Jo left the crew to their laughter and descended into the quiet belly of the schooner. The cabin door was ajar, a thin blade of candlelight cutting across the passageway floor. She pushed it open and stepped inside.
The air was thick—sweat and salt and the copper tang of blood that had dried hours ago. A single candle guttered on the shelf above the cot, its flame shivering with the schooner's roll. Amelia sat on the edge of the cot, her shirt untucked and hanging loose, the bandage a white slash across her side. She looked up when the door closed, and her eyes caught the light—hazel, dark, steady as iron.
Jo closed the door behind her and stood there. The locket was cold against her chest, a weight she'd carried for weeks, but tonight it felt different. Heavier. Like a stone tied to her throat.
"Fifty thousand pounds." The words came out flat. Hollow. She heard them land in the space between them. "That's what I cost you now."
Amelia's eyes didn't waver. She shifted on the cot, a wince pulling at the corner of her mouth—the wound, still fresh, still angry. But she didn't look away. She set her palms on her thighs and leaned forward, the candlelight carving shadows across her face.
"Come here."
Jo didn't move. Her hands hung at her sides, fingers curling into her palms. "Do you understand what that means? Fifty thousand. Every hunter in the Caribbean is going to be looking for me. Every port we try to put into—"
"I said come here."
The voice was low. Quiet. Not a command—something older. Something that had already decided.
Jo's feet carried her before her mind caught up. Three steps across the creaking floorboards, and she stood between Amelia's knees, looking down at the crown of the captain's head, at the dark hair cropped short and wild, at the way the candlelight caught the silver scar on her cheek.
Amelia looked up. Her hand rose, slow, and found the hem of Jo's shirt—the men's linen shirt she'd borrowed weeks ago, soft from salt and washing. She tugged, barely, and Jo sank to her knees on the floor in front of her, the rough boards pressing into her shins.
"You think I don't know what I'm carrying?" Amelia's voice was rough, the words scraped out of her. Her hand came up to cup Jo's jaw, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. "You think I didn't count the cost before I put my mouth on yours?"
Jo's breath caught. "Amelia—"
"I counted." The thumb slid down, tracing the curve of Jo's lower lip. "I counted every man who'd come for you. Every king's ship. Every bounty hunter with a rusted pistol and a dream of fifty thousand pounds." She leaned in, her forehead brushing Jo's. "And I decided anyway."
Jo's eyes burned. She blinked, and the candlelight smeared. "You don't even know me. Not really. Not—"
"Shut up."
The words weren't harsh. They were warm, almost a laugh, and Amelia's mouth found hers before Jo could argue.
The kiss was not gentle. It was not careful. It was the kiss of a woman who had already decided to die for what she wanted, and Jo felt it in the press of teeth, the slide of tongue, the way Amelia's hand fisted in her shirt and pulled her forward until she stumbled, until her knees lost the floor and she was falling against the cot, against Amelia's body, against the sharp hiss of breath as Amelia's wound took the weight.
Jo pulled back, hands flying to Amelia's side. "Shit—your bandage—"
"Don't care." Amelia's hand found the back of Jo's neck, pulling her down again. "Don't you dare stop."
"You're bleeding—"
"Then let me bleed."
Jo's hands pressed flat against Amelia's chest, holding her down, holding her still. The heart beneath her palm was hammering—fast, fierce, alive. She could feel it through the thin linen, through the heat of Amelia's skin.
"I'm not going to break you," Jo said. "Not for this. Not for anything."
Amelia's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, the hazel nearly swallowed. "You already broke me. The first night you stepped out of my hold and looked at me like I was something worth keeping."
Jo's throat tightened. She shook her head. "I cost you—"
"Then let me show you what I paid."
Amelia's hand moved, slow and deliberate, finding Jo's wrist. Her fingers circled it, thumb pressing against the pulse, feeling it jump. She pulled, and Jo let herself be pulled, let herself be guided forward until her knees were bracketing Amelia's hips, until she was straddling the captain on the narrow cot, the rough wool of Amelia's trousers pressing against the inside of her thighs.
Amelia's hands settled on her waist, thumbs hooking under the hem of her shirt. She didn't push it up. She just held—palms flat, fingers spread, the heat of her seeping through the fabric.
