Page 6 of A Captain So Callous and Cruel

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.”

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