A/N: pirate!logan, pirate!au, mentions of blood and violence, this will be a co-written series with the lovely @themareverine
The year was 1706 when rumors first reached the far corners of the Caribbean: a new threat had come to terrorize the high seas. No man, they whispered, could do what Captain Logan Howlett had done in his first battle - seize a vessel of war and walk away without so much as a bruise or a scratch. Crew after crew spun tales of a pirate who refused to die, who bled one moment only to stand up strong as ever the next. His ship, the Sea Wolf, soon grew into a seafaring legend, a colossal predator of the waves, fully armed and always hungry for prize and plunder.
From the quarterdeck, in the dim glow of a lantern swinging overhead, Captain Howlett, a tall, broad-shouldered figure with wild, unkempt hair and a thick beard, scanned the horizon with eyes that had seen countless horrors and faced them all unflinching. From between his knuckles, three bone claws glinted ominously, reminders of his lethal prowess. The sight alone was enough to make even veteran pirates think twice before crossing him. No sailor could fully explain the phenomenon of the bones that slid between his fingers before he drove them into an enemy’s chest, nor could they comprehend the speed at which his flesh stitched itself back together in the heat of battle.
Across the Caribbean, Logan’s name grew in infamy. Spanish, English, Dutch, and French privateers alike retreated at the sight of the Sea Wolf’s masts on the horizon, hoping to avoid confrontation with the wild-eyed captain who seemed impossible to wound. Those who attempted to stand their ground seldom returned to confirm the whispers about his uncanny resilience. The man went by many names; The Claw, The Wolf of the Tides, but most commonly, The Dead Captain, they called him, a man who must have been sent by the Devil himself in search of souls to drag down to the burning pits of Hell.
On a stormy night in 1712, the Sea Wolf gave chase to a merchant brig called the Mary-Hope, rumored to be carrying precious silver and exotic spices. To the average crew, the howling wind and towering waves would have signaled caution, if not outright retreat - but for Captain Logan, the storm was merely another advantage. He urged the helmsman to press forward, the ocean spray stinging each crew member’s face like needles.
They caught the Mary-Hope within the hour. Grappling hooks and swinging lines shot across the gap between the ships, and Logan was first across, slashing through the enemy sailors with his bone claws. His roar rose above the storm, a sound that made men drop their swords on the spot. Lightning flashed to reveal the carnage - though outnumbered, the Sea Wolf’s crew pressed on, fueled by the presence of their unbreakable captain.
Despite gunfire and steel at every turn, Logan charged ahead. Several shots tore into his coat, blood appeared on his chest, only to vanish by the time he advanced a few more steps. In less than half an hour, the Mary-Hope’s deck was Captain Howlett’s domain, and its crew surrendered, trembling with fear of the pure animal violence displayed. Wet from both rain and the blood of their fellow seamen, the new prisoners saw firsthand the glare of a man who could not die.
When Logan stood before his own men, surveying the aftermath of battle, they gave him a berth of distance out of both awe and fear. They never voiced open defiance; you didn’t cross a man who survived sabers to the heart and emerged alive minutes later. Yet they admired him just as strongly, for never once had Logan asked of them something he wasn’t prepared to do himself. In the thick of combat, he was first to board an enemy ship, first to wade into the chaos of grapeshot and swords. If anyone fell injured, he was the one to haul them back, bellowing over the roar of cannons.
These loyalties ran deeper than the typical bonds of pirate crews; somewhere between terror and respect lay the secret admiration they held for their captain. They saw him as a force of nature, a phenomenon more than a man, and in their whisperings below deck, they spoke with hushed tones of Logan’s “devilish healing” - some calling it a blessing, others a curse.
By the 1720s, Captain Howlett’s reputation had grown so fierce that rival pirate captains considered joining forces against him. His biggest challenge came off the coast of Tortuga when an unlikely alliance of English frigates and Spanish corvettes lay in wait. The Sea Wolf cut through the blockade like a shark among minnows. Cannons thundered from both sides, smoke cloaking the azure water in a haze of black and gray.
