The game of desire

by NesquikBabibel

Summary:

In a world of pirates and power, desire is the deadliest weapon.

Anissa captivates, seduces, and manipulates, bending hearts and loyalties to her will. From the burning passion and heartbreak of Shanks to the calculated ambitions with Shamrock Figarland, every choice is a gamble, every love a risk.

To survive, she must master the game… but in a world ruled by ambition, even desire can be fatal.

Chapter 1: Resignation

The sea stretched out as far as the eye could see, shimmering under the orange rays of twilight. The Red Force split the waves with majesty, her sails inflated by a favorable wind.

Shanks, leaning on the railing, let his eyes get lost in the horizon. Her smile was there, light, but her gaze shone with a more fragile glow than usual.

Another week... he thought. In seven days, I'll see her again.

He inhaled deeply the salty air, seeking to calm the tumult within him. Joy and impatience mingled with a dull anguish. So much had happened since their separation. So much unspoken.

Quiet footsteps echoed behind him.
— "You seem concerned. "said Beckman's low, steady voice.
Shanks straightened up, sketching a somewhat forced smile.
— "Me, worried? You know me, Beck... I'm always in a cheerful mood. »
Beckman quietly lit his cigarette, his gaze fixed on his captain.
— "Not when it comes to her. »

Silence fell between them, broken only by the cry of seagulls and the roll of the waves.
Finally, Shanks sighed, running a hand through his unmade hair.

— "When I see her again... I don't know what to say to her. »

He looked down at his fingers, clenched on the wood of the railing.

— "Tell him about my family? Of that brother I never wanted to recognize? Of all that I have hidden from him? »
His voice became lower, more uncertain.
— "Or just squeeze her against me and forget about the rest? »
Beckman drew a long puff of smoke, then let go, in a calm tone :
— "You will have to choose. But remember one thing: what she expects from you is not an invincible hero. This is the man who loves her. »

Shanks was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the horizon which was tinged with red.
The silence dragged on after Beckman's words. Shanks kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, but his thoughts had flown elsewhere.

Anissa.
Her laughter first. Clear, light,almost insolent. A burst of life that still resonated in his ears. He remembered how she sometimes laughed for nothing, just to lighten the air around them. This sound alone was enough to drive away his darkest torments.

Then her smell. A subtle fragrance, mixed with salt, wood and a sweetness that he had never been able to describe. Shanks recalled those moments when, without even thinking about it, he buried his face in his hair, breathing in this scent like a drug.

And her skin... soft, warm, vibrant under his clumsy but passionate caresses. He could see his fingers sliding down her back, his lips brushing the back of her neck, and that shiver that he triggered in her.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and everything came back: their shared nights by the flickering glow of the lanterns, their whispered confidences between two glasses of rum, their arguments too, stormy but always followed by ardent reconciliations.

A smile appeared on her lips.
— "I miss her, Beck..." he admitted in a breath. "More than I can say. »

Beckman exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze resting on his captain with silent gravity.

— "Then get ready. Because finding her will not be enough. You will have to be worthy of her. »

Shanks nodded slowly. Impatience grew in his chest. In a week, he thought he would hug her, find that warmth that no ocean had been able to make him forget.

The sun was slowly declining, bathing the Red Force with a golden glow. The crew members were agitating on the deck, between laughter, songs and preparations. The planned stopover in a week gave everyone a palpable air of excitement.

Lucky Roo crunched loudly in a piece of meat, his cheeks swollen, and threw in a playful voice :
— "Hey, captain! So, do you think she's going to yell at us again because we leave our guns lying around everywhere? »

The men burst out laughing, some nodding their heads, amused.
— "No, but it's true! "adds Yasopp, who was quietly cleaning his rifle. "She always has an eye on everything, as if she were our mother to all of us. I missed it, me. »
— "You mean you regret that she slapped you because you had too much to drink? "launched a sailor laughing.
Yasopp blushed a little, but smiled in a corner.
— "Yeah... maybe so. »

The bridge vibrated with their good humor.
Shanks, leaning on the railing, could not help but smile in turn. Seeing her men talk about Anissa as obvious, as an integral part of their lives, warmed her heart.

He was far from suspecting that at the same moment, in Marijoa, Anissa was trembling under the icy grip of the Figarlands.

--MARIJOA

The bedroom door slammed violently behind them.
Shamrock did not let go of Anissa's arm until he pressed her against the wall. His breath was short, his red eyes blazing with a rage that he was struggling to contain.

He stood motionless for a moment, his gaze planted in hers, then, abruptly, he bumped his forehead against hers. The shock made Anissa tremble, but he didn't give the pain time to settle down: he wanted her to feel his trouble, his fury.

- "Witch..." he growled in a low, hoarse voice. "You have bewitched me. I can't stop thinking about you..."

His panting breath burned his skin. He clenched his jaws, his voice vibrating with frustration.

— "I've only known you for a month and a half. A month and a half, Anissa. And already, I can't stand the idea of someone else looking at you... even my father . »

His fists were shaking against the wall, on either side of his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, his ardent gaze planted in hers.

— "Tell me... was it true? When did you say you liked me? »

Anissa's heart leapt into her chest. She immediately understood that it was necessary to choose her words carefully. Shamrock was not only angry: he was at war with himself. The slightest hesitation on his part could explode his violence ... or, on the contrary, offer him a flaw.

She thought of Shanks, of the promise she had made to herself to survive until he returned. So she took a breath, forcing her voice to remain soft.

— "Yes..." she breathed. "I like you. »

She slowly raised a trembling hand and laid it against his torso, as if to calm the furious beating of her heart. Her eyes were shining with tears, but she refused to look away.

Shamrock remained frozen, his breath suspended.
Then, with a hesitant but decided gesture, Anissa leaned towards him and put her lips against his. A slow, fragile kiss, like an offering.

He had a start, his fingers clenched against the wall. For a second, he wanted to push her away... then his hand slipped in spite of himself on her cheek, as if his whole body refused to obey his reason
.
The taste of her lips, the warmth of her breath... everything bewitched her more.

When he finally broke the kiss, her forehead remained glued to his. His red eyes shone with a cloudy glow, a mixture of desire and self-hatred
.
- "Witch..." he repeated, his voice trembling with a contained anger. Her fingers tightened on her cheek, almost too tightly. "You live up to your nickname well. »

Anissa, short of breath, dared to support her gaze.

— "If I'm a witch... then you're the one who let me bewitch you. "she whispered.

A bitter sneer distorted his lips.
— "Don't think I'm blind. You're lying. "His voice cracked, low, harsh. "Do you think I don't see clearly in your game? You're doing this to soften me up. To make me think that you like me. »

He brought his face closer to hers again, their lips almost joined again, but this time his tone was venomous :
— "You want to survive. That's all. »

Anissa felt her heart tighten. She could have looked away, lowered her weapons, but she knew that it would be worse. So she let her eyes veil with tears and gently shook her head.

— "No... I like you. "She insisted in a fragile but determined voice. "You are cruel, Shamrock. You're scaring me. But..." She hesitated, her throat tight. "But I'm not lying."

He remained motionless, forbidden by this answer.
His breath became shorter, and he closed his eyes for a moment, as if to repel the words that reached him in spite of himself.

Shamrock's fingers slowly descended, leaving his cheek to close abruptly around his neck.

Anissa had a muffled hiccup. The air blocked in his throat, his eyesight blurred under the relentless pressure. She raised her hands to grab his wrist, but Shamrock's grip was of steel.

— "You're lying ..." he snarled, his face a few inches from hers. His red eyes burned with fury and pain.

"Do you think you can manipulate me like you do with Shanks ? Do you think I don't see clearly in your lies? »

His grip tightened. Anissa felt her head turn, her breath go out, her heart beat violently against her compressed chest. The panic mounted — a visceral, animal fear.

I'm going to die.

But in the midst of this vertigo, a thought springs up: Shanks. She remembered her anger, her storms of jealousy or pain, which she had been able to soothe in only one way. If it had worked with him... maybe it would work with Shamrock.

Gathering her last strength, Anissa let her hands slide from her wrist to her torso. His trembling fingers grazed the line of his muscles, descended lower, to reach his cock, trying to divert his rage.

Shamrock's eyes widened for a split second, surprised by his audacity. His breath became heavier, his hand clenched on his neck hesitated, tightening again and then releasing slightly.
Anissa, panting, managed to whisper in a broken breath :
— "If I'm lying to you... then fuck me ... and you'll see. »

Shamrock remained frozen. Her flamboyant gaze is troubled, oscillating between anger and desire, between the desire to break it and that of yielding.
His fingers, still on his neck, quivered as if he were struggling with himself.

The silence was nothing more than breath, heat and suspended threat.

A chilling echo echoed in Shamrock's head :
"Didn't you even bring her to your bed? Pathetic. »

His father's voice, heavy with contempt, pierces his chest. The shame prevails, burning, unbearable. He had always wanted to be worthy of Garling, and now he felt reduced to a weak child, unable to control his own prey.

His eyes harden. His forehead remains glued to her , his fingers still clenched around his neck. Then, in a sudden movement, he presses his lips against Anissa's. It was not a kiss, but a grip, a bite.
Without giving her time to catch her breath, he drags her to the bed and throws her on the mattress.

Anissa had a groan of pain, her back hitting hard the wood hidden under the sheets. She would have wanted to push back, to beg, but she understood that resistance would only unleash her rage even more. So she let herself go, gritting her teeth.

Shamrock turned her over on her stomach, pulled down her panties and pulled out his dick , then he spat saliva on his palm to lubricate his cock and lay down on her with all his weight while penetrating her deeply, his body tense, his sudden gestures. He was not looking for sweetness or pleasure. Every movement was fast, jerky, as if he wanted to prove something — to her, to himself, to her father's shadow.

As soon as he began to penetrate her, the friction of his body against her burning back made the pain rise to an unbearable level. The still raw flesh burned with each movement, the red-hot iron mark seeming to open a little more with each thrust

To give herself a sense of composure, Anissa began to count each coming and going, one, two, three ... each number hanging her up to something tangible, an anchor point in pain. The friction of his burning back made each thrust like a torment, but the counting allowed him to hold on, to survive every second.

She closed her eyes. The stinging burn radiated from the mark to the slightest muscle, and a sharp pain rose between his thighs. She inhaled deeply, trying to detach herself from her body, to hold on despite the torture that consumed her.

Fortunately for her , everything was quick . A few moments, a wave of brutality, and then it was over. Shamrock, panting, stood for a moment above her, his features drawn, his gaze still aflame.

He had not loved her. He had possessed her.
Anissa, her lips parted, caught her breath in silence. She dared not move, not yet. In his mind, only one thought resonated: endure ... and wait for the right moment.

Shamrock remained frozen above her, his breath short, his muscles tense. His chest heaved rapidly, as if he had just given a fight. But a bitter taste was already spreading in him: shame, frustration.
He came too fast. Way too fast.

He looked away, gritting his teeth. His father would still have been right to make fun of him. Pathetic. Weak. Unable to last
.
Yet, despite this burning in his pride, an unhealthy satisfaction was growing in his belly: he had taken it. Finally. Anissa's body was his, marked by him. It didn't matter how — he had crossed that barrier, and that was enough to appease some of his jealousy.

He straightened up slightly, his eyes resting on her. Anissa, panting, remained motionless, her hair stuck to her temples, her dark eyes lost in the shadows.

His voice fell, deeply , authoritative :
— "Tonight... you stay with me. »

He wanted her to be there, close to him. That she does not go to take refuge elsewhere, that no one else can touch her or even approach her.
Anissa did not answer. She simply lowered her eyes, docile, playing her role as a submissive prisoner.

And then, without him really knowing why, an unexpected impulse passed through him.

Shamrock got up, quickly put on his half-open shirt, then left the room for a moment.

When he returned, he was carrying a small bucket of hot water and a towel. Without a word, he sat down on the edge of the bed. His gestures remained stiff, awkward, but a strange softness was guessed in his intentions.

He dipped the towel, wringing it out in his wide hands, then spread Anissa's thighs slightly apart.

She shivered, but did not protest.
Anissa was startled when the hot linen touched her bruised intimacy. A groan escaped him, brief but clear enough for Shamrock to understand.

He frowned slightly. As he approached the towel, he saw the obvious: his flesh was red, swollen, marked by his brutality.

