Page 83 of The Noble's Merman

Performance? The way Young talked about violating Kent only fueled the fire raging in his gut more. As the one pirate who had his boot on his fin finally lifted it off, Mo thrust his tail and slapped him with it, sending him flying backwards and onto the floor. Yet the two who held his arms only strengthened their grips even more, marking his skin with red burns with how tightly they squeezed. It shot pain across his forearm fins, up his elbows and shoulders; he couldn’t help but unwillingly submit to their torment.

They dragged him to the large wooden mast and pulled his arms out to either side, stretching them outward and securing rope on his wrists. The rope then went around the mast, holding his arms against it tight, straining his muscles, and for added measure, they tied his torso to the mast as well. There truly was nothing he could do to free himself. He couldn’t bend to use his fangs. He couldn’t twist his wrists to use his claws. He was sitting powerless. He could do nothing but watch.

Just like Young had wished, front and center, was Kent and the horrendous pirates touching him. To Mo’s left, he saw the only others he had any hope of helping him—except they were incarcerated as well. Allen was standing, held by two muscular men who were of similar size, and Seth was sitting on the floor, tied up by ropes with cloth stuffed in his mouth. Should he shout for Wenta’s help? No, what could she do? She’d only get captured too, just like me.

“That’s perfect,” said Young, hands groping Kent’s cheek and shoulder. A second pirate held Kent’s left wrist still, his free hand resting on Kent’s stomach, lifting up his shirt. A third man held back Kent’s right arm, holding him steady from behind. “Oh Fareham, how must you feel? Knowing your precious merman is watching us pleasure you better than he ever could.”

“This isn’t pleasure, this is torture!” Kent rasped. But before he could say any more, the nameless pirate to Kent’s left shoved two fingers into Kent’s mouth, effectively gagging him.

“Suck,” he commanded.

“You are torturing him!” yelled Mo. “Stop it this instant!”

But they did not stop—they only kept going. It curdled Mo’s blood to see his beloved harassed by these barbarians, unable to do anything against it, three men against one. Young thrust his hips against Kent’s thigh, one pirate grinded from behind, and the last one took his slicked fingers out of Kent’s mouth and reached under his shirt. He lifted it up even higher and circled his fingertips around Kent’s nipple, coaxing out an agonized groan from not only Kent, but Mo, too.

“That’s it, beautiful,” Young moaned against the crook of Kent’s neck, his cravat thrown carelessly on the floor along with his waistcoat. “I’ve heard you sing, your voice carrying through the walls. Let me hear you sing some more.” He pinched Kent’s other nipple, eliciting another groan.

Mo could barely handle watching any more of this. If no one were to stop them, what else would they do? He didn’t even want to think about it, yet it was all happening right in front of him. A fury clutched tentacles around his heart, pulsing, beating, beckoning. Faster and faster his heart pounded. He wanted to claw out Young’s eyes, sink his fangs into the necks of the pirates, gut their brains from their skulls until they could hurt Kent no longer. Yet he was immobilized—each time he tugged on the rope, it seemed to only pull him tighter.

Magic swirled in his chest, so intensely, so raw, he could feel the power rushing throughout his whole body. The sunlight above them darkened behind large, thick clouds, casting shadows onto the ship. A lump rose in his throat, coiling around his neck, begging him, begging him?—

—You can use it. You want to spill their blood. Now is your opportunity. You can save Kent. You still have your voice?—

Mo squinted his eyes shut and grit his teeth. No! I mustn’t! It could put Kent in danger! But his inner voice kept calling out to him. The magic clogged his throat. His stomach churned and churned, seeping bile into his mouth, making him nauseated.

“Stop it, please! Oh, Mo…”

Kent’s sobbing voice made him open his eyes again.

Droplets of water ran down Kent’s cheeks—is that how humans cry?—but Mo had no time to wonder further. Young groped his hands all over Kent’s torso, moving even lower down his exposed abdomen, causing Mo to seethe with rage. The captain’s fingers moved meticulously on Kent’s breeches, working through unfastening the strings.

“Why should we stop when we’ve only just begun?” Young breathed against Kent’s face, and Mo could see Kent visibly shiver.

The sky darkened further as the power within Mo grew. More and more, the clouds turned gray, the sun no longer hot, the wind starting to chill. Was this because of his magic? Each pulse around his heart seemed to draw in another looming cloud.

“Mo!” It was Allen who called out, and Mo turned his head toward him. “Is there anything you can do? I have a notion that there might be something…”

He knows I’m a siren.

“What the devil could a stupid fish like him do?” Young snarled.

Mo’s heart felt like it was going to burst from his ribcage. The magic grew and grew, expanding his throat, stuffing it, pulling at his insides.

—You know it’s what you have to do. You must do it. Allen won’t be affected. Wenta can help. You can swim Kent back to shore. There’s no other way?—

“Stop, please…” Kent cried.

As Young slid his hand down into Kent’s breeches?—

Mo screamed.

Young flinched and pulled his hand away.

Kent’s chest rose and fell with each harsh breath.

Lightning split the sky.

And Mo began to sing.

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