Daughter of the Pirate King

Because pirates aren’t supposed to look like you look and talk like you talk and do what you do. You’re confusing, and it’s messing with my head.

Unusual, that. Young men are not usually the ones giving orders, especially among crews such as this one. His eyes are alight with the victory of the battle. His stance is sure, his face confident. He’s probably a head taller than I, were I standing, with dark brown hair the color of a seal’s coat. His face is pleasant enough to look at, but that means nothing to me when I know he belongs to this crew.

I hate having to dress like a man.

The cotton shirt is too loose, the breeches too big, the boots too uncomfortable. My hair is bound on the top of my head, secured in a bun underneath a small sailor’s hat. My sword is strapped tightly to the left side of my waist, a pistol undrawn on my right.

The cotton shirt is too loose, the breeches too big, the boots too uncomfortable. My hair is bound on the top of my head, secured in a bun underneath a small sailor’s hat. My sword is strapped tightly to the left side of my waist, a pistol undrawn on my right.

Deserters. They’re the most cowardly filth.

She protects her own.

Let’s get one thing straight, Alosa. You are my prisoner.

Do not test me,” Draxen commands. “You will get on my ship. Now.”

Well, of course I’m going to react violently, but why should he expect it already?

You’d think men did nothing but roll around in dead fish guts while smearing their own excrement on their sleeves.