For a moment, a shadow crossed his gaze. He didn't plan to hurt her so much... not like this. Part of him would have wanted to apologize, soften his gestures, but the words stuck in his throat.

A Figarland does not apologize.
His father's voice echoed in her head again, implacable.

So he walled himself up in silence. Her hands, on the other hand, became slower, less pressed, as if to compensate without admitting it. He sponged carefully, avoiding the most sensitive areas, applying himself so that the hot water relieves instead of reviving the pain.

Anissa, stretched out under him, was looking at him in a corner. She had seen that trembling in his eyes, that hesitation. He didn't want to say it, but he understood.

She inhaled softly, clutching the sheets between her fingers, and chose not to say anything either. It was a flaw that she had to keep in mind.

Shamrock put the wet towel in the bucket and wiped his hands. His expression had hardened again, as if he were immediately closing the breach of tenderness that had almost shown itself.
He looked up at her, and declared in a low, almost cold tone :
— "Fall asleep. »

Then he lay down next to her, his body tense, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, while Anissa remained motionless, her mind already spinning at full speed.

The room remained plunged in a heavy silence, disturbed only by Anissa's irregular breathing. Shamrock, lying beside her, kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep. But the truth is, he wasn't sleeping.

He heard the creasing of the sheets when the young woman straightened up for the first time. The discreet lapping of the hot water, then the damp cloth that she pressed against her bruised intimacy. Her gestures were slow, painful, and a slight tremor in her breath betrayed the effort she was making not to moan.

Shamrock stood still, every sound etched in his memory.
A second time, later, she stood up again. His steps were hesitant, clumsy, as if every movement pulled on his muscles and his scarred back. She sat on the edge of the bed, her legs slightly apart, and he immediately understood why: the pain prevented her from keeping her thighs closed, every touch of fabric must have been torture for her.

Shamrock felt an unpleasant heat rise in his chest. A mixture of guilt and wounded pride. He had not wanted to appear weak, not wanted to prove his father's words right... and now he had damaged her from the first time.

The third time, when she finally lay down again, she stayed on her back, her legs spread , trying to find a position where the pain was bearable. Her breath, fragile, betrayed that she could not really sleep.

Shamrock, on the other hand, had not closed his eyes. Every sigh, every start, every awkward movement twisted his head. But he doesn't say anything. His stone mask remained in place.

He let the hours pass like this, frozen in his role.
The first rays of the sun filtered through the heavy curtains, drawing golden stripes on the bed.

Shamrock opened his eyes, still weighed down by the fatigue of the night, but already, a burning desire was reinstalling itself in him.

He felt his body react instinctively, his muscles tense, his erection growing. The shadow of the previous night, his confused emotions and his mixed frustration, revived this tension that never completely left him.

Yet this time he took a step back. He observed Anissa, still asleep, her features drawn, her body marked by pain and the effort of the night. The memory of the stifled sobs and the careful movements when she had treated herself came flooding back to her chest.

Shamrock took a deep breath, gritting his teeth. He wanted to, he felt it.

With a sudden but controlled gesture, he straightened up on the bed, sitting with his back to the wall, his eyes still fixed on her. His fingers tapped the wood of the bed, nervous, but he made no gesture towards her.

— "Not today..." he whispered to himself, more in a low voice than out loud.

He got up, leaving the young woman to sleep for a few more moments, resuming his cold and authoritarian mask, but under which a cloudy mixture of desire, frustration and ... strange protection remained.

Anissa, for her part, was still asleep, unaware of the control Shamrock had just imposed on himself to spare his body that morning.

Chapter 2: The witch of the Red-Haired

CHAPTER 1
Twilight painted the sea in shades of orange, and Shanks’ ship glided smoothly over the gentle waves. On the deck, a chessboard sat between three figures: Shanks, leaning casually with a mischievous smile; Beckman, cigarette dangling from his lips, his gaze sharp and unwavering; and Anissa, focused, her fingers lightly brushing the ivory pieces.

“You think too much,” Shanks said, amused. “In chess, like in life, sometimes you just have to take a leap without calculating every move.”
“And lose your queen on the second turn?” Anissa shot back, a playful smirk on her lips.

Beckman exhaled a cloud of smoke and gave a small, approving grin.
“She’s right, captain. If you keep playing like you fight, you’ll end up risking your king on impulse again.”

Shanks laughed, his red hair catching the wind. He placed his hand over Anissa’s, deliberately drawing her attention away from the board.
“Maybe that’s my real strategy…”

The touch sent a shiver down her spine. With Shanks, every gesture was both tender and charged with heat. Their connection went beyond words: a raw magnetism, a mutual pull that seemed to ignite the very air around them. Yet Beckman remained there, silently observing, never jealous, as if he were part of the unspoken bond linking the three of them.

The game ended with a checkmate by Anissa. Shanks threw his hands up theatrically, like a child caught in the act.
“Once again… you win.”
“I warned you,” she replied, calmly gathering the pieces.

A comfortable silence settled over them. The soft lapping of the waves, the distant laughter of the crew—the ship hummed with life and quiet energy.
---

Anissa loved this life. She felt free aboard the ship, far from the constraints of the outside world. Shanks loved her with a raw, passionate, sometimes uncontrollable intensity. Beckman, on the other hand, provided a different kind of balance: calm, thoughtful, a quiet presence that was nonetheless reassuring.

These evenings together, whether spent in simple games or more intimate pleasures, had become their ritual. Slowly, Anissa discovered she could wield a subtle, invisible power—this magnetic aura she possessed—to influence their thoughts and wills. Even Shanks, the ultimate free spirit, did not always notice.

On the calm sea, the ship continued its course. No one could yet guess that this fragile harmony would soon be shattered by choices heavier than any chess match.

It had already been two years since Anissa had come aboard the Red-Haired’s ship. Two years of waves, of parties, of battles, of laughter that still echoed in her ears every morning. Two years in which she had ceased being a stranger and had become one of them.

Her domain was the kitchen. At dawn, she could be found alongside Lucky Roo, sleeves rolled up, a scarf tied around her head, juggling between cauldrons and barrels of spices. The big pirate was a master at preparing hearty feasts, but he often admitted that Anissa had that “special touch”: a finesse that could turn a simple fish stew into a banquet.

“You know, Anissa,” Lucky Roo laughed, tasting a steaming pot, “at this rate, I might just lose my title as head cook!”
“Impossible,” she retorted, tossing him a dish towel. “Who else could empty a barrel of dried meat in a single day?”

They formed a playful duo, working amid banter and laughter. The crew knew that with them, there was never a shortage of food, and always plenty of reasons to celebrate.

And Anissa loved to celebrate. In the evening, when steaming dishes were devoured, she joined the men on deck with a glass of rum in hand. She sang, danced, laughed—immersing herself fully in their excesses. Her companions adored her for this: she never judged, she lived with them heart and soul, like a true pirate.

Even the grumpiest among the crew had come to love her. Yasopp sometimes confided his doubts about being an absent father; Howling Gab recounted incredible stories from his youth; and when she engaged in friendly duels, some admitted that she could wield a kitchen knife more skillfully than a pirate with a saber.

But beyond this camaraderie, there was Shanks. He was different. The love she felt for him was anything but calm or gentle: it was a storm, an irresistible pull. When he laughed, she laughed. When he grew angry, she vibrated with him. And when he drew her aside, away from prying eyes, she felt swept into a whirlwind of desire and raw passion.

These two years had not only been years of the sea—they had been years of their intense, magnetic, sometimes fused, sometimes chaotic love. But Anissa knew she would not trade this life for any other.

Two years earlier, when she first set foot on the Red-Haired’s ship, she had felt intimidated. The crew had welcomed her warmly, but their overflowing energy and boisterous laughter had seemed overwhelming. Yet she quickly melded into the group, as if she had always belonged.

Lucky Roo had been the first to adopt her. A master cook and voracious eater, he immediately appreciated Anissa’s help in the kitchen. Together, they turned provisions into feasts, and he never failed to tease her with a laugh:
“You and I, we’re the real heroes of this ship. Without us, they’d have starved long ago!”

Yasopp loved to tease her. Between archery sessions showing off his legendary skill, he enjoyed provoking Anissa, pushing her into challenges or bets she almost always lost. Yet behind the jests, he kept a watchful eye, silently protecting her like an older brother.

Beckman, meanwhile, quickly treated her with respect. More thoughtful than the others, he often sought her opinion, as if reminding her that she was not just a passenger, but a true member of the crew. It was he who, laughing, had nicknamed her “the little redhead at heart,” a nod to her obvious attachment to Shanks.

As for the captain, Shanks, he had never really questioned it. To him, Anissa had always been part of the crew. She drank with them, laughed with them, lived with them. And when he saw her raising her glass, singing louder than anyone, he couldn’t help but smile, proud of her as if he had always known her.

In this way, almost without realizing it, Anissa had found a new family. Each of the men had welcomed her in their own way, and now it was hard to imagine the Red-Haired’s ship without her.

The moon reflected off the calm sea, and the deck already rang with the laughter of the Red-Haired’s pirates. Barrels of rum had been tapped, cups filled to the brim, and the scent of grilled meat mingled with the salty wind.

Shanks, leaning against a barrel, laughed heartily, recounting yet another of his adventures, every detail exaggerated to the point of absurdity. Anissa, sitting beside him, followed along, raising her glass each time he punctuated his tale with “…and that’s when I lost my arm!”

“Oh, stop it, Shanks! You tell it like a tavern story,” she teased, nudging him lightly.
“But that’s exactly what it is—a tavern story!” he retorted, laughing.

Nearby, Yasopp tried to beat Lucky Roo in a speed-eating contest: who could finish a plate of smoked meat fastest. Anissa, giggling, cheered Yasopp on, clapping her hands, though everyone knew Roo would win.

“Come on, sharpshooter! Show you can hit something other than targets!” she shouted, her cheeks already flushed from the alcohol.

Meanwhile, Beckman had set up a small card table and dared anyone to challenge him. Shanks, of course, flatly refused, swearing Beckman always cheated. Slightly tipsy, Anissa dared to sit across from him. She lost miserably, but Beckman offered her a conspiratorial smile, discreetly slipping a gold coin under the table, as if to say: “Here, you belong with us, no matter what.”

As voices rose and the alcohol warmed hearts, the singing began. Shanks wrapped an arm around Anissa and pulled her into the sea shanties with the crew. His voice was lost in the cacophony of pirates, but his smile said it all: she was now part of this family of loud, rowdy, passionate pirates.

The deck still rang with laughter and song when Anissa, rum in hand, suddenly stood. The ship rolled slightly, but she felt light, almost drunk on freedom.

“Come on, Beckman!” she shouted, mischievous smile on her lips. “Dance on the table with me!”

Beckman looked at her, surprised at first, eyes narrowed by the lantern light. Then a faint, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips, and he rose, calm but determined, to join her.

Without hesitation, she climbed onto one of the wooden tables, pulling Beckman with her. The other pirates burst into laughter, some cheering, others tossing their cups into the air to mark the moment.

Anissa spun around, letting her hair fly in the wind, laughing:
“Watch out, Beckman! I can beat you on the table and in life!”

Shanks, leaning against a barrel, shook his head, laughing.
“Crazy fools… but it’s good to see you like this!”

Even Beckman, usually composed and serious, let himself get carried away by the impromptu music and the ship’s roll. He followed Anissa’s movements with surprising agility, dodging cups and bottles strewn across the deck, his motions precise and fluid.

“Not bad, Beckman!” she shouted between laughs. “You’re made for this, after all!”

They danced, laughed, and playfully challenged each other, until the rhythm of the songs and the waves enveloped them both. In the midst of this joyful chaos, Anissa felt what she loved most: being at the heart of her new family, surrounded by those who loved and respected her.

As the party continued, Shanks suddenly set down his glass and locked eyes with Anissa. A sudden, irresistible glint shone in his gaze: a sharp desire only she could satisfy.

“Come with me…” he murmured, his voice low and husky, almost a command disguised as an invitation.

Before she could answer, he took her hand and hurried her toward his cabin, leaving behind the laughter and songs of the crew. The door closed with a soft click, and the outside world seemed to vanish.

For an hour, the ship continued to vibrate with festivities on deck, while inside, Shanks and Anissa surrendered to their passion, forgetting everything except the intensity of their intertwined desires.

