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Chapter Text

“So, I should flee like a coward and leave Cutler – Beckett – to whatever judgment is coming for him?” There had to be another way.

“There is no should,” Elizabeth said, too cool for comfort. “His fate is sealed either way.”

It landed like a slap. Florence stood still, as if stillness could hold something in place, keep it from shattering inside her. Of course Elizabeth was right. No one could stop what was coming. And escape was the only way out. It was the only choice that made sense.

Unless…

The thought was unformed, and she tried to push it down before it could fully take shape and become dangerous.

~*~

Hiring fresh muscle was long overdue, and the man standing across from Cutler looked the part, even if he stank of gunpowder and bad habits. Broad shoulders, upright posture. He was a bit older than Cutler, perhaps around his mid-forties, but then again, hardship and the sun in the West Indies did strange things to a man’s face.

In the past weeks, Cutler had been reminded Navy and Company men alike were only willing to go so far in terms of what needed to be done. Their loyalty ended where their conscience began. And conscience, as he had come to learn, was a liability.

He needed someone who didn’t mind the dirtier work. Someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Someone who could stomach blood on their hands. And Mr Halsey seemed to be the perfect candidate. In turn, Cutler would turn a blind eye to his past. A neat little arrangement.

Cutler leaned back in his chair, his fingers brushing over the surface of his desk absentmindedly as he considered the man before him. The silence stretched. Halsey didn’t fidget. That, at least, was promising.

“You understand,” Cutler spoke up after a while, “this arrangement requires discretion. You’re to follow orders. Not ask questions. Not improvise.”

Halsey gave a grunt. It could have meant anything from of course to get on with it. 

“Good.” Cutler’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll find that those who disappoint me tend to regret it.”

“And the remuneration?” The other man’s voice was raspy and deep, as if he rarely used it.

“More than enough coin for your trouble, I assure you.” Cutler offered a thin smile, but there was no warmth behind it. He had grown used to buying loyalty. It was safer that way. Cleaner. At least when the man in question knew his place.

Halsey folded his arms, and Cutler’s gaze flicked to the ink coiled around one forearm. It was too faded to be precise. Dutch, perhaps. Or Spanish. Or worse – something that answered to no flag at all. It didn’t matter, so long as he took orders now.

“You mentioned,” Cutler said lightly, as if it were an afterthought, “that you left your last employer mid-assignment. Should I be concerned?”

Halsey didn’t flinch. “My last employer was an idiot.”

A flicker of amusement passed through Cutler’s expression. Dangerous men didn’t bother with flattery. He liked that. Up to a point.

A knock sounded at the door. Cutler frowned, a slight irritation prickling over his skin. Whoever had the audacity to disturb him, they had to wait.

He didn’t move. “Now then, as for the finer details—”

Knock knock. 

It was sharper this time, more insistent. Cutler’s lips pursed. Whoever it was clearly lacked the good sense to wait. Fine. 

He exhaled through his nose. “Enter.”

The door opened and the last person Cutler had expected to see, and certainly not here, stood on the threshold. Florence’s gaze darted from him to Mr Halsey, and back again. She wasn’t alone. Lieutenant Groves lingered just behind her shoulder. That, at least, was reassuring. He’d done good with assigning Groves to accompany her today.

Cutler rose from his chair, ignoring his guest for the moment.

“Lieutenant, Miss Crowan. What is the meaning of this?” He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice, but judging by Groves’ expression, he hadn’t been entirely successful.

“My lord,” the lieutenant began, clearly uncomfortable, “I apologise for the interruption, but Miss Crowan said it was urgent.”

Florence’s voice overlapped his. “I need to speak with you. Privately.”

And apparently, that couldn’t have waited until after he had concluded this meeting or until he returned home. He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

“Forgive me, Mr Halsey. Would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes? I shan’t be long. Then we can conclude our business together.” Cutler offered a cordial smile. “You won’t regret it. Lieutenant, would you be so kind as to accompany him?”

Halsey hesitated, just long enough to make it known that he could have argued. Then, with a grunt, he turned and followed Groves out into the corridor.

When the door closed behind them, Cutler rounded the desk. Florence was silent as she crossed the room. She stopped just shy of reaching him. 

Her eyes were wide, and there was something wild and uncertain in them, as if she had thought tooth and nail just to get here, and now that she had, she wasn’t sure what she’d say. Her hand lifted slightly, hesitated, and dropped back to her side.

She was trembling.

“You’re in danger.” The words came barely above a whisper.

His brows furrowed. But he said nothing. Silence had always served him well. People filled silence with the truth if you let them sit in it long enough. Florence pressed her lips into a thin line, the uncertainty in her gaze growing. She was trying to read him. Trying and failing.

Finally, she spoke. But it wasn’t what he’d expected

“You can despise me if you need to. It won’t change what’s coming.”

Despise her? This wasn’t the sort of thing one said without reason. Something cold slithered down his spine.

“Florence?”

“I know there’s an impending pirate attack on Port Royal. They want to free Mistress Ching.”

Of course they did. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the pirate threat. But what did that have to do with her?

“But most importantly,” she added, voice cracking, “they want you.”

Something inside him went still. It wasn’t fear – that, he wouldn’t permit. But the click of a mental lock sliding into place. That old instinct stirring: not fight, not flight, but calculation.

“And you know that because…?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she stared. “Why do you think I do?”

Ah. There it was.

His stomach twisted. Why did he think she did? His pulse began to pick up – not from panic, but from the pieces falling into place. They had always been there, hadn’t they? Scattered at the edges of his vision, just beyond focus. The half-answers. The strong opinions. The strange turns of sympathy. The guilt he couldn’t quite pin down. The nagging sense that something wasn’t earned. 

Cutler had chosen not to ask. Asking meant looking too closely. And the illusion had been so damned easy to believe. A strange, numbed feeling settled over him.

He’d told himself it didn’t matter. That her past – her secrets – were irrelevant to the life they were building.

But this wasn’t a secret. This was a knife in the back. Slipped in by familiar hands. And the most galling part was that he’d handed her the blade.

Cutler studied her face. Not with longing. Not even with fury. Just with the cold, sterile focus of a man taking inventory of what had been lost.

What else hadn’t she told him? Who even was she? 

The woman who’d slipped back into his life oh so conveniently. He’d known her all those years ago, yes – he’d thought he knew her now, better yet than any time before. What a fool’s comfort that had been. He had deserved her, after everything. That was the story he’d chosen. The reward at the end of the bloody road.

Florence wasn’t speaking. She looked like she wanted to, like the words were piled up behind her teeth, but she didn’t. All she offered him was silence – and something desperate in her eyes.

He’d let people die for less. And, oh, she knew it. That much was obvious in the way she held herself. It should have helped, the fear. But Cutler couldn’t stand the sight of her. He stalked across the room back to his desk.

“Go on,” he said and turned to face her again. “Look me in the eye and say it plainly. I want to hear you confess.”

“You just want to hear it out loud so you can hate me properly.” She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. Defiant still, even when she was frightened.

“Say it anyway.”

She flinched. It was subtle, but he caught it and this time, something mean in him savoured it. Good. Let her feel the sting.

But she held her ground.

“You think I walked in here expecting kindness? I know what it costs me.” Florence drew a breath. “I was working against you. But I’m not anymore.”

As if that changed what she was. 

Words were cheap, but she had always known how to dress them up, hadn’t she? That silver tongue. That breathless way of speaking, as if her truth was something fragile and rare. He’d once admired it – loved it, if he’d ever been so daft as to use the word. The way she could disarm with a turn of phrase. Now it felt like another con. Another tool. 

His hand moved instinctively toward the top drawer of the desk – toward the pistol he kept hidden there, for moments precisely like this. It wasn’t about using it. Not yet anyway. It was about the comfort of choice. To remind himself he still had power in the room. Power over her. Power over the outcome.

Control. That was what mattered now. His grip on the edge of the desk tightened. White-knuckled.

“Did you ever laugh about it? The way I trusted you?”

Florence’s throat bobbed as if she were trying to swallow whatever answer threatened to rise down. She looked like she might break. So he twisted the knife.

“Was it difficult, pretending?” Cutler went on. “Or did it come naturally – feigning affection, opening your legs like you meant it?”

She went pale. Her eyes were shining now, and he wasn’t sure if it was guilt or some pathetic form of mercy. “I did mean it.”

Something in his chest stuttered. That couldn’t have been the truth. It was a lie, plain and simple, just like all the others. A last-ditch attempt to soften the blow, to worm her way into pity.

Cutler almost laughed – just once, a sharp breath through his nose. “That was beneath me, wasn’t it?” 

But she had already dragged him beneath. Might as well stay there. His gaze raked over her. Not with desire, but with something uglier. Contempt sharpened by memory.

“I should call the guards.”

“You probably should.”

That undid him more than if she’d begged. The calm in it. The acceptance. As if she agreed with him. As if she, too, thought she deserved it.

Cutler turned slightly, angling his face just enough to hide the part that still wasn’t cold enough. 

The movement was sharp, then controlled. He drifted toward the sideboard, fingers brushing over decanters he didn’t intend to use. As if reaching for a drink might excuse the silence. As if ritual could steady his hands.

He just stood there a moment, facing the empty crystal and the gleam of the wood grain, jaw tight.

“Why tell me?” he demanded. “Why now?”

“Because they’re coming. And I can’t let it happen. Not to you.”

Not to you.

Cutler hated her for saying it. Hated the weakness in him that wanted it to mean something. He wouldn’t read into it. Wouldn’t make the mistake of assigning sentiment where there might only be remorse. Or worse – performance.

“You need to flee,” she added, softer. “While there’s still time.”

He said nothing. His mind was already shifting, tallying options, calculating possibilities. Of course running wasn’t an option. But neither was sitting still and waiting for the noose to tighten. Waiting to lose everything. 

What he needed now was time to put measures in place. 

“How long?” Cutler asked.

“I don’t know when or how. I just know that it’s coming. Could be hours, could be days.”

“Who? Who is behind all of this?”

“The Brethren Court. We wanted to be free, once and for all.”

We.

That was the part that echoed. She still saw herself among them.

Cutler stared at her; the woman who had shared his bed, had whispered his name like she meant it and saw a stranger in her place. The illusion had burned away.

Almost immediately after, the decision crystallised. He crossed to the door, opened it with calm precision, and spoke to the sentries outside as if requesting another bottle of port.

“Fetch two men. Escort Miss Crowan to the fort. She’s to be quartered in the officer’s wing. Keep her there under guard until I give further orders. She isn’t to leave, am I understood?”

Then he shut the door again – quietly.

No cell. No manacles. No grand ceremony. But she didn’t need to know that.

Florence stood frozen, as if the finality of it had just struck her. She didn’t speak. Didn’t plead. Only watched him like she was bracing for something worse.

Less than a minute later, two guards entered.

Cutler dared a glance at her. “She’s ready.”

Florence gave a single nod. As if she agreed with the sentence. As if she’d chosen it herself.

He would follow once things with Halsey were settled. Then, he would decide if mercy had any place left in him at all.

Chapter Text

The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you

It's strange what desire will make foolish people do

Chris Isaac, Wicked Game

~*~

Cutler didn’t move. The door clicked shut, and still he stood there, jaw tight, the ghost of her voice crawling up his spine. He’d half expected her to turn back and say something else. Try, perhaps, to excuse it. Or to beg him to spare her. But she hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. 

He knew what the proper response should have been. Interrogate her on the spot. Drag her to the cells. Strip her down to the raw facts. What did you tell them? Who are your contacts and when did you meet? He should have had her in irons. But he hadn’t.

Because the truth was, he wasn’t free from sentiment. The truth was, he needed a moment to breathe. A moment to gather the shredded pieces of his composure. His gaze fixed on the empty spot where she had stood.

Habit rescued him. Cutler crossed the room to the decanter. He poured a finger of brandy, and slowly turned the glass between his fingers. Watched the light catch the amber.

“To a future undone,” Cutler muttered. But the glass didn’t make it to his lips. With a single sharp movement, he threw it into the hearth. It shattered against the stones with a satisfying crack. Brandy spilt into the embers and they flared.

He didn’t look at the mess. Instead, he breathed once. Twice. And then, as if it had never happened, turned to the desk. The chair creaked beneath him as he sat. He reached for his writing utensils with practised calm. Cutler could fall back on precision if he had nothing else. 

So. Florence Crowan was a liar and a traitor.

He didn’t write that down. Another measured breath steadied him. He inked the paper with measured strokes. A missive addressed to Saint Michael, the nearest port with Company reserves. The phrasing was clipped and intentionally dull. A minor precautionary request. Nothing more, nothing less.

Increased movement along coastal routes that warranted a temporary escalation of defensive measures. Additional troops requested to bolster existing fort presence. No mention of betrayal. No reason to raise alarms. The last thing he needed was for the truth to come out. It would mean not only his ruin but also consequential loss of control over Florence’s fate. The protocols they would follow were strict and uncompromising. And he would not abide that.

He drafted another letter to the Company director in London. That one had to be a touch more persuasive. A brief but vague outline of the regional instability, framed just enough to suggest urgency, just distant enough not to invite questions. At this point, Cutler had perfected the art of it.

Failure could be reframed as misfortune, and misfortune as proof of necessity. It had saved him after Shipwreck Cove; hopefully, it bought him more men and more powder now, on the off-chance the missive reached England before events spiralled further. A gamble, but he had always wagered with the long view. If it came to nothing, so be it. If it secured additional resources in months to come, he’d call it foresight.

Cutler leaned back. He would have time later to consider the particulars. For the moment, the plan was clear. Bolster Port Royal, and hold his ground.

When the letters were sealed and sent, he summoned Halsey. The man accepted the offer without hesitation. Money had that effect.

By nightfall, Halsey was already at his elbow, a quiet shadow at the edge of every corridor.

The garrison was doubled. Patrols increased. Officers briefed in private, in pairs, nothing written down. If there were eyes inside the ranks – and Cutler was still sure there were – then he would give them nothing more than routine shifts and a faint whiff of tension.