In the midst of it all, Logan roared commands - his voice a razor through the din of cannon fire - and flung himself across one of the enemy ships. His bone claws, raw and dripping, tore down sailors faster than they could muster a counterattack. Musket balls ripped through his coat, and cutlasses slashed across his arms and torso, yet he refused to fall. Instead, he fought harder, red mist swirling where he should have been fatally wounded.
One by one, the allied ships either surrendered or were scuttled, terrified by the unstoppable fury they had attempted to cage. The Sea Wolf rumbled onward, battered but intact, led by a captain who stood upon the quarterdeck, muscles coiled, clothes stained with soot and blood but body miraculously unbroken.
By 1726, the pirate courts whispered that Captain Howlett had amassed enough wealth to buy an entire island, perhaps even a small kingdom. Yet his pursuits never seemed to wane - he chased challenge on the seas, not comfort on land. Wherever the Sea Wolf made anchor, locals stared and retreated from the crew’s path, well aware of the horrors those pirates could unleash at a single word from their invincible leader.
Ask any member of the Sea Wolf’s crew about their captain, and they’ll speak in hushed tones, voices wavering between reverence and fear. They admire his raw strength - evident in his rippling arms and the sinewy muscle that flexed whenever his claws unsheathed—but his true power lies in the fierce loyalty he shows them. Though a whirlwind of fury in battle, Captain Howlett insists on fairness: every bit of loot plundered from captured vessels is split in careful shares. Many a pirate has claimed that the Captain’s very presence on deck could still the harshest storm. He stands at the prow in silence, staring out into the horizon, as though in wordless conversation with the sea herself. To his crew, it is in those moments of calm that they sense something almost gentle beneath his hard exterior - like a beast that has found a pack worth protecting. However, loyalty is a two-way street, and betrayal is a sin not easily forgiven aboard the Sea Wolf.
One ill-fated night, an ambitious crew member, Garrett Finch, let greed overtake him. He pocketed several priceless pearls meant for the communal stash. Captain Howlett discovered the theft when the pearls were found hidden in Finch’s hammock, despite the thief’s desperate denial. The Captain’s claws slid out in one smooth, bone-rattling motion. Finch recoiled, horror etched across his face as the wind howled around them. Though he could have cut the man down in a heartbeat, Logan gave him just enough time to comprehend the depth of his treachery. The next few seconds were a blur of roars and screams, blood stained the deck. By the time the crew dared to move again, Finch was on his knees, eyes wide with terror, three ragged slashes across his face and chest. He wasn’t killed outright - Logan’s brutal lesson was meant not only to punish but also to warn. Stripped of any rank or claim on the spoils, Finch was banished at the next port they reached and left as living evidence of The Dead Captain’s cruel justice.
For the rest of the night, nobody spoke a word. The deck glistened wet beneath the stars. Captain Howlett’s temper had subsided almost as quickly as it had erupted. He turned away without fanfare, returning to his post at the helm. The message was clear: no quarter or mercy would be given to those who wronged their brothers aboard the Sea Wolf.
When the Sea Wolf finally reached a place of respite - the infamous safe-haven port of Nassau known for catering to pirates and rogues - spirits on board lifted. Lantern-lit pubs and winding streets thrummed with music and laughter, the air thick with the scent of rum and roast meat. Locals and dock workers bustled, shouting welcomes and offers of fresh water for the ship.
No arrival caused more of a stir than Captain Howlett’s. Women on the balconies waved embroidered handkerchiefs and fluttered their lashes at the rugged man stepping down the gangplank. Despite his wild exterior and the dangerous edge in his eyes, he tipped his head politely at the ladies, a faint ghost of a smile creasing his lips. Some were bold enough to call out, offering a night of comfort or a chance to banish the loneliness they sensed under all that hardened steel. Logan, ever haunted by the storms in his mind, could scarcely focus on such invitations, however. The toll of countless battles and the pursuit of the next treasure weighed on him. Though he might manage a soft-spoken “ma’am” or a short bow, his thoughts drifted, his gaze slipping past them to the open ocean. Deep in his core, he felt more at home among the crashing waves and howling winds than in the warmth of a woman’s embrace. Still, he did not begrudge the attention - at the end of the day, he was a man, a pirate. Logan accepted their eager affections for a night before he returned to the tasks that only he could shoulder.
