilt tightened, but his fingers twitched, betraying the truth—his control was slipping.

And he knew it.

The mastiff did too. A low growl rumbled in its chest, nostrils flaring as it tested the air, muscles coiled with an instinctive tension, as if bracing for the inevitable.

Chapter Text

The deafening chaos of battle had given way to something worse—silence. Not the victorious hush of a battle won, nor the uneasy stillness of a ceasefire, but a void thick with the unspoken presence of the fallen. It was a silence shaped by unfinished screams, breaths severed mid-gasp, and the ghostly groans of the dying who had not yet realized they were gone.

Sky that was once alive with streaking fire and the roar of cannonballs, now hung sullen and grey, a suffocating canopy over the remnants of destruction. The sea itself seemed to hold its breath, the once-violent waves slowing to an uneasy, rhythmic lapping against the charred remains of the fleet. There was no victor’s cheer, no triumphant call—only the eerie hush of a world caught in limbo between past devastation and uncertain future.

The last echoes of cannon fire had long since faded, replaced by the distant crackling of flames and the oppressive silence of ruin. Yet, the battlefield was not truly silent. Somewhere amid the wreckage, the groans of the dying threaded through the stillness—ragged, wavering, clinging to life with each shallow breath. The echoes of war still lingered in the air, but the violence itself had come to a standstill, leaving only suffering in its wake.

Scent of blood clung to the air, heavy and metallic, mingling with the acrid bite of gunpowder and scent of burnt wood, a perfume of death that clung to every drifting current. Flames licked hungrily at the wreckage, devouring the last remnants of once-mighty ships, their remains barely visible through the thinning fog. Smoke curled through the wreckage, drifting like specters above the bodies strewn across the deck. Somewhere in the distance, wood groaned in protest, the slow death rattle of a ship gutted by cannon fire.

The mist, once a suffocating shroud of death, began to thin, peeling back like a reluctant curtain to unveil the grim spectacle beneath. The air shifted, no longer cloaking the wreckage in uncertainty but exposing every charred remnant, every lifeless form adrift in the void of dark waters. Shadows sharpened into forms—charred wood, floating bodies, and lingering specters of war, emerging as the mist parted.

And with it, the carnage was unveiled.

Bodies drifted in the water, limbs slack, faces vacant—some locked in the silent agony of their final moments, others eerily still as if they had simply surrendered to the abyss. Some had twisted unnaturally, their final struggles frozen in time, while others drifted with an unsettling stillness, their faces eerily vacant. The sea cradled them all the same, indifferent to the violence that had sent them to their watery graves.

Their faces, now empty husks, bore silent screams—expressions of agony and terror locked forever in the instant of their demise. Among the wreckage, a lone hat—a captain’s tricorn—bobbled in the current, its once-proud feather blackened by soot and soaked with brine. A silent relic of a man who would never reclaim it.

Sea had become a graveyard, a far cry from the once-thriving battleground it had been mere hours before. Where waves once churned with the chaos of war, where sails billowed defiantly against cannon fire and men roared in battle, now there was only the eerie hush of drifting corpses and shattered hulls.

Waves lapped hungrily at what remained, rocking lifeless forms with an unsettling tenderness before pulling them under, piece by piece, into the deep.

Of Villanueva’s once-imposing fleet, only ruins remained. Some ships burned, their sails reduced to drifting embers that flickered and faded into the mist like dying stars. Others listed, their hulls cracked and splintered, keeling into the hungry sea as water poured into their gutted bellies. A few still stood, spectral silhouettes against the dissipating fog—but they were empty, their decks abandoned, their holds silent tombs. Whatever life had once commanded them was now nothing more than whispers carried on the wind.

Beneath the dark waters, shadows began to circle, drawn by the scent of blood. Fins—plenty of them—glided silently through the wreckage, their sleek bodies slipping between shattered planks and drifting corpses. Then, a sudden thrash—a gurgled scream, cut short and swallowed by the sea—then nothing.

The living saw the ruin before them, their eyes tracing over the wreckage as if seeing it for the first time, though the truth had been sinking in all along. Each moment of silence made the devastation more real, more irreversible. They stood on their own ship, staring in wide-eyed horror at the devastation stretching across the horizon. The might of an armada, broken. What force could do such a thing? What enemy had the power to reduce Villanueva’s fleet to smoldering wrecks in the span of a single night?

A murmur rippled through the crew—low, breathless, disbelieving. Some men stepped back, as if afraid the curse of the dead might reach them next. Others clutched their weapons tighter, as if steel and shot could protect them from whatever unseen force had orchestrated such destruction.

"Madre de Dios…" someone whispered.

Another man crossed himself, muttering a prayer under his breath. Religion clawed its way into their bones, settling in like a sickness. This was no ordinary battle, no mere trick of tactics. This was something else—something unnatural. The sea had been a battlefield for centuries, but this? This was a massacre beyond human comprehension.

Something moved in the thinning fog—a massive black outline the size of a ship. It did not drift like a vessel caught in the current, nor did it sail with the wind. It slithered. A slow, deliberate thing, lingering at the edges of sight, shifting with an unnatural fluidity, as though it were alive.

It wove through the remnants of battle, coiling between charred wreckage and floating bodies with eerie precision. The sea whispered against the broken hulls, but the thing itself made no sound. No creak of wood, no snap of canvas. Only its presence—a heavy, suffocating weight that pressed against the air.

As the fog lifts, an unnatural hush lingers, thick and suffocating. The air seems to vibrate with an unspoken warning, a breath held by the world itself. Then, without warning, the eerie stillness is shattered by a sudden explosion.

A cannonball rips through the stillness, slamming into El Impoluto’s deck with a forceful, thunderous crack. The crew recoiled—some diving for cover, others frozen as the shockwave rattled the ship, splintering wood and sending jagged shards spiraling into the air. The impact was not a death blow, but it was close—close enough to rattle them, close enough to demand attention.

Men flinch, shout, scramble. The ones still standing lurch back in fear, their hands gripping whatever they can to steady themselves. A few reach instinctively for their weapons, others exchange uneasy glances, uncertainty thick in the air like gunpowder smoke. 

Villanueva himself braces, his knuckles whitening as his grip tightens on the railing. He was always the immovable force, unshaken in the face of cannon fire and storms alike. But now, something gnawed at him, something more insidious than battle—uncertainty. His teeth grind together, his breath slow but deliberate. He has seen war, commanded fleets, crushed men beneath his heel—but something about this shot unsettles him. Not because of its force, but because of its intent.

Then, before the echoes can fully fade, a heavy stillness settles over the deck—thick, suffocating, poised on the edge of breaking. The tension coils, stretching thin like a taut rope fraying under unseen strain. The crew holds their breath, each heartbeat pounding louder than the last. And then, with a thunderous roar—another strike. The air itself seems to tighten, the crew holding their breath as if bracing for an unseen blow.

This one splinters the railing further down the deck, sending jagged shards of wood skittering across the planks. The sharp scent of burning powder clings to the air, thick and suffocating. Villanueva takes a step back, his face darkening as he whirls toward the fog. But the enemy remains unseen, hidden in the shifting mist like a predator biding its time.

The crew begins to break. They watch their captain, their leader, for any sign of control—but Villanueva’s hesitation lingers too long, his grim expression betraying his own uncertainty. That moment of doubt fractures their resolve, and fear takes hold.

One man drops his weapon, his fingers trembling as he grips the side of the ship instead, his lips forming frantic prayers. Another stumbles backward, eyes wide with terror, muttering about ghosts in the mist. A few begin edging toward the boats, whispering among themselves, their breaths shallow and desperate.

"We need to get off this ship," one of them hisses, his voice barely more than a choked rasp. "This is not a battle we can win."

A cabin boy, younger than the rest, shakes his head violently, clutching his shirt as if to keep his heart from leaping from his chest. "Did you see it? The fleet—gone. Just gone. Not even fire could have done that." His voice quivers, on the verge of breaking.

Fear seeped into them like a slow poison, unraveling their discipline beneath the crushing weight of the unknown. They had been prepared for war, but this—this was something else. Something unnatural. Something not of men.

Villanueva’s voice cutting through the growing panic, sharp as a blade. "Stand your ground!" His command was iron, but even he could hear the falter in his men.

But the murmurs did not stop. The sidelong glances continued. And in the dense, shifting fog, the crew knew one thing for certain.

They were being hunted.

And then, as if answering their unspoken fears—

The fog begins to part, unraveling in slow, deliberate tendrils, revealing the silhouette lurking within.

Through the fading mist, a shape emerged, dark and imposing, its edges sharpening as the fog curled away like retreating ghosts. Unveiling a silhouette long hidden beneath the waves. It did not simply appear—it loomed, deliberate and inevitable, a harbinger of death.

A silhouette at first. Dark. Ominous. Waiting.

Villanueva squinted, his breath stilled in his throat. For the first time, he could see his enemy. And it was not what the rumors had said. It was not a legend, a myth, a ghostly whisper among seafarers.

It was real.

The Black Pearl emerged through the thinning fog, emerging like an executioner arriving to deliver the final sentence. Her black sails—tattered yet strong—billowed against the smoldering backdrop of wreckage. Its dark hull glistened with the spray of the sea, untouched by the destruction that surrounded it, moving with an eerie stillness as if it had merely been watching, waiting for this moment.

The crew of El Impoluto began to crumble.

A cry rang out—wordless, desperate. A man turned on his heels, shoving past his comrades, making a frantic run for the rowboats. Another followed. Then another. It was a chain reaction, panic spreading through them like wildfire. The crew had fought countless battles under Villanueva, but this? This was something beyond mortal conflict.

The ship groaned beneath their feet, its timbers creaking under the strain. Masts swayed, the rigging trembled, and the hull shuddered as if recoiling from the sheer terror gripping those aboard. Boots pounded against the deck—not in disciplined unison, but in a frantic, uneven rhythm. Now, the desperate flight of men consumed by fear. Orders were forgotten, replaced by a single, unrelenting instinct: escape.

"Abandon ship! " someone shrieked. The words tore through the tension like a blade. Men shoved past each other in their desperation, knocking over barrels, trampling supplies.

Villanueva snarled, snapping out of his stunned stupor. "Get back here!" His voice was thunderous, his rage palpable, but it did nothing to halt the collapse of his command. He whirled around, searching for his officers—anyone with sense—but they, too, were hesitating, their hands twitching toward the lifeboats. A few still clung to their duty, gripping the rigging with white-knuckled fists, their eyes darting between their fleeing comrades and their enraged captain.