When they finally emerged, slightly disheveled and still breathless, the crew had already noticed. Laughter erupted immediately.

“So, lovebirds, all good?” Yasopp teased with a wink.
“Sounds like we heard some strange noises…” added Lucky Roo, clapping his hands.

Yasopp, with a mischievous wink, began imitating Anissa’s moans, exaggerating every tone. The result was immediate: Shanks, still drunk, burst into uncontrollable laughter, clutching a barrel to keep from falling.

“Stop… stop, you’ll kill me with laughter!” he managed between hiccups, tears in his eyes.

Lucky Roo and a few other pirates applauded, while Hongo added with a sly grin:
“Careful, Shanks, at this rate… you’ll end up having babies!”

Anissa, far from embarrassed, blushed slightly but laughed along. On this ship, there were no taboos, no hypocrisy. Intimacy was part of everyday life, just like crude jokes and teasing. They drink, they smoke, they fuck, they eat everything they wants this was exactly what she loved: total freedom.

While Shanks’ crew lived without limits on deck, the outside world did not see it the same way. Rumors had long circulated among other ships and even within the Marine offices: the Red-Haired’s ship was a place of unrestrained debauchery, where alcohol flowed freely and parties could last for days.

Since Anissa’s arrival, the stories had taken a new turn. Whispers claimed the ship had become a place where sex was omnipresent, and that the young woman exerted an irresistible influence over the captain and certain officers.

“That Anissa…” one could hear in taverns or Marine quarters. “She bends men—and Shanks—however she wants. A real poison, that girl…”

From the moment Anissa came aboard, it was clear she was more than just alluring: she possessed an almost supernatural magnetism, capable of captivating men and women, guiding desires, and even influencing the captain’s decisions.

Thus began her nickname: “the witch.” Stories, exaggerated by taverns and gossiping sailors, described a woman whose presence could turn an entire ship into a place of celebration, passion, and chaos, whose mere glance could unsettle the most stoic.

And like any legend, these tales eventually reached the ears of the powerful: even the Gorosei had begun to hear about the young woman who could influence Shanks and his crew. In their offices in Mariejois, some frowned at the rumors: a pirate, and a woman, with such seductive and commanding power… it could not go without consequence.

But on the ship’s deck, amidst the laughter, songs, and bursts of passion, Anissa savored her growing reputation. She knew that, little by little, her name would travel beyond the seas—and that her legend, the Red-Haired’s witch, had only just begun.

Chapter 3: Dance of desire

CHAPTER 2
The ship glided gently over the waves, the setting sun casting golden reflections on the ocean. Anissa’s days continued to follow their familiar rhythm: cooking with Lucky Roo, laughing with Yasopp, talking with Beckman, and, above all, savoring every moment alongside Shanks.

But that evening, excitement hung in the air. The ship was approaching a small, isolated island, perfect for an impromptu landing and, above all, for another night of celebration. The crew, already intoxicated with the joy of leaving the constant roll of the sea behind, was preparing to party on solid ground.

Anissa stepped first onto the warm sand, a radiant smile on her lips. She felt every gaze on her, and as always, she knew how to capture their attention.

“So, how should we celebrate our arrival?” she called, hands on her hips.

The fire was already crackling on the sand when Yasopp, bottle in hand, climbed up onto a rock by the shore.

“Hey guys, watch this!” he shouted with a laugh.

Without warning, he leapt into the air and crashed into the sea with a huge splash. His head broke the surface again, hair plastered to his face.

“Hey, Anissa! Bet you don’t have the guts to do the same!”

A ripple of amusement spread through the crew. Everyone knew Anissa never backed down from a challenge. She crossed her arms, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

“Me? No guts? Want to bet?”

Before Shanks even had time to react, she let her dress slip onto the sand, then shed the rest of her clothes. The pirates’ eyes widened—some burst out laughing, others stared in stunned silence at her boldness.

“Hold this,” she told Beckman, tossing him her dress and panties as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Then, without a second’s hesitation, she sprinted barefoot across the sand, climbed the rock, and dove off with a cry of pure joy.

A loud splash followed, and soon her laughter rang out over the waves. Yasopp burst into laughter as she surfaced near him.

“You’re crazy, Anissa!”

“Crazy, but alive!” she shot back, splashing water into his face.

She turned toward the shore where Shanks and the rest of the crew stood, half-amused, half-incredulous.

“What are you waiting for?! The water’s perfect!” she called, waving her arms, her drenched hair clinging to her skin.

The moment hung in the air—a spark of pure freedom, the very essence of pirate life.

Shanks, still sitting by the fire with a calm smile, watched her without a word. He knew she loved to provoke, to test limits, and he saw no reason to stop her. She was free, and that freedom was part of what drew him to her so irresistibly.

In the water, Yasopp laughed as he splashed Anissa, who eagerly splashed back. She had no shame at all about being naked in front of the crew; if anything, she seemed to revel in their reactions, savoring every second.

“So, mighty pirates, are you just going to stand there like statues?” she teased, raising her arms toward Shanks and the others.

Lucky Roo, still chewing on a piece of meat, got to his feet with a mischievous grin.

“Well, if no one else is brave enough, I guess it’s my turn!”

He climbed onto the same rock as Yasopp and leapt without hesitation. But when his massive body hit the water, it sent up a colossal splash that drenched Anissa from head to toe and nearly knocked Yasopp off balance.

For one beat there was silence—then the whole beach erupted in laughter. Anissa, eyes shut and hair plastered flat, burst into uncontrollable giggles.

“Roo!” she cried between laughs. “You’re gonna drown us all with dives like that!”

Her clear laughter rang out across the beach, and Shanks, still seated, watched her for a long moment. That laugh, that audacity, that way she had of turning even the simplest moment into a celebration—that was Anissa.

The laughter was still echoing from Roo’s dive when another figure approached the water’s edge. Hongo, the ship’s doctor, calmly removed his glasses and handed them to Beckman before rolling up his sleeves.

“If you think I’m going to let you have all the fun without me…”

He strode forward and dove in. A few strokes later, he joined Anissa and Yasopp, perfectly serious despite the chaos around him.

“Hongo? You can swim?!” Yasopp teased, splashing water at him.

But Anissa, still brimming with energy, launched herself at him with a playful battle cry. She grabbed his shoulders and tried to drag him under.

“Attack!” she shouted between laughs.

Caught off guard, Hongo flailed his arms to fend her off, splashing her in return. The mock fight quickly escalated, with Yasopp siding with Anissa.

“Come on, Hongo, don’t tell me you’re losing to a girl!” Yasopp jeered.

“A girl?!” Anissa echoed indignantly before forcing Hongo’s head underwater for a few seconds.

When he surfaced, coughing and sputtering, the crew on the beach howled with laughter. Even Shanks finally stood, amused despite himself by the chaos.

“Well… I guess I don’t have a choice,” he said, pulling off his shirt.

Cheers erupted from the pirates as their captain headed toward the water.

Bit by bit, the uproar died down. Some pirates returned to the fire to dry off, while others lingered in the shallows, still laughing and splashing. Anissa, exhausted but glowing, finally made her way back onto the beach. Droplets traced down her skin, her soaked hair clinging to her shoulders.

She grabbed a towel from a crewmate and dried off slowly, the smile never leaving her lips. The cool night breeze made her shiver, but the warmth of the laughter around her kept her glowing.

Without hesitation, she walked over to Beckman, who sat slightly apart in the firelight’s shadow. Calm as ever, pipe between his lips, he had watched the whole scene without moving.

“You didn’t join in,” she said as she sat down beside him, still rubbing her hair with the towel.

Beckman exhaled a puff of smoke, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“Someone had to keep a clear head. And besides… you looked like you were having plenty of fun without me.”

Anissa chuckled softly and leaned against his shoulder, savoring his steady warmth after the wild chaos.

Anissa gently stepped away from the circle of pirates. Beckman, quiet but attentive, followed her with his gaze, instantly understanding where she intended to go.

“Want to step away for a smoke?” she asked, a mischievous smile on her lips.

“As every night?” he replied with a light laugh.

She nodded and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, a small ritual she had adopted since arriving on the ship. Every night, after the festivities and chaos of the deck, she liked to slip away with Beckman for a few moments—to smoke, talk, or simply enjoy the calm under the stars.

They settled apart, behind a row of crates, lighting their cigarettes. Smoke rose gently into the night air, mingling with the salty scent of the sea and the aroma of the campfire.

“I love these moments…” murmured Anissa, almost to herself.
“Me too,” Beckman replied. “It’s rare on a ship like this… but with you, it’s… different.”

She smiled, slightly playful, drawing a long drag before letting the smoke drift away slowly. A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the gentle lap of the waves.

Then, as the cigarette neared its end, Anissa straightened up and cast him a conspiratorial look.
“We should go back to the others. They’ll start worrying if we disappear too long.”

As they headed toward the center of the camp, Beckman couldn’t help but notice something obvious: the effect Anissa had on Shanks.

Even at a distance, the captain’s eyes followed her, almost hypnotized; his light laughter and easygoing manner vanished whenever he saw her move or smile. Beckman understood, with a touch of amusement and admiration, that Shanks was not only under the spell of her beauty but also of her aura, confidence, and natural magnetism.

“Incredible…” Beckman murmured to himself, watching Anissa prepare to dance at the center of the crew.
“You know it, don’t you?” he added with a smirk. “He’d follow you to the ends of the world if you asked.”

Anissa gave him a knowing glance, fully aware of her power, a small mischievous smile tugging at her lips.
“Oh, I know that very well…”

Then, with her signature grace, she placed herself at the center of the circle, ready to captivate the entire crew. Beckman, at her side, could not help but admire how she commanded attention, desire, and respect from everyone, including the captain himself.

The rhythm of drums and songs set the air on fire, alcohol flowing freely, and Shanks never once took his eyes off Anissa. Drunk, he had already come up to her several times in the middle of the dance, sliding his hands over her hips, laughing into her ear like a lovesick teenager. She played with that tension, pushing him away just enough to draw him back.

At the end of a song, their eyes locked, burning. Without a word, Shanks grabbed her hand, pulling her away from the noisy circle toward a darker corner of the island. Their muffled laughter blended with the excitement of a secret rediscovered.

She stumbled against him, and his lips crashed onto hers in a hungry, messy kiss, the captain’s hands already pressing against her hips.

"Captain…"

Yassop’s voice broke through, making them pause. He stood a few steps away, bottle in hand, his gaze blazing.

"Can i join? You know I want her too…" he murmured, still waiting for a sign.

Shanks gave a feral smile, his fingers sliding down Anissa’s body as if to remind Yassop who she belonged to.

"You’re asking? he said, laughing low. Good. Then wait until she say yes."

Then, turning his face to Anissa, he brushed her lips with his thumb.

—"And you… tell me you want this"

She held his gaze, her eyes glittering with desire and provocation, before whispering:

" Yes… I want both of you."

That was all the permission Yassop needed. In an instant he joined them, his mouth searching for Anissa’s neck while Shanks kissed her deeply. Trapped between their bodies, she let herself drown in the heat of their hands: Shanks’s, firm and possessive, already undoing her clothes; Yassop’s, hungry, caressing her waist, her breasts, as if he had been waiting for this moment for years.

Shanks pulled back slightly, laughing at the eagerness of his marksman.

"Easy, Yassop. She’s mine first."

He lifted Anissa against the wall, taking her roughly, his powerful thrusts echoing against the wood. She arched, gasping, her fingers tangled in his hair. Yassop, kneeling at her feet, slid between her thighs, his tongue tasting what Shanks gave him — the mingling of their bodies. Anissa cried out, shaken with pleasure, unable to hold back her screams.

" Look at her… Shanks growled, voice rough, his grip on her hips unyielding. She’s writhing for us"

Yassop looked up, lips wet, answering in a fevered tone:

"She’s beautiful, Captain…"

When Shanks pulled out, he gestured to Yassop.

"Your turn. But I want to watch."

Yassop didn’t hesitate. He sank into her with uncontrolled hunger, his hands gripping her waist, his hot breath against her throat. Shanks, sitting right beside them, watched intently, stroking himself, teasing Anissa further with filthy whispers, forcing her to keep her eyes on him.

