Chapter 4

Walking through the busy streets of Everland’s Dock District at this late hour, when only degenerates and drunks and rogues are about, one would think the Crocodile would fit right in.

Somehow he still manages to stand apart.

I think it’s in the casual absence of fear and wariness. As if he has no enemy and no equal here.

On the next street corner, a fight breaks out and several men shove one another, throwing punches. A fourth brandishes a knife. He slashes. Someone shouts. Another man goads them on.

The Crocodile saunters past, barely glancing over as he upends a nut into his open mouth. I’m a few paces behind him and the hollowed shells of his peanuts crunch beneath the soles of my boots.

“Where is this meeting?” I ask him.

“The Tipping Well,” he answers, dusting off his hand and lighting a cigarette. To our left, one of the fighting men stabs another in the gut. I lurch back as blood paints the cobblestones. The Crocodile walks through it, leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints.

In the distance, a whistle belonging to the Guardwatch blows in the night.

Everland has become a place of mayhem and chaos on the outskirts, where the monarchy can turn a blind eye.

Just who is running this country anyway? The dockmaster mentioned a queen but Everland has never been a forward-thinking kingdom. Women don’t typically rule here.

We turn left at the next intersection and a block ahead, the printed sign for The Tipping Well swings from an iron hook above the door.

Years past, before Roc took my hand, I’d visit Everland from time to time to strike deals with the merchants. Pirating was at an all-time high and companies were losing shipments day after day. It was in their best interest to ship with a privateer like myself, one who could safely transport, not because he was cutthroat, but because he secretly controlled the shipping lines and the pirates who pirated it.

It was perhaps poor form, but I knew how the merchants operated — they made their fortunes at the expense of their laborers. No one was morally sound, including myself.

The Tipping Well sits on the edge of the Merchant District and is just a ten-minute walk from the Ministry of Merchants. Because of that, it was a popular meeting destination. I’ve been to the tavern on many occasions. I never would have thought to look here for information on a prisoner.

The Crocodile takes a hit of his cigarette and exhales smoke. It clouds over his shoulder and when we come up on the thick wooden door of the tavern, he drops the cigarette and crushes the embers beneath his boot.

He looks over at me. “Before we go in, there are a few rules about this place that you absolutely must follow.”

I frown at him. “Since when do you abide by rules?”

“One: behave.”

“The bloody hell do you⁠—”

“Two: don’t drink the wine. No matter what.”

“Why not?”

“And three: don’t ever say thank you.”

“Oh please. Being polite is good form.”

“Captain.” He tilts his head and chastises me with a look like I’m a meal that has bleated too loudly.

Heat bristles across my chest. “I swear to the fucking gods I’m going to⁠—”

He winks at me, swats me on the ass, and steps inside.

I really am going to murder him. I mean it this time. More than any of the other times before.

The Tipping Well is not how I remember it either. The rickety wooden furniture has been replaced with sturdy Winterland oak, the seats done in rich emerald leather and tacked down with hand-wrought bronze nails, the chiseled style of the heads glittering like cut diamonds.

Above, the oil lanterns that used to smoke and stink up the place are now electrical lights, the bulbs’ glare softened by ivory cloth shades. And hanging from beam to beam are string lights that glimmer in the vaulted shadows of the ceiling.

The air smells of roasted meat, sugared nuts and sweet tobacco.

A fire crackles on the stone hearth just inside the door and a three-man band plays on the raised dais beside it.

I take in a deep breath and immediately feel…odd.

The Crocodile makes his way through the tavern and several patrons call out hello to him.

I sway on my feet, head buzzy, stomach light.

“Captain.”

This place is warm and cozy and am I smiling? I think I’m smiling. I rarely have a reason to smile other than⁠—

“Captain.”

I blink when the Crocodile snaps his fingers in front of my face.

“Why do I feel so…good? Do I feel good?” I giggle.

“Come.” He hooks his arm around my shoulders and draws me into his warm embrace. He smells like wild nights and moonlight.

“You smell good,” I tell him. “Everything is good.”

“Perhaps this was a mistake.” He drives me to the rear, to a half-circle booth tucked in a dimly lit corner and shoves me onto the seat. “Sit.”

I laugh and scoot along the bench. “Bloody hell I feel amazing.”

A server appears at our table wearing a shimmering gold dress and butterflies in her hair. Her eyes are an unnatural shade of amethyst, and she flutters her lashes at the Crocodile. “Where ye been?” she asks him.

“Oh Briar,” he coos. “I can’t be everywhere at all times.”