He did not return to his house that evening. 

Instead, he sent for a young clerk who would ride up to the house in his stead. From a distance, the decoy would pass. Same build, same coat. Enough to fool a spyglass – and that was all that mattered. Let any watching eyes assume Lord Beckett had returned home to rest.

A sealed note already waited for the steward: Lord Beckett was not to be disturbed. Nothing unusual.

After the matter with the decoy was settled, Cutler changed into a nondescript coat, worn leather and rougher linen. Something that should be enough to slip past servants and shadows without drawing attention. A dagger weighed down one pocket, a pistol another. He left through the rear exit and crossed the harbour under escort. Two shadows fell into step behind him. Halsey and another one of his new men. Cutler wasn’t about to risk his safety by walking alone. The trick was planning ahead and bracing oneself without alerting possible spies. Let them watch the manor windows for his candlelight. It wasn’t paranoia, it was strategy. And strategy required a clear head.

Cutler had no illusions. The odds were stacked against him. But being in the know might just even the game.

The chamber inside the fort where he took quarters was sparse; a desk, a bed, a narrow window overlooking the bay. It was better this way. No distractions, no comforts. And he would be closer to the command post. Closer to valuable prisoners. And closer to her. 

Cutler allowed himself a single measured breath. The night air inside the fort was cool, salted from the sea. 

He should have rested. That had been the plan: retreat, recalculate, regain control. But his heart wouldn’t stop thrumming and the thought of sleeping in a soft bed seemed too indulgent for someone who had just learned he was living on borrowed time. The urge to face her again prickled under his skin. He couldn’t let the night pass without finding out more. He needed answers. Or, failing that, he needed to look her in the eye and confirm she wasn’t the person he let himself believe in.

~*~

Florence stood as he entered, but Cutler didn’t halt until the heavy door clicked shut behind him. Before it closed fully, his eyes flicked over his shoulder to the two guards who stood at attention just beyond the threshold, ready if needed.

When he turned back, they were still separated by six feet of bare floor, and neither moved to change it.

The sight of her, posture guarded, was another blow. She looked exhausted, the light of the lone candle on the small table reflecting in her tired eyes, and yet, her gaze never wavered. Her hands were clenched into fists at her side, as if she was trying to stop them from trembling.

The chamber was sparse, much like his own quarters, but it was far beyond the simple holding cell anyone else might have thrown her into. A kindness, technically. To anyone else – the guards, the officers, even London, if word ever reached that far, this would appear a next logical step. Nothing out of the ordinary after all the other precautions he had set in place today. A necessary escalation, considering recent events. After all, he’d already kept her under watch in the weeks leading up to now — for her safety, yes, but also his own peace of mind. 

If anything, people would whisper that he had grown paranoid. That, at least, was a narrative he could control. Letting her rot in the lower cells would have made his position look worse, not better. People would ask questions. About her. About him. And he couldn’t afford questions.

She opened her mouth to speak.

“Don’t,” he said. “I’m not here for more lies. Or whatever performance you have prepared this time.”

“I’m not performing. I want to help you.” There was a faint tremor in her voice.

“Do you?” He studied her. “You’ll forgive me, Miss Crowan, if I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth.” 

She swallowed and glanced away, just for a moment, before meeting his gaze again, her expression tightening with something that might have been guilt.

A small sting caught in his chest. He quickly overplayed it by stepping further into the room, his hands folded behind his back. “Charming delivery. Very convincing.”

And he’d trusted that charm, let it past every defence he’d honed over the years of watching men lie and manipulate and grasp for power. He’d let her in. And that was probably the worst of it all – not that she’d betrayed him, but that he’d let her get close enough to do so. He’d misjudged her. Completely.

Florence began, “You’re angry. I understand. But if you want to be smart about this—”

What did she know about his situation? 

“Spare me the philosophy. I know exactly what this is.” Lies built on lies. Weaponised sentiment. She would try to reason with him now, soften the blow. But it had already landed.

“Cutler—”

He cut her off with a sharp movement of his hand. “Was it your idea or theirs?”

Florence hesitated. Her mouth opened slightly before the word came. “Mine.”

His chest tightened. So she hadn’t been forced. Hadn’t been some puppet on the Brethren Court’s strings. No, she’d chosen this. Chosen to look him in the eye and betray him.

“Why did you do it?”

“Think about it, Cutler.”

He did. He was always thinking. Thinking and calculating and bracing. Thinking wasn’t the problem. Feeling, maybe. 

She looked at him like she hated what she was about to say. Like it hurt her, too.

“Look at you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. So that was it. That was her grand excuse. All this time, and she still didn’t understand. She didn’t know what she was talking about. He was building something. He was pulling order from chaos. A world where ships could sail safely, where trade routes were secure. Was that not worth a few hard choices? Hadn’t they all benefited from it?

“I did what needed to be done,” Cutler snarled.

And she—

She looked at him like he should apologise for it.
“So did I.”

“Thank you for your insight.” He adjusted his justacorps’ cuff with the same detached grace he had perfected years ago. “But tell me, is your high and mighty Brethren Court so much better?” He tilted his head slightly. “Pirates playing republic. Criminals pretending at principles. I’m sure they sleep soundly on their piles of stolen gold.”

Her jaw clenched. “They fight for freedom.”

“Freedom,” he echoed, a short humourless laugh pressing past his lips. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what they call it. You looked at them and thought that was worth protecting.”

A pause.

“Over me.”

There it was. He hadn’t meant to say that last part, but it had slipped out.

Florence looked at her feet, her mouth set but silent.

Of course Archibald had seen it. He’d taken one good look at her and known something was amiss. And Cutler — idiot that he was — had dismissed it. He’d thought it spite and jealousy. He’d thought Archie resented her for taking his place. And perhaps he had. But he’d also tried to warn Cutler. And now he was dead.

The thought clicked into something else with an even sharper ache beneath his breastbone.

“Archibald. You were behind his murder.”

Her head jerked up. “I had no idea about that.”

Did she? Didn’t she? At this point, did it even matter? Still, some part of him still wanted to believe her. And he resented it for that. 

“The note slipped into that captain's coat – that was also you, wasn’t it? Why? Did you suddenly feel remorse?”

The warning had led to a pirate lord’s capture. A masterstroke. One of the finest pieces of leverage the Company had seized in months. And she was the one who had brought it to him.

Florence gave a faint nod. “I couldn’t live with the knowledge I’d doom innocents if I did nothing.”

So it had been to ease her conscience. It was a poor justification, but perhaps it was the only kind she had left. As if that distinction still mattered to someone who had spent months consorting with criminals.

No. His emotions were getting ahead of him. He could feel it, the pull toward sentiment. It was dangerous. Sloppy, even. It didn’t matter why she’d done what she’d done. What mattered were the stone-cold facts. 

Cutler reined himself in. “What do you know? Tell me everything. No more secrets. No more lies.”

“Not a lot. They don’t trust me, not anymore. Not after Ching’s capture.” A breath. “Eliza—Elizabeth warned me today. Some of them… they want to strike here. Against you.” Her eyes dropped. “I won’t be safe either. I’ve crossed too many lines.”

He studied her in silence. She looked…wrong. Off-balance. Not clever, not armed with the confidence she usually carried like a second skin. Just bare. Frightened. Human. 

Cutler wanted to dismiss it. Wanted to decide she was still playing a part — some final attempt to manipulate his goodwill, to weasel her way back into favour. But he couldn’t quite make the pieces fit. All he found was the hollow behind her eyes, the way her hands tried not to shake. It couldn’t be a performance, not tonight.

Fine. At the very least, her fear meant she wouldn’t run back to them if given the chance. He clung to that.

“Miss Swann is here in Port Royal?”

“Mrs Turner,” she corrected softly. “Though I don’t know if she’s still here.”

Cutler took note of it. So she had married the blacksmith. It made no difference.

Florence continued, “She…caught me at the market. The Court, they’re not unified anymore. This isn’t coming from her. Some pirate lords want blood. Capitaine Chevalle, Ammand the Corsair, and Eduardo Villanueva should be among them. They want me dead just as much as they want you gone. Elizabeth wanted me to get out of here while I still could.”

His brows rose slightly. He couldn’t deny that it was a rather ironic turn of events. But then again, it would have only been a matter of time until the Brethren would have started bickering and squabbling and tearing each other apart from the inside out. It was impressive how long Mrs Turner had kept them from fraying at the edges. But now individual pirate lords were acting without consensus. That was worse. It multiplied the unpredictability. There would be no leverage, no single head to cut off. And the names Florence had given were predictable choices; old men with nothing left to prove but everything to avenge. And all of them with fleets still large enough to matter if they struck at once.

“How long have you known?”

“An hour before I came to see you? Maybe less. I tried to reach you almost immediately. It took a lot of convincing for Lieutenant Groves to bring me to you.”

Cutler believed her. Damn her for that, too. Now she wanted to play the hero? What else was this supposed to be? Redemption? A final attempt at penance? The traitor who ran home just in time to warn of the fire she helped ignite?

He opened his mouth to tell her just how little it changed. But the words caught somewhere between fury and something far harder to name.

Then came the shouting. Muffled at first, then louder and sharper. The clatter of boots in the corridor. Voices barking orders. The fort was stirring.

Cutler turned his head toward the sound just as the first deep thud reverberated through the floor. Cannon fire – but not from the sea. Their own guns. A preemptive volley.

Good. Someone had the sense to act without waiting for his orders.

Seconds later came the reply; a slower, deeper boom from beyond the fort’s walls. Enemy fire. It sounded like they were testing range. A second blast followed, closer. 

The room seemed to narrow. His thoughts clicked into order, one after the other.

Where were the ships? How many? Could the tide be used against them?

Cutler’s jaw locked tight. It was a kind of mercy, the way his mind went quiet when duty called. He turned for the door.

“Well,” he said coolly, glancing over his shoulder, “I suppose you weren’t lying after all.” 

He didn’t mean to look at her again, but he did. And for a heartbeat, something faltered. Florence stood perfectly still, as if her body hadn’t caught up to the moment yet.

The attack came so soon. Too soon. Too messy. Now they would have to make do with whatever half-measures he had already set in place. 

“We’ll continue this when this is over.” 

Florence might still die tonight. He hadn’t decided yet whether it mattered.

“Be safe,” she said quietly.

He didn’t answer. He was already moving. The world narrowed to noise and motion — and the clean, cold work of war.

Cutler remembered only fragments: shouted orders, the deafening blast of cannons, the young ensign nearly colliding with him in the rush and saluting hastily before vanishing into the noise. There would be time for sentiment later. If they survived the night.

Chapter Text

Why would you play it all on somethin' as hollow as trust?

What if you gave it all to find that it wasn't enough? 

What if under the gaze of 'em, you come short when the goin' gets rough?

Hozier, Why Would You Be Loved

~*~

So the attack had come. But it hadn’t succeeded. Not fully. Cutler’s preparations had bought them the edge. A few enemy ships driven off. A couple destroyed. Prisoners taken. A cost in blood, but not collapse. He did not yet know how many have died. The eastern battery had taken the worst of it. His men were still busy putting out fires in town. But Cutler was still alive. 

It ought to have satisfied him. It ought to have been enough. But satisfaction was a luxury he could no longer afford. No cheers and most certainly no celebration. There was only silence, and the smell of smoke still clinging to the air. To his garments. The echoes of cannon fire still ghosting through his skull.

Cutler locked the door behind him. The bolt slid into place. The room was his, and nothing in it could betray him — unless his own thoughts did. He didn’t bother with the candles at first. Moonlight bled faintly through the narrow windows. It would suffice.

His justacorps came off stiffly, like it resisted him. He draped it over the nearest chair and made his way towards the cabinet, fingers reaching immediately for the decanter he had ordered to be placed here earlier that day. He needed a drink. Needed to let go. And then, perhaps, he could think clearly again.

He had believed she loved him. He had believed— 

The glass filled to the rim with brandy. He drank half of it in one single, greedy motion. The brandy hit his stomach immediately. It burned, but not nearly enough. He hadn’t eaten in hours. It sent a ripple of warmth through his limbs that did nothing to soothe him.

He didn’t sit. Pacing helped. One measured step after another, a tight circuit around the room. He ignored the ache behind his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the rising heat in his throat.

The walls should have made him feel safe and secure from any threat. Instead, they pressed in. Too close and quiet. He swallowed. His tongue tasted bitter. The loosened cravat, the discarded wig – they offered no real relief. The silence was oppressive. It gave his thoughts too much space to breathe. 

She would have just let him die. That had been the plan. Her plan, no less. He scoffed aloud. “Look at you,” she’d said. As if she mourned him before he’d died. As if she of all people had any right to judge his actions. 

He passed the mirror above the fireplace once. Then again. The third time, he stopped. 

This was petty. But even pettier not to look. So he did.

The surface was slightly warped. Imperfect, like everything in this godforsaken colony. A ripple in the glass bent the reflection at his temples, made the shadows under his eyes look deeper than they were. Or perhaps they were that deep. Cutler looked older than he remembered. Not in years, but in wear. Like the weight of everything had finally taken its toll. A faint smear of soot streaked one cheek. He wiped it away.

And for a moment, he tried to see what she had seen. Look at you, she had said. Like it was pity – or worse, horror. But he didn’t see anything else than the man he had always been, more disillusioned perhaps, but all the more determined to succeed.  

She had always spoken as though she thought there were choices. As though the world could be ruled by softness and sentiment. As though kindness had ever kept the gates from burning.

Cutler stared at himself a moment longer. Took in the pallor, the stillness, the faint tremor in one hand. Then he scoffed again. And stepped away. Why couldn’t he order his own thoughts into silence?

He finished his glass. Then he poured another. Slower this time.

Port Royal still stood. That should have been a victory. The town had survived. And all because she’d warned him, and he’d reacted accordingly. If she hadn’t said anything, the first volley might have come while he’d have slept. Unprepared. It would have been over before it began.

His mouth twisted.

How noble of her. After everything else.