And so, the Wolf of the Tides continued on, bound by both duty and the siren call of the sea. His bone claws remained a promise and a threat, as likely to save his crew as to punish them if they turned traitor. Yet beneath that stern surface, a flicker of a wounded soul occasionally shone through - his loyalty a testament that true strength goes hand in hand with a fierce determination to protect his own.
Stories still circulate about Captain Logan Howlett of the Sea Wolf. Some sailors say they’ve encountered him in hidden coves, alive and as brash as ever, despite the century that has passed. The only physical difference in the seafarer’s appearance being the thickness and length of his unruly beard and hair, as if he had not aged a day out in the harsh sun on the seas. Others dismiss him as a myth, a cautionary tale invented by superstitious mariners. But if you ask those who felt the dread of his bone claws and saw bullets bounce off his hide, they’ll swear that The Dead Captain was - and perhaps still is - real as the ocean itself, forever roaming the waves in search of the next unstoppable storm.
"They're making me get married, Logan," Patton said, voice choked. "I don't want to get married, not yet, and certainly not to some count."
Patton wrapped Logan in a hug, who slowly returned it.
"Then come with me," Logan whispered. "Board my ship and live a life that you'll never see inside the palace walls. I'll ensure everyone respects your terms of address, and your chosen name, and I'll do everything I can to make you comfortable."
Patton shook his head. "I don't want to be comfortable." At Logan's confused and slightly guilty expression, he clarified. "I don't want to be comfortable because I've been comfortable all my life. I want to be happy."
Logan smiled. "Then I shall make you happy."
Patton giggled, and grabbed Logan's hand, running out the rowboat he'd docked in.
Logan stepped in first, and offered his hand to Patton, who took it gratefully.
"Where do you wish to go, good sir?" Logan asked, an accent playing into his voice and a playful smirk on his face.
"Why, I'd much like to go to your ship, kind sir."
Logan sat down, and Patton sat in front of him.
"The ship it is then."
---
Roman had watched this man, this scoundrel, this pirate, charm his lovely sister and kidnap her. Poor Patricia, she was always so naive and trusting.
That awful man would take advantage of her! And he would keep her somewhere where nobody would ever find her and then she would die.
"Your Majesty?" a servant asked, making his presence known as he stood by the open door to Roman's room.
"What is it?"
"Sir Virgil received a very urgent letter from a family member, and has left the castle, and he told me to alert you that it was a matter of severe importance, and that he regrets not being able to say goodbye to you."
"That's fine." Roman gripped his seat tightly. "However my sister has just been kidnapped. Tell my father that I am going after them."
The servant seemed to sag, rubbing his eyes. "Very well then, Your Majesty, I will inform him at once." The servant left, muttering about how "he's just all the way across the castle" and shutting Roman's door a bit more forcefully.
Roman attached his sword to his belt, took his crown off and set it by the beside, and raced through the castle, running down to the docks where he found a note.
'Groft halred, ni lofth ashte."
Roman recognized the language at once as old Alrenian.
The note read "Good luck, my sweet prince."
---
"What are you writing? I never learned Alrenian," Patton inquired as Logan scribbled something down on the parchment in his hand.
"It's a...call it a lure for your moronic brother. He'll come to me, and he'll see that you've changed."
"Why do all that?"
"To make sure he respects you and so that I can...teach him if the need arises."
Patton leaned over and planted a kiss to his forehead, causing Logan to flush, putting the hand holding the small pen up to his face.
A/N: chapter one by @themareverine, pirate!logan x 18+female!OC, angst, lots of tension (both scary and sexual😂) kidnapping, cocky!logan, a little bit of mean!logan
The air inside the dimly lit room thickened with heat, sweat, and the lingering musk of rum. Rosalind’s fingers trembled where they hovered over the laces of her bodice, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. The voice - rough as weathered rope and deep as the tide at midnight - curled around her like a noose.
“Well. What do we have here?”
Her stomach clenched. It was a question, but the tone carried the weight of something already known.
