Bound by the Tide - Captain Hook

Bleeding for Him

For a brief second, his grip changes—becoming less possessive, less punishing.

And then Thomas returns.

Hook releases me like I've burned him.

He steps back as if regaining control, his mask slamming back into place.

Thomas hands him a cloth and a bottle of rum. Hook kneels in front of me, his movements controlled, his expression blank. He doesn't ask permission.

He just tears my cloak aside, exposing my wounded shoulder. As well as revealing my laced corset, that has been stained by my blood.

The night air stings against my bear skin and the open cut.

I brace myself.

But when the cloth touches my skin—

He's gentle.

His touch is careful, measured, as he dabs at the wound, as if he's forcing himself to be careful.

He could make this worse.

He could make me suffer.

And yet...

He doesn't.

I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, refusing to react to the warmth of his fingers, to the heat of his breath as he leans in too close, focused on his work.

A cruel smile tugs at his lips. "You're quieter than I expected."

I keep my gaze locked on the floor.

I won't give him the reaction he wants.

He chuckles under his breath, the sound low, pleased. "Ah. So that's how it is, then."

The rum splashes over my wound without warning.

I scream, my body jerking violently as fire explodes across my skin.

Hook's grip tightens, holding me still through the pain, his face unreadable.

"I should make you thank me," he muses. "For not letting it get infected."

I gasp, my whole body trembling, but I don't speak.

I won't.

His eyes flicker over my face, reading me like an open book, like he's waiting.

For what, I don't know.

Then, as suddenly as he started, he pulls back.

He tosses the bloodied cloth aside, his hands lingering for a second longer than they should—like he doesn't want to stop touching me.

Then he forces himself to move.

"You should rest," he says, voice oddly quiet. "Wouldn't want you falling apart before the real fun begins."

I say nothing.

I just watch him, my body still shaking, my wound still burning—and wonder what the hell just happened.

A Demand for an Apology

I sit there, my shoulder burning, my breath still uneven. The scent of rum and blood lingers in the air, the sting of his touch still fresh on my skin. But more than the pain, more than the wound, it's him that lingers.

His hands on me.

The way he hesitated.

The way his fingers curled into my skin just a little too tightly, as if he hated himself for being careful.

And the way he just walked away.

Like it meant nothing.

Like I meant nothing.