How many times had he wondered what she wasn’t telling him? How many times had some half-formed suspicion crawled out of the darkness and taken hold before being dismissed? How many signs had he missed this way? Cutler must have had plenty of chances to see through her smile, her questions, her sleepless nights. How many times had he looked at her and thought he knew her? Even worse, he had trusted her. Utterly. He hadn’t even realised how much until it all collapsed beneath him.

The contents of the second glass disappeared. He didn’t remember draining it. The familiar numbness he was seeking didn’t come. If anything, it made him clumsier, more aware of how unsteady his feet felt beneath him. Another drink. Or was it the same one? The rim was wet in his hand. His grip was wrong. Too tight, or too loose, he couldn’t tell.

He would have to question the prisoners in the morning. Hopefully, Halsey would have the same pleasure in coercion as Mercer once did. He grimaced. There would be blood. And Cutler would have to dictate it all. 

The room tilted slightly as he reached for the desk. His palm hit the edge harder than he intended it to, but the sting felt distant. He stood a moment, looking down at the polished wood. His palms pressed against the surface, bracing him as he bowed his head.

God, he was tired.

He poured a third glass without realising. Not because he wanted it but because he deserved it. The smell turned his stomach a little, but it didn’t stop him from drinking. The alcohol would dull him enough to sleep. And he would need his wits about him for the interrogations tomorrow.

And suddenly it was there, pressing into his chest and crawling up his throat, punishing him.

Grief.

She really would have sold him out. And he’d believed her venomous words, her false affections. Had believed her when she’d said she cared. That she might even love him. 

He shook his head once – hard and angrily. The room lurched in response. But the motion couldn’t knock the pain loose. It only swelled.

Another drink. He tried to swallow it down and almost choked on it. His throat burned, then tightened. His vision blurred. His fingers trembled. The glass clinked against the desk as he set it down.

No. No, no, no.

Cutler pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth in an attempt to stifle it, to shove it back down. But it was too late. The tears welled.

A second later he sat. Not even at the desk, but on the floor. Cutler didn’t remember how he got there. The carpet was soft beneath him. And yet, the ache was still so sharp.

She’d lied. She’d lied the whole time.

He’d built his life on knowing when people lied. Every negotiation, every signature, every order had been built on certainty. But when it had mattered – when it had been her – he hadn’t seen it coming. Not even once. Not even when she’d kept digging about the Perseverance, about the alleged traitor. Had gladly overlooked the warning signs for a shred of affection from her, for scraps of tenderness. Had let himself be distracted by a smile. By a pair of hands, and the suggestion of a future he had wanted too much.

A shared future. How laughable. What a fool he had been. A fool who’d wanted her to love him just enough to stay. Worse, one willing to believe she might.

He dragged in another breath and let it out through his teeth. The sound that slipped out of him was small and pathetic. He clapped his hand over his mouth — partly surprised, partly as though to catch and kill it before it escaped — but another followed. It made his stomach twist. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. He had learnt early on that crying did no good.

Cutler shook his head again. He’d meant to stay composed. Meant to drink, think, and move forward. Like all the times he’d done so before. 

But the grief didn’t care. It kept climbing. It had claws now. Clenching his jaw didn’t help. Digging his fingernails into his palms didn’t either. He didn’t know why he kept trying.

He had let himself grow soft around her. He’d made it so stupidly easy. He had let himself care, and it had nearly killed him.

The tears came quietly. No warning, just heat slipping down his face. He wiped at them once, twice – furious at himself, at his own weakness, as though he could scold his body into behaving. Eventually, he gave up. He let them fall. 

Cutler tried to stay quiet. He really did. But the sobs came jagged and ugly, and they most certainly didn’t ask for permission. No dignity, no order. 

His body curled forward, elbows to knees, head bowed, as if he could compress himself into nothing. The tears ran unchecked now. His chest heaved with every breath. He pressed his sleeve hard against his mouth, bit down on the fabric, anything to stifle the noise. Still, it escaped. Stop it, stop—

There was no stopping it.

Lord Cutler Beckett didn’t cry.

But tonight, he did. And he’d be damned before anyone ever knew.

~*~

Cutler didn’t know how long he stayed there. Only that the silence had started to buzz. The carpet itched. His eyes burned. He wiped his face on a crumpled handkerchief, and dragged himself upright by the desk. Poured himself another drink with a hand that still trembled slightly. It stung going down, but he barely felt it. And underneath it all, his stomach had begun to churn.

Morning couldn’t be far off.

A heartbeat later, he was in the corridor, stumbling over his own feet. His cravat hung loose around his neck. He hadn’t bothered with putting his overcoat back on. Hadn’t thought about his appearance at all. Not until a final corner — and two guards straightened at his appearance. 

Her door. 

He hadn’t meant to come here. Or perhaps he had, somewhere under the liquor and the exhaustion. His feet had carried him here, past logic, past propriety, past every measure he had for himself.

The men blinked at the sight of him – not alarmed, exactly, but uncertain. One of them straightened, visibly uncomfortable with the dishevelled figure in front of him: the eyes too red, the gait too uneven, the waistcoat worn like a borrowed, unfitting thing.

“My lord—” the taller guard began.

Cutler lifted a hand in a clumsy motion. “Spare me.”

He stood there a moment longer, swaying slightly, gaze flicking between their faces and the door behind them. He was acutely aware of the spectacle he presented. But neither man stepped in his way. Not when he moved forward. Not when he reached for the handle. Not when he let himself inside.

That, he supposed, was privilege: the liberty to degrade oneself without interruption. Or perhaps not liberty. Perhaps pity. Or fear. Or silence born of good sense.

It was quiet in her chamber. Not fully dark, the fire had gone low. Cutler stopped just inside the threshold, fingers still curled around the handle, unmoving. Breath too loud. Thoughts too loud. Everything else – still. 

He shouldn’t be here. He should let Florence sleep. Let her pretend she hadn’t ruined him and he hadn’t let her. She deserved no further attention. And yet, he didn’t move. Not for a long time. 

And when he did, it wasn’t with purpose. One step. Then another. A slow, staggering shuffle across the rug until he stood beside the bed.

She looked… untouched. Breathing even and slow, as though nothing had been taken from her at all. One hand tucked beneath her cheek like nothing had ever happened. He hated her for that – for the calm. But not nearly as much as he hated himself.

Cutler didn’t know what he wanted from this. Curse her? Wake her? Ask why?

But even now, in his hollowed out, half-drunken state, part of him still hoped she would stir. Open her eyes and speak his name. Apologise in exactly the satisfying way that didn’t exist. Lie sweetly. Enough to justify the ruin he’d made of himself.

You deluded cur.

He swayed where he stood and reached for the bedpost to steady himself. His hand missed. His fingers slid against the carved wood before catching clumsily. He squeezed his eyes shut. Just for a second. Not from the dizziness he felt. From shame.

What the hell do you think you’re doing? 

The question bloomed too late. 

He didn’t know what he would do if she woke up and saw him in this state. And so he turned, careful not to stumble this time, and left. The guards didn’t speak when he passed them again. One looked at the floor, the other at the wall. And still, they obeyed him. Still, they feared him. As if he were worth fearing. As if he were still a man to respect and not the sodden, witless wreck who had nearly gambled everything on a lie.

Cutler barely made it to his quarters before it happened. The nausea had been coiling low for some time, but now it surged. He staggered a few more steps before retching into the chamber pot.

His knees hit the floor. Hard. A grunt pushed out of him, and he caught himself on one forearm, his head hanging as the world tipped. For a moment, his mind went blessedly silent. Then, a violent spasm went through him. It left him retching bile and brandy until his throat was raw. For a man who had commanded ships and cities, the indignity of it — hunched and heaving like a common drunk — was just another tally on a growing list.

He gagged again, dry this time, and his vision blurred.

When it was over, he stayed there. Breath ragged, face damp. He wiped his mouth with shaking hands. Sat back against the wall, too dizzy to move. The taste lingered. He didn’t have the strength to cry again this time. No witnesses. That, at least, was something.

Eventually, he reached for the decanter again. Perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of punishment. It didn’t matter which. He poured what little was left and drank it down like medicine. 

Dawn was beginning to break in soft grey slivers. And the world insisted on turning.

Chapter Text

Honey, I want to race you to the table

If you hesitate, the gettin' is gone

I won't lie, if there's somethin' to be gained

There's money to be made, whatever is still to come

Get some

Pull up the ladder when the flood comes

Throw enough rope until the legs have swung

Seven new ways that you can eat your young

Hozier, Eat Your Young

~*~

To say it was unlike him to appear only around midday was an understatement. Lord Cutler Beckett did not rise late. He did not delay meetings. He did not leave unfinished business to fester. And yet today, he had done all three.

When he finally summoned his highest-ranking officials to discuss last night’s assault, it was nearly noon. The light through the window was merciless. The faint red sting around his eyes hadn’t quite faded, nor had the weight behind them. If anything, the headache had grown worse. 

The officers filed into his makeshift study in Fort Charles, stiff-backed, formal. Cutler didn’t look up at first. He pretended to be too occupied with the paperwork in front of him. In truth, the words swam in his vision. But the work had to go on.

“Report,” he said without lifting his eyes.

The men shifted. Admiral Pyne cleared his throat. "Losses stand at twelve dead, twenty-nine wounded."

As he continued his report, careful whispers fluttered among the men. Cutler caught only fragments over the pulsating throb at his temples; word here, a name there. But it was enough to tell him someone had spoken out of turn. A guard, perhaps, or someone else who had glimpsed him last night. He raised his head just enough for them to see his eyes, cold and sharp, then returned to his papers as though they were beneath notice. Let them wonder whether he’d heard. Let them fear he had.

A beat of silence followed.

Pyne pressed on, "There was a breach toward the manor. Isolated, handled before they could do real harm."

There would have been more, Cutler realised, if she hadn’t warned him. And there might not have been enough men to stop them from breaching the house. And if he had been there… perhaps he would not have made it out alive.

The thought curdled. What would Port Royal have become with his blood on the floorboards? What would London say of a man too blind to see betrayal when it lived under his own roof?

Reports droned on. He nodded once, twice, though the words blurred together.

Prisoners had been taken last night. Most were low-level; their interrogations could wait. But the valuable ones required a delicate touch. The first mate of Capitaine Chevalle had been dragged half-dead from the wreckage, and Cutler would bleed him for answers if he had to. Not this morning, though. He didn’t trust his voice yet. 

Mercer could have handled it, once. But Mercer was gone. And Halsey would need guidance, at least at first. A more deliberate hand. He was due to arrive by evening, and Cutler would have to walk him through the next steps.

The pirates would strike again. Of that, Cutler had no doubt. And until they did, progress would need to be made. Statements issued. Order preserved. A sense of control maintained. He couldn’t do it all. Not while his hands still trembled beneath the desk, where no one could see.

When the men were dismissed and the room emptied, he allowed himself to sink further into the chair. It felt wrong. Too stiff and uptight. He blinked against the light and took a sheet of paper. Forced his hand to hold the quill. The line it drew was jagged. He pressed harder, steadier, until it held.

He was working again. That was what mattered. Today, survival would have to suffice.

~*~

The sun set, rose, and set again. And still, he hadn’t gone back to her. He’d neatly folded the problem in the back of his mind. There were more pressing matters. Reports, meetings, casualties. Things he could solve. Things that didn’t look at him like that.

But now, there was a moment, a brief lull between the meetings and reports, and his thoughts drifted unwillingly. A man in his position ought to act. To deliver justice. To cleanse the rot before it could spread. But this wasn’t just any rot. This was Florence.

He rose from his desk before he could spare the thoughts further breath. A visit to the cells in the fort’s belly was due.

The stench of mildew, piss and sweat clung to the place like a second skin. It was enough to turn most men’s stomachs. But Cutler had long since taught himself to breathe through it.

Cutler placed his hopes in Leclère, Chevalle's first mate. If the man had even an ounce of strategic intelligence, he’d know something. And if he knew something, he would talk. Halsey would see to that. There was no room left for mercy. Only results.

It was only a matter of time before London demanded them – this time with fewer pleasantries. And Cutler’s life, his title, everything, depended on having something to show for all the losses already made.

The man called Leclère slumped in a chair beneath the torchlight, the left eye already swollen shut. The right one flicked up when the door to his cell opened. He reeked of fear, though he still sat like a man clinging to the last splinters of pride.

Cutler stepped in without hurry. The heels of his boots clicked once on the stone. Then silence. 

The bandages on the pirate’s leg told him everything he needed to know: the gunshot wound had been treated just enough to keep him from bleeding out, but little else. His trousers were stained, his shirt torn. Dirt clung to his hair and streaked his skin. He’d only been conscious for a day. And yet, he still had enough arrogance left in him. Cutler hadn’t expected anything less from a Frenchman.

Leclère lifted his head slowly, the motion clearly causing him pain. It would only get worse, unless he gave the answers Cutler needed. He produced a small flask from his justacorps’ pocket and held it out. The pirate eyed it warily.

“Wine,” Cutler offered. “To ease the pain.”

The man stared back like it was poison.

Cutler took a sip, then set it aside. “Suit yourself.” The wine was warm and thin. Not worth drinking it himself, but perfectly fine to offer as a final mercy.

Next to the door, a chair waited for Cutler. He sat and folded his hands in his lap.

“A shame, really,” he began. “A ship like The Fancy reduced to nothing but splinters. So many lives wasted. Tell me, was it worth it?”

No answer. Just the wheeze of shallow breath through a swollen nose. Not that he had expected one. Pirates rarely admitted regret. Except perhaps for—well.

He pushed the thought aside and added, “We’ll keep this brief, if you cooperate.”

As if on cue, Halsey entered, with two buckets and a folded length of linen. The pirate stiffened when he saw them, his bravado flickering for the first time.

Cutler allowed himself a thin smile and let the silence stretch. The water sloshed softly as Halsey set it down beside the chair. They always played these little games until resistance cracked. It was a dreadfully tedious business, albeit necessary. And sooner or later, all men broke.

