Chapter 4 Maximus #2
Butcher’s face darkened. He’d been gunning for my position since I joined the crew, constantly trying to undermine my authority. The crew respected—feared—my reputation as the Reaper, but Butcher relied on brute strength and intimidation.
“Just teaching the whelp his place.” Butcher’s lip curled. “Someone has to maintain discipline. Unless you’ve gone soft?”
“Discipline?” I laughed, the sound harsh and cold. “The day I need advice on crew management from someone who can barely manage to find his own ass with both hands is the day I retire to become a pleasure yacht captain.”
A vein pulsed in Butcher’s temple. His massive hands clenched into fists, but he wouldn’t dare throw the first punch. Not with witnesses. Instead, he spat again on the freshly cleaned deck and stomped away, shouldering roughly past a group of watching crew members.
I turned my glare on the gathered crowd until they shuffled away, muttering among themselves. No doubt the incident would fuel the mess hall gossip tonight. The crew loved nothing better than drama, especially when it involved Butcher getting knocked down a peg.
“Thank you,” Ghost said quietly. “I could have handled it, but…” He trailed off, fidgeting with the brush.
I nodded. “Best to avoid Butcher when possible. He’s like a bear—always looking for someone to maul.”
Ghost bent to retrieve his overturned bucket, grimacing at the mess of porridge coating his previously spotless deck. “I’ll have to start this section over.”
“You’re very thorough.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “I’ve noticed. Whether it’s cleaning or helping in the galley, you do things properly. That’s rare aboard this ship.”
A pleased flush crept across his cheeks as he straightened. When he smiled—really smiled—it transformed his whole face. The morning sun caught his features just right, highlighting a scatter of freckles that reminded me of star charts. They danced across his skin as his smile widened.
“I just... I like doing things right.” He ducked his head, but not before I caught the sparkle in those emerald-green eyes. “My old master always said if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”
Something warm unfurled in my chest at his obvious pleasure from the simple praise. I quickly squashed it down. Getting attached to crew members was dangerous—especially ones who made constellations with their freckles when they smiled.
Ghost’s cheeks remained flushed, the red stark against his pale complexion.
His loose cream shirt had a wide neckline, exposing his collarbone and a large expanse of freckled chest. My brow furrowed.
The sun beat down harsh at this altitude—even experienced aeronauts struggled with burns during their first few weeks aboard. And with skin that fair...
“You should see Stitches. Get some salve for that sunburn.”
He blinked, fingers rising to touch his cheek. “Burn?”
“You’re not used to the altitude sun. It’ll only get worse.” I gestured toward the stern. “Stitches—Hawk-Eyes’s mother—she’s our doctor. She has a cream that helps.”
“Oh.” His hand dropped, and he looked at me curiously. “I’m fine, really.”
“That’s an order, Ghost. I can’t have you getting heatstroke and falling behind on your duties.
” There. That sounded appropriately detached and professional.
Though I was getting soft if I was worrying this much about a simple sunburn.
Ghost was just another crew member—one who happened to be competent at his duties.
Nothing more. “Do it before the midday sun. I’ll be watching to see that you do. ”
A small smile spread across Ghost’s lips and something playful and knowing danced in his eyes, making my stomach flip.
“Watching me, huh? I have to say, you seem to spend a fair bit of time doing that, sir.” His voice dripped with false innocence. “You know, I’d have thought a first mate had actual duties beyond staring at their captive stowaways.”
The teasing lilt in his voice rendered me frozen. A sharp gasp cut through the air—Patty stood frozen several feet away, a small crate clutched to her chest as she stared between us, mouth agape. Waiting to see my response.
Fuck.
My reputation. The crew’s respect. Everything I’d built threatened to crumble because this cheeky redhead couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
I lunged forward, fisting Ghost’s shirt in my hands and yanking him up until his boots barely scraped the deck. His smile vanished, replaced by wide-eyed terror as I pushed him against the mainmast.
“Listen here, you worthless piece of bilge scum.” I pitched my voice low and deadly—my Reaper tone.
“I don’t watch you. I monitor you. Because you’re nothing but a thieving stowaway who’s one mistake away from feeding the kraken.
The only reason you’re still breathing is because I vouched for you. Don’t make me regret that decision.”
Ghost’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. All that earlier playfulness drained from his face, leaving him pale as his nickname.
