3. Captain Erickson
CHAPTER 3
Captain Erickson
T he dining table in my quarters is set up by the time we have loaded the ship and set off. Sitting down at it, I go over the books with the ship accountant, calculating costs.
“The whores will not fetch for much,” Bridger muses as he scribbles down more numbers. “They are already costing us enough in food.”
“I did not buy them to make a profit,” I return, edgily. “They are consumables, like the perishables we keep.”
Bridger nods. “Yes, to be used and discarded then.”
“Precisely.”
“Then they will not be here for the full journey.”
“No.” I would never have them set foot in Goldspince. What happens aboard a ship between men remains on the ship.
Gluttony is our greatest sin.
Drink.
Fight.
And fuck.
Regardless of our station, of our marriage vows and honor. These are the ghosts that haunt us later in life. Or always, in my case.
“The prisoners are in good health,” Bridger continues, thoughtfully. “Some of them are extraordinarily formidable. A few have been selected for the grunt crew. We’ll see if they earn their keep, or walk the plank.”
I nod. “Indeed.”
I watch him as he scribbles away at the journal, filling it with numbers. My jaw tightens as I reflect on today’s purchases. There’s a lot that won’t make it to Goldspince, I surmise.
For another dark secret I carry is that I am a slaver.
The men I bought will be sold at premium cost, and my pockets will be full for it. Half the men I have as crew will either be killed or sold to another merchant vessel, the truth of our activities either dying with them or remaining forever buried.
Oftentimes a pristine kingdom that prides itself on free will and autonomy is devoured by corruption from deep within, but it has not stained my kingdom’s name, and it has been this way as long as I can remember. It must carry on.
After Bridger is done, I excuse him.
I journal for a little while, trying to keep today’s activities fresh in my mind, but then I begin to write about what has been truly on my mind.
Red hair like glowing fire. I have not seen such a color in all my years. Usually dull or copper red. Never that vibrant. Steely eyes and full lips. She looked directly at me when I demanded it. I detected defiance in her as our eyes locked. She is unusual, and I am riveted by it.
I pause my writing, frowning now because she was too clean, wasn’t she?
Where did she come from? She couldn’t be from Morda. If she had been, she’d have been spoiled, and I have not sent the doctor yet to look her over to know whether her virginity is intact.
She’d fetch a pretty penny if she is.
But then again, I would want her for myself.
Don’t I already?
“Dinner,” I demand, finished with my journaling. My curiosity has been aroused, and I will not be able to extinguish it until I look upon her face and understand her predicament.
“The girl,” I add tightly to the crewman that cleans around me. “Deliver her and then leave us be.”
“Yes, Captain,” he says.
Putting the journal away, I quickly tidy myself. I want to be presentable, though I’m unsure why it weighs on me that I want to please her. Or at least appear desirable.
It could be my vanity, or that for the first time in recent memory, I want to attain a unique possession and I need to win her obedience as well. I don’t want sniveling from her straightaway.
I don’t aim to break my toy without learning what makes it tick first.
Wearing my finest black tunic with the leather trim, my belt is sheathed with my largest dagger. I leave my hair down, perhaps to hide the light scars scattered across my face, not wanting to frighten her. I recognize that I am grizzly to look at under direct lighting, so I keep the candles burning low.
By the time she arrives with the jailer, I am seated and ready for her. He practically drags her across the room, and she lets out a pained grunt.
Immediately, I don’t like that he’s the reason for that noise.
“I did not say to hurt her,” I growl, glaring at the nameless man as he pauses, his face blanching at me.
“Very sorry, Captain,” he quickly apologizes. “It’s just…she’s not been very tame.”
My chest dips with satisfaction. Gazing at her, she slowly edges closer to her seat across from me. She is still hidden under the filthy robe she’s in.
“Take her cloak off,” I demand. “Then you may leave.”
Instantly, her cloak is ripped off her curvy body. She jumps, her arms hugging her chest as she stands there in the center of the room, trembling like a leaf in a plain, white dress. It’s form fitting above the waist–especially along her cleavage, where her tits are pushed up high–but billows past it, ending at her ankles.
Leaning back in my chair, it shudders under the weight of me.
My eyes trail her red hair, my desire growing thicker as I imagine gripping her hair and forcing her to look up at me.
Instead, void of emotion, I say, “Have a seat.”