The ropes were a tangled mess. A sailor’s trembling hands struggled to undo the knots, sweat streaming down his face as he fumbled with the rigging. Another man, too impatient, yanked hard at a pulley, sending a jarring jolt through the entire system. The boat lurched unevenly, swinging out over the side before slamming back against the hull. Shouts of panic erupted as the men inside the boat clutched the edges, bracing for a fall that had yet to come.

Further down the deck, two men wrestled with another set of ropes, their movements jerky, uncoordinated. One lost his grip entirely, his fingers slick with sweat and fear, sending a coil of rope slithering through the air like a striking serpent. It landed in a chaotic heap, undoing their work, forcing them to start over as curses flew between them.

One desperate sailor scrambled over the railing, his legs dangling as he tried to lower himself into a boat that had yet to be steadied. A hand grabbed at him, another sailor pushing him away. "Wait, you’ll—!" But the warning came too late. The weight shifted. The boat beneath them tilted dangerously, the unsecured ropes groaning in protest before snapping loose. The rowboat fell, crashing sideways into the water, throwing men into the churning sea below. Their screams mixed with the crash of waves, swallowed by the growing chaos.

Some men abandoned the effort entirely, their gazes flickering to Villanueva, searching for guidance he no longer had. But he gave them none. His fingers curled into fists, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, frustration boiling beneath the surface. He barked orders, but his voice—once an unshakable force—carried no weight anymore. The crew no longer looked to him as their commander. They looked past him, their eyes fixed on the specter in the mist. And then, as if realizing all at once—

He had already lost them. His command, once absolute, was unraveling before their eyes, and with it, their last shreds of discipline. They ran. Some leapt headfirst into the sea—choosing icy depths over the thing waiting in the mist. Arms flailed. Heads bobbed, dipping below the surface before emerging again, wild eyes darting toward the ship they had forsaken.

Villanueva's fury ignited. His grip on his cutlass tightened, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. He would not allow them to disgrace him like this.

With a sharp breath, he struck.

The nearest man—a veteran sailor who had fought by his side for years—barely had time to react before Villanueva drove his blade through his gut. The man gasped, blood bubbling at his lips as he crumpled to the deck. Another turned to flee, only for the crack of a pistol to ring out. The sailor jerked violently before collapsing, a crimson pool spreading beneath him.

"You run, you die!" Villanueva bellowed, his voice raw with fury. His threats, however, fell on deaf ears. His men no longer feared him. They feared the thing in the mist—the silent specter that loomed beyond the fog, waiting, watching. It was no ordinary enemy, no flesh-and-blood opponent that could be bested with steel or gunpowder. It was something else entirely—something relentless, something inevitable.

More men scrambled over the sides, some slipping as they fought for a place in the boats, others choosing to swim rather than risk waiting. The first boat finally hit the water, nearly capsizing as too many tried to board at once. The second boat was barely being lowered when another man lost his patience and cut the rope, sending it crashing down, breaking upon impact. Screams filled the air.

Villanueva turned in circles, his chest heaving, his mind a storm of rage and disbelief. He had ruled with absolute control, commanded fear, demanded loyalty—and now, all of it was crumbling around him. Betrayal gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, desperation clawing up his throat. He wanted to strike, to punish, to reclaim his dominance. But the enemy that undid him was no man—it was the silence, the waiting, the thing in the mist that had stolen his power without lifting a single blade. His empire, his dominance, was collapsing around him, unraveling in the face of the silent, waiting ship beyond the fog.

And as the last boat finally pulled away, leaving Villanueva and a handful of trembling men behind, the sea seemed to hold its breath. The slap of oars against water faded into the distance, swallowed by the thickening mist. A hush fell over the deck, the kind that came before a storm—unnatural, suffocating, a silence that did not belong. The mist thickened, swallowing the distant echoes of panicked oars. They were alone now—adrift in silence, standing on the deck of a ship that no longer belonged to them.

Its judgment was at hand.

The sea, once commanded by Villanueva’s iron grip, now reeked of ruin.

His fleet, once a formidable force, now lay in ruin. Broken hulls drifted aimlessly, flames licking at the remains, their splintered masts jutting from the water like the bones of fallen giants. Stripped of command, the wreckage scattered across the waves—a graveyard of ambition and defeat. Survivors clung to debris, some weeping, some whispering prayers that went unheard. The ones who could still fight had no war left to wage.

And on the deck of El Impoluto—the ship still afloat, yet utterly powerless—

Ysábella stood.

She did not speak. She did not move. She watched—silent, unshaken, her gaze a sentence passed before a single word could be spoken.

Watched Villanueva clutch the railing, his knuckles white, his breath heavy with rage. Watched his men stand frozen, disarmed not by steel, but by fear.

This was his reckoning. Did he know it? Did he feel it sinking into his bones, wrapping around his throat like a noose? Or did he still cling to the illusion of control, refusing to see the ruin laid bare before him?

A sharp sound cut through the eerie silence—

Isolde's bound hands, raw from the restraints, twisted against the frayed rope. She worked a marlin spike, found discarded by the railing, its worn handle rough in her grip. Her fingers, stiff from confinement, worked with slow precision, sawing through the fibers. The binding resisted, taut and unyielding, but she gritted her teeth and pressed harder. A few more twists, a few more agonizing tugs—and it gave.

Isolde had freed herself.

The rope coiled loosely around her wrists before slipping away, falling to the deck with a dull thud. She exhaled, rolling her shoulders, feeling the sting of returning blood flow. But there was no time to relish freedom. Without hesitation, she moved to Amihan and Redd, their wrists raw from the same brutal treatment.

"Hold still," she muttered, voice hoarse but steady.

The marlin spike glided through the knots, her hands swift, methodical. Amihan winced as the fibers finally snapped apart, her wrists pulling free. She didn’t complain. She merely rubbed at the bruised flesh, nodding in thanks before turning her gaze toward Villanueva.

Redd flexed her fingers once her bindings fell away, rolling her wrists with a grimace before reaching down, picking up the discarded rope. She held it for a moment, feeling its rough texture, then let it drop, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Didn’t think you’d let us rot forever, Isolde."

Isolde’s sharp eyes flicked up. "I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction."

They stood—bruised but upright. Unbroken.

They were no longer prisoners. No longer at his mercy. They were witnesses.

And Villanueva was the one in chains now—bound by the weight of his own downfall.

The deck of El Impoluto was smeared with blood and salt, the sting of gunpowder thick in the air. The battle had ended, but its echoes still rolled across the waves. Embers smoldered from the wreckage of shattered ships, their splintered remains bobbing with the tide. Survivors clung to floating debris, too weak to swim, their faces hollow with shock. The sea bore the weight of ruin, carrying broken bodies and the dying whispers of a fleet that no longer existed. Smoke curled into the overcast sky, rising like funeral pyres—the final remnants of a once-mighty force reduced to wreckage.

Villanueva stood at the railing, his grip iron-tight, his breath ragged. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, every inhale steeped in the stench of death and salt. His fleet was gone, gutted in the span of a single night. And yet, El Impoluto remained. Not by mercy, but by design. Yet, for the first time in his life, uncertainty slithered into his veins.

Something moved near him.

The mastiff stood several paces away. No longer crouched at his feet. No longer waiting for orders. Its posture was stiff, unreadable. Its head high, its massive body still. But the eyes—dark amber, deep, knowing—held something new. A glint of defiance.

Villanueva exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing at his sides. For the first time in his life, uncertainty slithered into his veins. He had never needed to question, never once had to wonder—obedience was a given. A truth. A certainty. And yet now, something gnawed at him, something cold and unfamiliar. He took a slow step forward, steadying himself. "Come."

The mastiff did not move. Villanueva’s fingers twitched at his sides, his breath coming fast and uneven. His command had never been questioned before—not by his men, not by the beast that had been his constant shadow. And yet, here it stood, unmoving, unyielding. The space between them stretched, silent and heavy with something unspoken.

The air between them grew heavy. The ship groaned under the weight of the waves, but nothing else stirred. The beast had always obeyed. It had never faltered, never questioned, never wavered. And yet now, standing before its master in the aftermath of ruin, it did nothing.

Villanueva’s jaw tightened. “You think you can look at me like that?” His voice, sharp and brittle, cut through the wind.

Still, the mastiff did not bow. Villanueva stared, his breath shallow, fingers twitching as if expecting submission to come any moment now. But it didn’t. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—confusion, disbelief, perhaps even the smallest hint of fear. He clenched his jaw, straightened his stance, and steeled himself against the silent defiance before him. His authority had been challenged before, but never like this. Never by the one thing he had always believed to be his.

For a fraction of a second, something dark flickered across Villanueva’s face—doubt, fear, something nameless. The weight of the moment pressed on him, the defiance before him something he had never known. And then, rage swallowed it whole. His boot lashed out, striking hard into the beast’s ribs. The sound of impact was sickening—the crack of bone, the sharp yelp of pain, stumbling, its body twisting with the force of the blow. But the mastiff did not fall. A shudder ran through its frame, breath coming in ragged, heaving bursts. Its legs trembled beneath the weight of the blow, but still, it stood—shaking, yet unbroken, its eyes locked on his. It stood, shaking, its eyes locked on his. And in that moment, something changed.

Then, slowly, it lifted its head.

A growl rumbled from deep within its chest, low and guttural. A sound that did not belong to a beaten hound, but to something far more dangerous. The mastiff’s hackles bristled, its frame tense, coiled. It did not cower. It did not retreat. It only stared.

Villanueva hesitated. A fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but it was there. A man who had ruled through dominance, who had crushed the weak beneath his heel, now found himself facing something he could not bend.

His grip on the moment snapped. A sharp inhale, his fingers twitched, the veins in his neck tightening as his body coiled with unrestrained fury. He lunged forward, raising his arm for another strike. “Perro estúpido—”

The mastiff moved first.

Fangs sank into his forearm, tearing through flesh, crushing bone. The force of the attack sent Villanueva reeling, his boots sliding on the bloodied deck. He crashed into the railing with a dull crack, a strangled scream ripping from his throat.

The beast did not let go. It held fast, jaws locked, muscles unrelenting. Hot breath panted against his skin, each twist of its head sending fresh waves of agony up his arm. Villanueva’s free hand scrambled against the mastiff’s thick fur, trying to pry it off, but it was useless. He was powerless against it—powerless against the very thing he had made.

His fingers fumbled at his belt, shaking, blood-slicked. He wrenched the pistol free, raising it with a ragged gasp, pressing the barrel against the mastiff’s throat. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts. For a moment, a single fleeting second, he did not fire.

Not out of mercy. Not out of fear.

But because, in that instant, realization struck him harder than the beast’s fangs ever could.

He was alone.

His fleet. His men. His power.

Even this, his last and most loyal creation, had abandoned him.