“How do they plan to strike next?” He turned his gaze to the stone wall behind the man in the same nonchalant way he might regard a clock ticking, indifferent to the hours passing. Let him feel the futility of his position. Perhaps a moment of rest awaited Cutler once the prisoner bent to necessity, or the day waned.

“What? Can’t even look at me, monsieur? Hide behind your dogs and let them do your work for you, eh?” the pirate sneered with a heavy French accent.

Cutler’s jaw ticked. “I’d hoped we might talk as gentlemen, but I see we’re well beyond that.” He met the man’s gaze. Calm, and determined to snuff out the false bravado, he stood. "When a man drowns, he feels it first in his chest. The panic, the burning ache. Your limbs fight, your lungs demand, your mind pleads. But the water will not yield. It does not care for courage. It does not care for pride."

Halsey unfolded the linen, and dunked it once. Water streamed from it in thick rivulets.

Mercer would have said something, would have indulged Cutler. There had been a certain elegance in that. A finesse Halsey lacked. But what he lacked in poetry, he made up for in steadiness, and that was all Cutler truly required.

He stopped in front of the pirate, “You’re a clever man, I can tell. You know how the world works. Tell us what we want, and I promise you’ll never have to feel it.”

“Go to hell,” Leclère spat.

Already there, Cutler thought. So many things had gone past the point of return lately. He could add one more. He stepped forward, glancing down at Leclère’s shackled arms. The restraints had already cut deep into his wrists, leaving the skin raw.

“I’m sorry we have to do this,” Cutler said mildly, then kicked the chair.

Leclère went down with a heavy thud, the chair clattering, his head hitting the straw-covered floor with a muffled curse. He groaned, coughing once as dust swirled up around him. 

“Putain de salaud—!” The chains rattled as the pirate writhed and strained against the shackles. He managed a rasping laugh through clenched teeth.

“I have had a rather difficult few days,” Cutler spoke over him. “And I would very much like to hurt someone for it. You see, talking would be the best way for you to avoid a great deal of discomfort.”

Leclère’s glare held, but a tremor had worked its way into his jaw.

“Very well. Mr Halsey, please remind our guest of the benefits of cooperation.”

Without needing instruction, Halsey grabbed the already-soaked linen from where it hung beside the bucket, then tipped the floating tin jug upright and filled it.

As he worked, preparing the soaked cloth over the pirate’s face, Cutler offered, almost conversationally, “Did you know the Dutch employed this method rather liberally in the East Indies? A simple idea, really.” He paused. “And yet so very effective.”

Halsey straddled the pirate, pinning him down with the weight of a man who’d done this before, and finally reached for the jug. Water began to pour in a steady stream. Leclère's false courage wavered, sputtering as saltwater filled his throat, but he forced it back up with a coughing chuckle. But soon, the pirate started to convulse, choking hard, curses dissolving into guttural sounds that weren’t quite words. He twisted against the chair. The cloth clung to his mouth, his nose, pressed tighter with every desperate inhale.

When Halsey pulled back to refill the jug, Leclère’s breath rattled out in heaves. He spat, then rasped, “Bâtards—you think—I’ll—break—”

Cutler said nothing. He simply watched. Calm. Remote. As if this were a far-off thunderstorm. He wouldn't ever allow the pity in. Not for a pirate.

The jug tipped again, and breath turned into panic.

The pirate jerked. The room filled with the wet, strangled noise of a man trying to scream and breathe and choke all at once. His heels scraped the stone. One knee came up in a violent spasm.

Twenty seconds, then thirty. Halsey kept the flow constant. 

The body jolted once more — and sagged. Halsey pulled the cloth back slightly. Leclère sucked in a breath so sharp it scraped against the silence. His chest heaved.

“Your captain is dead. There’s no one left to save you. No cause left to martyr yourself for.” Cutler leaned in, and lowered his voice. Not soft, never that, but coaxing. Almost kind. “Tell me, who is involved? What are their plans? Where are the ships?”

No reponse. And so they continued.

Leclère’s heels kicked again, but slower this time. He turned his head weakly, gagging, his body betraying him more with every passing second.

When Halsey stopped, Cutler said, "I’ll see you tended to. Bandages, broth. You’ll even sleep in a bed tonight. But only if you tell me something worth my time. Shall we test your memory again?"

The prisoner sobbed. It was a broken noise that might’ve been a laugh. “Je—je sais rien—”

Why did they always insist on dragging it out like this? It wasn’t just a waste of time; it was a waste of effort. Cutler wasn’t here to play games. He was here to win a war.

“I think you do,” Cutler replied. “What of the remaining Lords?”

No answer.

“Again,” he ordered.

And they continued, granting the pirate only the short moments of respite it took Halsey to refill the buckets with fresh water. And eventually, Cutler stopped hearing the screams. They were just sound. Just another echo in the stone. Each time, the struggle grew weaker. The pauses between breaths longer.

Sometimes, delegated violence was the only language left. And if there was something else bleeding out through the cracks – some grief or buried humiliation – it was no one’s business but his own. That was what he told himself as his gaze snagged on the pale pink puddle by the pirate’s head. Told himself this wasn’t about the ache still blooming behind his ribs. It was only necessary.

When Halsey lifted the cloth again, the man retched violently. Water and bile bubbled from his mouth, trickling down the side of his face to gather in a foul little pool beneath his head.

“Up,” Cutler said dispassionately. “Can’t have him dying yet, can we?”

Halsey muttered something under his breath, then stepped behind the toppled chair. With a grunt, he hauled it upright. The chains clattered as the pirate sagged in the frame, a line of drool trailing from his mouth. His nose had begun to bleed.

Leclère’s eyes were open, but unfocused. His chest hitched in shallow, irregular breaths. One leg twitched uncontrollably, nerves still misfiring.

“Arrêtez! Stop! I’ll talk, I’ll talk—just—merde—please—!”

Cutler’s shoes narrowly missed the darkening stain on the floor as he stepped closer. The pirate had soiled himself. He had tried so hard, clung to that last thread of pride, and now he was nothing but a trembling, shamed shell.

“Then talk.”

Leclère choked on a string of syllables that never formed into sense, his jaw working soundlessly as if the words were there but had drowned in his throat. The promise of speech crumbled into nothing more than a shuddering whimper.

Cutler watched, waiting, as though sheer patience might wring something useful from the ruin in front of him. A minute passed. Then another. The man wept, clung to the ropes binding him, and mumbled nonsense. Nothing coherent came, not a scrap of direction or name, not even the courage of a lie.

It was no use. Perhaps he didn’t know. Perhaps he'd never known more than headings and sail changes. Perhaps Cutler had gambled too much on him. Or the pirate was simply too stubborn to break in a single day. Some of them were.

At last, Cutler let out a slow breath. “Try again tomorrow,” he said flatly. “Maybe he’ll find his memory in the night.”

Halsey grunted his acknowledgement, and began to clean up. Efficiently, completely unbothered. Cutler’s decision to hire him had proved sound.

He turned and stepped around the puddles on the floor. The air reeked of vomit and piss. He didn’t blink. Didn’t gag. He simply walked out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Chapter Text

Florence wondered if he’d decided to let her rot in this damned chamber. It had been days since the attack. Food arrived twice a day, always the same: bread, broth, silence. A reminder that someone out there remembered she was alive, but not enough to see her. The guards refused to speak to her, blaming it on protocol. Cowards, every one of them.

Death didn't frighten her. The waiting did. The not-knowing what was to come. The cruelty of inaction.

The gallows had gone up last night. She’d glimpsed the scaffolding once, angled through her narrow window. Once was enough. The muffled roll of drums at dawn told her all she needed to know.

She didn’t know if she'd be next. But she hadn’t asked, either.

She was a traitor no matter which way she turned. To them. To him. To herself. And worst of all: she’d do it again. Not because she believed in him. Not because he deserved it. And still, she had walked into that office, knowing it would cost her everything.

She’d made peace with being a traitor. What unsettled her was the reason. If it had only been strategy, she could have lived with it. If it had been vengeance, or fear, or the simplest need to survive – fine. But it wasn’t any of those things.

It was him. Only him.

And that was a truth she couldn’t spin into something noble.

~*~

That night, for the first time in three days, he slept without drinking. The dream came quickly. Ugly laughter in the corridor, distant, mocking. Her hands around him, steadying, holding. No face in the dark, only her voice, broken and wet. It might have been his name. It might have been an apology.

He knew what followed. Cold metal at his throat.

And then the warmth rushing down his collar, soaking hot into his skin. No pain, only heat — and her arms catching him as the ground dropped away. For a moment, falling felt like being held. Fingers brushed his cheek as though to comfort him.

And then—nothing.

Cutler woke with a start, lungs dragging in air too fast. The sheets clung damp to his legs. His hand went to his throat, certain to find it wet, bloodied. A lesser man might have taken it for a warning. He did not believe in such things.

It was still dark. Just the earliest thread of dawn was beginning to climb through the shutters. He did not sleep again.

By morning, he could no longer pretend time would make the decision for him. The dream clung as he shaved, half-expecting to feel the heat again, the spill of her breath — or her blade. When he knotted his cravat, he drew it too tight, as though cloth could guard where flesh had already betrayed him in sleep.

The hangings had begun at dawn. Thirty-four men, the first crop from the night of the attack. It was easy to pretend not to hear them when he was in his study. Had she managed it? Had she perhaps even watched out of some cruel urge to punish herself?

The corridors seemed endless until he reached her chamber. He entered without ceremony.

For the briefest moment, Cutler's eyes caught on her: not Florence, but the dream-double, the woman who had steadied him only to cut him down. The likeness made his stomach turn, and he wrenched his gaze away at once. Better not to look at her. Better to pretend she was only another name on a list, another liability waiting to be struck off.

He studied anything else instead: the floorboards, the pale wall, anything but the chair where she waited. If he could keep his gaze fixed away, perhaps he might even believe his own indifference.

“Three days,” he said quietly, measuring the grain of the floor with his eyes. “I thought time might bring… clarity.”

But her silence stretched, and he could feel it pressing at him, heavier with each heartbeat. He hated that he was waiting for her to fill it, to cut through with some sharp phrase he could wrap his head around.

What, no wit left in you? Nothing sharp to spend me?

The thought sat bitter on his tongue. He swallowed it. She gave him nothing; no plea, no retort, only the quiet of someone already past begging. That, somehow, stung worse.

He resisted a moment longer, forcing himself to look anywhere else, but the pressure of her stillness finally made his eyes wander, and then linger.

Pride clung to her still, though thinner now, until it looked like defiance worn to rags.

No maid had been sent to her. She hadn’t even asked for a brush, not that he would have sent one. Her hair was pinned back with the clumsy precision of someone who had done it without a mirror, loose strands curling untidily around her cheeks. Her eyes were shadowed. She looked like a woman who had held herself together out of nothing but stubborn will.

Florence neither spoke nor rose. She simply looked at him with this maddening blankness. But he saw the tension under it, the fear she meant to bury.

He meant to say nothing more, but the silence pressed, and before he could stop himself, he added, “Tell me—what am I to do with you?”

The words hung there, too raw, too revealing. He almost wished he could snatch them back.

“You hate it, don’t you? Wanting me still. That’s why you can't let go.”

The smirk that flitted across her lips was barely perceptible, but it struck him nonetheless. Even worse than the truth of it was that she knew. Knew exactly where to aim. She'd always been particularly good at that.

The cleanest solution would’ve been to hand her over to Halsey and be done with it. A quiet execution behind a closed door. Let it be impersonal and clinical. No questions, no lingering consequences. She had made her choice. Let her pay for it. But she hadn’t, had she?

And that was the unbearable part — not that she’d betrayed him, but that he still wanted to find a reason not to let her go. That she might still be of use. And even if she weren’t, he might keep her around anyway. That, above all, was intolerable.

He hated how little of this he understood. Hated that his certainty had been reduced to this knot of longing and fury and something too bitter to name.

“You presume far too much.” It came out too sharp, but he didn't temper it. “You’re nothing but another liability I haven’t yet disposed of.”

Florence flinched — not much, just the barest flicker across her face — but he saw it, and almost felt it in his own ribs. Then she steadied again, chin lifting by sheer will. Good. Let her believe his words. Perhaps then he could, too.

“Then why grace me with the favour of your company, my lord? Surely you have better ways to waste your time.”

Cutler pressed his lips together. Once, that sharpness of hers had been a spark he encouraged. Now it stripped him bare. She still read him too easily, still found the exact seams of his composure to pry open, still dared to laugh at the man holding her fate in his hands.

He could have walked away. Could have let Halsey sort it all out, pass along a sentence from a safe distance. Perhaps he should have. But no, here he was. Still orbiting the fire that had already scorched him.

“Did you come to speak a sentence?” she added. “It's not that hard, is it? You’ve given the word for others often enough.”

He drew himself straighter, forcing the mask back on. “If I meant only to sentence you, I would not be here myself.”

She lifted her chin. “So you came to weigh my use.”

Another pause.

“Is it just you? Or have my ranks been riddled with pirate spies?”

“Only me, as far as I know.”

“You were good at it,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

He didn’t clarify what it meant. For him, it meant everything, for her—well. How was he supposed to know? He wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

Her gaze dropped briefly to his hands, fingers clenched and pale at his sides. When she looked back up, her voice was almost gentle, almost mocking. “You look tired.”

He laughed. Once. Without humour. “Sleep has been…difficult.”

“I imagine it would be.” 

The silence that followed was thick and full of things he wanted to say. But he couldn't bring himself to it, and almost turned to leave.

Then Florence rose. The scrape of the chair legs seemed louder than it should have been. “You want to make use of me? Then do it. I’ll prove where I stand.” Her eyes searched his, wanting to move toward him, yet stopping short.

“How so?” Surely, this was just another one of her tricks. Dream or no dream, he could not trust her. And yet, here he was.

“The Siren’s Lament didn’t go down in the attack, did she?”

Cutler shook his head slowly. The name rang faintly in his memory, but he hadn’t seen it in any reports. Was it a guess? Or something more?

Florence hesitated. “I might know where she’s anchoring. Captain Falmouth could provide you with intel. He’s been serving as our intermediary.”