Yassop held her tightly, fingers digging into her hips, thrusting into her with rough urgency. Drunk on desire, his movements slapped against her skin, dragging from Anissa moans caught between pleasure and pain.

Shanks frowned, his eyes narrowing as he watched. His hand clamped down on Yassop’s shoulder, halting him in his frenzy.

"Hey, easy… he growled in a deep voice. You’re not here to break her."

Panting, trembling with tension, Yassop froze. He glanced at his captain, a mix of frustration and respect in his eyes.

"I… I’m sorry, Captain. She’s just so..."

"I know, Shanks cut him off with a dark smile. But you’ll savor her. Like I do. Not like some whore to be used in a rush."

Anissa’s flushed face turned toward Shanks, her breath ragged. A broken whisper escaped her lips:

"Yassop… don’t stop…"

He cupped her cheek, his lips brushing her ear.

" You hear that? She wants you to keep going. But this time, follow my rhythm."

Yassop started moving again, slower now, deeper, his body almost unconsciously guided by his captain’s authority. Shanks kept his hand on Anissa’s hip, making sure every moan that left her throat was from pleasure, not pain.

" That’s it… much better, Shanks said with a satisfied smile. Look at her… She bends to us, not to your impatience."

Anissa’s moans grew steadier, her trembling more intense. And Shanks, always present, savored the spectacle: his authority respected, his lover undone, and his crew obedient to his rules even in bed.

The evening had quieted. The crew lay on the warm sand of the island, some still chatting softly, others already asleep, lulled by the crackling fire and the whisper of the waves.

Anissa and Shanks lay side by side, inseparable, in the midst of the crew. The pirates, accustomed to their closeness and open relationship, made no comments: aboard this ship, freedom and shared intimacy were natural.

Stars shone above them, illuminating the tired but happy faces of the pirates. Anissa closed her eyes, relishing the rare feeling of being loved, desired, and safe—surrounded by her chosen family in a world where everyone lived without taboos or constraints.

Shanks placed his hand over hers, a calm smile on his lips.
“We’re good, huh?” he murmured.
“Yes… perfectly good,” she replied, pressed against him amid everyone, savoring the simplicity of the moment.

And so, under the stars, the Red-Haired’s ship and crew slept peacefully. This simple, shared moment further strengthened the bond between Anissa and Shanks, as their legend—gentle and tumultuous all at once—continued to grow.

By morning, the ship was underway again. The crew, still tired but happy, busied themselves with daily tasks: some checking the sails, others organizing crates or preparing breakfast. The atmosphere was relaxed, punctuated by laughter, conversation, and the gentle slap of water against the hull.

True to her habits, Anissa helped Lucky Roo in the kitchen, juggling dishes and playful moments with the crew. Every gesture, every smile she gave seemed to captivate those around her. Even Shanks, busy giving orders, kept her in his peripheral vision, still marked by the previous night’s events.

“You know…” Beckman murmured to Shanks with a glance, “the crew would do anything Anissa asks. Even you, captain…”

Shanks gave a small smile, amused but slightly embarrassed. He knew he was under her spell, like everyone else, and could not deny the effect she had on each of them at every moment.

“You know…” he murmured to Beckman, lowering his voice so no one else could hear, “I’m completely in love with her.”

Beckman raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“Completely?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes…” Shanks replied, a mix of amusement and sincere confession in his voice. “Sometimes I feel blinded. I see only her gestures, her smiles… and I realize I would do anything she wanted.”

Beckman offered a small, knowing smile.
“Well… at least you’re honest with yourself. But you’ll have to be careful, captain. Her influence… it’s powerful.”

Shanks laughed lightly, shaking his head.
“I know… and I don’t mind. She has this power over me, and I accept it. After all, she’s the one.”

The look he gave Anissa, preparing breakfast while laughing with the crew, was full of admiration, desire, and a tenderness he showed to no one else. Beckman, observing, smiled inwardly: he could see clearly that Shanks was utterly captivated by the young woman, and no other force could rival her.

Chapter 4: The spark of ambition

CHAPTER 3

Night had fallen over the Red Force. In the captain’s cabin, Shanks’ heavy breathing filled the room, punctuated by a soft snore. Rum and love had knocked him into a deep sleep, his arm draped over Anissa’s waist like an anchor.

She, however, couldn’t sleep. Her eyes stared into the darkness, her mind racing with thoughts that refused to quiet down. She loved Shanks with all her heart—his raw strength, his laughter, his magnetic charisma… Yet she hated what he became when he simply drank and drifted.

She ran her fingers through his red hair, brushing it from his damp forehead. Even asleep, vulnerable, he radiated an overwhelming presence. He was Shanks the Red-Haired, one of the most powerful men in the world—a man who could have conquered anything.

And yet… he was just a luxurious wanderer. A pirate who loved to roam, sing, and party. Not a king.

A bitter frustration welled up inside her. She knew, better than anyone, that the seas didn’t forgive inaction. Others were moving in the shadows: Blackbeard, greedy and dangerous; Luffy, that stubborn kid with his old hat; even Buggy, by some absurd twist of fate, was climbing the ranks. And Shanks… was laughing.

She gritted her teeth. No. Not him. Not the man she had chosen. Shanks had to be more. He had to be the Pirate King—not just a party-goer remembered as a fallen legend.

She pressed her lips to his sleeping temple and whispered softly, for herself alone:

" You could rule them all. And I’ll make sure you understand that" .

 

---

A few nights later, the moment came. In the heat of their intimacy, as their bodies burned together and Shanks, drunk with desire, surrendered completely to her. These were the moments when all his defenses fell, when he let himself be guided by her words as much as her touches.

Straddling him slowly, she leaned close to his ear. Her voice was a whisper, soft yet commanding:

« Tell me, Shanks… how long are you going to keep wandering and »

He let out a half-groan, surprised by her words. His hands clenched at her hips.
« What…?»

She moved more deliberately, leaning closer, her lips grazing his skin.
«You could be the Pirate King. You have the strength, the name, the crew. But you’re wasting your time. And while you laugh… Blackbeard is moving. Luffy is moving. Even Buggy is moving. And you do nothing, just drinking, drinking and drinking »

Shanks opened his eyes slightly, breath ragged, caught between pleasure and the weight of her words.

«You want me to chase that dream?»

She held his gaze, burning and unwavering. Her voice was sharp as a blade, soft as a caress:
« I want you to take what’s yours. To be more than a drunken emperor. I want you to be the King. The one and only. The one who changes the world.»

Every word, every moan, every touch tied her desire to his ambition. She saw it in his eyes: she had planted a seed he could no longer ignore.

The next morning, the sun rose over the Red Force. The crew, still groggy from the night before, laughed and tidied the messy deck. The air smelled of salt, damp wood, and spilled rum.

Shanks stood apart, watching the sea with a rare thoughtful expression. His fingers absentmindedly played with the hilt of his sword.

Beckman approached, a cigarette dangling from his lips, curious.
« You’re wearing quite a face, captain… you almost look serious.»

Shanks didn’t answer right away. He stayed focused on the horizon, then exhaled, voice calm but full of meaning:
«Well… it’s time we went after the One Piece.»

Silence fell. Beckman looked up, surprised. He’d known Shanks too long to doubt that he meant every word.

« … Are you sure? he asked, narrowing his eyes.»
«More than ever.»

Shanks’ gaze burned with a new flame, a mix of excitement and determination, as if a spark he had long ignored had finally ignited.

From the shadows of the railing, Anissa watched, a small smile tugging at her lips. She said nothing. But she knew. It wasn’t laughter, rum, or the sea that had pushed him to speak. It was her.

Beckman pinched his cigarette between two fingers, letting a thin trail of smoke rise, studying his captain with calm intensity.
«You say it like you decided years ago. But just yesterday, you were singing under the moon with empty bottles for an orchestra… So tell me, Shanks: what changed?»

Shanks lowered his eyes, thoughtful. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, as if seeking answers in the metal that he lacked the courage to voice.

A faint smile brushed his lips, but his eyes remained dark.
«Sometimes, Ben… it only takes a few words at the right moment. And you realize you’ve slept too long.»

Beckman remained silent, his mind racing ahead. Shanks wasn’t the type to let anyone else influence his path—not him, the captain who laughed at the world. So… who? Or rather, what?

A glimmer passed in his eyes. He glanced back toward the slender figure of Anissa, blending in with the crew but quietly watching.

Beckman’s lips curved into a subtle smile, and he drew the cigarette to his lips.
«Hm. I see.»

Shanks turned to him, curious.
«See what?»

« Nothing, Beckman said with a short chuckle. Just that… if you’ve finally decided to move, I’ll follow you to the end. But know this, captain: flames… they either warm or burn.»

Their eyes met, loaded with unspoken meaning. Shanks merely smiled, but deep down he knew Beckman had understood more than he said.

Night had fallen over the Red Force. The wind carried the scent of salt, and the wood creaked under the watchman’s steps. Anissa stepped out onto the deck, seeking a moment of solitude, but a red glow caught her eye: Beckman, leaning against the railing, a glowing cigarette between his fingers.

He didn’t look at her immediately. He drew a puff, exhaled slowly, then said:
«I should have guessed.»

She stopped a few steps away, cautious.
«Guessed what?»

His single eye gleamed in the shadow, calm but piercing.
«That it wouldn’t take long for you to reach him. Shanks has always had too big a heart… and you had the words to fill it.»

A silence fell. Anissa held his gaze, not looking away.
«It’s not manipulation, she whispered. I just want… him to take the place he deserves.»

Beckman nodded slowly, as if he expected it.
«I know. And that’s exactly what worries me.»

She frowned.
« You think I want to harm him?»

He chuckled shortly, a low rasp.
«No. But love… sometimes it asks too much. You struck him where he’s most vulnerable. Now he’ll want that throne… and believe me, Anissa, the road to it won’t be a tavern song. It’s blood. His, his crew’s… maybe even yours.»

The sea breeze swallowed their voices for a moment. Anissa felt a shiver run down her neck but didn’t look away.
« I won’t back down.»

Beckman crushed his cigarette against the railing. He straightened, imposing, and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.
« Then don’t let go along the way. If you pushed him to rise… stay by his side to the end. Because if you abandon him, I’ll be the one to call you out.»

His tone wasn’t a threat, but a solemn promise.

Then he walked away without another word, leaving Anissa alone with the swell, her heart beating stronger than before.
Across the World: The Shockwave —

The rumor spread quickly.

At the Marines, Fleet Admiral Sakazuki slammed his fist on his desk as he read the reports.
«The Red-Haired is moving?! Tch… That dog was content to walk the tightrope, and now he’s aiming for the throne?»

Around him, the admirals exchanged tense glances. If Shanks—the man who had kept the Marines at bay without starting a full-blown war—was on the move… the balance of the world could shift entirely.

Among the Emperors, reactions were different.

At the Hive, Teach let out a booming laugh, his white teeth glinting in the shadows.
«Zehahaha! So, the Red-Haired has finally decided to play? Good… I’ll show him who really wins this game!»

Aboard the Sunny, Luffy collapsed into laughter upon hearing the news.
«Shanks is going after the One Piece?! Ahahahaha! Awesome! That means we’ll meet at the finish line!»

His eyes shone with pure excitement, like a child seeing the biggest adventure of his life.
«It’s gonna be amazing! We’ll fight and see who becomes the Pirate King!»

His nakama exchanged looks, a mix of amusement and concern. For Luffy, even the deadliest war was just another adventure.

 

---

At the Cross Guild

Buggy was left dumbfounded. His painted face darkened beneath his red nose.
«… What did he say?»

One of his crew nervously repeated:
« Shanks the Red-Haired… announced he’s going after the One Piece.»

Buggy collapsed onto his makeshift throne, staring blankly.
«That damn fool…»

Mihawk, cold and indifferent as ever, arched an eyebrow.
«And what does that change for you?»

Buggy clenched his fists, voice trembling with bitter anger.
« It changes everything! I… I gave up on that dream, alright?! I could’ve chased it like the others! But I chose not to, because I believed in him! Because Roger… Roger saw Shanks as the child of destiny!»

His words shook as they escaped him.
«And him? He spent twenty years laughing, drinking, wandering… and now he decides to wake up?!»

He pounded the armrest; the wood cracked.
«I waited my whole life… and he let me down!»