“Do I make myself clear?” I shook him for emphasis, and his head cracked against the mast. The sound of it made my stomach lurch with immediate regret. I hadn’t meant to be that rough. The phantom pain in my missing leg flared suddenly, as if punishing me for my cruelty.
“Y-yes, sir. Crystal clear, sir.”
I released Ghost’s shirt and stepped back, letting him stumble against the mast. Without another word, I spun on my heel and marched away as quickly as I could.
The image of his face—that flicker of genuine fear replacing his teasing smile—burned behind my eyes. My stomach churned. The way he’d looked at me... like I truly was the monster everyone believed me to be.
I climbed to the quarterdeck, gripping the railing until my knuckles went white. The wind whipped at my coat, but couldn’t cool the shame burning through my chest.
This was what I’d become. The Reaper. A creature of nightmares who terrorized his own crew to maintain order. Who rejected any hint of warmth.
And for what? To keep Viper happy? To maintain the fear that kept the crew in line?
I’d joined the Imperial Fleet at sixteen, dreaming of leading men through honor and respect. Now here I was, threatening a young man who’d done nothing worse than try to make a joke. Make a connection.
My fingers traced the worn wood of the railing. Below, I heard Ghost resume his scrubbing, the brush striking the deck with sharp, angry strokes. He’d probably hate me now. Good. Hate was safer than whatever had sparked in those green eyes when he’d teased me.
Still, my chest ached at the thought of extinguishing that playful light. Of becoming exactly what everyone expected the Reaper to be—cold, cruel, untouchable.
I squared my shoulders, forcing steel back into my spine. This was who I had to be. The crew needed the Reaper, not Maximus Blackwood. Ghost needed to learn that too, before his friendly overtures got us both into trouble.
Better to crush his spirit now than watch Viper crush his skull later.
Boots thudded on the deck behind me. I didn’t turn around.
“Are you alright?” Ariella’s hand brushed my arm, light as a feather. She glanced port and starboard, ensuring we were alone.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” The words came out sharp. I yanked my arm away, gripping the railing tighter.
“Because I saw what happened down there.” She moved beside me, keeping her voice low. “That wasn’t like you. Even for the Reaper act.”
“The ‘act’ is what keeps this crew in line.”
“From the nest, it looked like Ghost was just being friendly.”
“Friendly gets people killed on this ship.” My knuckles whitened on the rail. “Or have you forgotten what happened to Cooper?”
Cooper’s death haunted me still. Three months ago, he’d been our sail master—young, cheerful, always ready with a joke.
The crew had loved him. Even Viper seemed to tolerate his sunny disposition.
Then during a raid, Cooper hesitated to fire on a merchant vessel after recognizing his cousin aboard.
That moment of compassion cost us the prize and earned Cooper a trip over the side, courtesy of our captain.
I’d watched him fall, his scream swallowed by the wind. The crew’s horror had quickly morphed to fear as Viper immediately promoted Sparrow to sail master, acting as if Cooper had never existed. The message was clear—sentiment had no place aboard The Black Wraith.
Since then, I’d continued to cultivate my reputation as the Reaper with ruthless precision. The crew’s fear kept them alive. Any hint of warmth or friendship had to be crushed before it took root. One slip, one moment of visible weakness, and Viper would replace me as quickly as he had Cooper.
My fingers traced the worn railing where Cooper used to lean, gazing up at the sails he cared for so well. Sometimes at night, I still heard his laugh carried on the wind, a reminder of what happened to those who let their hearts rule their actions aboard this ship.
“Ghost needs to learn the way of this place sooner, rather than later,” I told her.
Ariella sighed, a furrow etched deep in her brow. For a moment, she seemed far older. I recognized that look—The Black Wraith had a way of stealing years from all of us.
“Butcher’s been looking for an excuse to start something with him, and after that display…” She trailed off. “I’ll keep an eye on him. Make sure he stays out of trouble.”
I stared at Ariella for a moment before eventually replying, “Thank you,” with a quick nod. When she turned to go, I caught her arm. “I cracked Ghost’s head on the mast,” I admitted quietly. “Will you take him to Stitches?”
“Of course I will.”
She left me, and I stared out at the endless sky, trying to ignore the phantom ache in my leg and the heavier one in my chest.