Falmouth. The pirate who had orchestrated the hostage negotiation that had started everything. The lie that had unfolded like theatre, and with himself as its most willing audience.

And for a flickering second, he hated that she knew he would consider it. That loyalty could still be offered. That he might still want it.

“If you do it the right way,” she pressed, “and ensure no one from the crew escapes to warn the others, you might catch them all unaware. You could end the war in one stroke. The pirate lords won’t see it coming until it’s too late. If Falmouth talks.”

Cutler stared. Silent. Unblinking.

She had been locked in this room for days — no comfort, no promises, not even the certainty she’d live another sunrise — and yet she was still calculating odds, still playing the angles. Despite himself, a flicker of something rose in his chest. Hope, or hunger perhaps. This was the moment he had been waiting for: a crack, a lead, a solution. And yet—

“You expect me to believe you’d give that up so freely?”

Florence had never hidden her contempt for his methods, and the lengths he was willing to go. And now she offered him the very thing his methods demanded most. Even if she meant it, he could not trust her. Even if she didn’t, he still wanted to.

“It’s either us or them. The pirates are winning, and the Company is losing ground. I’m trying to save my own skin, and the best way is to ensure the pirates are defeated, and you remain the most powerful man in the West Indies." She gave the barest shrug. “I’ve betrayed them before. Twice now. Why stop if I could make a habit out of it?”

She wasn’t apologising. She wasn’t asking for forgiveness. What she was doing, he realised, was surviving. Finding leverage in the middle of ruin. And being brilliant at it.

A cold smile barely formed on his lips. “What are your terms?”

“Don’t let them suffer. And spare Elizabeth and her crew.” A breath. “And Jack and the Pearl. Whatever fool’s errand he’s chasing now.”

He considered her request. So those were the soft lines. Even now, there were people she wouldn’t give up.

“Fine.” The word cost him nothing. Cutler could always renege later.

She didn’t thank him. Whether out of pride or because she knew better than to trust his word, he couldn’t say.

“Wait here,” he said. Then he turned on his heel and left, the door clicking shut behind him. The guards outside received a short nod. Not the same ones from the night she had been brought in. These men didn’t look at him with questions in their eyes.

It was procedure, he told himself. Quicker to retrieve the chart himself than summon a servant. But really, he just needed the briefest distance from her offer, from the weight of what it meant, and from the ugly fact of how much he already wanted to act on it.

The command room was cooler, but no less heavy. A silence clung to the walls, pressing down as he crossed to the table. The coastal charts lay waiting. He lifted one, his hands steady though his stomach was not.

This could be another bluff. Another rope she’d knotted just long enough for him to hang himself. But what other choice did he have? Wait for the pirates to strike again? Let the Company be dismantled piece by piece while he remembered a foolish dream and listened to fear? Go down in history not as its architect, but as its greatest embarrassment?

When he returned, Cutler crossed to the table and spread the map across the scarred wood. Weighed the corners down with whatever was at hand: a dented pewter mug, a spoon from the neglected tray by the wall, a candlestick.

“Show me.” 

She slowly stepped closer, like she wasn’t sure how near she was allowed to come. The Florence he knew had never asked permission for closeness. This one did.

But she didn’t hesitate further. She pointed to a spot west of Port Royal. Cutler didn’t speak, didn’t so much as blink. He merely leaned in, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers, and studied the map.

“There,” she said. “Falmouth’s been anchoring here. He rotates every few days, but always stays close to this arc. Too many cross-currents elsewhere.”

Cutler followed the line of her finger and found himself studying the coastline. It wasn’t too far away from town. Just far enough to avoid patrols, hidden in plain sight.

Florence swallowed. Her finger trembled before she stilled it against the parchment. “She’s a brigantine. Crew of forty, maybe. Ten guns, perhaps twelve. Small enough to hide, but well-equipped.”

Her voice had taken on a detached, clipped tone. As though she could distance herself from the facts and make her betrayal less real.

Warmth was radiating off her. The last time she’d stood this close, every word had been a lie. Now she offered truths he wanted too much to believe. Cutler looked up. Met her eyes. Saw the fear and shame in her expression.

“Do they know you’re still alive?” he asked quietly.

Florence hesitated. “Not sure. They might think I ran. Or that I bartered my soul for your bed.”

She cleared her throat and smoothed her palm over the map. “There’s an abandoned smuggler’s cove here. He might hole up there if the weather turns.”

“We’ll confirm it with a scout. If it's as you claim, I’ll give the order.”

He glanced toward the window, calculating. Reinforcements from Saint Michael could arrive within days, if the Admiralty had honoured his urgency. If the seas cooperated.

“And if she’s not to be found?” she asked, not looking up.

“Then we’ll keep searching. And you’ll have wasted your last chance to matter.” The conviction behind his words was not as firm as he wanted. He reached for the quill and marked the map, careful not to meet her gaze, careful not to give her the chance to see the hesitation behind them.

And yet, for all his distrust, he felt that small, traitorous flicker again. Hope that she was telling the truth. That she might finally be choosing him. Even if not out of affection, but because it was the clever choice.

Cutler took a step back and rolled up the map. “You’ll stay here until it’s finished. After that—well. I’ll decide.”

Florence nodded once. No relief showed on her face. Only the faintest tension left her shoulders like she hadn’t yet decided whether she’d made the right choice or whether she’d regret it forever.

Chapter Text

Starin' at your own reflection
Thinkin' of the things that you've done
You're hopin' for a change of direction
Or maybe just a place in the sun
All the things you'd do
All the things you'd say
Never dull the pain, the price of redemption

She Wants Revenge, Big Love

~*~

It almost felt as if Fortuna were on his side again, though Cutler would never grant her the satisfaction. It was calculation, not chance, that brought him here.

The scout had returned just after dawn, half-mad with sea spray and urgency, confirming what he had scarcely dared hope: the Siren’s Lament was real, and anchored in a secluded cove. Better still, three ships had arrived from Saint Michael shortly before noon — fresh men, dry powder; enough to finish what had begun months ago. If every day that followed looked like this one, Cutler had no doubt he’d crush the last vestiges of pirate resistance before the new year. Perhaps even sooner.

The orders had been given swiftly and with precision. They would strike under the cover of darkness. No cannons, no herald, just grapples, blades, and silence. It would be a clean operation. His men would storm the Lament, kill those who resisted, and take the captain and the rest. No survivors if they couldn’t be silenced. He wanted no tales slipping back to the Brethren Court.

It was, at last, the beginning of the end. 

And yet, when dusk fell and the final preparations were underway, Cutler didn’t remain in the command room. He did not stand on the battlements, did not pace or watch the horizon. Instead, he found himself in front of her chamber door again.

Perhaps it was the quiet of his own lodgings, perhaps the silent urge to mark the night with something else. Or perhaps he simply wanted to see her face again, despite everything. Or exactly because of it.

Inside, the chamber was as he’d left it. Florence sat on the floor beside the window, arms wrapped around her knees. In the dying light, she looked like a shadow. A wisp of an apparition. She didn’t look up when he stepped in. Only glanced sideways, then returned her gaze to the window. It was as though his presence didn’t change a thing.

Moments later, a servant entered behind him, carrying a tray. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t look at him, either. He simply laid the tablecloth across the small table by the small window, set two plates, poured the wine. All without a word, nor a glance. When he was done, he bowed low and excused himself.

As soon as he was gone and the door clicked shut behind him, Florence spoke.

“What’s this?”

Cutler removed his gloves and set them aside with careful precision. “We’re having supper. Unless you’ve grown fond of the solitude.”

She watched him, waiting. “I can see that. Why?” Her voice was flat; a question posed by someone who had already decided the answer.

He saw then what she expected. The table laid, the candlelight, the wine poured — a last evening, a small courtesy before the writ was signed.

“It’s not your last meal,” he said, and regretted it instantly. The words were dry, tossed out with too much detachment. His voice softened slightly. “If that’s what you’re wondering.” 

He reached for the second glass and held it out to her, but she didn’t take it, so he set it down again. Instead, she studied the table. The wine. The folded napkin. The ridiculous civility of it all. 

“Why are you doing this?”

Why indeed? He could have said any number of things and none would have been wholly true. To remind her that he still decided whether she starved or dined? To prove to himself he could still afford magnanimity? Or that it was just fatigue, the simple desire not to eat alone? Not her company — he wouldn’t flatter her with that — but a body across the table, someone to fill the silence.

Instead, he said the practical thing, “Your information was accurate. We move tonight.”

She exhaled shakily. “So that’s it. The game is on again.” 

He could have cut her off — ‘this is no mere game; it’s war’ — but the phrase fit the performance in the room: the politeness, the actors in place. So he let it stand. “It is,” he said. “If that’s easier to name, then call it a game. We still win or lose the same.”

Still, Florence didn’t get up. So he sat. He pulled out a chair with the faint scrape of wood on stone and took his place with perfect posture, as though nothing about the evening were unusual.

“Sit.”

“What if I don’t?”

Who had they become, that she had to ask that? Who had they become, that he felt the need to demand it?

“Then I’ll have this all to myself.” He took a sip of wine to swallow down the irritation. Cutler hadn’t expected gratitude. He had told himself he wanted her steady enough to speak plainly, strong enough to be useful. But some smaller, treacherous part of him had hoped she might recognise this as more than provision. As a chance, however slight, to pretend they weren’t gaoler and prisoner. He quashed the thought as quickly as it surfaced. “Suit yourself.”

Without a word, Florence rose, unfolding her legs, and stepped toward the table. Her features had gone curiously blank. She no longer moved with the confidence he knew. This was not the Florence he’d grown accustomed to, but a woman with nothing left to lose.

She lowered herself into the chair across from him. Florence didn’t touch her wine. Didn’t reach for the cutlery. She only looked at him, as if weighing whether he was mocking her or whether this strange civility was genuine.

He raised the first bite to his lips. The lamb was overdone, dry, under-seasoned. Hardly worth the trouble, but it would do. He ate with the slow, deliberate pace of a man long accustomed to dining alone.

Florence hadn’t moved. She was simply staring, transfixed. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but she had lost weight. The cut of her jaw was more severe. Her collarbone jutted too starkly beneath the fabric of her dress. The fatigue clung to her like a second skin.

“Eat.”

When she didn’t, he tried again, gentler, “Florence, eat. While it’s still warm.”

Whether it was the words or simply the sound of his voice, she reached for the glass at last. She sipped, carefully, as though the wine itself might be poisoned.

“I was right. You’ve said so yourself. I’ve given you what you needed. So—what happens now?” she asked.

The unspoken question — have I earned my freedom? — hung in the air. There was something raw in her gaze, a demand for clarity he had no wish to give.

Cutler wiped his mouth. “Your usefulness doesn’t end with a single report. You may still be of service. During an interrogation, for instance. You might have a perspective my officers lack. It would be foolish not to make use of it.”

Her eyes lingered on him, expectant. She had been asking for an answer. What he had given her was a delay.

Still, she picked up her cutlery.

They ate in silence for a while. It felt almost civil or normal. If one ignored the guards stationed in front of the door — or the history between them. Cutler watched her over the rim of his glass; the way she moved, how she chewed with deliberation, like food tasted foreign to her. Florence looked away, toward the window. Distant voices called out across the ramparts, but the room itself felt far removed from the world.

He caught himself wanting to speak, to ask some absurdity about the wine, or whether she had eaten enough. He silenced the impulse with another sip.

“I thought you’d want to see it with your own eyes,” Florence said after a while.

“What?”

“The victory. You’ve been chasing it for so long.”

He exhaled through his nose, then leaned back slightly in his chair.

What would have been there to see? Nothing worth remembering. Men tumbling into the sea, cut down without ceremony. Screams swallowed by waves. The pirate captain dragged in chains. Victory was a matter of record, not spectacle. Watching it would not change the outcome.

And yet, the thought of watching it happen unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Too much could go wrong. Too much could be seen. Better to remain here, inside stone walls.

He only offered, “It is merely the beginning.”

~*~

Cutler told himself it was a meaningless courtesy. 

The dresses were ones she’d worn during her stay at the manor, simply retrieved and pressed. Nothing new. Nothing extravagant. Just… familiar. The books were of no great literary value – a few naval histories, a weathered volume of Dryden, and something florid with a cracked spine that might’ve passed for poetry. The fort’s meagre library didn’t have much more to offer.

It had nothing to do with the way she’d looked the other night, but everything to do with utility. A sharp mind dulled by isolation would be of little use. And Lord Cutler Beckett didn’t squander resources.

The work outside her chamber proved that. Some nautical miles farther west, the net had closed the previous night. No pirates had escaped the trap. Now, Cutler's best chance of prying open the whole confederacy sat behind bars. The other prisoners taken over the months had been irritatingly useless. Falmouth would not be. He would break, and when he did, the rest of them would topple like chessmen.

When he arrived in Florence's chamber again in the evening, she was already seated, her posture straighter, eyes sharper. Her hair was clean and pinned back, and she wore the cream floral gown she’d worn the day he’d—no, this wasn’t the time and place to think about this. Still, he noted the changes with a satisfied curl of the lips. 

There was something about the way she lifted her chin, composed but not defiant, that reminded him of Florence before all of this. Not the traitor. Not the prisoner. Just… her. A foolish thing to notice — and yet he noticed all the same.

She didn't greet him stiffly, but waved at the books on her nightstand. “Dryden, really?”

“It was either that or an outdated treatise on rope tension,” he said, sitting. “Consider it mercy.”

The faintest tilt of her mouth. He found himself absurdly pleased that she hadn’t dismissed the gesture outright.

One supper bled into the next, until what had begun as courtesy thickened into routine neither of them named. At first, they were stiff affairs. He arrived with food; she accepted it without thanks. They spoke little. When they did, it was clipped, cautious, their words carrying the brittle edge of people trying not to reopen a wound too early. And yet, something about this small ritual steadied the days, ordered the hours.