The mastiff’s growl deepened, its lips peeling back over bloodied fangs. There was something knowing in its gaze, something almost human in its final defiance.

Villanueva bared his teeth. “Perro traidor.”

The gunshot rang out.

The mastiff jerked, its body seizing for a fraction of a second before the strength left it entirely. Its weight pressed against Villanueva’s legs before it collapsed fully, lifeless.

Silence.

The scent of gunpowder mixed with the thick iron tang of blood, clinging to the damp air. Villanueva shoved the carcass off him, his chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic bursts. His wounded arm trembled, fresh blood pooling between his fingers, staining the tattered remains of his coat.

The mastiff lay still at his feet, its eyes dull, its body cooling in the dim light.

All of it—his fleet, his men, his power—

Gone.

Villanueva had lost.

And yet, he clung to the last thing he could control.

He lunged at Ysábella. His grip on her was iron, his fingers digging cruelly into her arm as he yanked her close, the cold muzzle of his pistol pressing into her temple. His breath was hot against her ear, ragged and shaking with fury.

"I lost everything," Villanueva seethed, his voice raw, desperate. "Just for this bitch!"

A voice—smooth, familiar—cut through the chaos.

"Oi! I would not want to do that if I were you."

Jack Sparrow.

Hanging effortlessly by the ratlines of El Impoluto, he tilted his head, watching with infuriating amusement. His dark eyes flicked from Ysábella to Villanueva, studying the scene like it was an amusing tale rather than a matter of life and death.

Villanueva sneered, his grip tightening. "Why?"

Out of nowhere, a shrill screech pierced the air. Jack the Monkey leapt from above, sinking his sharp teeth into Villanueva’s hand.

"¡Puñeta!" he roared, the pistol clattering from his grasp.

A metallic clink echoed on the deck.

Two gleaming daggers landed between them.

Ysábella’s breath hitched. Her gaze darted to Diego, whose hand flew to his belt.

His weapons—her daggers—even his money—gone.

A long, tense pause.

Diego. Ysábella. Villanueva.

They stared at one another, and then—

Diego lunged.

But before his fingers could close around the hilts, Jack the Monkey shrieked again, launching himself at Diego’s face.

Diego staggered back with a yell. He flailed wildly, hands grasping at thin air as the tiny creature clawed at his scalp. The monkey yanked at his hair, chattering wickedly, tiny hands pulling, twisting, biting. Diego cursed, stumbling, his boots sliding on the slick deck.

And then—Isolde moved.

She was there in an instant, a marlin spike gripped tightly in her hands. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t speak.

She struck.

Driving the spike into Diego’s ribs with a sickening crunch. His body jolted, his eyes widening in shock as his mouth opened—whether to plead or curse, Ysábella would never know.

Isolde twisted the spike, shoving it deeper.

A strangled, wet gasp tore from Diego’s throat. He clawed at her wrist, weakly, uselessly.

Then his hands fell limp. His legs buckled.

Isolde yanked the spike free and stepped back, letting him collapse at her feet. Jack the Monkey leapt from Diego’s shoulder just in time, landing on a mast with a triumphant chatter.

Diego’s body hit the deck, motionless.

Ysábella didn’t hesitate.

She dove for her daggers, rolling into a crouch just as Villanueva wrenched his cutlass from his scabbard. The silver gleamed in the firelight, his knuckles white around the hilt.

"You ruined everything."

His voice was raw, guttural, filled with something beyond rage—something desperate.

He swung.

Ysábella barely dodged, twisting away as steel sliced through the air. The force of the attack sent a gust of wind past her cheek, so close she felt the whisper of its deadly edge.

She countered, lashing out with her dagger. The tip caught his cheek, a thin line of crimson beading against his skin.

Not deep. A scratch. But enough.

Villanueva’s eyes burned with fury. He lunged, his attacks turning savage, relentless. Each strike came heavier, faster, forcing Ysábella backward. 

Her muscles burned, the relentless assault pushing her to the brink. A tremor ran through her arms, her grip faltering for just a moment. Exhaustion threatened to drag her down, her breath coming in ragged bursts. But she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to move, to fight, to survive. Her breath hitched with each desperate parry, her limbs growing heavier with every strike. Still, she held her ground, refusing to falter. She blocked—barely. Every impact sent tremors through her arms, jarring her bones, numbing her grip. She was fast, but he was stronger.

A feint to the left—

She dodged—

But it was a trap.

His elbow slammed into her ribs.

The world lurched. Pain exploded in her side. Her breath vanished from her lungs, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as she stumbled—

She fell.

Flat on her back.

Villanueva was on her in an instant, towering above her, raising his cutlass high.

She rolled.

The blade slammed into the deck, inches from where her head had been.

Ysábella scrambled up, gasping, but Villanueva was already there. He pressed forward, relentless, forcing her back toward the railing.

She had no room to move.

His cutlass arced toward her. She ducked, but not fast enough.

The blade grazed her shoulder, a sharp kiss of steel against flesh. A shallow but agonizing cut opened along the curve of her arm, sending a fresh wave of pain searing through her body. Warm blood welled instantly, running down her arm, staining the white fabric of her gown in deep crimson.

She bit back a cry, staggering, knees threatening to give out.

Villanueva grinned. "Bleeding already?"

Ysábella’s breaths came in ragged, shallow bursts. Her fingers trembled around the hilts of her daggers. She was losing. He was far too strong.

No.

She refused.

A growl of pure rage tore from her throat as she lunged forward, slipping inside his reach.

Her dagger plunged into his side.

Villanueva bellowed, twisting violently. 

But he did not fall.

His free hand shot to the hilt buried in his flesh, fingers wrapping around the steel. He pulled her dagger out of his side. The blade wrenched free with a sickening tear, blood pouring from the wound. Villanueva tossed the dagger aside, the weapon clattering against the deck.

Villanueva swung wildly, his cutlass slicing just enough to graze Ysábella’s ribs. The sting was sharp, a burning line of pain streaking across her skin. It wasn’t deep—but enough to send a shudder through her body, enough to knock the air from her lungs. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as she reeled from the blow, her body screaming in protest. She clutched at her side, feeling the warmth of her own blood seeping beneath her fingertips. The metallic taste of it coated her tongue, thick and coppery, as she swallowed back the rising nausea. Her vision wavered, just for a second—but she couldn’t afford to lose focus.

Villanueva panted, eyes filled with fury and something else—fear. "I should’ve killed you when I had the chance."

Ysábella’s lips curled into a bloody smile. "You should have."

Villanueva lifted his cutlass for the final strike—

Ysábella lunged.

Her dagger found his chest.

Straight through his heart.

His breath hitched. His blade halted mid-air. His fingers trembled. The color drained from his face.

His cutlass slipped from his grip. It clattered to the deck.

He stared at her, his mouth opening, but no sound came.

His blood spilled over her white gown, hot and suffocating, seeping into the fabric like an unshakable brand. The weight of it clung to her skin, thick and unrelenting, a crimson tide she could never wash away.

Ysábella’s vision blurred with tears. Her chest heaved. Her hands shook as she twisted the dagger deeper.

"You—" Ysábella’s voice broke, raw with emotion. "You fucking ruined me."

Villanueva collapsed on top of her. The impact stole the breath from her lungs, pinning her beneath his dead weight. The suffocating heat of his blood seeped into her skin, the scent of iron thick in the air. For a moment, she was trapped, frozen, unable to move—until the reality of his death crashed into her like a wave.

Heavy. Lifeless. Dead.

Ysábella sobbed beneath his weight, her breath shuddering as the full force of everything crashed down on her. The battle was over, but the storm inside her had only just begun.

Her chest heaved with raw, unrestrained sobs, her body shaking as Villanueva’s lifeless form pressed down on her, his blood soaking into her skin, hot and suffocating. Every breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, each one laced with pain.

The relief, the grief, the sheer magnitude of what she had done swelled inside her, too vast to contain. Tears spilled freely down her face, mingling with the sweat and blood already streaking her skin. For years, she had carried the weight of his control, of his cruelty. Now, for the first time, she felt its absence—and it was unbearable. Her arms trembled. Her ribs ached. Her body screamed in exhaustion, in agony, in release.

It was over.

Her hands shook as she shoved his body off. For a moment, she hesitated, her breath catching as the weight of him pressed into her one last time. Her muscles screamed, exhaustion clawing at her, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to move.

It took everything she had left. The effort sent a fresh wave of pain tearing through her ribs, but she forced herself to move, rolling onto her side, gasping for air like a drowning woman breaking the surface. With a final, shuddering breath, she pushed, the dead weight resisting her before finally slipping off.

And then—nothing.

Just the sound of her own ragged breathing, the weight of everything pressing down on her, the world tilting beneath her. A shadow shifted above. A pause—a hand extended into view.

A familiar silhouette stood above her, blurred by the haze of exhaustion and tears. And then—Jack Sparrow.

His fingers wiggled expectantly, his signature smirk curling his lips.

"Shall we, Pigeon?"

Ysábella's Daggers

Chapter Text

Captain Ysábella Sparrow

The survivors boarded the Black Pearl, stepping onto its weathered deck with a mix of relief and anticipation. The weight of their journey still clung to them, heavy like salt in their bones, but the ship felt like home—a refuge from the chaos they had left behind.

The deck was littered with the weary but unbroken—former slaves, battered sailors, and those who had nowhere else to go. Among them was a young cabin boy, his face smudged with soot and blood, but his eyes still bright with the fire of survival. A group of women, former captives, clung to one another, whispering in hushed tones as they huddled together, free for the first time in what felt like eternity.

At the helm, Mr. Gibbs stood, his hands steady on the wheel, ensuring the ship remained true. His gaze flickered over the returning crew, assessing, counting, searching for familiar faces. And then, he saw her.

Amihan moved across the deck with purpose, but as she neared him, something in her resolve softened. A rare moment of vulnerability flickered in her eyes. Without a word, she rushed forward, closing the distance between them.

Before Mr. Gibbs could react, she pressed a kiss to his weathered cheek—a fleeting touch, light as the sea breeze. Then, with no hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.

"I missed you," she whispered, her voice trembling, raw with emotion.

For a moment, Mr. Gibbs stood frozen, caught off guard by the sudden embrace. But slowly, he exhaled, his gruff demeanor easing as he patted her back in his own rough but affectionate way. "I missed you too, lass." he murmured.

The warmth of the moment lingered between them—unspoken, but understood. Then, as if aware of the tide pulling them forward, they both turned to face what lay ahead.

Some of the survivors had begun to gather near the ship’s railing, staring out into the endless ocean, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and disbelief. Others whispered among themselves, speaking of freedom as though it were still a fragile thing, too delicate to grasp just yet.