Mihawk and Crocodile exchanged glances, saying nothing. For the first time, behind the clownish facade, they saw Buggy wounded in the deepest part of himself.

 

---

At Mariejois

Marble-like silence filled the circular hall. Shanks’ declaration had already circled the world, but the echo within this sacred place was louder than anywhere else.

Saint Saturn slowly set down his den-den mushi, eyes squinting in anger.
«Shanks… the unworthy son is finally rising.»

Saint Marcus Mars clenched his knotted fists.
«We should have eliminated him the moment he started to resemble Roger.»

A murmur of disapproval ran around the table. Then their gazes turned to the tall figure sitting apart: Saint Garling Figarland. His impassive face, chiseled like granite, revealed only a cold glint in his eyes.

« So, Garling said calmly, my son has decided to challenge the world.»

One of the Gorosei clicked his tongue in annoyance.
« Your son… Don’t speak of him as if it’s a pride. He’s only a mistake we tolerated for too long.»

Garling smiled, a dry, almost cruel expression.
«Mistake or not, his blood is Figarland. Whether he wants it or not. And if he has finally decided to reach for the One Piece… then he becomes far more than a mere pirate. He becomes a rival.»

Saint Nusjuro sneered:
« Speak as you will. But it’s not his ambition that worries me. It’s the reason behind it. Everyone knows: it’s not Shanks who decided this—it’s that woman…»

The candles flickered, casting shifting shadows across the room. Saturn nodded slowly.
«Anissa. She has turned his heart, and perhaps his mind.»

Garling let out a quiet laugh.
«Exactly. I’ve always said a man in love becomes weak. Shanks is weak. She pushes, he obeys. But it won’t last.»

Saint Topman Warcury slammed his fist on the table, rattling the candlesticks.
« Whatever the reasons! What matters is that Shanks now threatens the balance of the world!»

Garling, unperturbed, rose slowly. His towering figure dominated the room.
«Then leave him to me. No one knows his weaknesses better than I do. No one knows his flesh, his blood, his tempers better than I.»

A heavy silence fell. The Gorosei exchanged silent glances, blending calculation with suspicion. Finally, Saturn spoke in a low voice:
«Very well. You will have full latitude, Garling. But remember… if you fail, it’s not just Shanks who will fall. It will be you too.»

Garling inclined his head with cold elegance.
«I have no intention of failing.»

As he turned on his heel, his smile carried nothing of paternal warmth.

Chapter 5: Bonds and Longings

CHAPTER 4

The Red Force docked at the bustling port of a small island. Everywhere, the locals whispered a name in fear: Bartolomeo.

This audacious pirate had dared to burn the Red-Haired’s flag—a direct insult.

When Shanks set foot on land, his smile had vanished. His gaze alone made even the boldest sailors step back.

“Bartolomeo,” he said calmly, “do you think playing with symbols comes without consequences? You’ll fix your mistake.”

Under the villagers’ watchful eyes, he forced Bartolomeo to rebuild the red flag he had burned, piece by piece, and raise it at the town square.

When the flag finally fluttered in the wind, Shanks stepped forward and added in a cold, cutting tone:
“An insult isn’t washed away with fabric alone.”

He signaled to his crew. The Red-Haired men laughed and whistled, eager for what was to come.
“Sink his ship,” he ordered simply.

Cannons roared. In the distance, Bartolomeo’s ship tilted, gutted by the cannonballs. The wood creaked, the hull gave way, and within minutes, it sank beneath the waves.

Shanks locked eyes with the young pirate, now kneeling, all arrogance drained.
“You’re still alive because I say so. Remember that.”

The crowd stood frozen.

From the sidelines, Anissa had watched the scene. The cold fire in Shanks’ eyes, his relentless authority, struck her deeply. When he returned to her, she whispered softly:
“You were… magnificent.”

A small smirk brushed the captain’s lips, but his gaze still burned with icy intensity.

With her heart pounding, Anissa came closer, brushed her shoulder and let her breath be lost against her ear.
" You don't know how it feels to me, she whispered. When you're like this... when you pour out your haki... I tremble."
His fingers tightened against Shanks' arm. She bent a little more, daring, and confessed in a burning whisper :
"You turn me on so much that I'm already wet."
Shanks' eyes narrowed, and this time it wasn't just coldness that lit up there anymore.
Anissa slid against Shanks' shoulder, her words still burning in her ear. Immediately, she felt his reaction: his manhood tensed, palpable, as if he was burning with desire.
"So... do you dare to tell me that?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, almost trembling.
Without waiting for an answer, Anissa grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards their cabin. Shanks was barely moving forward, every step heavy and clumsy, and he almost stumbled on the threshold, which made Anissa burst out laughing.
" Captain... are you in such a hurry?" , she says, a mischievous smile on her lips.
Shanks straightened up with a quick gesture, his gaze dark and burning, looking as if he could no longer contain himself. When they finally reached the cabin, he pulled her against the wall, pulling her so close that their bodies touched with each breath. Anissa felt his breath panting against her skin and his imposing presence making her shiver.
He held her against him, in a hurry, as if he wanted to swallow her up, but his gestures remained at the limit, just enough to show his desire without ever crossing the line. Anissa, excited and amused, felt the raw power of Shanks, the tension that was building up between them, and understood that she had lit a fire that neither of them could ignore.
Shanks was holding her against the wall, his breath short and his hand steady on her arm. Every movement betrayed his impatience, but he did not give in completely, as if he wanted to make her wait, to make her shiver more.
Anissa felt her fingers tighten on her shirt, her heart pounding. Their faces were close, almost glued together, and their eyes were searching for each other, burning with desire and defiance.
" You know... whispered Shanks, his voice low and hoarse, you're playing dangerously with me, but ... I like it."
A shiver ran through Anissa. She liked this fragile border between control and abandonment. She bent down a little more, brushing her chest with a light but voluntary gesture, just to feel the tension that vibrated inside him.
Shanks cringed his teeth slightly, unable to contain his excitement any longer. He pressed her even harder against him, reducing the space between them, a dark whisper crossing his lips :
" You're going to regret provoking me…"
Anissa laughs softly, a mixture of amusement and anticipation. She felt every muscle of Shanks tense, every breath panting, and understood that the desire she had awakened was as brutal as it was uncontrollable.
Then, in a rush of impatience, he turned her against the hurrying wall, unable to contain his desire any longer.
But with only one arm, he sometimes found himself clumsy, unable to handle his clothes as he would like. His fingers tried to break through what was holding him back, pulling a little too hard in some places, growling in frustration.
Shanks, in a hurry and a little clumsy with his only arm, pulled too hard on his panties. A small crunch was heard. Anissa frowned and tried to protest, ready to exclaim :
" Hey! Be careful!"
But Shanks, a dark and amused smile on his lips, restrained her with a gesture, his voice hoarse and teasing :
" It doesn't matter... I can buy you a lot of new ones."
Anissa lets out a laugh mixed with excitement and annoyance. The awkwardness of his single arm and his audacity made her crazy with desire, and yet she felt strangely protected by this raw assurance
Shanks' sword Griffin was still hanging on his belt, imposing and proud. She exuded an aura of power that, paradoxically, bothered Anissa in this burning moment. Without hesitation, she puts a hand on the guard.
" Let me take it away, it bothering us" , she whispered, turning the gun to the side.
Shanks did not move. She was the only one he allowed to touch his sword, and this privilege reinforced the intensity of the moment. His panting breath, his dark, burning eyes stared at her, but he let himself go, unable to contain his impatience any longer.
While laying the sword further against the wall, Anissa bent slightly and began to sing softly, almost innocently, as if to tease the tension that was rising between them. His agile fingers then help Shanks to unbutton and release his swollen cock of blood and oozing pre-seminal fluid.He let out a hoarse growl, half frustration, half relief, while their bodies remained glued, each breath and each brush enough to make the desire climb.
She guided Shanks' penis with one hand towards her vagina to make it penetrate inside her wet cavity.
They were both leaning against the wall, panting, their breath heavy and irregular. The room seemed to still vibrate with the tension that had just passed through them. Shanks ran a hand through his hair, his face flushed, and let out a hoarse growl, a mixture of relief and satisfaction.
Anissa, glued to him, her chest still panting, sketched an exhausted but mischievous smile. She could feel his warmth, his body still tense, and the mixture of power and vulnerability that emanated from him made her shiver.
Shanks, with a quick but awkward gesture because of his only arm, put his pants back in place. His dark, burning gaze rested on her, charged with desire and something softer, almost protective.
" No way you're going to escape now" , he whispered, a smirk, still panting.
Anissa laughs softly, snuggling up to him, savoring this mixture of domination and closeness.

 

---

A Family Visit

A few days later, the Red Force anchored near a lush, green island. This was where Anissa’s sister lived, now a new mother.

The house smelled of warm milk and fresh wood. Anissa embraced her sister, emotion swelling, then her eyes fell on the cradle.

A tiny baby slept, fists clenched like little buds.

“Do you want to hold him?” her sister asked tenderly.

Anissa nodded. Her arms trembled slightly as she lifted the small creature close. The baby barely stirred, blinking once, then snuggling against her chest.

A silence enveloped her, stronger than any storm. Her heart raced, as if this tiny being had opened a door within her she hadn’t known existed.

She caressed the infant’s cheek, captivated by its softness.
“He’s so… perfect,” she whispered.

Her sister smiled, tired but happy.
“You never feel ready. But when he’s here, you can’t imagine life without him.”

Anissa hugged the baby closer. Deep inside, something had awakened—a new, profound desire: to have a child of her own.

Night fell. The village’s laughter slowly faded. On the deck of the Red Force, Anissa gazed at the sea in silence. Shanks joined her, his cape flowing in the wind.

“You have that look,” he said softly. “Like you’re thinking about… something big.”

She looked away, a dreamy smile on her lips.
“I was thinking about this baby. About… what it’s like to hold a life so fragile.”

Shanks listened, saying nothing.

She hesitated, then whispered, almost shyly:
“I wonder… what it would feel like to have a child of my own.”

A heavy silence fell. Shanks’ eyes darkened slightly, but he said nothing.

He lowered his gaze, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword absentmindedly, yet his mind was elsewhere. If only she knew… he thought, a pang in his chest. If only I could give her what she wants. But I can’t… I can’t.

He drew a deep breath, pushing away the bitterness and frustration rising within him. Anissa didn’t need his hesitation. She already had enough to deal with. So he looked at her gently, masking his pain:
“This baby… he’s lucky to have been in your arms.”

Anissa smiled, leaning against him. She didn’t notice the shadow in his eyes—the nostalgia and melancholy he kept to himself.

I can’t deprive her of her dreams, Shanks thought inwardly. So I’ll stay silent. I’ll never tell her… I can’t give her what she wants most.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm the storm inside.

The Red Force remained anchored near the island, the crew keeping a respectful distance. Shanks and Beckman stayed on shore, watching the ship and ensuring Anissa’s safety, knowing they shouldn’t intrude on her family life. Days passed with laughter and reunion. Anissa spent her time with her sister and the newborn, cooking, playing, and sharing long conversations.

One afternoon, her sister approached her, smiling tiredly but happily:
“Anissa… could you watch the baby for the day? I have some things to handle. I’ll be back in two days.”

The next morning, Anissa gently lifted the baby. Her sister gave a last grateful smile before disappearing down the beach. Anissa climbed the gangplank onto the Red Force, her heart racing with every step.

As she appeared on deck, the entire crew turned, surprised to see her cradling the newborn. Faces lit up immediately: some smiled with amusement, others exchanged knowing glances, and all sensed the bond between Anissa and this tiny life.

Shanks, standing a few paces away, watched with a mix of pride and melancholy. His eyes shone, but a veil of sadness lingered—he knew he could never give Anissa this dream of motherhood. He contented himself with a faint smile, letting her savor the moment.

“Well, Captain…” Yasopp teased, squinting, “you finally found a reason to stay put on deck!”
“Shh…” Shanks replied, more to himself than to anyone else. “Just… let her enjoy it.”

Anissa moved among the crew, holding the baby with infinite care. Lucky Roo crouched to get a closer look:
“Haha… look at that! Our Anissa is already an expert at cuddles and lullabies!”

Beckman, true to his calm demeanor, merely smiled, understanding the significance of the moment. The men exchanged a few jokes, but none broke the magic of the scene.