The interrogations filled his mornings. Falmouth resisted with all the usual tricks. Cutler had considered bringing her into the room — to unnerve Falmouth, or to test her loyalties — but dismissed the thought almost instantly. The sight of a man half-starved and bent to ruin might tip her sympathies in directions he had no desire to confront. Better to keep her usefulness in foresight, not performance. He told himself it was efficiency. In truth, he felt the quiet relief of having spared her.

The evenings were hers.

By the fourth, she laughed — thin and fleeting, but enough to cinch something tight in his chest. He hadn’t expected the sound. Nor the sharp pang that came with it. By the sixth, the silences between them had softened. Shared, not strained. At times, he caught her watching him over her wine, not guardedly, but with something he could almost mistake for curiosity. Or nostalgia. Perhaps she missed the version of them before everything had come crashing down. He did.

There was no sense in preferring her company. So why did the nights pass more quickly this way? Why did sleep find him easier when he’d seen her? Why did the endless reports about bloodshed and delays seem more bearable when he knew she was waiting? Not that he ever let it show.

There were smaller changes, too. Florence no longer waited to be told to sit. She wasn’t as vigilant or restless. She asked about the weather, the sea, the ships — never the pirates, never the war. But something was reaching again. Something delicate and half-formed.

One evening, he lingered longer than he ought. It was a reward, nothing more. A portion of time taken from victory’s ledger and spent here instead of at his desk.

The candles had burned low. One had already guttered out, leaving a coil of smoke rising from its stub. Florence sat across from him, elbow on the table, idly rotating a peach in her fingers. 

In his chest, something smug and bright flickered — the kind of satisfaction that came only when a plan had moved from ink to outcome. Cutler didn’t let it reach his face, but Falmouth had finally talked.

He thought of the map spread out on his desk, of the marked coordinates, ships already en route. Everything was in motion now. And, unless one of the remaining pirate lords had somehow anticipated this assault, it would be decisive. He would finish what he’d started. It would end as it was always meant to: efficiently, with his name etched into history. The seas would answer to law at last.

Of course, the sea would never be entirely clean. There would always be outlaws and opportunists. But if he shattered their little confederacy, then maybe others still on the edge of piracy would think twice.

And so he allowed himself this moment, the slow passing of minutes in her company, the indulgence of watching candlelight tremble across her hair.

Florence had helped bring this about. Not directly, perhaps, but her knowledge, her warnings, her choice had mattered. A private victory nestled inside the larger one. Proof that some loyalties could be redirected, and some bonds reforged. Perhaps even his own instincts for trust had not withered as much as he’d thought. A dangerous revelation, if true.

“You don’t ever ask about them,” he said. It had been nagging at him. She wasn’t a woman without curiosity. Or conviction. And yet she hadn’t once asked what had become of those she’d turned her back on. Wouldn’t she want to know where her decision had led them?

Her thumb paused on the fruit. For a moment her grip tightened, and the skin dimpled, juice welling at the edge of her nail. She still didn’t look up. “Would it matter if I did?”

His mouth tightened. The wine had softened him enough for honesty. “No.” 

She looked up, and for a moment, there was real grief in her eyes. Just a flash. Then it was gone, and he regretted having asked. 

“Then I won’t waste a breath.”

Cutler should have let it be. Should’ve moved the conversation to safer ground, so he wouldn't have to risk the brittle balance. But something in her stillness made him want to offer something back. Not comfort, he wasn’t sure he owed her that, but reparation, perhaps.

“For what it’s worth, Sparrow and Turner seem to have vanished. Better that way.”

And part of him meant it. Not for their sake, certainly, but because their absence spared him the need to choose between his word and the demands of the law. There wouldn’t have to be a test of how far his promises could bend before they broke.

He thought it might ease her. Instead, her shoulders slumped fractionally as if she carried the weight of her choices all over again.

“You could’ve walked away,” he heard himself say. “Most would’ve. That you didn’t…” He paused, forced himself to meet her gaze, though it felt like trespassing something private. “…well. That changed everything.”

For a moment, Florence’s lips parted, as if she might speak, or laugh, or protest. But nothing came. He almost said something more. A quiet ‘thank you’, or at least something close to it. But the moment passed.

Later, when he lay in bed, the image remained: her thumb pressing too hard against the fruit, the faint flicker of candlelight across her hair, and the space between them — sharper than any plan, more stubborn than any victory.

Chapter Text

No light, no light in your bright blue eyes
I never knew daylight could be so violent
A revelation in the light of day
You can't choose what stays and what fades away
And I'd do anything to make you stay
No light, no light (no light)
Tell me what you want me to say

Florence + the Machine — No Light, No Light

~*~

The next morning, Cutler gave the order. She could leave her chamber. Only under supervision, naturally, but Florence was free to roam the upper floors of the fort. It was hardly a declaration of trust. More a… calculated concession. A reward for usefulness. The kind one offered an informant, not a friend.

Still, he wasn’t surprised when, that evening, there was a knock on the door of the chamber he’d turned into his study. 

Cutler looked up from his desk, fingers resting on the open page of a report he’d been rereading without absorbing a word. He didn’t speak or rise. Only watched the door give way as if it had decided the matter for him.

Florence stepped inside, casual in that practised way of hers. Her arms were loosely folded, but her shoulders were tight. Her gaze darted once to the decanter before she caught herself and smoothed her expression, as though the lapse hadn’t happened at all.

With a silent motion, he dismissed the guard. It wasn’t until the latch clicked shut that the mistake hit him. It hadn’t been a conscious choice, but a reflex. Somewhere along the line, his mind had stopped categorising her as dangerous. The thought unsettled him more than it should have.

“I got tired of pacing,” she said. “Figured talking might be marginally less maddening.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he rose and moved to the decanter. Let the silence do the sorting.

Florence drifted farther into the room, pausing by the maps scattered across the desk. Her fingers brushed the edge of a chart, but she didn’t linger. 

Cutler poured two glasses of brandy. He had been about to finish for the night anyway. Might as well indulge. He was too tired to pretend he didn’t welcome the distraction. Or the company. Or that part of him had hoped she would reach out.

“Well then,” he said, offering her a glass. “Anything on your mind?”

Florence accepted the drink with a sigh soft enough to pass for composure. She leaned back against the desk, glass in hand, like it was any other evening between two people. Like none of the wounds between them were still open. And he didn’t know what it meant that he wanted to forget they weren’t.

“Isn’t there always?” She took a sip. The movement was oddly delicate. Her gaze flicked to him. Then quickly dropped again to the brandy in her hand.

He had no intention of pressing the issue. So he sipped his brandy and waited.

She gave a bitter little laugh. “You always were better at holding your silence.”

“You always filled it before I had to,” he replied. It came out more honest than he had intended, and she smiled briefly. Cutler wanted to hold on to that smile. To keep it from fading away. But she turned toward the window, and the moment slipped through his fingers. He waited.

When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.

“I’ve been thinking. That I owe you the truth. Not because I think you’ll forgive me — I know better — but because I can’t keep being the only one who knows it.”

His glass hovered at his lips but didn’t quite make it. How many times had he wondered? How many nights spent assembling theories from fragments, from lies she’d told him so easily he’d almost admired her for it? How many moments in silence, asking himself which of her choices had been made freely, and which had been forced?

Florence didn’t turn back around to face him. Perhaps it was easier that way, not having to meet his eyes, not seeing what his face might reveal.

“It’s not a clean story,” she said. “And it’s not short. If you’d rather—”

“So I figured. I’ve got all night, don’t I? Go on."

Florence nodded. She took another sip and began.

The words spilt out slowly, at first. But as she told her tale, they came faster, not quite in a rush, but like they’d been waiting too long behind her teeth.

“The ship that took me to Singapore was barely holding together. Everything smelled of pitch and sweat. I was seasick the first week, until one of them told me I’d better learn to keep it down—or he’d throw me overboard and save himself the trouble.”

A pause. She tilted her glass, watching the light catch it. “After that, I learned quickly what kind of things men think a woman owes them when she’s outnumbered thirty to one. What they think she’ll trade for a place on deck.”

“Did you?” The question escaped him before he could stop it. His stomach turned at the image it conjured.

Her gaze flicked over her shoulder. “No. I made other trades.”

She went on. There had been a woman who’d nearly killed her. At that, his knuckles tightened around the glass.

“She wanted what I couldn’t give,” Florence said. “Gold, mostly. And when she realised I hadn’t any, she pulled a pistol on me.” A faint, mirthless smile. “She missed. Barely.”

Cutler looked up sharply. “Your shoulder.”

“You remember.”

Of course he did. The pale scar beneath his fingertips, the false story she’d spun of a duel gone wrong, the way she couldn’t quite meet his eyes when she’d told it. He had believed her then—had wanted to. And now that the truth was laid bare, he almost wished she’d lied again.

He watched the reflection of her mouth as she went on, and felt something in his chest tighten.

“I got it away from her. She was faster than I thought, but panic makes people sloppy. When I turned it on her, she didn’t expect me to pull the trigger.” A beat. “But I did.”

A pulse of nausea climbed his throat. He couldn’t tell if it was the brandy on an empty stomach or her words. There was shame in her voice, yes, and something akin to defiance, but not regret. It wasn’t an apology, or an attempt to lessen the weight of her decisions.

He sipped the brandy once, more for something to do with his hands than any desire to taste it. He didn’t even feel the burn. It hit the back of his throat like something undeserved, and he swallowed hard against it.

Cutler studied her reflection in the window as she continued, the tiny catch in her voice when she mentioned certain names, the absence of his in every part of the story. Not once did she speak of them. What might have been. What she’d walked away from. That omission stung more than he would admit.

“It wasn’t the life I wanted,” she said finally. “But it was the only one I could make mine.”

The weight of her silence pressed against him like a question. What did he think? What was there to think? Some of her choices disgusted him more than others, though he understood the arithmetic of survival all too well.

A faint tremor betrayed her as she set the glass on the windowsill. Then she turned, meeting his gaze head-on. It was the kind of look that carried a challenge and a plea in the same breath. There you have it. The whole, ugly truth. What are you going to do now?

“You hate me for it. For what I am.”

He drained the rest of his brandy before answering. “I told myself I did. You’ve given me reason enough.”

And yet. The thought of a world without her in it was intolerable. He hated that he still wanted to offer her absolution, even after all that had passed between them.

He couldn’t pretend to understand her reasoning, but he could understand desperation. Desperation to survive, to make a life for oneself, to become something more. She had done what she must, just as he had. The world was built on such choices, not on saints.

In the end, she had chosen the right side. However circuitous the path.

“You know,” she said eventually, “this would be easier if you weren’t still so impossible to read. No more secrets, you said. No more lies. Wouldn’t it be fair to know where I stand?”

A long pause dragged between them. It would be fair. But since when had anything between them ever been?

Would it even help? Words had never been safe for them. Every time he’d tried to speak with sincerity, she’d deflected. Every time she’d reached out, he’d doubted. Every time he’d thought he’d understood, the ground had shifted beneath his feet. They’d built a language of caution between them, and now he was about to break it.

“You ask for honesty.” He set down his glass and stepped closer, close enough to see the candlelight reflecting off the curve of her cheekbone. “The truth is—I do not know. Only that this,” he gestured faintly, to the room, to her, “ought to feel far more ill-advised than it does.”

It was the closest he could come to confession. The closest he dared.

Florence exhaled, her shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly.

“Tell me,” he added quietly. “Was any of it real? Did you ever—” He caught himself, jaw tightening. “Did you even want to?”

Cutler didn’t say because I did. He didn’t need to. The silence that followed said it for him.

“You weren’t supposed to matter.” She swallowed. “You did anyway.”

For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Something in him flinched at the quiet sincerity of her words. He should have looked away. Should have said something measured, unkind — anything to restore the distance between them. Instead, his body betrayed him: a breath drawn too deep, a step forward he hadn’t meant to take.

Florence didn’t move away. Didn’t breathe, almost.

He lifted a hand before he knew what he meant to do with it. His fingers hovered near her jaw, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin without touching.

Her eyes closed for a beat too long. Cutler let the moment linger. But when she leaned into his hand, ever so slightly, restraint slipped its leash. His thumb traced her cheekbone with a care that felt perilously like indulgence.

The kiss, when it happened, was not planned. It was something smaller than a decision—just gravity, or weakness, or both. Barely there, barely real, and then it was gone.

He’d wanted it. There lay the folly. The impracticality was only an afterthought. Cutler didn’t know what had gotten over him.

“I shouldn’t have—” 

“Don’t take it back.”

He didn’t. But neither did he repeat it. His hand dropped slowly from her face, as though it belonged to someone else.

They didn’t speak of the kiss again. Not that night. Not in the weeks that followed. But there were others. Neither asked what they meant.

In the quiet between the morning reports and the sentences carried out, she remained. In his company. In his thoughts. She took to sitting in the armchair by the window of his study, legs tucked beneath her, eyes half-lidded as she listened to the scratching of his quill or the crackle of the fire. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn't. Once, she dozed off there, and he hadn’t had the heart to wake her.

And perhaps, she had found her way into his bed more than once, on nights when the war felt far away, and neither of them had the will to pretend indifference. The first time, he told himself it was indulgence. The second, familiarity. The third… he realised, he didn’t want it to end.

Whatever arrangement they had grown into, it no longer resembled imprisonment. In fact, Cutler hadn’t thought of her as a prisoner in days. And maybe that was what unsettled him most: that he’d let it happen without noticing. That he hadn’t wanted her gone in a very long time.

~*~

Florence was watching him again.

No longer from the armchair by the window, but from across his desk, elbows resting on the polished wood, her eyes level with his. Like the seat had always been hers. The thought irritated him — not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t.

He dipped his quill once more, eyes on the half-finished missive before him, though the words no longer registered. They had ceased to matter the moment she sat down.

“You’re free to leave,” he said at last. His quill hovered mid-sentence, a bead of ink pooling at the tip and sinking into the parchment. He didn’t notice until it bled through. He set it down carefully, as though precision could disguise the tremor in his hand. “Wherever you choose. Say the word. I’ll see it arranged.”

His voice was even. As if it cost him nothing.