Ysábella barely had a moment to take in the scene before a familiar presence settled beside her. 

Jack. 

She didn’t turn to face him immediately, instead letting the air between them settle. The weight of the past hours, the battles fought and lost, still clung to her like salt in her skin. But he was here. They were here.

His approach was effortless, casual, but there was something else in his gaze—something unreadable beneath the usual glint of mischief. Isolde was already at Ysábella’s side, arms crossed, watching him with quiet amusement.

"You’re thinkin’ too much, love," Jack mused, tilting his head.

Ysábella exhaled sharply, finally looking at him. "And you don’t think enough."

Jack smirked. "Balance, then."

Isolde snorted softly. "That’s generous."

Ysábella shook her head, unwilling to indulge him so easily. But there was no real bite to her resistance. He was here. Against all reason, against all odds, he was here.

Jack leaned in slightly, eyes never leaving hers. "Go on, then. Say it."

Ysábella narrowed her gaze. "Say what?"

He spread his hands, as if it were obvious. "That you missed me. That you knew I’d come."

She scoffed, turning away, but not before he caught the flicker of something softer in her expression. Jack chuckled to himself, satisfied.

The ship swayed beneath them, the ocean stretching wide and endless beyond the deck. Somewhere behind them, Mr. Gibbs was grumbling about getting back to work, and Amihan’s laughter rang light in the salty air.

Then, suddenly, Ysábella staggered, pain lancing through her side. Her wounds throbbed—a deep, searing ache that spread with every breath. Her muscles, exhausted and battered, screamed in protest. She had pushed herself too far, too fast.

Before she could steady herself, hands caught her.

"Easy, Captain," Isolde murmured, her grip firm around Ysábella’s waist.

Amihan took her other arm, her expression tight with concern. "You shouldn’t be walking on your own."

Redd stepped in without a word, moving to support Ysábella from behind, her presence solid and unwavering. The young cabin boy, wide-eyed but eager to help, hovered nearby, looking as though he wanted to step forward but hesitated. Together, they guided Ysábella toward the cabin, their steps careful but determined. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to move despite the pain.

The world blurred slightly around the edges, exhaustion weighing heavy on her limbs. She hated this—being weak, relying on others—but she had no choice.

"You’re not collapsing on us, are you?" Isolde teased, though her grip didn’t waver.

Ysábella managed a smirk, though it was weaker than usual. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Still, she let them lead her, each step sending another wave of pain through her body. The weight of exhaustion settled deeper with every movement, her limbs growing heavier as they crossed the entrance into the dimly lit cabin. The familiar scent of wood and sea filled the space, but there was something else beneath it now—something metallic, raw. Blood. Hers.

They settled her onto a sturdy wooden chair. Ysábella groaned softly as she adjusted, her back pressing against the carved frame, the stiffness of the wood an unwelcome contrast to her aching body. Her limbs felt leaden, her skin damp with sweat, clinging to the fabric still draped over her. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain radiating through her torso, sharp and unrelenting. She clenched her jaw, willing herself to remain still as Isolde crouched before her, appraising the damage with a careful eye.

"You—fetch a bucket of water and some rags. Now." Isolde's voice cut through the thick air, firm and commanding. The young boy, who had been hovering uncertainly, startled at the order before scurrying out of the cabin, his footsteps pounding against the wooden planks.

With a measured touch, Isolde reached for Ysábella's gown, fingers brushing over torn fabric. "This needs to come off," she murmured, her voice gentler now, though it left no room for argument. Ysábella sucked in a breath, bracing herself as Isolde peeled away the ruined garment. The fabric stuck slightly to the bloodied wounds, and she bit the inside of her cheek as a sharp sting followed its removal. Cool air rushed over her exposed skin, and she shivered involuntarily, the sensation a stark contrast to the feverish heat pooling beneath her bruises.

The room remained silent for a moment as Isolde took in the extent of her injuries. Deep cuts trailed along her ribs, angry and swollen, while bruises bloomed in dark hues of purple and blue, stark against her otherwise golden skin. Redd let out a low whistle from her spot against the wall. "Hell of a fight you put up, Captain. Look like you wrestled the devil himself."

"Maybe she did," Amihan muttered as she moved to gather the stitching supplies, her expression tight with concern.

Before another word could be said, the door swung open again. The boy had returned, gripping the bucket of water and a handful of rags. He took two hesitant steps forward before abruptly freezing, his breath catching in his throat as his gaze landed on Ysábella’s bare chest. The bucket nearly slipped from his grasp as his entire face turned a deep shade of red.

The poor boy turned so quickly he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Redd burst into laughter, crossing her arms. "Well, would you look at that? Our lad's a bit overwhelmed." She tilted her head, smirking. "Tell me, lad—never seen a real pair before?"

The boy stammered, still facing the door. "I—I didn’t mean to—" He swallowed thickly. "I mean—no!"

Redd grinned wickedly. "Must be a virgin, then."

The boy made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Ysábella sighed but couldn’t quite hide the amused smirk tugging at her lips. Isolde rolled her eyes but let Redd have her fun.

Redd sauntered over and crouched beside him, her teasing nature in full force. "How old are you, kid?"

"T-Thirteen," he stammered, ears burning red.

Redd clicked her tongue. "Aw, that’s kinda cute."

She leaned in, smirking, and took the boy’s trembling hand in hers. Before he could protest, she guided it to rest lightly higher up on her inner thigh, her skin warm beneath his fingertips.

"Is it getting hard yet?" 

He opened his mouth but no words came out, voice caught in his throat. His entire body went rigid, his breath hitching as his fingers twitched against her leg, hesitating—unsure if he was supposed to move, to rub, to do anything at all. His face turned a deeper shade of red, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as the weight of the moment settled over him.

She let him stay like that for just a moment longer before chuckling, giving his hand a small squeeze. "That’s something for you to think about for the rest of the night," she murmured, her tone dripping with amusement. "If you sail with us long enough, I might just make you a man."

Releasing him, she gave him a wink and finally dismissed him with a playful swat to his shoulder. The boy stumbled backward before turning on his heel and bolting from the cabin, his steps pounding against the wooden deck.

Laughter followed in his wake, echoing off the cabin walls.

Ysábella exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. "You’re terrible."

Redd grinned. "Aye, but you love me for it."

With the levity fading, Isolde grabbed one of the soaked rags, wrung out the excess water, and pressed it to Ysábella’s shoulder. The moment the damp cloth met her skin, she tensed, a sharp gasp slipping past her lips. The water was cool, almost too cool, and it seeped into the open wounds, biting like salt against raw flesh. The slow, deliberate movements of Isolde’s hands were careful but unrelenting, dragging the rag across her collarbone, down her ribs, wiping away the remnants of dried blood and grime.

Ysábella clenched her fists against the chair’s arms, forcing herself to endure the discomfort. Each stroke of the rag sent another sting rippling through her nerves, but she refused to let her body jerk away from the touch. She had felt worse. This was nothing.

Isolde knelt beside Ysábella, her lips slightly parted in concentration, as if each careful press of the cloth was a vow—one of patience, one of steady devotion. Ysábella let herself lean into it, into the warmth of Isolde’s presence, into the way her fingers lingered ever so slightly longer than necessary against her skin.

Then came the stitching.

Amihan positioned herself behind her, needle in hand, the thin thread gleaming in the candlelight. "It’ll sting," she warned softly. Ysábella nodded, already bracing herself.

The first prick sent a jolt through her, sharp and searing. Her body flinched instinctively, muscles tensing, but Isolde’s steady hand pressed against her ribs, keeping her grounded. "Breathe, Captain," Isolde murmured, her voice a tether in the haze of pain. Ysábella obeyed, drawing in a slow breath through her nose, letting it out as Amihan pulled the stitch tight.

Each pull of the needle was a fresh wave of pain—piercing, dragging, biting—but it was necessary. Ysábella focused on Isolde’s touch, on the rag cooling her skin, on the soft murmurs exchanged between the women working to put her back together.

Redd leaned in slightly, her teasing edge softened. "You’re tougher than any of us, but even you need looking after sometimes."

Ysábella scoffed weakly, but her gaze flickered over them—her crew, her family. They had fought beside her, bled for her, and now they were piecing her back together, as if ensuring their queen would rise again.

The cabin was thick with the scent of salt and blood, the rhythmic slosh of seawater in the bucket mixing with the occasional sharp inhale as Ysábella flinched.

Isolde worked in silence, dipping a rag into the bucket and wringing it out before wiping away the dried blood from Ysábella’s skin. The water turned red, the rag sodden and heavy. 

"I’ve seen worse," Redd commented, leaning against the wall, arms crossed as she idly spun a dagger between her fingers. "But I’ll admit, you’ve got a talent for making things messy."

Ysábella let out a tired huff. "Good to know I’m leaving an impression."

"Oh, you are, love. Blood, grit, and all," Redd teased, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Though if Jack’s here, I’d wager it’s about to get worse."

The door swung open with a creak, and Jack Sparrow strolled in, one hand thrown over his eyes in exaggerated modesty. "Ladies, if I knew there’d be a show, I’d have brought rum."

Ysábella sighed, her voice worn with exhaustion. "What do you want, Jack?"

Jack peeked through his fingers before lowering his hand, mischief dancing in his dark eyes. "Just checking on my favorite captain."

"I’m not your captain," Ysábella muttered, shifting as Amihan tightened the last stitch.

"Not yet," Jack countered smoothly, stepping closer. "But you do have my attention."

Redd, who had been casually listening, straightened slightly, her expression shifting with recognition. "You know, I saw you. El Impoluto. " she said, her gaze locking onto Jack. "Didn’t think I’d be meeting you like this."

Jack turned his head toward Redd, eyes narrowing slightly before his trademark smirk returned. "And you must be Redd. I’ve heard whispers, but I do prefer a proper introduction."

Redd grinned, stepping forward with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Oh, I know all about you. Captain Jack Sparrow, the man who’s cheated death more times than I can count. I grew up hearing tales about you."

Jack arched a brow, clearly entertained. "A fan, are you?"

"Something like that," Redd admitted, twirling a lock of red hair idly. "I’d call it admiration, if you didn’t have a habit of losing your ship every other week."

Jack chuckled, tilting his head. "Well, love, possession is a fluid concept."

Ysábella rolled her eyes. "Are you two going to keep flirting, or are we getting to the point?"

Jack lingered a moment before breaking into a grin. "Fair enough, Pigeon. Shall we?"

Then, with a rare slowness, Jack lifted his tricorn hat from his head. The worn leather held the weight of untold journeys, battles fought, victories claimed. It was a relic of his legend, a symbol of who he was. He turned it in his hands, considering it for a moment longer before placing it atop Ysábella’s head. His fingers lingered just a second too long, a whisper of touch against her hair.