The rustle of sheets came again, and she turned sharply, eyes locking on the source of the voice. He was sprawling, relaxed, the embodiment of an untamed predator at rest, stretched across the bed like he owned it - like he owned the very space she occupied. A man built of muscle and menace, bare-chested, his skin lined with ridges and sun-darkened from years at sea. The candlelight cast jagged shadows across his broad frame, glinting off his thick beard and the unruly waves of his long, dark hair. His boots were scuffed, his breeches worn, but the unmistakable weight of authority clung to him like a second skin.
It wasn’t just his size or the wildness in his gaze that left Rosalind breathless. It was the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth - wolfish, amused, knowing.
Captain Logan Howlett.
The Dead Captain himself.
She knew of him, of course. Any soul with the misfortune of traveling these waters knew his name. His legend. The captain who could not die, whose ship carved through the Caribbean like a predator, who took what he wanted and feared no man, no fleet, no law. And now he was here, in her room. Rosalind’s lips parted, her words failing her before they could take shape. “I - ”
“Yer not one of Miss Jasmine’s girls.” Logan’s voice was low, gruff, edged with curiosity as he sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes dragged over her, slow and assessing, his smug smile deepening when she took a step back, nearly stumbling over her forgotten slippers. A shiver, half fear, half something she couldn’t name, coiled in her spine. Logan ran a hand through his long, thick hair, cracking his neck as though he had all the time in the world. “Not dressed for the part. Not comfortable enough in a man’s room.” His gaze flickered to her half undone bodice, the damp fabric clinging to her like a second skin, her skirts heavy with rain and mud. “And far too shaken.”
Rosalind swallowed, her fingers clenching the front of her stays as if the thin material could shield her from the heat of his scrutiny. “I was given this room.” She forced the words out, though they felt small, uncertain. “You - you are in the wrong place.” Logan chuckled again, standing to his full height. He was massive. A wall of muscle and shadow, radiating something more dangerous than mere physicality - dominance. The kind of presence that made men follow without question, made sailors tremble when they saw his ship’s black sails crest the horizon. Rosalind stiffened as he took a slow step forward.
“Ain’t no wrong place for a man like me, lass.” His voice turned teasing, but there was something beneath it, something sharper. “I go where I please.”
“Then go.” Her voice wavered but held. “I won’t stop you.”
Another step.
Rosalind’s back hit the wall, her damp skirts twisting around her ankles. Logan tilted his head, considering her in the way a wolf might regard a fawn too small to be worth the chase - but not small enough to be ignored altogether.
“That’s real polite,” He said with a chuckle. “But I don’t think you’re in any position to be givin’ orders.”
Rosalind lifted her chin, trying desperately to remember the proper way to breathe. “I have nothing of value.”
At that, Logan’s smirk turned into something else entirely - interested. “Now that,” He murmured, “is where you’re wrong.” The air shifted between them. Rosalind could feel it, the unspoken understanding settling thick in the space they shared. Logan wasn’t looking at her the way a man looked at a woman in a brothel. He wasn’t looking for a tumble. No - he saw her the way he saw a prize. Something valuable. Something that could be taken.
A chill licked down Rosalind’s spine. Logan’s head tilted slightly, his smirk gone, replaced by something far more calculated. “You got a name, girl?”
She hesitated, then swallowed hard. She was nothing if not smart, and the smart thing would be not to anger this man in front of her, currently blocking her only way out. “Rosalind.”
He hummed. “Rosalind.” Rolling the name over his tongue like he was testing the weight of it. Then, after a pause - “Abbott.” Her blood turned to ice. “Ah.” Logan’s voice was almost pleased as he leaned in just enough for her to catch the scent of salt and smoke, the rich musk of leather and rum. “Now why would a pretty thing like you be hidin’ away in a place like this?” Rosalind’s heart slammed against her ribs.
He knew.
Of course, he knew. He was a pirate, a hunter of the seas. He knew who she was, what her family name meant. And now, she belonged to him. Or at least, that was what the look in his eyes promised.
Her name sat heavy between them, thick as gunpowder before a spark. Logan let it roll over in his mind, the weight of it settling as he considered the girl before him - small, trembling, but not spineless. No, he’d seen plenty of noble-bred girls fold like paper under less pressing circumstances. Yet Rosalind stood her ground, even as she hugged herself to keep from shaking. That fight in her, small as it was, amused him.
