The brothel smelled of smoke, sweat, and trouble. Hook stood with his hands empty, staring down a wall of muscle in the shape of the brothel's head guard.
"No coin, no exit," the man growled, cracking his knuckles. "House rules."
Hook's jaw tightened. He glanced back at his crew—sprawled across velvet couches, snoring and drooling in the arms of half-dressed women. His pride burned hotter than the rum they'd wasted.
And then, like a scene straight from a devil's joke, Ivory strolled in. Boots clicking on the wooden floor, her dark hair swinging, she twirled Hook's ornate silver dagger in one hand like it weighed nothing.
"I leave you alone for one hour," she said, voice full of mock scolding, "and you're already about to die over unpaid whores and ale. Honestly, Captain, you're helpless without me."
Hook's teeth ground. "Ivory—"
"Shhh," she purred, sidestepping the first lunging guard with dancer's grace. "Let the grown-ups handle this."
The dagger flashed like quicksilver. A guard yelped, clutching his shoulder where her blade had grazed him. Another swung a fist; she ducked, kicked his shin, and carved a clean line along his sleeve before he could blink.
The room erupted in chaos. Chairs toppled, women screamed, the fiddler dove under a table. Ivory spun through the guards like she was born for it—every move precise, slashes and slices leaving shallow, humiliating cuts. Within moments, three men were on the floor groaning, two more clutching bleeding arms.
Hook glared. "Stop showing off! I can do that better."
She grinned, tossed him the dagger, and strolled to the bar. "Then prove it, Captain. I'll be over here, enjoying some ale. Oh, and—" she told the bartender, sliding into a chair, "put this round on his tab."
Hook caught the dagger, spun it, and lunged at the next guard—only to immediately slip on a spilled drink, crash into a chair, and nearly stab himself.
Ivory sipped her ale slowly, like she was at the theater. "Beautiful form, Captain. Truly terrifying."
The guard swung a punch. Hook ducked. Another tried to grab him; he tripped backward over a sleeping crewman, somehow slicing the man's belt instead of the enemy.
"Alright," Ivory sighed, kicking her chair back and leaping into the fight. Her dagger danced again, a silver blur, and within seconds the last two guards were limping, clutching their wounds.
The crew erupted in cheers, half-drunk and delighted.
"Join us, Ivory!" someone shouted.
"Aye, her blade's better than the Captain's own!" another howled.
Hook dusted himself off, cheeks hot. "Enough! Let's leave before—"
A metallic click cut the air.
Hook froze. One of the guards, bloody but stubborn, had dragged himself upright and aimed a pistol straight at his head.
For a split second, Hook thought, This is it.
"Duck, Captain!"
The voice was Smee's, and before Hook could obey, a coconut whistled through the smoky room and smashed into the guard's face, dropping him like a sack of fish.
Silence.
Hook turned, stunned. "Smee… you threw a coconut."
Smee shrugged, holding another like a prize. "Was savin' it for the ship's rations, but… seemed urgent."
Ivory burst out laughing, loud and bright. "Best damn use of a coconut I've ever seen."
The brothel was a mess of overturned tables and groaning men when Ivory finally sheathed the dagger. She clapped her hands once, the sharp sound commanding more attention than Hook ever got from his crew.
"Alright, boys," she said, voice like a captain giving orders, "get dressed before I start docking ears. Grab a few cellars of that fancy ale you were so desperate to drown in. And someone wake the idiot on the piano—he's drooling on the keys."
The pirates scrambled, still half-drunk but suddenly obedient.
Ivory reached into the leather pouch on her belt and tossed a heavy sack of gold coins onto the bartender's table. The man flinched, then peeked inside, his one front tooth missing thanks to an earlier collision with a flying chair.
"Will this cover your trouble, your ale, and whatever's left of your pride?" Ivory asked with a charming tilt of her head.
The bartender hesitated, then gave a wide, gap-toothed grin. "Aye, miss… this'll more than do."
"Good," she said with a wink. "Fix that tooth with gold, you lucky chap."
The room burst into rowdy pirate laughter, even as the last conscious guard groaned on the floor. Hook scowled, brushing ale from his coat, his pride in tatters.
The pirates were scrambling to gather their scattered boots and belts, stuffing bottles of ale into sacks as Ivory strode to the door, every inch the queen of mischief.
Hook caught her arm before she could step into the night.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, voice low and sharper than his dagger.
"To the ship, obviously." Ivory shrugged out of his grip. "Where else? Someone has to make sure you idiots don't sink before morning."
He bit down on a curse, the taste of rum and pride bitter on his tongue. "No. I promised your father I'd keep you safe, and you'll be safe here—not on the Jolly Roger. That ship's a warzone with sails."
Ivory's smirk turned into a glare, fierce and proud. "I don't need a man to keep me safe, least of all an unskilled ass who trips over his own dagger."
Hook flinched, pride stung, but before he could fire back, she stepped closer, eyes hard in the lantern light.
"Listen well, Captain," she said, voice dropping into something that sent a ripple of silence through the drunken crew. "If you allow me to board now, we stay friends. If you don't…" Her gaze flicked to the harbor, where other pirate ships rocked gently under the moon. "…you'll still see me voyaging the seas—but it'll be from the deck of another captain's ship."
The words hung between them like the toll of a bell.
Hook searched her face, saw the fire in her eyes, and for a rare moment, he had no clever reply.
He still hadn't released her arm, his pride and worry warring behind his eyes. Ivory's words—"I'll be on another captain's deck"—still hung like smoke between them.
A cough interrupted the standoff.
Smee shuffled forward, hat in his hands, eyes darting nervously between the two.
"Beggin' your pardon, Captain," he said, voice low and earnest, "but… maybe you oughta let her come aboard."
Hook's brow furrowed. "You dare—"
"Just hear me out!" Smee blurted. He turned to Ivory with a sheepish grin.
"The crew likes her. You can't lose a friend, 'specially not the one who just saved your ass. And—uh—I've already cleaned a room for her. Right next to the armory."
Ivory's lips curled in a slow smile. "My own little forge at sea? Sounds like home away from home."
Smee nodded eagerly. "Aye! Figured you'd like that. Smells like oil and steel already."
Hook groaned, dragging a hand down his face. He was surrounded—by his first mate, his loyal but idiotic crew, and the only woman alive who could dismantle both his ship and his pride in the same night.
Ivory strode up the gangplank, boots ringing on the Jolly Roger's deck. The crew cheered her like a hero, while Hook lingered in the shadows, muttering curses under his breath.
The moment she stepped aboard, a strange ripple stirred beneath the ship. Not the lazy lick of the tide—something deliberate. The hull gave a faint shiver.
Ivory froze, hand brushing the rail. "Did you feel that?"
Smee peered over the side. "The water's too calm. Gives me the creeps."
Hook's gaze swept the horizon. Moonlight lay too sharp on the black water—like the night was stretched thin over something waiting below.