"This is what I paid," Amelia said, her voice rough, low. "Every scar. Every storm. Every night I spent alone on a cold deck, dreaming of something I didn't have a name for until I found you in my hold." She squeezed, fingers pressing into Jo's hips. "That's the price. And I'd pay it again."
Jo's hands came up to frame Amelia's face, thumbs tracing the sharp line of her jaw, the hollow of her cheek. "You almost died."
"I almost lived." Amelia's mouth twisted, half a smile, half something rawer. "First time in years."
Jo leaned down and kissed her. Soft this time. A question instead of an answer. Amelia's lips parted under hers, and the sound she made—low, broken, hungry—went straight through Jo's ribs and settled somewhere deep.
Amelia's hands slid up, pushing the shirt higher, and Jo lifted her arms, letting it peel away. The air hit her skin—cool, damp, salt-stained—and then Amelia's palms were on her bare back, pulling her closer, pressing their chests together until Jo could feel the bandage rough against her sternum, could feel the heat of Amelia's skin where it wasn't covered.
"You're beautiful," Amelia said, the words mumbled against Jo's throat. "You're so fucking beautiful, and you don't even know it."
Jo's laugh was a breath, barely there. "I know you think so. That's enough."
Amelia's mouth found the hollow of Jo's collarbone, teeth scraping, then lips soothing. Jo's head fell back, her hands finding Amelia's shoulders, gripping the linen, holding on as the world narrowed to the wet heat of Amelia's mouth, the scrape of stubble, the way her hands moved—slow, deliberate, like she was memorizing every inch of skin.
"Lie down," Jo breathed. "You're going to hurt yourself."
"Already hurt." Amelia's hand slid up Jo's side, thumb brushing the curve of her breast. "Don't care."
"Amelia—"
"Shh." Amelia's mouth found the hollow behind Jo's ear, and Jo's argument died in her throat. "Let me have this. Let me have you."
Jo's fingers twisted in Amelia's shirt, pulling at the fabric. "Take this off. I want to feel you."
Amelia pulled back, her eyes dark and hungry. She reached for the hem of her own shirt and pulled it over her head in one motion, revealing the bandage wrapped tight around her ribs, the hollows and planes of her torso, the scars that web-worked across her forearms and disappeared beneath the linen wrapping. The wound was a white square of bandage, pristine except for a single bloom of red at the center—fresh, seeping.
Jo's hand went to it, palm hovering. "You're bleeding."
"I know."
"We need to—"
"We need to finish this." Amelia's hand caught Jo's wrist, pressed her palm flat against the bandage. The heat of the wound soaked through. "You feel that? That's your price. That's what I paid. And I want you to know exactly what you're worth to me."
Jo's fingers curled, gripping the edge of the bandage. Her eyes were wet, but she didn't blink. "Show me."
Amelia's other hand came up, cupping Jo's jaw, pulling her down into a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and the salt of tears neither of them would name. Jo's hands slid from the bandage to Amelia's shoulders, pushing her back onto the cot, following her down, covering her body with her own.
The cot creaked, the schooner rolled, and the candle guttered, throwing shadows across the ceiling as Jo settled over Amelia, her thighs bracketing Amelia's hips, her palms flat against the captain's chest, feeling the heart hammer beneath her hands.
"You're going to let me do this?" Jo asked, her voice low, rough.
"I'm going to let you do anything." Amelia's hands found Jo's hips, gripping, guiding. "Anything you want."
Jo leaned down, her mouth hovering over Amelia's, not quite touching. "What if I want to take care of you?"
"Then take care of me." Amelia's voice cracked, just slightly. "But don't you dare be gentle."
Jo's laugh was a dark thing, low and knowing. She dipped her head, mouth finding Amelia's throat, tongue tracing the pulse point, teeth closing just enough to feel the vibration of Amelia's groan through her lips. She worked her way down—collarbone, sternum, the soft skin between Amelia's breasts—pausing at the edge of the bandage, pressing a kiss to the clean fabric just above the wound.
"Does it hurt?" Jo asked, her breath warm against the skin.
"Yes."
"Good." Jo's hand slid down, over Amelia's stomach, fingers splaying across the waistband of her trousers. "I want you to feel me."
Amelia's hips bucked, just slightly, and Jo pressed down, holding her still. The power shifted between them—Jo above, Amelia below, the wounded captain pinned by the woman she'd claimed. Amelia's hands gripped Jo's thighs, fingers digging in, and her eyes—dark, hungry, wrecked—never left Jo's face.