"Captain," he murmured, the word carrying something more than just humor—something proud, something final.

The title settled over her like a shifting tide. Captain. She never expected to command the Black Pearl. The thought had never even crossed her mind. Yet, as she sat there, her skin marred by wounds still fresh, the weight of the moment threatened to unmoor her. Her fingers lifted, grazing the brim of the hat as if she couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Jack watched her carefully, his usual smirk tempered by something quieter. Ysábella inhaled, steadying herself before tilting her chin up.

"What’s the catch?" she asked, her voice measured. "You’re giving me the Black Pearl. Nothing comes free with you."

Jack’s grin widened, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it—something she couldn’t quite place. "No catch, love. She’s yours."

Ysábella narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him. Jack Sparrow never did anything without an angle. He simply held her gaze, unreadable, his fingers brushing over the brim of the hat on her head.

"If you say so," she murmured, though doubt coiled in her chest. Because with Jack, there was always a catch. He stepped closer, the scent of rum, salt, and something uniquely his filling the space between them. "Don’t go soft on me now, love," he murmured, voice low. "The Pearl needs a captain."

Ysábella inhaled sharply. "And she has one."

She adjusted the hat, settling it more firmly atop her head. A slow, knowing smirk curled on Jack’s lips, but something else flickered in his eyes—something darker, something unreadable. He nodded once, approving.

Redd let out a low whistle. "Well, that’s a sight. Didn’t think I’d see you bowing, Sparrow."

Jack shot her a look, adjusting his coat. "Don’t get used to it, love."

Ysábella felt her heart skip. She felt it—her heart pounding harder inside her chest, forcing the heat course throughout her body. The pain in her body was dulled, replaced by something much harder to resist. It came suddenly—the scent. Familiar, intoxicating, inescapable.

Ysábella stiffened, her grip tightening on the edge of the table. The air in the cabin shifted, thickening, becoming something tangible. But it was not the musk she dreaded—not the beast’s. This time, it was Jack’s.

It was different from before, but far more dangerous.

The heat rose in her before she could stop it. It coiled in her belly, sinking into her limbs, seeping into her breath. She swallowed hard, every inhale feeding the craving, every second making it harder to ignore. The scent of him—spiced rum, sweat, the ocean breeze that always clung to him—mixed into something overwhelming.

Her pulse quickened, her skin humming with awareness. She wanted him. She needed him. Now.

She clenched her jaw, blinking hard, but it did nothing to quiet the storm building inside her. It was not just memory—it was real, here, pressing against her ribs, curling around her in invisible tendrils. She could feel it, as surely as she could feel the weight of the Pearl beneath her feet.

Jack, oblivious to the war raging inside her, leaned back against the cabin wall, arms crossed. “Somethin’ wrong, love?”

Ysábella exhaled, but it was shaky, uneven. Heat coiled in her belly, stronger now, relentless. Her fingers twitched at her sides, clenching, releasing, fighting the urge to reach for him. "Nothing," she said, but the word felt false the moment it left her lips.

Jack tilted his head, studying her with a knowing glint in his eyes. He didn’t believe her. Not for a second. But for now, he let it lie, though the way his fingers drummed lazily against his belt suggested he enjoyed watching her unravel.

The air between them crackled, charged with something neither spoke of. Ysábella swallowed again, forcing her eyes away from Jack, trying to anchor herself in anything but the fire licking through her veins.

Beside her, Isolde remained kneeling, her hands soaked from wringing out the cloth she had been using to clean Ysábella’s wounds. She had been silent, but now, her gaze flickered between the two of them, catching the tension thickening in the air. A knowing smirk tugged at her lips, though she kept it to herself at first. But as she pressed the rag against Ysábella’s skin, she saw the way Ysábella stiffened—not from pain, but from something else entirely.

Realization dawned on Isolde slowly. Her smirk deepened, her fingers tightening ever so slightly against Ysábella’s arm, testing the reaction. She felt the small shudder that ran through Ysábella, saw the way her breath hitched. Ah.

Interesting.

Behind them, Amihan was getting the bandages ready, still focused on tending to Ysábella’s wounds. Redd, however, was watching the exchange with sharp amusement. She had seen enough.

She pushed off from where she had been leaning and turned to Amihan. “We need to leave,” she said simply.

Amihan frowned, not looking up. “I’m not done patching her up.”

“We need to let her rest,” Redd insisted, her tone edged with something knowing. “She’s fine. Just needs some... peace and quiet.”

Amihan hesitated, her hands still hovering near Ysábella’s shoulder. Then, something clicked in her mind. Her eyes widened slightly, her mouth forming a small 'Oh!'—as if she had just put together a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was solving.

With one last glance between Jack, Ysábella, and Isolde, Amihan let out a small sigh and stepped back. “Alright,” she muttered, gathering her things. Redd smirked and opened the door, motioning for Amihan to follow.

As the door shut behind them, the cabin grew quieter, leaving only the sound of the shifting ship and the charged silence between Jack, Ysábella, and Isolde.

Isolde was still kneeling, her fingers idly running along Ysábella’s wrist, as if contemplating something. Then, slowly, she lifted her eyes to meet Jack’s. There was something in her gaze—something playful, something taunting.

She knew.

The moment did not pass unnoticed.

Isolde stepped forward, her movements unhurried, her gaze knowing. She had seen this before—felt it before. The pull, the need, the overwhelming force neither of them had ever truly spoken about.

Without hesitation, she reached for Ysábella’s arm, her fingers warm against fevered skin. The touch was grounding, steady—a tether against the storm raging inside her.

“You don’t have to fight it,” Isolde murmured, her voice like the tide—soft yet unrelenting. “We’re in this together, remember?”

Ysábella’s breath was shallow, her chest rising and falling in uneven waves. Heat coiled beneath her skin, a slow burn radiating outward, consuming. But Isolde did not let go. She stepped closer, pressing their bodies together, anchoring her in the only way she knew how.

Jack watched, his smirk fading, replaced by something else. Something sharp. Something waiting.

Isolde dipped her head, her breath a whisper against Ysábella’s ear. “I’m not leaving you behind this time.”

The words sank deep, threading through Ysábella’s bones like a vow carved in stone. She turned her head slightly, their lips brushing in a phantom touch, their eyes meeting—Isolde’s, steady and knowing, Ysábella’s, wild and searching. There was no hesitation, no doubt—only understanding. Only inevitability.

And Jack? Jack watched with the quiet patience of a man who already knew what was coming.

The air in the cabin was thick now, pulsing with something unspoken. Something irreversible.

Slowly, Isolde’s hands moved to the ties of Ysábella’s gown. Her fingers worked deftly, practiced, the fabric giving way beneath her touch. The gown slipped from Ysábella’s waist. As she shifted under Isolde’s hands, Ysábella’s hat slid from her head, forgotten as it fell to the floor. Isolde glanced down, then bent smoothly, retrieving it without breaking the moment. She laid it on the table beside them. Isolde continued to ease the fabric of her gown lower, deliberate, unrushed, her hands trailing in soft, reverent strokes. She guided Ysábella out of it with the same steadiness she had always offered. A silent promise. A quiet demand.

A test of trust.

Jack exhaled slowly, his gaze dark and unreadable, his fingers flexing at his sides. He did not move, did not interrupt, did not claim. Not yet.

Ysábella’s gaze shifted between Jack and Isolde. Her heart raced, her mind clouded by the powerful draw of both of them. She felt it—the inevitable moment where everything she had been holding back collapsed.

Jack smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Pigeon, you don't ha—"

“Actually...” Her voice was soft, yet unshakable. Her gaze locked onto Jack’s. Unwavering. “It’s Sparrow.”

She let the words settle, let them take hold before finishing, her voice stronger this time—“Missus Sparrow.”

Jack, caught off guard for only a moment, blinked, then flashed her a wicked grin. “Very well then, Missus Sparrow.”

Before she could react, Jack pulled her close, his lips crashing into hers in a kiss that was both fierce and tender. The world around them faded as the scent of Jack, the heat of their connection, consumed her completely.

Isolde did not step away. Instead, she kept Ysábella close, her fingers tracing light, lingering patterns down her spine. A touch that soothed. A touch that ignited.

She leaned in again, her lips ghosting over Ysábella’s jaw, her voice a breath, a command, a plea—

“Let go.”

And this time, Ysábella did.

Jack’s gaze darkened as he watched, while Isolde’s fingers traced Ysábella’s skin, trailing down the line of Ysábella’s arm with a slow, deliberate touch—teasing yet measured, each movement carrying an unrelenting promise.

Slowly, deliberately, Isolde shrugged off her coat, the heavy fabric sliding to the floor with a muted thud. The candlelight flickered against the bare skin of her shoulders as she grasped the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head, revealing the full expanse of her body, unshielded and unafraid. Ysábella exhaled sharply, mesmerized, heat coiling deep inside her, a slow burn igniting every nerve.

Isolde’s bare skin pressed against Ysábella’s, the warmth of their bodies searing through every nerve. The air between them was thick, charged, an unspoken challenge lingering between their breaths. The moment hung precariously before Ysábella closed the space, her fingers tracing the smooth curve of Isolde’s waist, feeling the flex of muscle beneath her touch.

Their mouths finally met, a slow, unrelenting collision—soft lips clashing, tongues tangling in a desperate, insatiable dance. Isolde’s hand skimmed down Ysábella’s side before cupping the swell of her breast, her thumb brushing over the sensitive nipple in an unhurried, knowing stroke. Ysábella gasped into the kiss, her body arching into the touch, surrendering to the fire that consumed them both.

The hunger in her eyes was mirrored in Isolde’s, their breaths mingling as the heat between them grew dizzying. Isolde moaned into her mouth, fingers tangling in Ysábella’s hair as they pressed flush together.

The air was thick with the scent of Jack—earthy, masculine, a reminder of his presence that coiled around them, sinking into their very bones. It seeped into her lungs, making every thought dissolve into raw, unfiltered need. With a sudden but measured urgency, Ysábella tightened her grip on Isolde’s waist and guided her backward. Their steps were slow, deliberate, their bodies moving as one until the backs of Ysábella’s knees met the edge of the bed.

A gasp left Isolde’s lips as Ysábella pushed her down, her bare form sinking into the softness of the sheets. Ysábella followed without hesitation, her hands skimming over Isolde's flesh, tracing every curve with reverence. Isolde’s fingers found Ysábella’s hips, tugging her closer, their bodies molding together with perfect inevitability.

