The night they came, the tide was high, and the moon hung bloated and heavy over the cliffs.
Isla had heard the stories.
Whispers of a man who ruled the sea with cold steel and a cruel smile. A man who took what he wanted—gold, ships, souls—and left only wreckage in his wake.
Captain Dorian Blackmoor.
The Devil of the Eastern Seas.
And tonight, the devil had come for them.
The first explosion shook the estate, rattling the glass windows and sending a tremor through Isla’s bones. She stumbled back from the basin where she had been washing the remnants of her stepmother’s evening feast, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Screams. Smoke. Footsteps thundering through the halls.
She could run.
Should run.
Instead, she crept toward the window, fingers trembling as she parted the heavy velvet curtain.
Outside, black sails loomed against the night sky like the wings of some great beast, the ship’s dark hull gleaming with the reflection of the burning manor. Pirates swarmed the estate—faces shadowed by the flickering firelight, swords slick with the spoils of their plunder.
And in the center of it all, him.
Dorian Blackmoor.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in black leather and silver buckles, he moved through the chaos with a predator’s grace, his long coat billowing behind him. Dark hair, tousled from the sea, fell across his sharp cheekbones, and a cruel smirk curled his lips.
He was watching her.
Oh, God.
Isla jerked back, but it was too late. The door creaked open behind her.
A shadow filled the threshold—too large, too imposing. Her breath caught as the scent of salt and steel invaded her senses, and when she turned, she found herself trapped beneath his gaze.
Dark. Hungry. Amused.
“You don’t belong here, little dove.”
His voice was a low, lazy rumble—the kind of voice that could command armies and make kingdoms kneel.
Dorian took a step forward, and Isla instinctively retreated—until her back hit the wall, her breath hitching as he closed the space between them.
He lifted a gloved hand, running the back of his knuckles down the curve of her jaw—a touch far too soft for a man like him.
“I saw you watching me.” His fingers trailed lower, brushing the hollow of her throat. He felt her pulse hammer beneath his touch. His smirk deepened. “Are you afraid?”
Yes.
No.
Isla swallowed hard. “Should I be?”
Dorian chuckled, low and dark. “That depends.”
His hands moved fast. One curled around her waist, yanking her against him, while the other gripped her throat—just enough to make her shiver.
“Will you fight me, little dove?” His lips brushed her ear, sending a violent shudder through her. “Or will you let me steal you like I’ve stolen this wretched kingdom?”
Heat curled low in her belly.
She should resist. Should fight.
Instead, her fingers curled into the leather of his coat.
A silent answer.
Dorian growled his approval.
“Good girl.”
Then his lips crashed onto hers.
The kiss was nothing sweet, nothing gentle—it was a claiming, an act of piracy in itself. His teeth scraped against her bottom lip, demanding, taking, and when she gasped, he swallowed the sound.
A desperate battle for dominance, her hands fisting into his coat, his grip tightening at her waist, her throat, her hips.
It was dangerous. It was wrong.
And it set her on fire.
When he finally tore away, his breath was ragged, his pupils blown wide with something primal.
Isla’s lips were swollen. Her body trembled.
“You taste like a lie,” he murmured, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “Like a girl pretending she doesn’t want to be stolen.”
She hated that he was right.
Hated the way she leaned into him when he scooped her up, carrying her toward the door as if she weighed nothing.
“W-Where are you taking me?”
Dorian smirked. “Where do all stolen treasures go?”
He strode toward the waiting ship, her fate sealed with the tide.
To the sea.
And to a pirate who would never let her go.
The End… or Just the Beginning?