The baby, peaceful in her arms, stirred a desire in Anissa she had never felt before. Her fingers gently stroked the fine hair, her lips whispering tender words she never thought she’d speak. She realized, in wonder, that her maternal instincts had awakened.

“He’s… so cute…” she whispered, barely audible. “One day… one day, he could be mine.”

Shanks looked away slightly, heart tight but respectful. He stood beside his crew, a silent witness to Anissa’s inner transformation, knowing he could never grant her this dream… yet ready to protect and support her, no matter what.

The crew watched with admiration and amusement. This poignant moment further strengthened the bond between Anissa and her companions, and reinforced their respect and love for her. Even Shanks, the impulsive Red-Haired, could not hide his pride for the woman who illuminated his ship, through her talents, grace… and heart.

The Red Force stayed docked for an entire day. Anissa tended to the baby with endless attention: feeding, changing, rocking, and playing with tiny hands. Each smile from the infant sparked in her a mix of joy and unfamiliar longing, a new and powerful feeling she had never felt before.

At one point, she turned to Shanks, baby cradled against her, eyes sparkling:
“Captain…” she said softly, “would you… like to hold him for a moment?”

Shanks looked surprised at the request. He approached slowly, taking the baby with care. The little one cooed, as if recognizing a reassuring presence. Shanks’ heart ached slightly. He felt the undeniable maternal bond between Anissa and the child, knowing he could never be the one to give her a child of her own.

Yet he remained silent, showing only a gentle, protective smile:
“He’s… beautiful ,” he whispered, hands holding the baby with respect and admiration.

During the night the baby slept in his small crib in Shanks’ cabin but wouldn’t stop crying. After a few minutes, Anissa decided to bring him into bed with her. She lay gently beside Shanks, holding the baby to her chest, trying to soothe him by giving him her breast as her sister had advised. She knew she had no milk, but she simply wanted to calm the infant.

Shanks, at her side, watched in awe. He was captivated by the baby, by the tenderness and care Anissa displayed. His fingers brushed the child’s cheek gently, unable to look away from such innocence filling the cabin.

Then, as Anissa looked up at Shanks, he felt the depth of her unspoken desire. In her eyes shone a silent plea, a longing for a child… for them. That single gaze unleashed emotions he had long held back. A lone tear slid down his cheek.

“Shanks…?” Anissa murmured, concerned.
“Nothing… I’m just… moved to see you like this with the baby,” he replied, hiding his pain.

He couldn’t tell her the truth: that having a child with her was something he could not allow himself. Yet he remained there, heart aching, admiring Anissa’s tenderness and the fragile magic of the moment.

The next morning, Anissa rose early to return the baby to her sister. As soon as she handed him over, a dull ache seized her heart. The very thought of giving him back tightened her chest. Her eyes filled with tears, and before stepping out of the house, she broke into sobs, unable to hold back her emotion.

Her sister looked at her gently, understanding immediately.
“Anissa… don’t worry,” she said, caressing her arm softly. “You’ll have your own child one day. And you can come visit us whenever you want.”

Anissa placed the little one in her sister’s arms, but every second apart burned her. She whispered a final goodbye before turning away, heart heavy.

When she returned to the Red Force, the memory of the baby lingered. She shut herself in her cabin, letting tears flow freely, alone with her grief. Shanks, for his part, said nothing, allowing her to feel her emotions.

Chapter 6: A Forbidden Desire

CHAPTER 5

Weeks had passed since the stop at Anissa’s sister’s home. Yet for the young woman, the image of the baby she had held refused to fade. Each night, her empty arms reminded her of that cruel absence.

At every island where the Red Force docked, her eyes searched endlessly for families, for children running through the streets, for innocent laughter echoing in the distance. Every baby’s smile reignited the same dull ache.

Shanks watched silently. He could see her distant gaze, her hands sometimes unconsciously pressed against her stomach, as if protecting a secret that didn’t exist. But he said nothing.

 

---

One evening, as the crew celebrated a successful stopover, the captain’s cabin once again became the stage for a more intimate night. With a simple gesture, Shanks had let Beckman join Anissa. As he sometimes did, the captain liked to see her shared between their presences.

Breathless, Anissa was on doggystyle , her arched body offered to Beckman behind her while she pressed herself against Shanks. Her arms wrapped around him, her lips searched for his neck, her burning eyes tried to meet his. She trembled between their two presences, caught between Beckman’s attentive tenderness and the silent shadow of the captain.

Normally, Shanks enjoyed these moments. He found a strange thrill in watching her given, cherished by his first mate, sometimes even by Yasopp. Sharing her had never felt like weakness to him—on the contrary, he saw it as proof of trust, a game that tied them all together even more strongly.

But that night, something in the ritual broke. As Anissa arched under Beckman’s patient thrusts, Shanks turned his gaze away. His hands stroked her back mechanically, but his body remained cold, absent, unable to respond to the burning invitation she offered him.

His breath grew heavier, not with desire but with unease. A shadow clouded his eyes, an invisible weight gnawed at him to the point of extinguishing any arousal. He wanted to join in, as he always had, to let himself go… but he simply couldn’t.

Anissa felt it. She clung to him, holding tight to his chest, even though it wasn’t him making her tremble. And while she tried not to show her disappointment, her mind darkened with a gnawing thought: why, this time, couldn’t Shanks give in?

When the tumult subsided and their breaths slowed, Anissa remained nestled between them. Yet an emptiness persisted. She knew that something wasn't ok with Shanks

 

---

Later, Beckman had slipped away with his usual discretion. Shanks and Anissa remained alone in the dim cabin, the ship creaking softly as it rocked with the waves.

The silence following Beckman’s departure didn’t last long. Shanks moved closer to Anissa, his body finally stirred by her proximity, his hands exploring with greater assurance the curves he knew so well. She responded to his touch, her fingers gliding over his chest, her lips seeking his with a mixture of desire and defiance.

Shanks sat at the edge of the bed, Anissa slowly and sensually straddling him. She began to kiss him passionately, and then, in a trembling breath, she dared to ask:
— “Shanks… please, cum inside me… give me a baby.”

The captain froze, his eyes widening in surprise and panic.
— “No… not that… it’s not possible…” he replied, his voice heavy with anxiety.

"Please Shanks, i love you...."

At that moment, determined to push him to give in, Anissa quickened her movements against him, her hips grinding and pounded his body as if she wanted to make him cum faster . She wanted to drive him to the point of no return, to force him past the limit he had just set.

In a bolder move, she then tightened her legs around his waist and contracted her vaginal muscles, holding him close, leaving him unable to pull away easily even if he wanted to.

Shanks panicked. The combination of speed, pressure, and her tight grip made him feel almost restrained against his will. His breath quickened, a mix of desire, fear, and panic flooding him. He knew he couldn’t have a child—but Anissa’s movements were pushing him dangerously close, and it was only a matter of seconds before he would cum.

Shanks, for a brief moment, felt as if Anissa was no longer herself. She was no longer the woman he loved, tender and fragile… but a relentless demon trying to trap him, to force him. A sudden, brutal fear gripped his chest. He, the Emperor who had never feared an opponent, felt trapped, oppressed, as if facing a foreign entity.

In a violent motion, he pushed her away. Anissa fell heavily to the floor, her breath caught, tears immediately springing to her eyes from the pain, humiliation, and confusion.
Shanks’s heart pounded in his chest. His hands were still trembling. A wave of guilt washed over him: what if she had been hurt? What if she didn’t get up? The fear of having frightened or hurt her ran through him, and he looked away for a fraction of a second.

But another feeling quickly surged back: that black anger, that visceral need to regain control. He could not falter, not now, not facing what he had just witnessed. The woman he loved had crossed an unforgivable line. If she could become this “demon,” he had to remind her who he was: Shanks, the captain, the man who could not be trapped.

Then Shanks erupted. His Haki flared, crushing the air around her. Every word thundered like a lightning strike:

— Never… do you hear me?! Never do that again!

Anissa recoiled, terrified. He had never raised his voice to her. He had never unleashed his Haki like this, and certainly never on someone he loved. It was a weapon reserved for enemies, not for those closest to him.

His gaze locked onto hers, but it was not the tender look she knew. His eyes were cold, hard, terrifying—eyes she never imagined seeing directed at her.

He moved abruptly, leaned down, and with an unyielding hand, grabbed her jaw. His fingers clamped onto her skin with brutal force.

— Did you hear me?! he roared again, his breath scorching her face. Never do that again!

Each word struck like a blade. Anissa trembled, unable to hold his gaze. In that instant, she felt that Shanks no longer saw the woman he loved in her, but an enemy to be struck down.

Broken, she gathered her belongings and fled, her muffled sobs swallowed by the night.

 

---

The entire crew had heard the captain’s fury and felt his Haki reverberate through the walls of the Red Force. But no one dared to ask questions.

Anissa went down to sleep in the hold, among the hammocks, curling up against Beckman, who silently welcomed her.

 

---

The following days were suffocating. Anissa avoided Shanks. She dared not speak to him, nor meet his gaze. She felt guilty for having tried to force him, yet at the same time, she wanted to punish him silently for his refusal. So every night, she continued to sleep beside Beckman.

Shanks, meanwhile, was suffocating. Every time he saw her avert her eyes, he felt stabbed in the chest. Each night, he remained alone in his cabin, imagining Anissa curled against Beckman, seeking the comfort she no longer allowed him to give.

At first, he had accepted sharing Anissa with his first mate. It had been a game, a complicity. But now… she was choosing Beckman. She preferred him. The thought gnawed at him, humiliated him.

Jealousy and anger mixed with guilt. He felt betrayed: Anissa had not respected his “no.” He had believed she would never cross that line. And now, he no longer recognized her… nor himself.

His mood became unbearable. His orders snapped like whips; every laugh died in his presence. The Red Force lived under the storm of a captain consumed by rage and jealousy.

 

---

One evening, while Anissa was still sleeping in the hold, Beckman decided to find Shanks in his cabin. He knocked softly, then entered. The captain was sitting on the edge of his bed, his gaze dark, lost in thought.

" Shanks… Beckman began calmly but firmly. I need to know… what happened? Why were you so… angr, that night?"

Shanks lifted his eyes, the shadow of fatigue and tension still visible on his face.
" Anissa… he finally said, in a low, heavy voice. She tried to… force me… to make her pregnant."

Beckman froze, realizing the gravity of the words. His expression hardened.
" I see… he murmured. This isn’t just anger or jealousy; it’s… much more serious."

" Exactly, Shanks replied, his voice trembling. I’ve never felt such fear… such a violation of my trust. And I cannot have a child, you know that. I couldn’t let it happen… I had to act, and I did… even though I fear I may have hurt her."

Beckman nodded, the weight of the situation pressing down on him.
" I understand, he said finally. I’ll make sure she understands too… without making things worse."

When Beckman returned to the hold, Anissa came to lie beside him, but he stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder.
" That’s enough, Anissa, he said, his voice low but inflexible."

She widened her eyes.
" What?"

Beckman held her gaze, serious.
"You can’t keep going like this. Running from Shanks, sleeping here… Your silence and resentment are tearing this ship apart. The captain’s mood poisons everyone. And you, curling up beside me each night, only deepen his wounds."

Anissa’s lips trembled, torn between shame and defiance.
" So what? I should just endure it?"

" No, he replied calmly. But you must face him, not me. Not anyone else. Him. This isn’t just about the two of you, Anissa. It’s the balance of the Red Force that’s at stake. Your pride is endangering the entire crew."

Anissa lowered her eyes, tears welling. She knew he was right. But the thought of returning to Shanks’ cabin, facing his gaze after that night, terrified her more than anything.

Beckman remained firm.
—" Go, he said softly but with authority. Your place is with him. Not here."

 

---

The night had fallen on the Red Force, and the wind danced with the ship’s rigging. Anissa took a deep breath before crossing the threshold of Shanks’ cabin. Her heart raced. Each step felt heavy, as if her legs carried the weight of fear and guilt.

She knew this confrontation was inevitable. Beckman had sent her, but she dreaded more than anything what awaited her behind that door.

Shanks was there, sitting on the edge of his bed, his gaze dark, features drawn. He did not immediately raise his eyes when she entered. A heavy silence fell, laden with weeks of unspoken words, anger, and accumulated frustration.