“Last time ye were here, ye left me bed before the midnight hour. Ye promised.”

“You left her bed?” I lean into the Crocodile and laugh. “That sounds like him,” I tell her.

She nods at me but speaks to him. “Is this your tithe then?”

“Absolutely not.” The Crocodile’s voice shifts, edged in warning.

“He’s drunk already.” Her hair butterflies lift with a soft flap of wings. “Can’t hold his merry?”

“He’s starved for it, apparently.” The Crocodile nudges me. “I need you to snap out of it.”

“I’m behaving,” I say to him and smile. “Rule number one.”

He rolls his eyes at me. Bloody hell he has the fucking best eye roll. So sexy and rolly.

The Crocodile fishes out several thin bars of gold and sets them on the table. They’re stamped on the top edge with a language I immediately recognize as fairy.

“My tithe,” he says. “Get him bread and ale. Quick about it, Briar.”

The butterfly girl scoops up the bars and then flits away.

“Captain,” he says.

“Crocodile,” I say. “Beast. Beastly man.”

He groans and then his gaze wanders away, watching the movement of the people in the room. All of them are a blur to me. There is only him and the sharp cut of his black jacket, the way it hugs his shoulders, the stiff collar standing up along his jawline. The way that jaw clenches as he watches the tavern.

The way he looks like a dark moon feels, like a mystery, like a secret.

Briar reappears with one hand hooked through the handles of two ale mugs. In her other hand is a plate of toasted and buttered bread. She sets all in front of us. “Anything else? Wine perhaps?”

“Yes,” I say.

“No,” the Crocodile says and gives me an admonishing look.

“Very well. I’m starving. This looks divine. Thank—” The Crocodile slaps his hand over my mouth.

“Rule number three, remember?” His eyes bore into mine. He’s serious now and worried. There is a pinch of it between his dark brows. A heaviness that I wish to relieve him of.

Three rules. Yes. Follow the rules.

I give him a nod and he pulls his hand away.

“That will be all, Briar,” he tells the butterfly girl and she disappears.

The band switches tunes and the tavern’s energy shifts.

“Eat.” The Crocodile shoves the bread in front of me.

I’m not used to people ordering me around but coming from the Crocodile…I should hate it but I don’t.

I take a bite. The butter is rich and infused with garlic and rosemary. The bread tastes like it was freshly baked today. It’s crunchy around the crust, soft in the middle.

While I eat and suck down the ale, the Crocodile scans the room again and says nothing. He’s not even eating his damn peanuts.

When the bread is gone, sense returns to me and the first rational thought I have is embarrassment, then anger.

“Did you drug me?” I ask him.

His eyes are still on the room. “It’s the magic.”

“The what?”

He finally looks at me. A lock of his hair falls over his forehead. I want to swipe it back. I want to touch him so badly it hurts.

“A year ago, several Pleasureland fae bought The Tipping Well. Now the place is infused with fae magic. Most people just feel calmer when they walk in the door. Keeps them drinking, spending coin. But other people, people who may or may not be pent up with unspent energy and emotion, fall much deeper.”

I scowl at him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you need to loosen up a bit or you’ll end up licking the boot of one of the fae proprietors before the night is over. Or worse,” he adds.

“You could have warned me.”

“I did.” He leans back against the booth and spreads his arms out. “You just chose to ignore me.”

“I think what you mean is I chose not to trust you.”

“Don’t make that mistake again.”

I am acutely aware of his arm behind me, the nearness of his inked skin, the way he takes up space that should not be his, but that he still somehow owns.

He could have let me fall for the fae magic. But he didn’t.

Why not?

I look over at him. He’s shifted his left arm, hand curled around the mug of ale, but he hasn’t touched it. There is tension in his body despite the languid way he slouches in the booth.

When we first walked in, all I could smell was the food and the magic, but now that we’re alone back here, all I can smell is him.

Spice and musk and darkness and urgency.

I’m overwhelmed by him.

Is it the magic again? Did he know this would happen? His way of getting back at me for leaving him on Neverland?

“What happens when you drink the wine?” I ask.

His gaze cuts to me. There is a flash of depravity in his eyes and then it’s gone.

“You lose your inhibitions,” he answers.

“Is that not what all alcohol does?”

“You don’t get drunk, Captain.” He leans in closer so he can whisper in my ear. “You just get bold.”

A shiver races down my spine.

I’ve sailed the seas of the Seven Isles. I’ve visited five of the seven islands. Fought other pirates and killed many more.