Cutler kept his eyes on the page. The offer felt too exposed. But the words had been pressing against his ribs all morning, and he had to let them out before they festered.

Still, he pressed on, already knowing he shouldn’t. “I’ll be returning to the manor before the week is out. There’s room enough.” A pause. “If you intend to remain.”

Only then did he set the quill down, and fold his hands.

The war was ending. The pirate lords were scattering or dead; the rest would soon follow. Reports spoke of a handful of stragglers fleeing beyond the Company’s reach. Let the French or the Spanish waste their powder on them. The campaign was ending as it should: neatly, decisively, under his control. He had earned the right to be magnanimous.

Florence’s gaze sharpened. “As a prisoner?”

“No, not—not that,” Cutler said, too quickly. He leaned back, elbow over the chair’s arm, as if posture could make the lie convincing. “I meant… someone closer to an equal.”

The word tasted strong, sentimental even. But it seemed to be the only way to keep her.

She tilted her head, a little too sharp to be coy. “You and I both know that’s not a title you hand out lightly.”

“I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t mean it.” And the fact that he meant it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. “What would it take for you to accept?”

“Nothing you can give me.” Florence let out a bitter laugh.

“Try me.”

For a moment, she hesitated. Like she was deciding whether it was worth laying her cards down at all. “I want you to trust me. Not pretend to. Not with caveats. I won’t be the wife left behind in silence while you play god in foreign waters.”

“You think I have much choice in the matter?”

“I think you’ve built your world in a way where everyone is either a threat or a tool. I won’t be either.” Her voice faltered slightly. “If I stay, I need to be free. Free to walk the halls. Free to speak. Free to ask questions you'd rather I didn’t. Take me with you if you leave. And let me roam freely.” When their eyes met, hers were glassy. “Can you give me that?”

The question was simple. The answer, anything but.

He almost smiled at the absurdity of it. Of course it was improper. Scandalous. Unthinkable, really. 

London would send someone to replace Swann soon, some no-name nobleman with too many instructions. And Cutler was expected to hand over the reins, tidy up the region, and make himself scarce.

In the colonies, people might let such things slide, but what would the other directors say when matters took him back to England, if they knew the woman who once played spy in his chambers now dined at his right hand? Men like him did not marry outlaws. They did not confide in them. They kept mistresses for company, wives for convenience, and never allowed either too close.

And yet—

He reached for her hand. Not because it was wise, nor safe. But because in the wreckage of his own making, she was the one variable he could no longer bear to remove. And Lord Cutler Beckett had never been one to let principle interfere with purpose.

So he said the most dangerous thing a man like him could. “I can try.”

The words felt like treason against everything he’d spent years becoming. Florence blinked too quickly, as if something stung in her eyes. But her hand closed around his.

“Then try.”

It wasn’t exactly peace he felt, but something dangerously close. The kind of quiet that tempted a man to forget what it might cost him.

Chapter Text

Florence had never liked quiet houses. Quiet meant echoing steps, breathing walls, too much space for memory to settle. In the first weeks back, the manor had felt stranger than she’d let on — too large, too still, too full of the weight of her choices.

Tonight, at least, it was filled with conversation, music, the clink of glasses. Of course it had all been staged to impress, even if it seemed like just another soirée with all the same faces and all the same gossip. The strain only showed if you knew where to look. And even if it was theatre, it was still a welcome change in routine.

She leaned against the doorway to the gardens, watching the guests swirl around the ballroom floor. It was strange. There were fewer people than there should have been, and more Company officers than there ever had been before. The air smelled of candle wax and sugared fruit; somewhere a violin hit a wrong note.

“If you keep staring into the middle distance like that, someone will think you’re plotting murder,” Jane murmured, sidling up to her with a glass of wine in hand. A burst of laughter rose from a nearby card table.

“Maybe I am.” Florence accepted the glass.

“Then at least wait until after the dancing,” Jane said. “We wouldn’t want a scandal on our hands so early in the evening.”

Florence’s mouth twitched, though her eyes stayed on the room. One of those ever-charming Company men bowed too low on his way past and spilled half his drink anyway. She gave a tight-lipped smile, stepping aside to let the chaos pass her by.

This was a game she’d never preferred, but she’d learned the rules. And now she was playing under new terms. Terms that meant there weren’t locked doors, or shadowing footsteps in the hall anymore. She had the run of the place — or at least, the illusion of it — and she meant to see how far it stretched. It was a gilded cage, yes, but one with an open door and her own key. With Cutler’s hand, loosely outstretched. Perhaps she could get used to this, for the time being.

A hundred decisions had brought her here. Some made in panic. Some out of curiosity. Others in longing. But all of them hers.

So what was done was done. There was no point lingering on the arithmetic; lives bartered, secrets lost, whatever ashes of the cause still smouldered without her. Counting them wouldn't bring anyone back, and thinking too hard about it wouldn’t change anything. Perhaps he had told her the truth about not knowing the whereabouts of Elizabeth and Jack. Perhaps not. Maybe they were already gone, claimed by some quiet execution he’d never bothered to mention — knowing Cutler’s ways, it wouldn’t surprise her. And if she knew that? Then she’d drink her wine a little slower and not ask. She had already decided to believe him, because the alternative left nothing to stand on. Looking ahead was the only thing left.

And when it all became unbearable again — and it always did, sooner or later — Florence could leave. There was nothing easier than setting one foot in front of the other, quietly out the front door, down to the docks. She’d be gone before dawn and never look back.

But for now, she had the wine, the music, the way his eyes followed her across the room whenever she laughed at something Jane said.

She wasn’t his prisoner, or his wife. She wasn’t his anything, not in the way the world liked to define it, nor in the way he would like her to be. But she was in his house, in his bed, and until the night was over, she’d make damn sure he remembered exactly whose choice that was.

Cutler’s glass rose in a quiet salute, and she mirrored it just enough. He had no idea she already had the night mapped out.

~*~

The manor gleamed with a brittle perfection, as if it were holding its breath. Officers, merchants, and bureaucrats pressed flesh and traded niceties. It was the kind of evening Cutler had learned to tolerate, then to command.

This time, the official reason for the festivities was a warm welcome for the new appointee, Governor Harrington, or Harriman …or something equally disposable. The true purpose was less diplomatic: a show of stability, the reminder that Port Royal had survived its storms and was still in good hands. His hands, if you read between the lines.

Cutler guided the new governor through the crowd with practised ease, nodding here and there, never letting the governor stumble into any faux pas… though the man tried. Sweat darkened the brocade across his shoulders, and he had already misnamed the Admiral twice tonight. Red-faced from too much port, softened by too little conflict, he was exactly the sort of man London liked to install when they wanted the leash kept short. Men like him were born to be managed. Within a month, he would lean on Cutler’s counsel more than anyone else’s judgment, and soon the region would feel secure enough for Cutler to turn his attention elsewhere.

He only faltered when Florence appeared at his side with a fresh glass in hand. She’d moved through the crowd as if she had always belonged — and perhaps, at last, she was finally beginning to believe it herself. That all the pirate business had been nothing more than a fevered indulgence.

Cutler caught the flicker of curiosity in the governor’s glance and, with a thin smile, supplied the words meant to frame her, “Governor, may I present Miss Crowan? My… confidante.”

It had the effect he intended. The phrasing was polite enough to be respectable, vague enough to invite speculation. And that, of course, was exactly what he counted on. The governor’s expression shifted from interest to polite confusion in an instant.

Florence dipped in a graceful half-curtsy, then smiled at him. “Well, that’s one way of putting it. Pleasure, Governor.”

“Miss Crowan,” he replied, blinking a beat too slow — as though already turning the title confidante over in his mind to see how scandalous it might be. Then, as if remembering himself, he coughed into his fist and mumbled something about the weather. Well, this was going rather splendidly.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, a nod here, a demure smile there, and then Florence shifted. Her shoulder brushed Cutler’s arm as she excused herself. Her hand found the curve of his rear and squeezed it once, then moved on as if nothing had happened.

He went still. Pulse thudding in his throat, the room sharpened around him. Had the governor seen? Had anyone? But the man beside him was still droning about the horrible climate of the West Indies, seemingly oblivious.

The tightness in his chest eased. It should have appalled him, but instead, heat crept in where it shouldn’t. He could almost feel the smile Florence did not bother to show. If she intended scandal, perhaps it was smarter to steer it than fight it.

Before he could spin the thought further, Florence was gone, gliding toward a cluster of wives near the hearth, but he could tell by the deliberate sway of her hips that she knew he was watching. For a moment, Cutler entertained the notion of pulling her into one of the quiet corners of the house and finishing what she had started, but pushed it aside. There were appearances to maintain, after all. He didn't so much as blink, returning to the governor’s babble as if nothing had passed.

Later, Cutler stood near the staircase, brandy flute balanced between fingers, eyes scanning the crowd with the cold calculation of a player sizing up a board. Nothing here was left to conquer. Not truly. But appearances still mattered. For now, they still looked to him when decisions demanded teeth.

Florence had moved off to speak with an officer’s wife whose figure was softened by impending motherhood. Cutler’s gaze lingered. Perhaps, with time, and with the right influence, Florence would come to see the merit in doing things properly: respectability, marriage… children.

There were whispers, of course. None particularly imaginative, but they would always be there, and her behaviour had done little to extinguish them. Let the people call her his mistress behind closed doors and tight smiles. She would ignore it, at first. Florence had always played at being above such things. But a few too many glances, a few doors no longer open, a handful of wives who turned their backs, and even she might begin to feel the gradual closing of polite society’s ranks.

That thought nestled like a seed in the back of his mind.

Her eyes flicked toward him mid-conversation and then away again. Was it a silent check-in — or a challenge? Either way, he lifted his glass in a private salute.

When her pride began to bristle, when the novelty of freedom wore thin against the weight of reputation, perhaps she’d reconsider the idea she’d turned down more than once. She might even propose it herself, if only to reclaim the narrative. A man did not always need to push; sometimes he only needed to wait while the world did his work for him.

He smiled faintly, lifting his glass to his lips. Some games were best played slowly, and the die had already been cast. Alea iacta est.

~*~

“You’ve handled yourself well tonight,” Cutler said, not turning from where he stood at the tall window, the glass reflecting only candlelight and his own silhouette.

The last guests had stumbled out well past midnight, and the parlour had thinned to quiet. A footman yawned as he snuffed out the last of the candles. From the corridor drifted the low clink of dishes being cleared. Harrington had left hours ago, bloated with port and muttering about tariffs and the Lord’s mercy. He was truly a small man in every way that mattered.

Florence stepped inside with an ease that suggested ownership — not of the house perhaps, but of the moment. And he let her. For the time being.

“No secrets spilt. No improper remarks,” she said as she pulled a couple of pins from her hair. “I didn’t even join the little gambling ring they started in the library. You should get me a medal.”

A gambling ring? His mouth quirked. “I’ll have one commissioned. Gold? A portrait on the front and the words ‘remarkably tolerable’ on the reverse.”

She chuckled and stepped closer. It always started out like this, didn’t it?

He turned only slightly as she approached, his voice lower. “You made an impression. Even Harriman asked if you’re spoken for.”

“Oh, how flattering. Did you let him down gently?”

“I told him you’d ruin him in a week.”

“A whole week? You are generous.”

He met her gaze in the glass. Her expression betrayed nothing, but proximity spoke for her. Breath warm against his temple, Florence slipped her arms around his shoulders from behind. His body slackened into hers, too easily, as if it had always belonged there.

She hummed against him, cheek pressed to the back of his neck, and the kiss she left there carried a promise. One he was hardly inclined to resist.

“Since we’ve finished our masquerade,” she murmured, “how about a moment of truth?”

His head tipped slightly, eyes half-lidded. “Truth’s a currency one should spend sparingly. Remind me of the necessity.”

She didn’t bother replying. Instead, her lips found the side of his throat, like she had eternity to dismantle him piece by piece. He closed his eyes, letting himself sink, just briefly, into the warmth. Let it burn away Harrington, the empty talk, the constant vigilance. If only for a moment.

Then he turned, cupped her face, and kissed her — hard enough to stop her teasing, soft enough to betray how much he needed this. He would never grow tired of it, the taste of her, the weight of her body against his. Perhaps it was the one indulgence that never soured.

So when she tugged his hand toward the staircase, he followed. Too easily. That, more than anything, unsettled him: how simple it was to obey her, to let himself be led. She kept dragging him forward, laughing against his lips when they bumped into the wall, kissing him harder the next moment like it was punishment for slowing.

At his chamber door, he faltered. Just a beat. Something in her manner tonight felt… different. But before he could name it, she pulled him inside, and the thought dissolved into thin air.

She broke their kiss. “Do you trust me?” The words were almost lost against his mouth.

He gave a hollow little laugh, though it cost him more than it should. “Against my better judgment.”

“Good.” Her smile was feline. “We’re done pretending otherwise.”

What was that supposed to mean?

Florence reached for his collar. Her fingers trailed the edge, her eyes on his mouth. Then down his chest, stomach, lower still. He didn’t move. Her hand closed around the shape of him through his breeches, and he hissed in a breath.

“You waste no time.”

“I thought,” Florence said lightly, “we might try something different tonight. Something… illuminating.”

Her words felt like equal parts invitation and warning. Then, with that maddening poise only she possessed, she retreated two measured paces and turned her attention to the vanity. Only then did he notice the velvet box that was neatly placed there, like it had been waiting for hours. This had been premeditated. That, too, gave Cutler pause. Not enough to stop him, but enough to make him weigh whether he was being invited or cornered.

“You seem awfully sure of my cooperation.” He took a step forward, drawn despite himself, eyes narrowing on the box. What was in there?

She turned halfway toward him, intercepting him with only a look.

“Darling. If you weren’t going to, you wouldn’t have followed me up the stairs.” Her hand hovered at the box, not to open it but to tease at the ribbon with maddening patience.

He suppressed an impatient groan. “You’re being theatrical.”

“Only because the prize is worth the show.”

And then she crossed the distance, ribbon dangling from her hand, letting the silence drag just long enough to leave the question hanging. What was inside? Why the theatrics?

