stole the queen from her bed

Cutthroat had became lost in the catacombs of his thoughts as he moved, errantly, through the confines of his cage the copses of trees that was leading the way like some invisible map to the creek in which the pack was named for, in an ‘x’ marks the spot fashion. He thought of Calypso, wondering with a quicken of breath and beats of his heart within his breast of Cutlass or Corsair would think to take his misdeeds and traitorous actions out upon her. Calypso hadn’t done it, of course, but what if they fancied ‘guilty by association’. His mother had never been ‘worlds number one Mum’ by any stretch of the imagination but she had loved him and took care of him, and despite her carnal-wiles that had left Cutthroat irritated and ready to chase off any man who came parading around with his arm candy and proceeded to order Cutthroat about as if he were a small child, or their son (which always seemed to have happened) but Cutthroat loved her as a son loved his mother, with a pinch of exasperated affection. Though the wolves of Tortuga claimed that he was, in the aspect of color a carbon copy of her coat, bluish black the color of the richest ink, complete with her stunning golden irises, he was never mistaken for her. Despite how he shared his mother’s coat and eyes he was often told he could, easily, be mistaken for Ateer, bearing the same chiseled frame, the same roguish handsomeness that seemed to have been spun straight from an eighteenth century based romance novel.

Cutthroat had never known Ateer and was fairly confident that likewise, Ateer had never known him, but he had known his mother well and could not bear the thought that she might be suffering for his actions. Not that, granted, he was in any sort of power to do anything. Though he was nicely titled with the rank ‘Sigma’ he understood that it truly meant ‘Captive’. He had been willing, and perhaps, daredevil stupid enough to return to these wolves after what he had done, what he had allowed and been apart of.

Cutthroat told himself he was atoning for it, but thus far, he had yet to feel liberated from his guilt.

He stopped short (it seemed he would not be making it to the creek after all), his thoughts shattering into shimmering and cutting shards like glass, when a low woof announced the presence of an admittedly stunning fair creature, dressed in ivory, he saw as he allowed his golden irises to flit across her in a manner that was muted appreciation before he shifted his stance into a obediently submissive one she asserted her dominance over him. Cutthroat recognized her from that night, too, though it was only now he allowed himself to truly see her. She had been the one to end Killick’s life, he recalled with an impressed coloring to his thoughts. What was with all the women of this Creek that he had seen thus far being so damned attractive?

It should have been a sin, the pirate thought begrudgingly as he diverted his eyes away from her, waiting for whatever was about to come next.