And yet some days I am aware that I am driven mostly by fear.

Fear of who I am.

Fear of who I’m not.

Fear of what happens when I face myself in the mirror.

To be bold is to be truthful and I am built of lies.

It takes me another slice of buttered bread and a second glass of ale before the fogginess of the tavern’s magic fades. The entire time, the Crocodile watches the room and ignores me. Which is just as well. I’m afraid of what I might do if provoked by him.

Despite this, I am endlessly fascinated by him and I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.

He’s slouched in the booth now, propped up on an elbow, one leg stretched out beneath the table, the other kicked up on the bench.

Once upon a time, he was everything I feared and hated.

I still do, hate him that is. I no longer fear him.

Or at least, I no longer fear him in the same way.

Wait, what am I saying? There is no gray area with the Crocodile. I must remind myself of that. I must keep my wits about me when he’s around.

He tips his head back and checks on me for the first time in so many minutes.

The tavern lights wash him in diffused gold and I find myself drawn to the bow of his lips, that sharp, dangerous mouth. My gut soars like I’m riding a ship-killing wave in the middle of a dark stormy night.

It’s obscene, how intimate and provocative he is even in repose.

If I were on my ship, I would be clutching the railings, holding on for dear life. That’s how I feel right now, like the world is heaving beneath me. I’m both exhilarated and terrified of it.

“Captain,” he says and reaches over, his hand on my thigh, so fucking close to my cock.

I lurch away. My knee knocks the underside of the table and the cutlery rattles against the plate.

The Crocodile frowns at me, but the expression is laced with amusement.

“Where were you just now?” He’s sitting up again, watching me with an intensity that burns.

“What the bloody hell do you mean? I’m right here.”

Sweating. Burning. Hard like stone.

He makes a quick slide down the bench until we are pressed together.

I swallow.

“‘Lies My Captain Told Me.’” He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, trailing it with wetness. He laughs. “That’s the title of my future memoir.”

I snort and reach for my drink. Anything to distract me, to hide the tremor in my hands.

My captain. MY captain?

He leans over. Scrutinizes me closer and the ocean heaves again.

“Is there anything as sexy as a squirming ship’s captain?” His mouth curves into a smile. “I think not.”

Christ.

He’s playing with me and I’m dancing for him like a fucking puppet.

“Shut up,” I tell him because I can’t think of anything more sufficient.

“Make me, Captain,” he challenges, bracing his tongue on the sharp tine of his incisor. “I can think of one very fun way for you to shut me up.”

“Bloody hell.” I grip my drink harder. I’m shocked the clay hasn’t cracked.

“I’m talking about blow jobs, Captain.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Do you want to know what I think is funny about blow jobs?”

Yes. “Not particularly.” I take a long swig of the ale wishing it was something stronger. Is the rum safe in this place? Why are we only drinking ale? I gesture to Briar. She nods and lifts a finger indicating it’ll be a minute.

I look over at Roc. He’s still staring at me, but he’s shifted a little so that the fabric of his shirt is tight across his middle. I know beneath it lay hard packed muscle and ridges so deep, I could pour my glass over him, watch the liquor fill up the valleys. I could drink from those rivers.

Suddenly I’m fantasizing about being on my knees in front of him, worshipping every inch of his body.

How did we get on the subject of blow jobs anyway?

The Crocodile cracks a peanut and I can’t help but wince at the loud break of the shell. “Open up,” he says, and rolls the peanut between thumb and forefinger.

“I’m not a circus animal.”

“Open your fucking mouth, Captain.”

I breathe out through my nose, but then do as he says.

He tosses me the peanut and I play for him, catching the peanut easily. It breaks between my molars and the richness of the nut fills my mouth.

He watches me more. He watches me swallow it. He watches me as if he’s satisfied.

“Blow jobs are a power dichotomy,” he says and sits up straighter, dusting the shell from his hands. “Most people think that being on your knees and getting railed in the face is a position of submission. But a man is never more vulnerable than he is when his cock is in someone’s mouth. Especially a mouth with sharp teeth.”

He smiles at me and I have to readjust in my chair as my cock stirs. He knows what he’s doing. The Crocodile always knows what he’s doing, always has the moment in his firm grip.

This is not how I imagined this night going. It’s gotten away from me. Or maybe I have gotten away from myself.

“Oh look,” he says and nods at the front door. “She’s here.”

She? Right. The girl we’re to meet to gather information about Wendy’s whereabouts.

I’ve completely forgotten.

How quickly the world blurs when I am tempted by a beast.