Bound by the Tide - Captain Hook

⚠️Tw: Blood and Violence⚠️

The moment Peter disappears into the night, the last thread of my strength snaps.

Pain slashes through my shoulder, sharp and searing. My vision blurs, my breath shuddering as my knees threaten to give out.

I won't fall.

Not in front of him.

But Hook sees it.

I know he does.

He doesn't move right away. He just watches me, his expression unreadable, his golden eyes flickering in the dim torchlight. There's blood on his blade—my blood—and he hasn't wiped it off.

Like he's waiting.

Like he wants me to see it.

"You're shaking," he finally murmurs, his tone deceptively casual.

I force myself to lift my chin, to meet his gaze without flinching. "Go to hell."

His smirk deepens, but there's something wrong with it—something off. His fingers twitch at his side, like he's holding himself back from something.

Then, suddenly, violently, he turns away.

"Tommy!" His voice cracks through the silence, sharp as a whip.

Thomas steps forward cautiously, his eyes flicking between Hook and me.

"Fetch the supplies," Hook orders.

Thomas hesitates. I see the flicker of doubt in his expression, the uncertainty. "I can take care of it—"

"No."

The single word drops like a stone, final, heavy with warning.

Hook's gaze cuts to him, dark and dangerous. "I said fetch the supplies."

Thomas nods once, stiffly, before vanishing below deck.

I swallow hard, my heart slamming against my ribs.

He's going to do it himself.

Why?

I don't get to ask.

Because in the next second, Hook closes the distance between us.

I jerk back on instinct, but his hands are already there, catching me before I can escape. His grip burns through my skin, his fingers curling around my good shoulder as he forces me to stay still.

A slow, mocking hum leaves his lips. "Afraid of me, darling?"

I hate the way my pulse betrays me.

"I just don't want your hands on me," I spit, shoving at his chest.

He doesn't budge.

His eyes flicker, something dangerous sparking in their depths. Then—deliberately, slowly—he presses his thumb right into the wound.

A gasp tears from my throat.

White-hot pain.

My body bucks against him, but his grip is unyielding, his hook glinting at my side like a silent threat.

"Still don't want my hands on you?" he murmurs, his voice low, taunting.

I glare up at him, breathing hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my pain.

His smirk widens—but his fingers ease up.

He doesn't know why he did that.

I see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the flicker of hesitation behind his cold amusement.