Logan repeated her name, tasted the sound as though it were rum he was considering for its quality. His voice was low, thoughtful. “Now, that’s quite a heavy name to bear, ain’t it?” She swallowed, her knuckles going white where she clutched her damp skirts. Logan had seen that name plenty of times - on the manifest of merchant ships, stamped on cargo crates, whispered among navy men on captured vessels.
The Abbott family had a stake in these waters. Which meant she had value. Logan stepped closer, slow and unhurried, and enjoyed the way her breath hitched, the way her spine pressed further against the wall. Cornered. “Now, let’s see…” His voice was almost gentle, the kind of voice one might use to soothe a skittish mare before breaking it. “I reckon you ain’t just on some leisure trip. Girls like you don’t end up in Miss Jasmine’s place unless they got nowhere else to be.”
He could see her lips press together, her pulse jump at her throat. Logan grinned, letting the silence stretch just a little longer before closing the last bit of distance between them. Rosalind sucked in a sharp breath when his knuckles brushed along her cheek. A slow, deliberate stroke down the soft skin of her jaw, his fingers warm and calloused. Her whole body went taut.
“You gonna make me guess, sweetheart?” Logan murmured, tilting his head. “Or are you gonna be a good girl and tell me where you’re being shipped off to?” She stiffened, panic flaring in her wide, dark eyes. For a long moment, she said nothing. Logan’s smirk didn’t falter. His knuckles traced down the delicate column of her throat, a featherlight touch - not threatening. Not yet. But she knew what he was capable of.
Of course, she had heard stories - ghost stories, at the time - from her now deceased brother, Bartholomew, of a captain so ferocious, so ruthless that Death itself didn’t wish to claim his soul. Rosalind had heard of him, yes. The uncanny ability of surviving things most men - human men - would not, could not. And she had heard of the curse of timelessness that walked hand in hand with him.
And here she stood in front of that very ghost, barely more than the girl she was then, skirts soaking wet, trembling, yet still holding herself with the stubborn defiance of a woman who had not yet been broken. But she would break, Logan mused, they all did. Even the strongest learned how to bend under the right amount of pressure. His lips curled. “Now, Rosalind, I’m only going to ask nicely once more,” He murmured, stepping forward. She didn’t answer, didn’t move, but Logan could see the way her fingers dug into the fabric of her bodice, her breath shallow and quick. “Where is it they’re shippin’ you off to?”
She lifted her chin, eyes flashing. “That’s none of your concern.”
Logan laughed - a low, amused sound that sent a ripple of something deep and predatory through the space between them. He invaded her space easily, his size overwhelming, the sheer presence of him suffocating. His scent of rum and spiced tobacco strong and overwhelming, making her throat tighten where his fingertips were now tracing her collarbone.
Rosalind went rigid. Waiting.
Waiting for those claws to unsheathe. Waiting for them to press against her throat. She wasn’t a fool. She knew of his reputation, how he slayed countless men in the middle of the ocean for crates or barrels or jewels. And Rosalind? She had nothing to offer and it would cost him just as much to rip her apart. If he truly wished. “C’mon, little dove,” Logan crooned, voice dripping with condescension, like he was entertaining the notion that she had a choice in any of this. “You tell me now, or I’ll have to get real creative about findin’ out myself.”
Rosalind’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her nails digging into her palms. Finally, she whispered, “England.” Logan exhaled sharply through his nose.
An arranged marriage, no doubt, he thought. An Abbott daughter tied to some English navy bastard. That explained why she was being sent off like a package instead of welcomed as her father’s heir. The irony of it twisted something amused in his gut. Logan hummed, pleased, dragging his knuckles just a fraction lower, grazing the curve of her breast before pulling away. “That so?” She nodded stiffly, her pulse still frantic beneath her skin. “And what’s waitin’ for you in England, dove?”
Her hands clenched. She didn’t want to say it. The words burned before she even spoke them, but Logan was waiting. “My…” She inhaled sharply, forcing it out. “My betrothed.”