She does as she’s told, though she doesn’t look directly at me. Not like she did when I surveyed her from up close. She takes a seat, and her movements are fluid. Much too confident for a being that shakes like she’s terrified. Something about those delicate movements makes me wary.
“What is your name?”
“Hali,” she whispers.
“Look at me and repeat your name.”
She lifts her head, and her eyes dart to meet mine. I suppress a groan of satisfaction. She is tragically beautiful, and obedient thus far.
“Hali,” she repeats quietly.
“Where do you come from?”
“Morda.”
Keeping my voice casual, I repeat, “Where do you come from?”
She is quiet for a moment. “Morda.”
My eyes narrow on her. She is not like any woman I have seen come from an isle as depraved and deplorable as Morda.
Before I respond, there’s a knock. The door opens and a flurry of dishes appear. Their smell instantly fills the air of the fresh fish and fruit we were able to grab from the markets before we set off.
Still, my eyes haven’t left hers.
Her body perks up as the plates are set on the table before us. Her eyes run along the many assortments of food, her mouth parting. A dead giveaway of her hunger.
Good . I can work with hunger.
The second the servers are gone, I pluck a grape off a vine from a nearby plate and plop it into my mouth. “I am not known as a patient man, Red. Either you tell me the truth of your origins, or I will make you watch me eat.”
Her eyes widen. Shaking her head lightly, she averts her eyes from me again. “I am not lying. I am truly from Morda.”
“And I am the son of a whore,” I retort sarcastically.
“Please,” she says quickly. “I have been there for many years.”
“Whoring?”
“No, but…” Her face tightens, a look of pain crossing her delicate features. “My mother was.”
I begin my rapid-fire questions. “Who is your mother?”
“Her name was Salma.”
“Where does she work?”
“She worked at the Madame’s Manor.”
“And where were you?”
“In the basement, earning my keep.”
“Explain what that means.”
“It’s a brothel,” she explains to me now, like it’s an obvious question. “I was in training.”
“To be a whore,” I say doubtfully, still not believing the words in her story. She is too well-kept, too ethereal to be a common whore in a brothel. Someone would have noticed her. Someone would have ruined her by now.
She nods. “Yes.”
Eyeing her, I sit silent for a moment, watching for signs of suspicious behavior. “You would have fetched your Madame a pretty penny.”
“Not after my mother died. She accumulated debt, and I was going to be made to take on that debt.”
“So?”
She shrugs. “So…I ran.”
“Then what?”
Her face falls, clearly a little put off by all my questions. “Within twenty-four hours, I was caught by a slaver and placed on the market.”
I pour whiskey into my glass and take a large gulp, thinking about her story. I turn it over in my head many times, still disbelieving it. “How did your mother die?”
“She’d been ill for a long time.”
“Yet, she was servicing men?”
Her eyes narrow on mine, and I see that defiance poke out from beneath her meek expression. “How else were we to eat? You think indecent men care what they’re rutting in?”
I grin at her, surprising her. “No, I suppose we don’t.”
She looks away, disturbed by my expression. She folds her hands together tightly, channeling her fears there.
Yes, I detect the fear in her strongly now. She is unsure.
I take another gulp of my whiskey. “Have a bite, Red. You earned it.”
She doesn’t budge, though for the briefest of moments, she peeks down at the food in front of her..
“Not hungry?” I press. “It is poor manners to ignore an invitation by the Captain of a very fine vessel as this.”
“It’s not that,” she whispers. “I’m just scared.”
I cough out a laugh. “Are you now?”
Scared is not the emotion she elicits.
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you’re scared of?”
“You.” She swallows, squeezing at her hands again.
“I suppose you’ve heard of me then.”
“Yes.”
“You’re right to be scared,” I tell her. “But I’m not hurting you, am I?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“So eat. As a whore’s daughter, you must be hungry.”
I have seen what hunger has done to people. They would crawl over dead bodies to eat. If she is truly a whore’s daughter, she must not know what half of these foods taste like. She could be scared, but her hunger would overcome it.
To my delight, she does not pick up a single fork or utensil as her fingers dig into the roast chicken. Her fingers tremble, hunger winning over her as she ravenously pulls off a strip of the meat and eats it. She doesn't even look at me now, her attention focused purely on the meal before her. I watch intently as her eyes squeeze shut and a groan of satisfaction escapes from her lips.
No manners.
No etiquette.
Oh, I think I like my little Red already.