Jack remained still, watching, waiting, his presence an undeniable force in the room. The ship creaked around them, the ocean beyond vast and endless, yet the cabin had become its own universe, locked away from time. Isolde’s hands moved lower, tracing over the delicate curve of Ysábella’s spine, her nails barely scraping against heated flesh, igniting shivers that ran deeper than the warmth of the night.

Ysábella’s head tilted back, her breath hitching before she turned her gaze toward Jack. Eyes dark with need, she called to him, voice thick with desire. "Jack… don’t just stand there. "

Jack’s smirk deepened, his gaze sweeping over the two of them entwined in the heat of the moment, bodies pressed close, breath mingling like a smoldering ember waiting to ignite. "Oh, Ysábella," he murmured, stepping closer. "And here I thought you enjoyed making me wait."

He took his time, hands moving to the buttons of his coat, unfastening them one by one with calculated slowness. The heavy fabric slid from his shoulders, pooling onto the floor. Then came his shirt, the rough cotton peeled away, revealing the hard lines of his chest. He watched them as he undid the buttons of his trousers, savoring the anticipation in their eyes before finally stepping forward, joining the fray.

Ysábella’s breath caught as Isolde pulled away just enough to let the moment linger—teasing, stretching the hunger between them like a taut wire, ready to snap. Jack shifted then, the quiet rustle of fabric drawing Ysábella’s attention. His smirk had softened into something unreadable, something darker, more possessive.

Jack’s lips met Ysábella’s first, coaxing her into a kiss that was slow, deep, consuming. Isolde watched them for a moment, her breath hitching before she leaned in, her lips grazing Jack’s jaw before claiming his mouth with equal intensity. Jack exhaled against Isolde’s, his fingers threading into her hair, pulling her closer as their tongues tangled, exploring, testing, demanding. Ysábella watched, heat flooding her veins as the two kissed—an intoxicating sight that made her stomach coil with want.

Ysábella turned to Isolde, their eyes locking in silent understanding before she leaned in, brushing her lips against hers—soft at first, then firmer, tasting the warmth Jack had left behind. Isolde responded eagerly, her hands trailing up Ysábella’s back, pulling her in as their mouths parted, tongues meeting in a slow, deliberate dance.

Jack watched them, his breath uneven, eyes dark with hunger as Ysábella surrendered to Isolde’s kiss, letting her take control. But it wasn’t long before she felt Jack’s hand on her waist, warm and insistent, pulling her back to him. With a quiet gasp, Ysábella yielded, her lips finding his again, tasting Isolde on his tongue—an intoxicating blend of them all.

Ysábella let out a soft whimper, her fingers gripping at Jack’s shoulders as his tongue tangled with hers, deep and possessive. But as he pulled away, her breath came in shallow gasps, unsatisfied. She tilted her chin, catching his gaze—dark, waiting, burning. She wanted more. Needed more.

Isolde pressed in from the other side, her breath warm against Ysábella’s cheek before her lips found their own place, a slow exploration that left Ysábella gasping. Their mouths met in a tangle of breath and desire, a fevered exchange that had no beginning and no end, just sensation threading between them, drawing them closer, deeper. Jack—Ysábella—Isolde. 

Jack’s hand slid lower, his rough fingers mapping Ysábella’s skin as he deepened the moment, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before claiming her fully.

Isolde remained locked in the kiss as well, her fingers dancing along Ysábella’s curves, exploring, teasing. A breathless sigh escaped Ysábella as Jack’s mouth moved lower, trailing heated strokes of his lips down her neck, leaving fire in his wake. Isolde followed suit, her lips never straying far, as if neither of them were willing to relinquish their hold over her body, their claim undeniable.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Isolde’s lips brushed along Ysábella’s jaw, trailing down the column of her throat, a whisper of warmth that left Ysábella trembling.

Ysábella sucked in a breath, her chest rising and falling with the weight of anticipation, her pulse a steady drumbeat in her ears. She could feel the heat of him just beyond reach, the weight of his command sinking into her bones. Isolde’s hands continued their slow, torturous path, every touch a deliberate test of Ysábella’s resolve, drawing her deeper into the moment.

A pause. A breath. A moment stretched too thin.

And then the dam broke.

Jack moved with purpose, his presence no longer lingering on the edge but fully immersing himself in the moment.

"Daddy..." Ysábella purred, her voice breathless, desperate. His lips trailed downward, leaving a searing path along Ysábella’s skin, marking every inch with a slow, deliberate claim. Ysábella’s breath hitched, her fingers threading into his hair as he moved lower still, his rough hands gripping her thighs, parting them effortlessly. The warmth of his breath sent shivers coursing through her, anticipation coiling deep within.

Isolde remained at Ysábella’s lips, her touch featherlight but unyielding, tracing over every curve, every shuddering breath. Her fingers danced along Ysábella’s ribs, down to her hips, mapping her body like sacred ground. The sensation of both of them, Jack’s slow, torturous descent and Isolde’s teasing exploration, set Ysábella ablaze.

Jack’s mouth found the delicate heat between her thighs, his touch both confident and devastating. His tongue moved with precision, slow strokes that sent Ysábella arching beneath him, her grip tightening in his hair. Isolde swallowed her gasp, deepening their kiss, muffling the desperate sounds that escaped her lips. Every flick, every roll of Jack’s tongue against her tiny bud sent another wave of heat crashing through her, unraveling her composure one deliberate motion at a time. He was relentless, his mouth an unyielding force, coaxing her further into surrender.

Isolde’s lips trailed down Ysábella’s jawline, her hands caressing the taut muscles in her stomach, feeling every tremor that coursed through her. The three of them moved in perfect sync, a tangled knot of sensation, desire, and an unspoken claim that bound them together in ways no words ever could.

Jack’s movements grew more insistent, his tongue expertly working her, drawing out every quiver and gasp. Ysábella writhed beneath him, her moans muffled against Isolde’s lips, each sound carrying the weight of the pleasure unraveling her. Jack’s grip tightened on her hips, his fingers pressing into her skin as he held her steady, his mouth relentless in its purpose, savoring every reaction he drew from her.

Isolde’s touch remained gentle, contrasting with the firm, demanding strokes of Jack’s tongue. She traced the curve of Ysábella’s breasts, her fingertips barely grazing her sensitive nipples. The sensation sent shockwaves through her, the dichotomy of their touches driving her to the brink.

Ysábella felt herself teetering on the edge, her body strung tight with the need for release. Jack sensed her desperation and slowed his pace, drawing out the tension with deliberate, measured strokes. Isolde mirrored his pace, her touch becoming softer, more delicate, as if they were both unwilling to let the moment end.

But Ysábella’s need was too great, her body too far gone to be held back any longer. "Daddy... please?" she moaned, the word spilling from her lips in a breathless plea, desperate and raw. With a sharp cry, her orgasm tore through her, powerful and all-consuming. As her body convulsed with pleasure, her release sprayed into Jack’s waiting mouth. He eagerly accepted her offering, savoring the taste of her on his lips.

Wave after wave of pleasure washed through her as Jack and Isolde held her, their touches soothing now, grounding her as she rode out the aftershocks.

But Jack wasn’t the only one who had his turn. Ysábella, still breathless, lifted her gaze to Isolde, whose smirk was laced with expectation. Their bodies were still tangled, sweat-kissed and pulsing with lingering heat. Ysábella’s lips parted, and without hesitation, she leaned in, capturing Isolde’s mouth with a renewed hunger.

Jack, watching from where he knelt, chuckled darkly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now, now," he murmured, tilting his head, "can’t have one of us feeling left out, can we?"

Ysábella grinned against Isolde’s lips before pulling back just enough to whisper, "Your turn, love."

Jack leaned in, capturing Isolde’s lips with a deep, searing kiss. His tongue teased her, coaxing a soft moan from her throat as she melted into him, her fingers gripping his arms. The kiss was unhurried yet intense, a claiming that left her breathless. Ysábella watched, heat pooling low in her belly at the sight of them tangled together.

Jack’s lips trailed from Isolde’s mouth down her jaw, leaving a burning path in their wake. He nipped at the delicate skin of her throat, relishing the way her pulse fluttered beneath his tongue. His hands followed suit, tracing over her body, exploring every curve as he moved lower, his mouth following the same path, savoring every inch of her skin with deliberate, torturous precision.

Isolde’s breath hitched, her gaze flickering between the two of them before settling on Jack. A slow smirk played on her lips as she whispered, "I want your love too, Daddy." Her fingers trailed down Isolde’s spine, eliciting a shiver as she gently eased her back against the sheets.

Isolde let out a slow, anticipatory sigh, her chest rising and falling as Ysábella's lips ghosted over her collarbone. Jack, ever the eager participant, shifted beside them, his hand sliding along Isolde’s thigh, fingers pressing possessively into her skin. "Let’s make this one worth remembering," he mused, his voice thick with amusement and hunger.

Jack's eyes gleamed with a wicked promise as he settled between Isolde's thighs, his hands caressing their way up her legs. His fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin, causing her to shiver in anticipation. Ysábella leaned in, her lips seeking Isolde's, capturing her gasps and moans as they patiently waited for Jack's next move.

Jack dipped his head, his breath warming the delicate heat between Isolde's legs. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of her arousal before he finally pressed his mouth against her. His tongue darted out, parting her folds and tasting the evidence of her desire. Isolde's moan was swallowed by Ysábella's kiss, their tongues tangling together as Jack began to work his magic.

With a devilish smirk, Jack's tongue vibrated against Isolde's sensitive bud, eliciting a deep, guttural moan from her. He alternated between long, slow strokes and quick, deliberate flicks, his tongue dancing over her with a skill that left her breathless. Between each sensation, he added a gentle scrape of his teeth, offering just the right amount of pressure to send her reeling.

Isolde's hips bucked, her body eagerly seeking more of Jack's ministrations. Ysábella's hands roamed her body, teasing her nipples and tracing her curves, anchoring her as Jack drove her closer and closer to the precipice. Isolde gasped, her fingers tangling in Jack's hair as she pulled him flush against her, desperate for more.

Jack obliged, his mouth devouring her heat, his tongue an unstoppable force as it plunged into her, vibrating with each thrust. Isolde could barely breathe, her moans spilling into Ysábella's mouth as they shared her pleasure between them. The cabin filled with the sounds of their lovemaking, the creak of the ship beneath them adding to the symphony.

With a final, shuddering cry, Isolde unraveled beneath them, her body tensing before giving way to waves of euphoria. Jack’s mouth remained relentless, his tongue savoring every pulse, drinking her in with greedy appreciation. Ysábella pressed gentle kisses along her jaw, whispering soothing words as Isolde’s body trembled, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Jack eased her down, his lips still tracing the sensitive remnants of pleasure, prolonging the moment until she was fully spent, left boneless between them.