At that, Logan’s grin widened, flashing teeth that belonged to something wild. “A wedding,” He laughed cruelly, stepping back just enough to let his gaze rake over her once more. “Well, ain’t that somethin’ special?” Rosalind remained silent, every muscle in her body drawn tight. And then Logan - ever the opportunist, ever the predator - sighed in mock sympathy, shaking his head. “Well, it just so happens,” He drawled, “That I got myself a fine ship, and I’d be honored to escort you the rest of the way.” Her stomach dropped. His meaning was clear. Not an offer. A declaration. “I imagine your father would pay quite handsomely to see his little girl delivered in one piece.” He reached for his belt, adjusting the leather strap lazily, as though he hadn’t just decided to ransom her. “Might even throw in a bit extra if I promise to keep you from fallin’ into the wrong hands.” He gestured vaguely to the room - the brothel, the harbor, the whole damned world outside.
Rosalind swallowed hard, her mind racing. She knew what he was. She knew what happened to women taken by men like him. Logan watched her, enjoying the way she processed it all. And then, finally, she understood. The choice wasn’t between staying or going. The choice was how she went. Kicking, screaming, forced onto that dreadful ship - or willingly, maintaining whatever dignity she had left. Her stomach twisted. She wasn’t confident in her ability to fight off the Dead Captain. So Rosalind did what she’d been taught to do. She adapted.
“…Then I suppose I have little choice.” She murmured, voice quiet but steady.
Logan’s grin was razor-sharp. “Smart girl.” And just like that, Rosalind Abbott - once bound for England, once resigned to a future dictated by men of high society - was now at the mercy of something far, far worse. “Come along, dove,” He murmured, stepping back just enough to give her the illusion of space. “Let’s get you acquainted with the Sea Wolf.” His tone easy as if they were nothing more than old friends departing a tavern together. She didn’t resist as he pulled her along, out of the room, down the staircase of the brothel where Miss Jasmine’s girls averted their gazes, pretending they didn’t see her being claimed by the most dangerous man in the Caribbean. They weren’t paid nearly enough to get in his way. She was silent as they stepped onto the damp streets, the scent of salt and something rancid filling her lungs.
The docks were alive with noise and motion. Sailors hauling crates, drunken pirates spilling out of brothels and taverns, the scent of salt and sweat thick in the air. And amidst the chaos, one ship stood out like a predator among prey - the Sea Wolf. Rosalind took in the vessel with wary eyes, gaze sweeping over the massive black sails, the deck crawling with rough men - each one hardened, each one moving with practiced efficiency. Their eyes roamed, sizing her up, calculating her worth, her weakness. There were no jeers, no lewd calls, not with him beside her, but their curiosity was palpable, thrumming beneath the hush that followed their slow walk toward the quarterdeck. Rosalind kept her hands tight at her sides, her bodice still damp from the humidity, her skirts dragging against the wooden planks. She felt like a prize, a piece of stolen treasure paraded before the crew, but she also felt something else. Something worse. A trespasser. A thing that did not belong among these men, these killers, these ghosts of the sea. The murmur of the waves against the hull filled the silence, punctuated only by the distant creak of rigging and the heavy thud of boots approaching, surrounding.
Like wolves.
A crew of rogues.
Yet Logan moved easily through them, a living legend among thieves. His presence alone kept them in line. Not a single man dared question the girl trailing behind him, though many eyes lingered, full of curiosity.
Near the helm, an older man with a thick, silver-shot beard and deep-set eyes leaned against the railing, watching their approach with the kind of bemusement one might reserve for an overgrown pup dragging in a strange new animal. His broad frame, scarred knuckles, and the twin pistols strapped across his chest made it clear he had become a soldier of the sea. The quartermaster, Briggs, raised a brow as they neared the gangplank. “New recruit, Captain?” His voice was gravelly, the sound a result, no doubt, of aged rum and years of shouting commands over cannon fire.
Logan chuckled, placing a heavy hand on Rosalind’s back as he nudged her forward. “Something like that.”
Briggs took one look at her stiff posture, at the fine dress, the noble features, the telltale hue of her eyes, and let out a low whistle. “Abbott?”
Rosalind stiffened. Logan smiled, patting her back like she was some prize stallion. “Knew you’d catch on quick, old man.”
