The night sea stretched like an endless sheet of black glass, broken only by the silver ripples of moonlight. Hook stood alone on the deck of the Jolly Roger, the salt wind tangling through his hair. The crew's murmurs and the creak of the hull were distant, swallowed by the rhythm of the waves.
In solitude, his heart betrayed him—wandering where it always did when the night was too still.
Ivory.
She haunted the quiet like a living ghost. The memory of her laugh—light and fearless—rose in his ears. He could almost see her, moving across the deck with a confidence that matched any pirate, the fire of the forge painting her cheekbones gold. She had belonged to the ship in a way Hook envied; the sea loved her, and she loved it back.
He closed his eyes and let the memory pull him under.
Flashback: When the Sea Was Still Kind
The memory always began in Noches Bay—that crooked harbor where every ship smelled of salt and sin.
The Jolly Roger rocked gently in the turquoise water, half its sails furled while the crew busied themselves—or at least, were supposed to. Smee had orders to get the hull patched and paint over the last battle scars, while Hook had his own errands. A captain couldn't trust the sharpening of harpoons and blades to anyone but himself.
The armory at Noches Bay was Ivory's domain. The heat of the forge rolled out of the open doorway, carrying the tang of steel and oil. Hook ducked inside, the shadows wrapping him like an old coat, and there she was—her dark hair tied back, sparks dancing off her apron as she pressed a blade to the wheel.
"You're late," she said without looking up. "Your ship must be falling apart without me."
Hook smirked, leaning on the workbench. "The Jolly Roger doesn't fall apart. She simply… waits for me to fix her. Like every other woman I know."
Ivory snorted. "Careful, Captain. Keep talking like that… like every other woman, you say?" She leaned closer, the firelight catching in her dark eyes. "I've known you since we were children, and I don't see you near any women. The only sexy thing you've ever had in your life is your ship, the Jolly Roger—and she always craves my touch. Like these blades of yours, Captain. They're craving my touch too."
Hook's smirk deepened, leaning an elbow on the table. "Mm, that's so? Careful what you crave, Ivory. Some things bite back."
She spun a dagger lazily between her fingers. "Maybe I like things that bite. The ones that don't bite are boring."
"Boring, eh?" He took a step closer, until the smell of sea salt and smoke curled between them. "I could show you something thrilling."
Her brows arched. "Is that a promise or a threat?"
"Both," Hook said, his voice dropping like a whisper of challenge.
Ivory laughed, soft but defiant, and turned back to the whetstone, the muscles in her arms flexing as sparks danced off the blade. "If I ever take your offer, Captain, I expect to be impressed. Otherwise, I'll go back to my blades—they've never disappointed me."
Hook leaned closer, voice low with a teasing edge. "One day, you'll regret underestimating me."
"And one day," she shot back with a sly grin, "you'll regret underestimating me."
She gave him a slow once-over, eyes glinting in the forge light. "And if you think this smooth talk is going to get you a discount—forget it. Not unless I get a personal blade from you… one meant to be sharpened only by me."
He was still teasing her when the forge door creaked and a timid shadow slipped in—a boy barely sixteen, eyes wide as a startled gull.
"C-captain," he stammered. "I… uh… I think there's… a situation."
Hook arched a brow. "If my ship's on fire, I'll hang Smee by his boots. Speak, boy."
"It's not the ship, sir. It's… the crew. They, uh… went to the brothel."
Hook's smile vanished. "I sent them to fetch ale and loot fine coats, not—"
"They did that, sir! But, um, then they… uh… spent it."
"Spent it?" Hook's voice sharpened.
The boy nodded miserably. "On the whores. And the fancy ale. They're… still spending. Sir."
Hook cursed loud enough to make the forge tremble. "Blasted, rum-soaked, backstabbing barnacles! I'll skin every last one of 'em!"
Ivory, however, laughed—bright and unbothered. "Oh, come on. Let the men enjoy themselves. A night at a brothel never killed anyone. Don't tell me your fearsome crew isn't allowed a bit of warmth and ale?"
"They can drink ale on the ship," Hook snapped. "And the only warm thing they need is their bloody blanket."
She leaned on the table, smirking. "Maybe you're the one who needs to relax. Why don't you join them, Captain? I'll finish these for you. In fact…" Her fingers slipped into his coat pocket like silk. "…why don't I sharpen this one first?"
She twirled a wickedly ornate dagger in her hand, the silver hilt gleaming in the forge light.
Hook's eyes flashed, and he snatched it back instantly. "If you love yourself, you'll never touch this dagger again. You sharpen the ones I give you—not the ones that aren't worthy of your touch."
"'Not worthy,' huh?" Ivory murmured, her eyes dancing with mischief.
He didn't notice her nimble fingers brush his coat one last time.
By the time Hook stormed into the brothel, the air was thick with pipe smoke, perfume, and the stink of spilled ale. His crew was sprawled across couches and laps, laughing like idiots. Coins clinked on tables. A fiddler played in the corner while half-naked women draped themselves over pirates like silk scarves.
And the young sailor had not exaggerated. Every single penny was gone.
Hook froze, fists curling, as a guard twice his size blocked the exit. "No one leaves till every drop's paid for," the man growled. "Brothel's rules. Your men drank, your men pay."
Hook's glare could have cut a man in two. "Then you leave me no choice but to kill you all."
He reached into his coat for his dagger.
Empty.