Jack pulled back, his smirk satisfied, glistening with the evidence of Isolde's pleasure.

Ysábella, still feeling the heat coursing through her veins, let her gaze drift to Jack. Her eyes, dark and hooded with lingering desire, held a seductive challenge. She leaned in, tracing a single finger down his chest, her lips parting as she purred, "We can't be the only ones satisfied."

Jack exhaled sharply, his smirk faltering for just a second at the weight of her words. Before he could speak,

Isolde, following Ysábella's lead, tilted her head with a lazy, mischievous grin. "You're in trouble, Jack. You're outmatched—two against one."

Jack let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as his fingers flexed at his sides. He leaned back against the bed, reclining with ease, his gaze flickering between the two women before him. Ysábella, still flush with heat, moved with slow, deliberate purpose. Her hands and knees pressed into the mattress as she crawled toward him, her movements feline, predatory.

Jack's smirk deepened as he watched her approach, his breath steady, yet his eyes dark with anticipation. Ysábella's fingertips traced over his abdomen, slow and teasing, her touch igniting sparks across his skin. She hovered just above him, her lips ghosting over his, drawing out the moment with unbearable slowness. "Let's see if you can handle being the one caught in the storm, Sparrow."

Jack let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his fingers trailing up her thigh, possessive and sure. But before he could move further, Ysábella and Isolde exchanged a knowing glance. With synchronized purpose, they shifted, gently pressing him back onto the bed. Jack let them guide him, amusement flickering in his gaze as his back met the mattress.

Ysábella crawled forward first, settling between his legs, her fingers skimming over his thighs, teasing, exploring. Isolde mirrored her movements, her hands gliding over his torso, lips following the path of her touch. They surrounded him, their combined heat a force that left Jack momentarily speechless.

Ysábella leaned in, her breath hot against his skin, her lips grazing the taut muscles of his abdomen. "We did say you were outmatched, Daddy," she murmured, her voice dripping with intent.

Isolde smirked, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss just above his navel before whispering, "Hope you’re ready to surrender."

"Oh, love," Jack mused, his voice thick with amusement and something darker, "you say that like I don’t enjoy the odds."

Ysábella and Isolde shared a knowing glance before turning their attention back to Jack, their eyes smoldering with unspoken intent. Ysábella's hands continued their exploration, her fingers teasing along the curves of his abdomen, her touch feather-light and tantalizing.

Isolde leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, "We'll see about that, won't we?" Her teeth grazed his earlobe, nipping gently before she pulled away with a sinful smile.

Ysábella was the first to move, her hair falling like a curtain around them as she leaned down, pressing a line of searing kisses along his inner thigh. Jack's breath hitched, his muscles tensing in anticipation as she drew closer to his pulsing heat.

Isolde, not one to be left behind, mirrored Ysábella's actions on his other side, her lips and teeth skimming over sensitive flesh, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Her fingers danced along his skin, tracing patterns that left him gasping.

Together, they teased him, their mouths drawing closer and closer to his aching need, their breath mingling as they lingered just above his hardness. Jack's body tensed, a shudder rolling through him as his hips lifted instinctively, drawn to the heat of their mouths. His fingers tightened in Ysábella’s hair, a low groan slipping past his lips as the teasing threatened to undo him.

Finally, Ysábella closed the distance, her lips wrapping around him, her tongue swirling as she took him deep into her mouth. Jack groaned, his eyes rolling back at the sensation, his fingers tangling in her hair as he fought for control.

Isolde watched her for a moment, her eyes dark with lust, before she too leaned in, her tongue tracing the length of him, tasting the salt of his skin. She lavished attention on his base, her mouth suckling gently as Ysábella bobbed up and down, her rhythm steady and unrelenting.

Their movements were synchronized, their tongues occasionally meeting as they pleasure him, their mouths driving him closer and closer to the edge. The cabin filled with the sounds of suction, of Jack's ragged breathing, and the occasional moan from one of them as they lost themselves in their task.

Jack's grip in Ysábella's hair tightened, his breath shuddering as his hips surged upward, chasing the searing heat of their mouths. A deep, ragged groan spilled from him, his body taut with the impending crash of pleasure. "Fuck," he groaned, his grip spasming as his body tensed, every muscle coiling with the need for release.

As if sensing his impending climax, Ysábella and Isolde increased their efforts, their mouths moving in perfect sync as they drove him further and further into oblivion. With a final, shuddering groan, Jack gave in, his release crashing over him as he spilled into Ysábella's eager mouth.

Ysábella pulled back slightly, her lips glistening with the evidence of Jack's pleasure. Isolde leaned in closer, her eyes locked onto Ysábella's, a wicked gleam within them.

Together, they closed the distance, their lips hovering just a breath apart. Isolde's gaze flickered down, catching the glistening streak of white at the corner of Ysábella’s lips. A slow smirk curled at the edge of her mouth before she leaned in, her tongue flicking out to taste it—unhurried, deliberate—before capturing Ysábella’s lips in a deep, consuming kiss. Their tongues intertwined, sharing the taste of Jack as they savored the intimacy of the moment. 

Jack watched, entranced by the sight before him, his heart pounding as he witnessed their passion.

As they parted, a strand of his seed connected their lips, a visceral reminder of the act they had just shared. Isolde licked her lips, her tongue darting out to catch the lingering drops, her eyes never leaving Ysábella's.

There was a heaviness in the air, a thick sense of desire and satisfaction that weighed upon them all. The cabin seemed to grow warmer, the very atmosphere charged with the electricity of their combined passion.

Jack exhaled shakily, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. His eyes, still heavy-lidded with pleasure, flickered with something deeper—an unspoken challenge, a hunger yet to be satisfied. Ysábella and Isolde exchanged glances, their smirks betraying their own lingering desire. The night was far from over.

Ysábella wasn’t quite done yet.

She watched him, sprawled against the sheets, breath still ragged, his body spent but his hunger flickering beneath the surface. That wouldn’t do. Not yet. She wanted more—needed more. And if Jack Sparrow thought he was finished, he had another thing coming.

Sliding closer, she traced a slow, featherlight path down his chest, her nails barely grazing his skin. He hummed, half-lost in the afterglow, but Ysábella wasn’t going to let him drift just yet. She leaned in, her breath warm against his throat, her lips pressing a teasing kiss to his pulse point before trailing lower, her tongue tasting the salt lingering on his skin.

Jack groaned, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Persistent, aren’t we, love?"

Ysábella didn’t answer with words. Instead, she took her time, savoring every moment. Her fingers traced idle patterns along his skin, teasing, exploring, her nails lightly raking over his abdomen. The heat of her breath ghosted along his torso, her lips pressing soft, lingering kisses down his chest, lower, inch by inch. Each touch was deliberate, coaxing him from the haze of exhaustion, drawing him back to her with nothing but sheer intent. She knew what she was doing. Knew how to stir him from exhaustion, how to breathe life back into the fire she wasn’t ready to let die out just yet.

Isolde chuckled from beside them, watching with amused interest. "Oh, she’s got plans for you, Sparrow."

Jack’s smirk faltered as Ysábella's tongue traced along the edge of his sensitivity, her patience deliberate, her intent undeniable. His breath hitched, fingers flexing against the sheets.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, his voice thick with something between amusement and surrender.

Ysábella grinned against his skin. She wasn’t stopping until he was ready for her again. Until Jack Sparrow, spent as he was, was hard beneath her touch once more.

With a wicked gleam in her eye, she let her lips trail further, her mouth parting as she exhaled slow and warm over his most sensitive flesh. The shift in his breath was immediate, a sharp inhale through his teeth, his fingers twitching against the sheets.

Good. She wanted more of that. With a devilish grin escaping her lips, she slowly took his limp member into her mouth. Jack flinched slightly at the sensation, but as Ysábella's tongue wriggled against the head of his manhood, his breath hitched.

With every teasing lick and suck, she coaxed him back to life, his hardness returning under her skilled ministrations. Jack groaned, his hips twitching as he grew beneath her touch.

Ysábella felt the tension return to his body, the slow resurgence of his desire beneath her touch. She took her time, savoring the way he twitched in response, the way his muscles flexed beneath her lips. When she finally pulled back, licking the taste of him from her lips, her gaze met his—hooded, dark, and hungry again. Exactly as she wanted. Her triumphant smirk was evident as she released him from her mouth.

The potion’s lingering hold on her body was relentless, its effects simmering beneath her skin, making her crave more, making her need him deeper, harder, as if nothing would ever truly be enough.

Ysábella positioned herself above him. Straddling his hips, she paused, savoring the moment before guiding him to her entrance. Slowly, deliberately, she aligned herself, feeling the heat of him pressing against her.

With a shuddering breath, she eased herself down, inch by inch, taking him in fully, her body stretching to accommodate his girth. The burn inside her pulsed, demanding urgency, but she resisted. Instead, she let herself feel it—the delicious stretch, the way he filled her inch by inch, the way her body molded around him, adjusting, claiming. A slow, shuddering gasp left her lips as she settled fully, her nails pressing lightly into his chest as she took her time, letting the pleasure build, letting the potion’s fire coil tighter inside her.

The cabin was filled with their heavy breaths, only drowned out by the sound of the waves crashing against the ship.

Ysábella began to move, but not with urgency—she rolled her hips in slow, deliberate circles, savoring every moment, every shift and drag of his hardness inside her. With each movement, a breathless moan escaped her lips, her voice trembling with need. "Daddy..." she purred, the word slipping past her lips as she ground down against him, her body tightening around him with each deliberate roll of her hips.

She didn’t stop. Again and again, she moaned for him, her hands pressing against his chest, nails scraping lightly as her rhythm grew more desperate. "Daddy... please..." she whispered, the fire in her belly coiling tighter, her need an unrelenting force that consumed her completely. The heat was unbearable, the potion’s hold on her making every sensation sharper, deeper. She bit her lip, her breath coming out in soft pants, her nails dragging over his skin as she adjusted her pace, testing him, torturing them both with agonizing slowness.

The potion had left her exquisitely attuned to every sensation—the stretch, the heat, the slick friction that sent sparks racing through her veins. She felt insatiable, her body demanding more, her senses drowning in the overwhelming hunger it left in its wake. Isolde joined the fray, her eyes locked onto Ysábella’s. Her smirk matched their shared anticipation. She climbed above Jack's face, her own most sensitive place situated just above his eager mouth. As she settled, his tongue darted out, lapping at her heat.

Isolde and Ysábella's eyes met as they gyrated on top of Jack. They leaned in, their lips meeting in a searing, fervent kiss. They tasted the traces of each other's sweat, passion, and pleasure.