Briggs shook his head, bemused. “Captain, you’ve just about pissed off every navy and merchant fleet in the Caribbean.”
Logan shrugged, truly unbothered. “One more won’t make a difference.” Rosalind kept her chin up, but Logan could feel the tension radiating from her, the way her nails bit into her palms.
Briggs scratched at his beard, rubbing his jaw pensively. “And where you plannin’ to keep Lady Abbott?” His tone was knowing, laced with something dry, something bordering on teasing. “Don’t reckon she’ll fare well in the bunks.”
Logan sighed dramatically. “No, I don’t reckon she would.” His eyes looked over her with lazy regard.
Briggs chuckled, crossing his arms. “Can’t have her sleepin’ in the brig, neither. Not if you mean to ransom her in one piece.”
Rosalind stiffened. Logan only rolled his shoulders. “Which leaves me one option.” Briggs arched a brow, waiting. Logan’s eyes on her were sharp, dangerous. “She stays in my quarters.”
A beat of silence.
Then, Briggs laughed. A deep, full-chested sound, amused in a way that only a man who’d sailed with Logan for years could be. “Aye,” He rasped, shaking his head. “Figures.” Rosalind’s breath caught. The Captain’s quarters? Her pulse hummed violently. Briggs exhaled, gaze flicking back to Rosalind. “You a religious woman, Miss Abbott?”
Anyone else may have been thrown by the sudden question, but not her. “I am.”
Briggs smirked. “Might want to start prayin’, then.”
And just like that, her fate was sealed. Logan’s hand pressed against the small of her back, guiding her toward the entrance leading below deck. The crew parted to let them through, murmuring among themselves, but no one stopped them. Because no one would stop him. Rosalind moved stiffly, her steps careful, measured. But inside, her pulse was frantic, her breath short. Sharing a ship with pirates was bad enough.
Sharing a room - with him - it was unthinkable. She wanted to turn, to run, but where would she go? The Sea Wolf was already pulling away from the harbor, the town’s lights shrinking behind them. There was nowhere to run.
And so she walked.
The corridor was dimly lit, lined with lanterns and heavy wooden doors, but Logan did not stop at any of them. He led her to the very end, where a thick oak door bore deep scratches in its surface, as though claws had raked across it. Logan pushed the door open, stepping inside. Rosalind hesitated, her feet frozen at the threshold. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Get in, lass.” The steel in his voice left no room for disobedience. She stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a resounding thud. Rosalind took in her surroundings, her breath catching slightly.
The room was larger than she expected, filled with maps, weapons, and books, their pages curling at the edges from the salty air. A large desk stood near a wide window, where the dark sea stretched endlessly beyond the glass. The smell of smoke and leather lingered, thick and cloying. What drew her attention most was the massive bed against the far wall.
One bed. Well-used.
The realization nearly made her knees buckle. She turned sharply to face him. “You can’t possibly expect me to - ”
Logan raised a brow, amused. “To what?”
She frowned. “To share a room with you.”
His smirk deepened. He took a slow step toward her, closing the space between them in a heartbeat. Rosalind held her ground, refusing to shrink away. Logan tilted his head, eyes dark with something unreadable. “You think I’m gonna force you into my bed, is that it?” She refused to answer. He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “If I wanted that, girl, we wouldn’t be talkin’ about it.” The bluntness of his words sent heat crawling up her throat, but she refused to let it show. Logan leaned in just slightly, his breath warm against her temple. “You’ll sleep where I let you sleep. And right now, this is your space, whether you like it or not.” Rosalind clenched her jaw, swallowing her pride, her terror, her disgust. He leaned in further, voice low in her ear. “Welcome aboard, dove.” She didn’t respond, but she didn’t fight him either. She had spent her whole life surviving men who thought they owned her.
Your Logan!Pirate au is such a cool idea!! Are you thinking about making a x reader fic with this plot?? If so can I request either an Elizabeth Swann type reader or maybe princess who gets held captive?
Yes! @themareverine and I are crafting an x reader as we speak:)
The first chapter of The Sea Wolf will be written and posted by Mare, so make sure you all follow her so you won’t miss it😁
