The next day, the captain's quarters were quiet except for the rhythmic creak of the ship’s timbers as it swayed on the restless waves. Robert sat on the edge of his bunk, his elbows on his knees, staring at the moonlit porthole. The sea seemed endless, a silvered expanse of motion and silence that mirrored his brooding thoughts. His chest tightened as he waited, the air heavy with anticipation. Willoughby had taken longer than usual, and the absence gnawed at him. He half-smiled to himself–always the dramatist–and exhaled, his breath shaky, almost expectant.
The knock came faintly, barely audible over the groaning timbers. Robert straightened, his voice low but firm. “Willoughby?”
The door creaked open, revealing Willoughby leaning against the frame. His shirt hung open, loose around his shoulders, his chest exposed to the cold lantern light. His hair was dishevelled, strands sticking to his forehead as though wind or sweat had plastered them there. He said nothing at first, his blue eyes drinking in the sight of Robert, the gleam in his gaze teetering between playful and predatory.
“You’re late,” Robert said, his voice carrying a note of reproach beneath the thin smile. “I wondered if you’d come.”
Willoughby stepped into the cabin, the soft click of the door shutting behind him echoing through the still room. “I always come for you, don’t I?” he murmured, his tone teasing, laced with warmth–but tonight, something felt off. His voice carried an edge, an unfamiliar sharpness that made Robert’s stomach twist.
“Do you?” Robert chuckled softly, trying to dispel the unease stirring within him. “You’re cold,” he remarked, his smile fading as Willoughby stepped closer. The air seemed to shift, the warmth of the cabin retreating in his presence, leaving a chill that seeped into Robert’s skin.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Am I?” Willoughby’s voice dipped lower, smooth as velvet, as he closed the distance. He sat beside Robert on the bunk, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound. His fingers brushed Robert’s thigh, lingering there. “I suppose you’ll have to warm me up.”
The touch sent a jolt through Robert, a spark of alarm mingling with an unfamiliar thrill. Willoughby’s usual roughness was absent, replaced by a deliberate slowness, a calculated sensuality that unsettled him. He tilted his head, studying the man beside him. “You’re freezing,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with concern. His gaze searched Willoughby’s face, noting the pallor beneath his tan, the faint gleam in his eyes that seemed too bright, too unnatural.
Willoughby smirked, his lips curving in a way that felt both familiar and alien. “You’re imagining things,” he said, his tone dismissive but laced with amusement. He leaned closer, his hand pressing against Robert’s chest, guiding him back onto the bunk.
Robert allowed himself to be pushed down, though unease prickled at the back of his mind. Normally, he would take control, set the pace, but tonight he found himself yielding, his usual dominance faltering under Willoughby’s steady, unrelenting gaze. The shift in their dynamic unnerved him, yet a part of him was drawn to the strange intensity in Willoughby’s eyes.
“You’re tense,” Willoughby murmured, his hand sliding down Robert’s chest, his fingers cool against the fabric of his shirt. “Let me take care of you.”
Robert swallowed hard, his breath hitching as Willoughby’s weight pressed him further into the bunk. His mind screamed that something was wrong, but his body betrayed him, caught in the web of Willoughby’s touch.
“Willoughby,” Robert began, his voice faltering as he tried to sit up, but Willoughby’s hand on his chest was insistent, keeping him prone.
Robert stiffened, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. Before he could speak, Willoughby leaned in, pressing his lips to Robert’s neck. The icy touch made him shiver, but not with pleasure. His skin crawled, his heart pounding as the cold seeped deeper. Robert jerked back, his pulse racing.
“Willoughby–” The next words caught in his throat as Willoughby’s form began to shift. The warmth in his skin faded entirely, his tan melting into a pale, frostbitten hue. His dark eyes hollowed out, turning black and cold. His features sharpened, hardening into the face of something otherworldly. The Yuki Onna’s smile widened, cruel and predatory, as frost spread across the walls and floor.