Ysábella slowed, her hands sliding over Isolde’s sweat-slicked skin, grounding her in the moment. She lingered, savoring the heat between them before tilting her head, eyes locking onto Isolde’s. A knowing smirk curled on her lips as she leaned in, her breath warm against Isolde’s cheek. "Your turn, love," she whispered, her voice thick with lingering desire.

Ysábella shifted, her fingers mapping the curves of Isolde’s waist, guiding Isolde gently yet deliberately as she helped Isolde take her place above Jack. Isolde gasped softly as she sank down onto him, savoring every inch as her body adjusted to the stretch. Ysábella’s touch was everywhere, trailing over her thighs, up her stomach, gliding over her breasts, as if she wanted to imprint herself upon every inch of Isolde’s skin.

Isolde let out a soft moan as she settled, her hips rolling instinctively as Jack groaned beneath her. Ysábella leaned in, pressing her lips against Isolde’s neck, her breath warm and teasing against the damp skin. "Feel him," she whispered, her hands still roaming, still claiming. "Take your time." Before Ysábella moved to claim her place above him, she lingered, watching the way Jack gritted his teeth, the way his fingers flexed, gripping the sheets. His body was tense beneath Isolde, his pleasure unmistakable.

Jack neared his climax, his body tightening beneath them, his muscles taut with anticipation. The ragged gasp that escaped his lips sent a shiver down Ysábella’s spine, fueling the desperate fire that burned within her. She and Isolde locked eyes, an unspoken challenge passing between them.

Ysábella straddled Jack’s face, reaching behind her, fingers tangling in his hair as she rocked against his eager mouth. Isolde, seated on his hips, moved with an intoxicating rhythm, her hands splayed over his chest to steady herself. Their movements were in perfect harmony, drawing Jack closer to the edge with each passing second.

As his breath grew more ragged, his hands gripping their thighs, Ysábella suddenly shifted. "Not yet," she murmured, her voice dripping with intent. She met Isolde’s gaze, a silent agreement passing between them before they moved in perfect coordination.

Ysábella lifted herself from Jack’s face, her legs trembling as she repositioned over his hips, replacing Isolde. Isolde, in turn, took Ysábella’s previous position, settling over Jack’s mouth with a smirk. "You can last a little longer, can’t you, Daddy?" she teased, running her fingers through his damp hair.

Jack groaned, his body trembling with restraint as Ysábella sank down onto him, a shudder rippling through her. She let out a breathless moan, her nails biting into his chest as she set a demanding rhythm. She needed this—needed to claim him, to take him fully, to feel the heat of his release inside her.

Isolde gasped above him, her back arching as Jack’s eager mouth worked against her. She gripped Ysábella’s shoulders for balance, their bodies moving together, caught in the intoxicating storm of sensation.

The heat consumed her, her body tightening around him, a desperate cry escaping her lips. "Daddy—!" she gasped, her nails digging into his skin as the wave crashed over her, shattering her completely. Pleasure wracked her body, rolling through her in unrelenting pulses, leaving her trembling above him. Jack groaned beneath her, his grip on her hips bruising as he held her through it, watching as she came undone atop him.

Ysábella’s breath hitched, the pleasure coiling tighter, the urgency unbearable. She rode him harder, her moans dissolving into cries of pure ecstasy. Jack’s grip on her hips tightened, his movements growing desperate, his restraint slipping entirely.

With one final thrust, his body tensed beneath her, a deep groan escaping his lips as he surrendered to the inevitable. Ysábella gasped as she felt the warmth of his release spill deep inside her, her body trembling at the sensation. She clung to him, her breath uneven, her pleasure cresting alongside his.

But they weren't finished just yet. Isolde slid down, her eyes locked onto Ysábella's as she pressed her face between Ysábella’s thighs. Ysábella's breath hitched as she felt Isolde’s tongue lap at her entrance, taking both her essence and Jack's mingled together. Isolde shared the taste with Ysábella in a deep, impassioned kiss, both of them moaning softly as they reveled in the remnants of their shared act.

Slowly, they broke apart, sweat-slicked and panting as the heat of the moment began to cool. Ysábella lay beside Jack, her body still thrumming from the night’s conquest. Isolde mirrored her on his other side, their warmth pressing against him, their presence surrounding him completely. The three of them a tangle of limbs, sweat, and satisfaction—the Ultimate Trifecta.

The cabin was filled with the sounds of their breaths as they basked in the afterglow of their lovemaking.

The Black Pearl swayed beneath them. The waters rocked the ship gently, a steady rhythm that lulled them into a sated, peaceful sleep. Forever tethered to one another, lost to the endless horizon.

The Black Pearl

Chapter Text

Mr. Gibbs and Jack Sparrow

The streets of the port bustled with the usual ruckus of merchants haggling, drunkards stumbling, and thieves making off with whatever their fingers could pilfer. Jack Sparrow sauntered through the chaos with an air of ease, the faint clink of his beaded hair barely audible over the din. Mr. Gibbs, on the other hand, was considerably less at ease, his gaze darting about as if expecting trouble at every turn.

Jack the Monkey clung to Jack’s shoulder, twitching restlessly before snatching an unattended coin pouch from a distracted sailor. With a delighted screech, the creature scurried down Jack’s back and perched on the worn sash around his waist, rifling through the stolen loot.

Jack barely acknowledged the theft, his attention fixed ahead as they navigated toward a quieter section of the docks. Mr. Gibbs, however, exhaled sharply and muttered, “I swear, one day that little demon’s goin’ to get us hanged.”

Jack smirked. “Oh, come now, Gibbs, he’s just got an enterprisin’ spirit. Like meself.”

Gibbs grumbled but let it go, though his expression remained weary. When they finally reached a secluded alleyway, Gibbs stepped in front of Jack, blocking his path with crossed arms.

Jack paused, rolling his shoulders in mock patience—when he suddenly felt it.

A small, nimble hand creeping toward his coat pocket.

Jack the Monkey’s tiny fingers brushed against the wooden doll nestled within, claws curling around the edge in an attempt to snatch it away.

Jack’s hand shot out with sharp precision, swatting the monkey back before the little thief could claim its prize.

The monkey let out a sharp chitter of protest, its beady eyes gleaming with mischief. Undeterred, it made a second attempt, reaching out again with quick, clever fingers—only for Jack to tilt his body slightly, keeping the pocket just out of reach.

Jack the Monkey huffed, rubbing its tiny hands as if offended. It clung back onto Jack’s shoulder, glaring at the pocket like a pirate who had just lost a well-planned heist.

Jack sighed, adjusting his coat with exaggerated casualness. “Not that one, mate.”

Gibbs barely reacted, accustomed to the beast’s kleptomaniac tendencies, but his frown deepened. “Alright, Jack,” he said, his voice low and firm. “What is exactly the true plan?”

Jack blinked, feigning innocence. “I already told you.”

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. “No, you didn’t. You told me the fake plan.”

Jack tilted his head, considering. “That was the true plan.”

“No, it’s not.”

Jack the Monkey screeched in amusement, his tiny hands slapping at Jack’s vest as if thoroughly enjoying the exchange.

Jack sighed as though terribly put-upon, then rolled his shoulders. “Fine, fine. We gather a crew, get a ship.”

Gibbs huffed. “But that was the fake plan!”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “No, it’s not.”

Gibbs crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Aye, it is.”

Jack the Monkey screeched in amusement, leaping onto Jack’s shoulder and baring his tiny teeth as if thoroughly enjoying the back-and-forth.

Jack shot the creature a side-eye. “Not helpin’.”

Gibbs grumbled, rubbing at his temples. “Alright, and this ship o’ yours—it better be one that can fight against Villanueva, Jack.”

“Oh, trust me, it is.” Jack turned, his grin widening as he tossed a glinting gold coin in the air and caught it. “We’re takin’ the Pearl.”

Gibbs’ face dropped, his jaw working as if trying to find the right words for the level of madness he’d just heard. “Madness!” he finally managed. “I saw the Black Pearl destroyed, Jack. Wrecked—lost to Isla de Sombras.”

Jack’s grin deepened. “Ah, but lost ain’t the same as gone, is it?”

The words came softer now, not his usual dismissive bravado, but something heavier.

Gibbs hesitated, then grunted, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Go on, then.”

Jack took a step forward, lowering his voice as he began, his words weaving the tale like a man who had lived and died in the telling.

“ Isla de Sombras,” he said.

Gibbs stiffened. Even the monkey seemed to quiet, its beady eyes darting between them.

Jack continued, “A place that don’t appear on any map. Not unless it wants to.” His fingers drummed lightly against the hilt of his sword. “You remember how we used to talk about places forgotten by time? Places the sea itself don’t want men to find?”

Gibbs swallowed hard but nodded.

“Well,” Jack said, “I brought her there.”

Gibbs exhaled, shaking his head. “What in blazes did you do this time?”

Jack’s grin deepened. “Made a wager.”

Gibbs groaned. “Jack—”

“A good one!” Jack interrupted. “I wagered myself and the Black Pearl for the power hidden within Isla de Sombras.”

Gibbs’ expression darkened. “What kind o’ power?”

Jack rocked on his heels. “The kind that comes with a slight… consequence.”

Gibbs stared at him. Then, after a long, weighted silence, he let out a string of curses that made even Jack the Monkey recoil slightly. “Jack, you bloody fool! What did you promise?”

Jack twirled his fingers in the air. “More of a… transaction, really. No promise—well, a slight promise. More of a binding contractual obligation, but let’s not get caught up in the details.”

Gibbs threw his hands up. “So that’s it? You’re cursed?”

Jack shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. I got the power. But They —the ones in the mist, the ones who watch and whisper— played a cruel joke.”

Gibbs frowned. “What kind o’ joke?”

Jack exhaled dramatically. “They knew I love the Pearl like a woman, so they bound me to her forever. But I can never be her captain again.”

Gibbs rubbed his face. “So if someone else takes the helm…”

Jack smirked. “Then they’re stuck too! Hah! Misery loves company.”

Gibbs swore. “Jack, you idiot! What happens if nobody takes the helm?”

Jack twirled a ring on his finger. “Well, then I just loiter about forever. Like a particularly handsome barnacle.”

Gibbs pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jack, this has got to be your dumbest scheme yet.”

Jack patted him on the shoulder. “Aye, but it’s also my cleverest.”

Gibbs shook his head. “So what now?”

Jack grinned. “Now? We find ourselves a proper fool to take the wheel.”

Jack the Monkey screeched in amusement, clearly enjoying the absurdity of it all.

As they stepped back into the light of the bustling port, Gibbs muttered, “This is madness, Jack.”

Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder, laughing. “Aye, but now it’s someone else’s problem.”