"You're going to kill me," Amelia said, and it wasn't a complaint.
"No." Jo's hand worked at the button of Amelia's trousers, slow, deliberate. "I'm going to keep you alive."
She tugged the trousers down, and Amelia lifted her hips, letting them slide away. The candlelight caught the dark hair between her thighs, the lean muscle of her legs, the scar that ran across her hip—puckered and white, years old. Jo's breath caught, and she sat back, straddling Amelia's thighs, looking at the woman beneath her like she was something holy.
"You're beautiful," Jo said, echoing Amelia's words from earlier. "You're so fucking beautiful."
Amelia's laugh was rough, almost a sob. "Don't—don't make me cry. I've got a reputation."
Jo leaned down, pressing a kiss to Amelia's chest, just over her heart. "Your reputation's safe with me."
She worked her way down, mouth trailing over Amelia's ribs, the hollow of her stomach, the jut of her hipbone. Amelia's hands tangled in Jo's hair, not guiding, just holding, just feeling. When Jo's mouth found the inside of her thigh, Amelia's breath stuttered, and her grip tightened.
"Jo—"
"Shh." Jo pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin, teeth grazing. "I've got you."
She settled between Amelia's thighs, her breath warm against the damp heat waiting there. Amelia was already wet—Jo could smell it, could feel it in the way Amelia's hips tilted, searching for contact. Jo looked up, meeting Amelia's eyes in the guttering candlelight, and then she lowered her mouth.
The first touch of tongue made Amelia gasp—a sharp, broken sound that cut through the cabin like a blade. Jo worked her slow, deliberate, her tongue finding the rhythm of Amelia's body, learning the way she bucked, the way her fingers twisted in Jo's hair, the way her breathing hitched when Jo's mouth closed around her clit.
"Fuck," Amelia breathed, her head pressing back into the cot. "Fuck, Jo—"
Jo hummed against her, and Amelia's hips jerked, a curse spilling from her lips. Jo's hands pressed flat against her thighs, holding her open, holding her still, as she worked her tongue in slow, wet circles, tasting her, drinking her, feeling her pulse against her lips.
"You like that?" Jo asked, pulling back just enough to speak, her voice low and rough.
"You know I do."
"Tell me."
Amelia's eyes were dark, almost black in the candlelight. "I like your mouth on me. I like the way you—" She broke off as Jo's tongue slid inside her, curling, tasting. "Fuck. I like the way you take what's yours."
Jo's laugh was a vibration against Amelia's cunt, and Amelia moaned, her hand fisting in the sheets. Jo worked her through it—slow, relentless, building—until Amelia's thighs were shaking, until her breath was coming in ragged gasps, until she was right at the edge.
"Look at me," Jo said, pulling back again, her mouth slick, her eyes bright in the dark. "I want to see you when you come."
Amelia's eyes found hers, and Jo lowered her mouth again, tongue pressing against her clit in quick, hard circles, and Amelia broke—her back arching, her cry swallowed by the creak of the ship and the slap of waves against the hull, her body shuddering through it as Jo held her, worked her, didn't let her go until the last tremor passed.
Jo crawled up her body, leaving a trail of kisses across Amelia's stomach, her chest, her throat. Amelia's hands found her face, pulling her into a kiss that tasted of salt and sweat and something deeper. When they broke apart, Amelia's eyes were wet.
"That," Amelia said, her voice hoarse, "is worth every pound."
Jo laughed, soft and warm, and pressed her forehead to Amelia's. "I love you."
"I know." Amelia's thumb traced Jo's jaw, gentle now. "I love you too. And I'm not letting you go. Not for fifty thousand. Not for a hundred thousand. Not for the whole goddamn British navy."
Jo's eyes closed, and she let the weight of it settle over her—not the weight of the bounty, but the weight of being wanted. Of being chosen. Of being worth dying for.
"Then keep me," Jo said, her voice barely a whisper. "Keep me, Amelia."
Amelia's arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, holding her against the warmth of her body, against the steady beat of her heart. The candle guttered and died, plunging them into darkness, and the schooner rocked them like a cradle, sailing deeper into the night, away from the hunters and the price on Jo's head, toward whatever came next. Together.