My Dear Plunderer - Chapter 5
<5> The Chase
When a predator’s teeth graze their neck, prey stiffens in an instant. Laila was no exception. Though no physical harm had been done, she was ensnared by a single glance—helpless as a rabbit in a snare.
"If... it suits your taste..."
Her voice, thin and drowsy under the weight of his gaze, trailed off before it could finish.
The scent of the sea surged like a tidal wave—whether from the tea or the man himself, she couldn’t tell.
‘He hasn’t figured it out. That much is certain.’
A privateer’s duty was to eliminate threats to the Empire from the shadows. If he had sensed heresy, he wouldn’t be probing subtly—he would have torn the place apart by now.
So why did his eyes keep following her?
Laila needed to be sure. Otherwise, the unease would gnaw at her, stealing even her sleep. Summoning what little courage she had, she spoke again.
"The divine protection and the sea’s favor must have guided your ship to this island... How fortunate."
"I’ve never believed in gods, and the sea has never favored me."
His words, as rough as his gaze, offered no answers. If anything, she had only sunk deeper into the mire.
"Laila!"
At her uncle’s sharp call, she retreated to the far end of the drawing room, the sticky traces of a trap clinging to her like an ill-fitting shadow.
Renok watched her receding back—quicker in retreat than in approach—before sipping his tea.
Why so tense? Even the innocent make you want to seize them.
"My apologies, Captain. She still hasn’t learned her place."
The lord alternated between scowling at the woman and groveling toward Renok, who ignored him entirely, picking up a knife instead.
"How is it?"
"......"
"My niece may lack in many things, but her cooking is passable. Shall I have her bring more? If it doesn’t suit you, perhaps something else—"
An insult, to a noble’s ears.
Yet the woman in question sat by the door, head bowed, her lone teacup a pitiful contrast to the plates of meat before the others.
The lord was pathetic, flailing for any lifeline. But this woman—unable to even claim her own meal—was worse.
Renok’s already absent appetite soured further. As he set the knife down, the lord’s eyes bulged as if the world had collapsed.
"Goodness, are you finished already?"
"I’ll be staying on the island for a time."
"For... how long?"
Ten days to repair the ship. Seven to restock. And...
Renok’s gaze flickered toward the woman at the far end before returning.
"A month."
Müller’s jaw dropped like a broken hinge.
"At once! I’ll have quarters prepared immediately! There are plenty of spare rooms—ah, the locals are fishermen, but we’ve shipwrights aplenty. I’ll gather them all!"
"Best we don’t cross paths. My crew lacks... refinement."
With that, Renok stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
When the drawing room doors opened, his crew—already finished eating—turned in unison.
Renok smirked. Of course. These men didn’t know the meaning of a slow, formal meal.
The boisterous voice of the first mate, Pedro, rang out.
"Who made the stew? Better than our ship’s cook!"
"That’s cruel... I won’t feed you next voyage."
"Wouldn’t eat it if you did. Admit it—you got fired for being terrible, right?"
"Stew! Stew!" Pedro’s odd chant cut off as he spotted Laila, wide-eyed, still inside the drawing room.
Faded clothes. An apron. 'Oh!'
"You made the stew?"
Every sailor’s gaze locked onto her. Under the sudden attention, Laila stiffened before nodding hesitantly.
"Ever thought of signing on as a cook? We’d pay better than this manor’s servant wages. Our Captain’s loaded."
Pedro winked, thumb and forefinger rubbing together in the universal sign of money.
Servant. The word flushed Laila’s cheeks. Adriana stepped in, her brow pinched.
"Ahem. She’s not a servant—she’s my cousin."
"Cousin? So... noble?"
Pedro’s eyes raked over Laila. Even unspoken, his thoughts were deafening.
"Since when do nobles look like that?"
Ah. So he wasn’t the type to keep rudeness to himself.
"Looks aside—you’re saying there’s no more stew?"
"No... there isn’t."
"Ever heard the tale? When pirates go hungry, they gobble up the nearest maiden."
She hadn’t. But she knew well the savagery of pirates—this was an island of fishermen and traders. Even three-year-olds cried at pirate stories.
And this was the Verche crew.
Their brutality was legend, whispered even among whalers. Did flying the Emperor’s red banner instead of a black flag change that?
Her eyes caught on the massive shield strapped to one pirate’s back. Her face paled.
"Tch."
A sound like a splitting melon—Pedro’s head snapped forward as Renok cuffed him.
"Ow! What was that for, Captain?!"
"My apologies. Instinct, with beasts like you."
"All I did was ask for more stew—!"
"My apologies again. Your intellect mirrors a monkey’s."
"Captain!"
Renok strode past Pedro—still clutching his head—and toward the manor doors. Outside, the rain fell in sheets.
Drops sprayed inward as he shoved the door open, soaking the floor.
Unfazed by the storm that would give anyone pause, he said only:
"It was adequate."
No glance back. No gratitude for the hospitality.
As the crew filed out and the door *thudded* shut, the manor plunged into silence.
Cold, as always. As if no foreign wind had ever passed through.
***
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