" Anissa… he finally said" , in a low but firm voice.>

She timidly raised her eyes to meet his, her throat tight.
" Shanks…"

He stared at her, and for a moment, she feared his gaze would carry the coldness from the night he had unleashed his Haki. But this look, though stern, was different. There was still anger, yes, but also a deep, almost vulnerable concern.

" Listen to me, Anissa… he said, stepping slightly closer. You were selfish. What you did… trying to force me… it’s like a rape. You broke my trust in you."

She took a step back, tears welling in her eyes.
" I… I didn’t mean…" she murmured.

" No! he cut her off, his voice vibrating with anger and pain. You crossed a line I thought was sacred. And understand this… I cannot… I cannot have a child! he repeated, leaving no room for doubt. I will never put our future in danger like that. Never…"

His eyes burned with absolute seriousness. There was no malice, no game, only the painful reality of what he had just experienced. Anissa felt her heart break again. She had wanted to push him beyond his limits, and now she realized she had put their most precious bond at risk: trust.

" I… I understand… she whispered, her voice broken. I’m sorry, Shanks… truly…"

Shanks sighed, his throat tight. The anger and fear of losing her or hurting her mingled with a desire he could not ignore.
" I love you, Anissa… he said finally, his voice softer. But you have to let me set my limits. If you love me, you need to accept what i want and what I don't want ."

A silence fell. Slowly, Anissa took a trembling step toward him and gently placed her hand on his cheek.
" So… what do I do? she murmured. I don’t want to lose you…"

Shanks lowered his eyes, throat tight, then slowly placed his hand over hers.
" You are not losing me… never, Anissa. But you have to let me decide, let me set my limits. And you have to respect what I cannot give you… not now."

For the first time in weeks, Anissa felt fear and resentment begin to dissipate. She realized there was a path forward, but it had to be followed together, with respect and patience.

Shanks approached her gently, this time without anger, and embraced her. She felt his warmth, his steady breath, and a sense of security she hadn’t known for a long time.

" I promise… he murmured against her hair, I will do everything to never lose you. But… no rush. Not like this."

Anissa closed her eyes, letting herself melt against him, finally feeling calm return to her tormented heart. The storm that had raged between them that night seemed to subside, replaced by a fragile but sincere intimacy.

Chapter 7: No One Else

CHAPTER 6

That night, after having already apologized to Shanks, Anissa still didn’t feel completely at ease. She knew she had to go further to make amends for what she had broken. A bold idea came to her: this time, she wanted to apologize with her body, to show her sincerity through an intimate, carnal gesture.

" Shanks… she murmured, her voice trembling but resolute. This time… I really want to show you that I’m sorry."

With an almost automatic gesture, she began to unbutton his pants, as if to seal her submission and soothe his anger.

" Anissa… stop, Shanks murmured, his voice low but firm. You don’t have to do this for me. I’m not angry with you."

She lifted her eyes to his, her pupils shining with silent determination. A faint, sad smile touched her lips, but she didn’t move. Slowly, despite her hesitation, she slid her hand into his pants, keeping her gaze locked on his.

" I… I want to do it" , she murmured, her voice trembling but resolute.

Shanks let her continue, his hand still resting on her head, fingers tangled in her hair, his expression a mix of desire and hesitation. Anissa felt a shiver run through her body, fully aware of the effect she had on him.

Just as he was about to release himself into her mouth, a shiver of control ran through Shanks. With a firm but silent gesture, he gently pushed her back, his eyes locking with hers.

He tilted his head, and with a simple movement of his hand, gestured for her to stand. Without a word, Anissa obeyed, feeling the weight of his authority pressing down on her.

" Sit on my lap" , he murmured, his voice low and husky, laced with desire and control.

Slowly, Anissa rose and settled on his lap, her lips finding his. The kiss was at first tentative, almost pleading, then burning, devouring. Shanks gripped her at the waist, holding her close as if he feared she might disappear.

They toppled onto the berth. This time, it was not the usual passion, nor the shared games with Beckman or Yasopp. It was different. Rawer, more possessive. Shanks was both passionate and trembling, as if every movement had to prove she was still his, and his alone.

" You are mine, he whispered against her skin, panting. I won’t let anyone else touch you."

Anissa shivered at his words. She understood he spoke of Beckman, of those shared nights that had started as mere play but had hurt him more than he admitted.

" Then keep me, she breathed, her fingers gripping his back."

They made love for a long time, with a new intensity, between rage and tenderness, until their bodies finally surrendered to a calm embrace.

When the stillness returned, Shanks remained lying against her, his arm possessively around her waist. His eyes, still bright with barely contained jealousy, fixed on her face.

" No one else, Anissa, he murmured seriously. Not Beckman. Not Yasopp. Not any of my men. I don’t share anymore."

His words fell like a verdict. She understood that the carefree, playful Shanks had vanished. Jealousy had transformed him: from now on, he would keep her for himself alone.

Anissa, instead of protesting, simply nodded in silence. She knew it was the price of their reconciliation. She buried her face against his chest, accepting this new exclusive bond weaving between them.

 

---

From that moment, the atmosphere on the ship calmed. Relieved to have her back, Shanks regained the charismatic, joyful captain his crew loved to follow. But beneath that façade, a change had taken root: he would never share Anissa again, and this buried jealousy waited to resurface.

In the following days, the change was obvious to everyone. Anissa no longer went down to sleep in the hold. Each night, she joined the captain’s cabin, and the crew quickly understood the rule: Shanks would not share anymore.

The laughter, songs, and lightheartedness that had once been the pride of the Red Force gradually returned. The captain, freed from jealousy, regained his humor and warmth. His tempers, which had poisoned the ship’s atmosphere for weeks, vanished.

For the crew, it was a relief. They dared not comment aloud, but all knew this new exclusivity was the price of peace.

 

---

In a corner of the deck, Beckman observed everything with his calm eyes. A cigaret between his lips, he watched Anissa pass by, her laughter returning, her gaze once again fixed on Shanks. A faint, sad smile appeared on his face.

He remembered the nights spent holding her, soothing her tears in the hold’s silence. Part of him regretted that closeness, the fragile yet precious role he had played beside her.

But Beckman was not selfish. He knew that for Shanks, for Anissa, for the ship itself, things had to be this way. The captain’s jealousy was too strong, too dangerous for the Red Force’s balance.

So he swallowed his disappointment, like so many other sacrifices he had made for the crew.

— Better this way, he murmured to himself, exhaling a puff of smoke.

 

---

Yasopp, on the other hand, was more direct. Crossing Beckman one evening, he whispered, almost teasingly:

" So, no more sharing? The captain keeps his treasure to himself now, huh?"

Beckman only gave him a firm look, shutting down any jokes.

" Better for everyone" , he said simply.

Yasopp shrugged, chuckled under his breath, and walked away. But even he understood that Shanks would not have tolerated this dangerous game any longer.

 

---

And so, life returned to normal aboard the Red Force. Ports brought their share of celebrations, battles, and loot. Anissa stayed close to Shanks, and he, now reassured, jealously protected this regained exclusivity.

Shanks subtly—and then radically—changed his attitude. Where he had once been permissive, tolerant of Anissa’s complicity with Beckman or even the glances and hints from other officers, he became much more possessive.

Every evening, as the sweet smoke of pipes and cigars rose above the deck, Anissa usually found Beckman, sharing a kind of ritual: smoking together, exchanging a few words, laughing softly in a quiet intimacy. But Shanks no longer allowed this closeness. One evening, he took Anissa’s pipe in his fingers and firmly set it aside, his gaze fixed on Beckman:

" It’s over. She won’t smoke with you anymore" .

Beckman understood immediately. He did not protest in front of the captain. Yet in his eyes passed a hint of disappointment. It was not jealousy—Beckman had never claimed Anissa as his own—but a pang at seeing a cherished companionship vanish, that simple moment of nightly fraternity.

Anissa did not dare contradict Shanks. She had rekindled their bond and knew she had to respect his pride and jealousy to avoid falling back into past tensions. She turned away, swallowed a sigh, and embraced a new role: Shanks’s official and exclusive companion.

Now, the only “sharing” he tolerated was in the kitchen, helping Lucky Roo prepare meals. There, the atmosphere remained friendly, and even Shanks accepted it: Lucky was no threat, no rival, just a belly to feed and a loud laugh.

Beckman stepped back, always loyal, always at his post, yet a little more taciturn with each sunset.

He leaned against the deck railing, watching the horizon. Shanks joined him, a bottle of rum in hand, relaxed yet eyes still alert.

" So… said Shanks, handing him the bottle, you understand why I had to end… certain habits."

Beckman drew from his cigarette before replying calmly:

" Yes, I understand. You’re the captain, and she’s your girlfriend . It’s normal there’s no… ambiguity with the others."

Shanks nodded, satisfied, but Beckman continued, his tone more serious:

" But you mustn’t cut her off from the rest of the crew either. Anissa is not just a woman, Shanks. She’s also a comrade. She found a family here, and if you stop her from smoking one night with me, or laughing with the others, you risk taking away what keeps her grounded on board."

The captain remained silent for a moment. Bottle in hand, he did not drink. His eyes narrowed, torn between pride and a flicker of doubt. Beckman did not press further. He tossed his cigarette into the sea and added:

" I’m not saying this for me. I’m saying it for her. And for you too."

The wind picked up. Shanks, without answering, brought the bottle to his lips and walked away, leaving Beckman alone facing the sea.

 

---

Anissa had noticed the change since their reconciliation. Shanks had become more tender, more attentive, but also… more protective, sometimes to excess. She could no longer share a pipe with Beckman at night or laugh over a drink with Yasopp. Her role on board was now limited to helping Lucky Roo in the kitchen, under the captain’s approving gaze.

At first, she accepted without complaint. After all, Shanks’s love and the safety he offered mattered more than anything. But over the days, she felt a growing emptiness. She loved discussing strategy with Beckman, swapping stories with Yasopp, sharing quiet moments with the others. These moments were part of the ship’s life… and hers.

One evening, she dared to speak to Shanks.

" You know, I understand why you do all this… but it feels like you want to lock me away."

Shanks, surprised, lifted his head from his glass.

" Lock you away?"

" Yes. You don’t want me to share, to live the same moments as the others. As if you wanted me to stay… just yours."

Silence fell. Shanks slightly frowned, torn between his newfound jealousy and his desire to make her happy.

" I don’t want to lose you, Anissa. Not because of them."

" But you might lose me… because of you", she whispered softly, her eyes bright but without anger.

He looked away, struck by his own contradictions. Beckman, nearby, gave a faint, bitter smirk: he knew Anissa had put into words what he had already realized.

Anissa sometimes remembered the early days, when she led the dance. She knew how to murmur the right words, divert his gaze with a smile, draw him into her traps without him noticing. Shanks, despite his Emperor aura, sometimes seemed disarmed by her clever mind and capricious desires.

But that time seemed over.

Since reclaiming the reins, Shanks had shown her a side she had never truly known. Firmer, jealous, sometimes even authoritarian. As if he had decided that nothing and no one would ever divert her from him again.

She felt trapped in a reversed passion: it was he, now, who held her through emotions, dictating what she could share or not with others.

Each time she met his gaze—the intense red that never left her—she understood it was no longer just love, but a will to possess. And something in her hesitated between revolt and total surrender.

Anissa found herself observing Shanks differently. She remembered the tender, laughing, sometimes carefree man who laughed loudly among his men, a bottle in hand. That man still existed, but now mixed with another facet: darker, steadier, almost… noble.

As if, deep within, something was awakening.

It was not mere romantic whim. No… it was a force running through him, a sort of natural right he claimed to possess her, to decide for her, as if all of this were obvious.

Anissa could not yet put it into words. She did not know she was witnessing the legacy of the Figarlands, the blood in his veins, the hidden upbringing he had fled, which still marked him.

For her, it was still just jealousy. But soon, she would realize it was not simply Shanks the lover speaking, but Shanks, son of Garling Figarland, twin of Shamrock… and heir to an instinct of domination he struggled to contain.

Anissa looked at him long, eyes slightly narrowed, worry deep within her gaze.

— “You’re not the same anymore…” she murmured. “Sometimes it feels like… it’s not really you speaking to me. You’re… different.”

Shanks did not answer immediately. His face darkened, his smile vanished, and he looked away, staring at the horizon.