“They say it’s quite stimulating for a man.” She traced a finger over the spot where his throat pulsed just a little too fast.

His jaw tensed. Stimulating? Surely she wasn’t implying— And even if she was, who were 'they'? Who had given her ideas like this—ideas bold enough to test on him?

And yet the box, the secrecy, the devouring look in her eyes, all of it pointed to a conclusion he wasn’t certain he dared voice. Her finger trailed lower, down his throat, to the buttons of his waistcoat. She slid one open, then another.

“Well, they’re not wrong,” he said carefully, eyes still on the ribbon in her hand. Still, doubt flickered. Were they even speaking of the same thing? And yet if they weren’t—curse the thought—he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she did mean.

He decided, then, to make himself perfectly clear. With a tilt of his head and a thin-edged smile that left no doubt what he meant, he said, “I’ve had my fair share of experience.”

Her lips parted slightly. “Oh? Even better.”

Cutler almost laughed. So she had meant it. The composure he’d been clinging to wavered, just a fraction, before he caught it by the throat and forced it still. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re hardly the first to tempt me toward ruin.”

“Ruin? No. I want you to let loose.” She slid the waistcoat from his shoulders. And held out a palm. “Hands.”

He raised a brow, as if she’d just suggested he recite psalms. “I beg your pardon?”

“Give them to me.”

Had she always been this bold? His fingers curled, trembling ever so slightly, betraying the calm he fought to hold. The room seemed to shrink, pulse quickening with every heartbeat that said yes before his mind could protest.

“Don’t tell me the virtuous Lord Beckett is hesitating,” she said with infuriating softness.

“Hardly.”

But his hands were already rising, and she took them like something precious and dangerous all at once. Before he could do so much as blink, the ribbon went around his wrists. He watched her in the mirror above the fireplace, took in the sight of himself with his hands bound, chest rising faster than he wished it to. It did something peculiar in his blood. The knot wasn’t too tight, but the fabric held firm when she let go, and he gave an experimental tug.

“Improvised, was it?” Cutler asked drily, as if words might reclaim the upper hand.

Florence inspected her handiwork, then raised his wrists to her lips. “Not even a little.” Her teeth grazed the base of his thumb, her tongue flicking against the skin, then down the length of his index finger. She sucked it into her mouth, eyes drifting shut, as if savouring a delicacy. It was obscene, and the sensation shot right through him, making him throb against the confines of his breeches.

“You take far too much satisfaction in this,” he said, and cursed the breathless edge to it.

With a wet pop, she released the finger. “You have no idea.”

A quip hovered on his tongue, some cutting remark to wrestle back ground, but it died the moment she sank to her knees.

The room fell away, leaving nothing but sensation. The brush of her fingers at his hips. The whisper of air on bare skin when the fabric gave way. The warmth of her breath as she leaned in, tracing the length of him with her tongue. Her tongue swirling over the head before taking him in, inch by inch. A low, helpless sound escaped him. The ribbon pulling tight as he tried to touch her hair, her cheek, anything, only to be reminded that he couldn’t.

Her mouth slid down, then back up again, her lips tightening around the tip, and Cutler could feel himself slipping, his mind falling away until there was nothing left but the wet heat engulfing him.

She stopped, looked up, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in her eyes. “You don’t have to be quiet for me, you know.” She took him in her hand and gave a lazy stroke before getting up to her feet again. “Tonight, you don’t get to hide.”

He could have begged then. He almost did. The thought startled him.

Florence pulled him into a kiss, and he could taste himself on her tongue. “Don’t hold back. You’re not allowed to tonight.”

Her palms pressed gently against his chest until he stepped backwards. He obeyed without hesitation, which told him more about his condition than any mirror could. The backs of his knees struck the bedframe. She gave his ear a nip, pushed, and he sat.

“Stay,” she breathed against his mouth. “Just like that.”

His throat was too dry to shape the retort that would normally come.

“Good boy.”

The phrase hit like a slap. His spine stiffened, words already on his tongue. “I am not… some lap dog to be trained.”

Her grin was wicked. “Oh? Then perhaps I should muzzle you.”

Cutler glared, but no words followed. She turned, leaving him burning and mute while she shed her clothing with deliberate slowness. It was like she had bound his tongue along with his hands. Cutler still felt a little lightheaded, his heart beating fast and loud against his ribcage.

He should have refused. He’d told himself that twice already — once when she’d started hinting at it, once again when he handed her his wrists. He should have drawn a line after that insufferable remark. Should have reminded her who he was. What he was. Yet here he was, wriggling gracelessly free of shoes, breeches, and smallclothes until only shirt and stockings remained.

It wasn’t the act that shook him. Flesh was predictable. He knew what the body could endure, what it could be trained to crave. He knew the weight of offering and receiving both. No, the terror lay in the surrender. In letting go. In being seen. What was more dangerous than that? What was more humiliating than wanting this? And how many times had he been taught that want and weakness were one and the same?

More dangerous still, it was her. The woman who had lied. The woman who had betrayed him.

And yet here he sat, wrists bound, pulse racing, waiting. Wanting. His gaze flickered to the mirror. The man in the glass looked almost calm. But then again, he always had. Even in the moments he was not.

Finally, her chemise slipped from her shoulders and puddled to the floor. She didn’t look at him. Just turned away, bare and unhurried, returning to the vanity.

For a moment, he thought she was drawing it out purely to torment him, and then he saw what she was fastening. Leather straps buckled over her hips and thighs, their shape unfamiliar but their purpose unmistakable. When she tightened the last buckle and turned, the candlelight caught on the polished ivory that jutted from the contrivance at her groin.

His composure fractured.

Not larger than what he knew, but carved with an obscene precision that mocked modesty. The thought of it inside him made his body ache with want.

He swallowed, hard. And when he spoke, it came out too dry, too wry:

“Where, pray, does one obtain such an artefact?” It had been scarcely a season since Fort Charles — and she’d spent her liberty on this.

Her fingers brushed the leather straps at her hip. “Some gifts are best left unexplained.”

She took her time walking back, a small vial in her hand, like she wanted to give him all the time to study it. To think about how it would feel, to imagine her sliding into him, thrusting, pushing, fucking.

“Apparently, it’s all the rage in certain Parisian salons. Or so I was told,” she said, and for a moment, she sounded almost shy. Like she was suddenly unsure whether he would want this after all. “We don’t have to. If you’re afraid.”

“Of you?” He gave her a half-smile. “Terrified. This, though? I’ll survive.”

He tried to make it sound flippant, something rakish and dry that would make her laugh and keep her from noticing how fast his pulse was going. And for just a heartbeat, she looked relieved.

There was nothing to fear. It would be no different from the times before. But they had always been transactional, brief, bodily, nothing but a flicker of mutual hunger in the dark. A shared indulgence, and then nothing. This was not that.

Even more so, it was a collapse of rules. Of what he thought he understood about his place in the world. He had always known what was expected of him, and when he transgressed it, he did so discreetly and on his terms. This was neither.

Florence hummed, satisfied. “Turn for me.”

Heat prickled at the base of his neck. She expected him to… ah. Well, the angle had its advantages. And perhaps it was better that way; he wouldn’t have to look at her face when it happened. Wouldn’t have to see what she saw in him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he obeyed. Knees. Elbows. His instincts rebelled at being on display like this, but more than anything, it made his cock throb. Because he wanted her to see him like this.

The humiliation wasn’t in the act, but in how easily he’d stepped into it. He wasn’t gritting his teeth, tolerating this for her sake. He was offering himself.

The mattress dipped, and he held his breath in anticipation.

A moment later, he felt her hand slide up along his spine and pushing the fabric of his shirt out of the way. Her palm flattened between his shoulder blades and pressed down until he sank down against the mattress.

A featherlight kiss to the base of his spine. “You said you trusted me." There was the faintest hitch in her breath. “Let me show you it wasn’t misplaced.”

Still, he didn’t speak. Not because he had nothing to say. But because if he said anything now, it might be the truth.

She coaxed his legs apart with a patience that bordered on maddening. He complied without thinking, and hated how easily that came, letting her arrange him the way she wanted, until he was sprawled there, helpless and exposed. There was a sudden lightness in his head, a buzzing in his ears, like he’d had too much to drink, only that he had to be almost sober by now.

The sound of a vial being uncorked made him shiver. Cutler closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a breath. To trust. To stop thinking for once, and just feel.

Fingertips touched him, slick and warm, sliding along the cleft of his rear until they found their target, gently massaging the tight ring of muscle there. A low sound escaped him when the first finger slipped inside. He had almost forgotten how good it could feel, how strange and thrilling the vulnerability of being taken this way. Her finger slid deeper, stretching him, teasing, working him open with unhurried strokes. Another joined the first.

He could feel her watching him. Assessing his reactions. Learning what made him gasp. And after a while, she added a third finger. Cutler closed his eyes and gave himself over to the sensation. He felt his body yield, opening up to her, taking her in deeper and deeper, until he was panting with need, rocking back into her hand.

“Look at you,” she murmured, sliding her fingers out, then back in, her voice almost awed. “How prettily you open for me.”

She was a little breathless, too, but he couldn’t think about that, couldn’t think about anything, not when her fingers curled inside him, grazing that sensitive spot that made his vision blur.

Her free hand slid from his hip between his legs, curling around his length, stroking in time with the movement of her fingers inside him. He arched his back, trembling with need and buried his face into the bedsheets to smother a whimper.

But then, her fingers withdrew, leaving him achingly empty, and he couldn’t help the sound of protest that slipped out. Florence laughed softly and muttered a word under her breath that sounded distinctly vulgar. The realisation of how much it affected her, too, only added to the ache.

The vial uncorked again, and he heard the faint sound of oil slicking over polished ivory. When she brought it to him, the first press against his skin was shockingly cold, enough to make him flinch before heat followed, spreading as she worked it slowly in. Florence’s fingers dug into his hips. He could feel her trembling slightly, holding back, giving him time to adjust. Then she rocked forward, pushing deeper, inch by inch, until he was all filled up. Until all he could think about was that sensation, the stretch, the fullness, the way his body had no choice but to yield to it.

He was already half-gone when she began to move, pulling out and thrusting back in, the strokes shallow at first, but she soon found a rhythm. And his body took it with frightening ease.

His world narrowed to the slide of the ivory shaft, the feel of her fingers gripping him, the slap of skin against skin, the obscene sounds of her taking him. The sensations blended into each other, melting into one long, drawn-out moment of dizzying pleasure.

He pushed back into her, rocking back against each thrust, trying to angle it just so, to get her to hit the spot that made his whole body light up with sparks. A sound escaped her, too, and he wished he could see her face, see what it was doing to her. But when he tried to look over his shoulder, she pressed him back down.

“Don’t move,” she breathed, her hand on the back of his neck, pulling out almost all the way, before sliding in again, and again, claiming him with slow, deep thrusts, and it was too much, too good, too intense. Cutler couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this exposed, this vulnerable. This wanted. And he couldn’t do anything but obey, letting himself sink back into the haze, into that mindless, aching pleasure.

Control had long slipped through his fingers, the saliva pooling beneath his cheek where he was panting against the sheets serving as evidence of how far he’d fallen.

He arched his back with a moan that might have been her name, his bound hands clenching the sheets. Cutler needed more, needed to be touched, needed relief. His cock was painfully hard, neglected between his thighs, and he couldn’t take it anymore. And finally, as if she’d understood, Florence slid a hand beneath him, fingers curling around him and stroking in time with her thrusts. There was nothing else to think about, nothing but the overwhelming need to reach release.

“Don’t hold back,” she breathed.

He cried out something incoherent into the mattress, too far gone to be quiet. To care about anything but chasing the sensation building inside him, until it all crashed over him at once and he spent himself on her hands and the sheets beneath him, his body spasming around the ivory shaft buried inside him.

She kept stroking him until every last shudder had run its course, and he collapsed onto the bed. There was no grace in it, just mindless bliss and the sweet, sweet ache of satisfaction.

For a while, there was nothing but the sound of his own ragged breathing, the heat of her skin against his back, the sensation of her weight pressing into him, the ivory shaft still filling him up. Her fingers slid up along his spine underneath the shirt, and he sighed, a soft sound of contentment that would have embarrassed him at any other time. Florence didn’t tease him. Didn’t mock him. Just pressed her lips to his shoulder blade, and whispered something into the fabric that sounded suspiciously like I love you. It would have been the first time she said it. Cutler tried not to think too much of it. He would never know for sure, because the next moment she pulled away, leaving him gasping for more than just air.

Before she released herself from the contrivance, she untied his hands. He rolled onto his back, keeping his expression neutral, trying to control the heat beneath his skin. The shirt clung to him, sweat-slick, but he did not care.

When Florence returned from the vanity, hunger still flickered in her eyes, and the faint flush to her cheeks made him pause. She hadn’t found what she needed yet, and he would see to it that she did.

She crawled onto the bed but didn’t stop until she had straddled his chest. Cutler blinked up at her, his hands sliding along her thighs, his mind still slow to catch up with what was happening. But then she lowered herself, her knees on either side of his head, and he understood. He tilted his chin up, parting his lips. Letting her take what she needed.

Her body shuddered under the precision of his tongue. Breath came ragged, movement desperate. He cupped her rear, directing, controlling, pushing her toward the edge with measured insistence. It didn’t take long for her to come apart above him, her hips rocking against his mouth, her fingers digging into the bedsheets.

He closed his eyes and let himself drown in the sound of her pleasure, in the feel of her warmth and weight against him. Her thighs trembled under his hands, and for a moment, he let himself believe this was enough.

When she stilled, he didn’t move right away. Cutler just held her there, breathing her in, feeling the steady thump of her pulse under his palms.

Florence shifted off him, the heat of her body leaving his chest. The night air touched his skin, cool where she’d been, and he lay there a little longer, staring up at the canopy, hopeful, despite himself.

It was tempting to think this meant something. Tempting, and daft to think she’d truly stay this time.

And if she didn’t, well. He’d always known how the story went.