He knew perfectly well what she meant. It was not just jealousy. Not only that. It was the invisible weight he carried: the Figarland blood.

He had spent his life running from that destiny. Leaving Mariejois, renouncing his father, detaching from his twin… all to convince himself he was free, unrelated to them. Yet, in moments of tension, in bursts of anger, in desires too fiery, that blood awakened, whispering him to act as master, as possessor.

Finally, he looked up at her, and for the first time, she saw in his eyes not the strength of an Emperor, but the fear of a man: afraid of becoming his father, afraid of being a Figarland despite himself.

The day after their silent confrontation, Shanks thought long and hard, alone in his cabin. He hated this feeling: seeing worry in Anissa’s eyes, reading her fear of his hold over her. He who had sworn never to be like his father, never to embody the Figarlands’ icy authority… had felt, the day before, how that blood pulled him in a direction he refused.

So when he found Anissa on the deck that morning, he approached silently, placed a hand on her shoulder, and murmured in a low voice:

" I’m sorry. I should never have cut you off from the rest of the crew. You’re not my prisoner… you’re my partner."

His words carried the raw sincerity he was known for. Anissa looked up at him, surprised. She could feel that he was truly struggling against his instincts, trying to become the man she had loved from the very first days.

" Thank you, she breathed, a fragile smile forming on her lips."

Shanks pulled her close and kissed her. But even in that kiss, Anissa felt something else: his mouth claimed hers with an unprecedented intensity, his tongue pressing into her throat as if to mark her from within, to engulf her. She closed her eyes, torn between the tenderness of the moment and the sense of domination that continued to shine through despite his apologies.

Chapter 8: The price of a Child

CHAPTER 7

In the days that followed, Anissa found a bit of freedom again. She could laugh with Yassop, smoke a pipe with Beckman—even if the captain’s watchful eyes never strayed far—and help Lucky Roo without Shanks seeing any danger. This newfound lightness breathed life back into the ship: the crew once again felt the vibrant, laughing Anissa they had missed so dearly.

But soon, she noticed small weaknesses creeping in. In the mornings, her stomach twisted strangely. She felt more tired, more sensitive to the smells from the galley. One evening, as she sat next to Beckman, a sudden wave of nausea forced her to leap to her feet.

“Are you alright?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow, concerned.
“It’s nothing,” she said, forcing a smile. “Just a little tired.”

She wanted to believe it. But as the days passed, the symptoms returned.

 

---

Finally, she gathered her courage and went to see Hongo, the crew’s doctor. Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke to him in the infirmary.

“Hongo… I haven’t been feeling well lately. Dizziness, nausea, fatigue…”
“I see,” he said, folding his arms. “There could be several reasons. But…” He studied her with a serious look. “…you might want to consider taking a pregnancy test.”

Anissa felt her heart leap into her throat. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She looked away, as if the very thought was too heavy to bear.

“A test…” she repeated, almost to herself.

Hongo nodded gently.
“I can’t confirm it here on the ship. You’ll have to wait until the next port. But you should know for sure.”

 

---

A few days later, the Red Force docked at a lively little island. While the crew scattered to drink, resupply, and enjoy solid ground, Anissa slipped quietly into the back alleys. Her steps led her to a small medical shop, where she bought what she needed, breathless and trembling.

The wait felt endless. But when the result finally appeared—clear and undeniable—her eyes welled with tears.

She was pregnant.

A warmth spread through her chest. She placed her hands over her still-flat belly and let out a fragile laugh. She was happy. At last, she would carry life, fulfilling a secret desire she had never dared voice.

But almost immediately, fear crept in. Shanks’ reaction. His jealousy, his inability to accept the role of a father, his Figarland blood already simmering.

No… not now. Not yet.

She took a deep breath, wiped her tears, and made a decision. She would keep this secret to herself. Three weeks, she thought. Three weeks to prepare, to gather courage, to tell him in a way he couldn’t refuse.

As she returned to the port, she looked up at the glowing silhouette of the Red Force, anchored offshore. Her heart raced faster than ever.

A secret was growing inside her. A secret that would change everything.

Days passed, then weeks. Three weeks. Three eternities.

Every morning, Anissa woke with the same apprehension: how could she still hide what was awakening inside her? Fatigue gripped her at dawn, her legs heavy, her eyes dark-rimmed despite sleep. The moment she took a bite, nausea struck. The once-familiar smells—the salt, dried fish, the smoke from pipes—now assaulted her like violent waves.

One evening, while helping Lucky Roo in the galley, the smell of a stew made her reel. She dropped her ladle mid-preparation and rushed out onto the deck, the sea wind whipping her face.

“Are you okay?” Lucky asked, wiping his greasy hands on his apron.
“Yes, yes… just the heat,” she lied, forcing a smile.

 

---

Her breasts ached. They had swollen, their sensitivity startling her at every touch, every brush of fabric. Sometimes a strange tension ran through them, almost painful, sending shivers across her body. One morning, she even noticed a damp spot on her nightgown: her body was already preparing to nourish the life within her.

She clutched her clothes tighter around her chest, trying to hide the change from curious eyes. But her movements were becoming increasingly clumsy.

 

---

In the evenings, when Shanks joined her, she felt his gaze linger more carefully. He would place his hand on her hips, sometimes on her belly. Instinctively, she held her breath, fearing he might notice the slight curve beginning to show.

“You’re tired too, huh?” he said with a conspiratorial smile, believing he was sharing the weariness of long days at sea.
“Yes… the sea feels heavy these days,” she replied softly, turning away to hide her discomfort.

Beckman, meanwhile, watched silently. He asked no questions, but his sharp eyes seemed to see more than he let on. Once, while helping her carry a crate on deck, he saw her falter. His hand immediately shot out to steady her.

“You should take care of yourself,” he murmured, his voice low but serious.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, her cheeks flushed.

He said no more, but in his gaze, she read that he was not fooled.

Hongo, on the other hand, watched from a distance. His eyes sometimes lingered on her with studied discretion, as if to ensure she was holding up. But he never asked a single question. He had sworn to keep the secret until she was ready.

 

---

At night, Anissa curled against Shanks, hands on her belly. She could already feel her body changing, a promise she carried alone. Her heart beat with joy—she wanted this child more than anything. But each time she looked at Shanks, a chilling fear returned.

What if… he didn’t want it? What if his love turned into rejection, into anger?

The thought haunted her.

 

---

The three weeks passed in mounting tension. Her clothes became tighter. She ate almost nothing, and her absences, her sudden escapes from the deck or galley, became harder and harder to justify.

One morning, while brushing her hair at the cabin porthole, Shanks entered. His eyes fell on her, and she knew immediately that he had noticed what she was trying to hide. His gaze lingered for a moment on her now-rounder figure before returning to her face.

He said nothing. He simply approached, pressing a kiss to her neck, his arms wrapping around her waist. But the silence weighed heavily.

Anissa closed her eyes. Her heart raced. She knew she could no longer wait. Soon, she would have to tell him the truth.

Soon, her secret could no longer stay hidden.

That night, the sea was calm. Moonlight bathed the cabin in silver, and Shanks, lying against Anissa, was already dozing, his steady breath caressing her neck. Anissa, however, had not slept. For weeks, she had carried this secret alone, and her heart could no longer beat out of sync.

She gently caressed her belly beneath the covers. The moment had come.

Her voice, trembling but firm, broke the silence:
“Shanks… I need to tell you something.”

He opened one eye, surprised by the seriousness in her tone.
“What is it?”

She drew a deep breath, summoning her courage.
“I’m pregnant.”

The captain’s breath caught. His red eyes widened, staring at her as if he hadn’t understood. But soon, his face hardened. He sat up abruptly, leaving the bunk.

“No,” he said, his voice harsh. “No, Anissa. You have to have an abortion. Immediately.”

The words fell like blades. Anissa’s heart shattered in an instant. Tears welled in her eyes, and she sat up, her throat tight.
“How can you say that? This is… this is our child, Shanks!”

He looked away, fists clenched.
“I don’t want this child.”

Anissa broke down. She had never felt so hurt, so rejected.
“But I thought… I thought if this happened, you’d change your mind… that you’d understand!”

She threw herself at him, clutching his shirt, begging.
“Please, let me keep it… Look, you and Buggy grew up as babies on Roger’s ship! And you survived, you became free men! Why not him? Why not our child?”

Shanks shook his head violently, his face closed, unyielding.
“No. I won’t let this happen. You must have an abortion.”

Then, Anissa’s pain turned to anger. Her hand struck his cheek with a sharp smack. Shanks froze, his face turned by the blow.

“How dare you…” she whispered, voice broken by tears. “How dare you ask me that?”

And suddenly, he faltered. His shoulders slumped, his knees gave way, and he knelt before her. His arms wrapped around her waist, his forehead pressed to her belly.

“I’m sorry…” he murmured, voice strangled. “I want it, Anissa. I want this child with you… but I can’t…”

Tears soaked the fabric of his shirt. His voice trembled like never before.
“If you keep it… they’ll come for it. The Government. My family. They’ll take it from us. You don’t understand… I refuse to let another Celestial Dragon be born. I refuse…”

Anissa froze. Her hands hovered in the air, eyes wide with the weight of his words.
“…What?”

Shanks finally lifted his head. His red eyes, swollen with tears, locked onto hers.
“I was born in Mariejoa. I am… a Figarland. My father is Garling. And I have a twin brother… Shamrock.”

Her world collapsed. Her breath caught. She stepped back, trembling.
“You… you knew all of this… and never told me?”

Anissa’s memories shattered against this truth. All those nights when Shanks had bared his soul: his childhood with Roger, the unbreakable bond with Buggy, the pain of the execution of the which he considered his father , the birth of his crew, Beckman, his promess towards luffy … He had given her everything. Everything, except ten years. Ten years erased. And that void… it was Mariejoa.

Shanks clenched his fists, voice trembling with contained rage.
“After Roger execution … I was called back there. I found Shamrock. My brother. My reflection. I thought it would be my redemption… but he hated me. He thought I was stealing our father’s love from him. He rejected me, coldly, as if we had never shared the same womb.Shanks gritted his teeth, his voice hoarse.
And yet… when I close my eyes, I remember that we were once inseparable. We shared the same mother’s womb. As babies, we had to sleep against each other, hold each other without knowing what it meant to be two. But Garling… and Mariejoa… they destroyed that bond. They shaped Shamrock. They broke him, turning him into a monster of discipline and coldness. And he rejected me. Me, his twin brother.

His breath broke, his eyes desperately searching hers.
" So I did everything to please him. To earn his gaze. I accepted the training, I obeyed, I wore the uniform. Ten years of my life… hoping he would accept me. But nothing.
And in Mariejoa, there was only discipline and cruelty. Discipline is relentless. Every action, every word, every thought is watched. Punishments come at the slightest misstep. It’s a frozen world where innocence doesn’t exist, where cruelty is a virtue.
Children undergo brainwashing from birth. They are hammered with the idea that they are superior. And the worst? They become it. Even as children, they laugh at the suffering of others. They despise the lower world, without even understanding why. Because they are raised that way. Because all innocence is taken from them.”

Shanks lowered his head, his voice hoarse.
“My father trained me relentlessly, forging me into a weapon. And every day, they tried to instill arrogance in me. To make me believe I was worth more than others. But I couldn’t. I saw the slaves whipped, the screams, the blood… and it suffocated me.”

He gritted his teeth, eyes burning.
“The worst, Anissa… is that Celestial Dragons aren’t born monsters. They are made into them. They are shaped by that relentless upbringing, and they don’t even realize the harm they cause. To them, it’s not cruelty. It’s natural. They truly believe they are superior. And that… makes them even more terrifying.”

He approached her, voice breaking in a plea.
"Do you want them to steal his soul, like they stole Shamrock’s?
Do you want our child to grow up in that world? Do you want him one day to learn to laugh at the blood of slaves ? Do you want him to become a Celestial Dragon ?

I’d rather give up now than offer my son… or daughter… to that fate.

"

He grabbed her hands, desperate.
“But I promise you one thing. The day this Government falls, the day the chains of the Celestial Dragons are broken… then we can have a child. A real one. Free. A child of ours, that no monster will take from us.”

Tears streamed down Anissa’s face. Between rage, despair, and love, her heart shattered into pieces.

Shanks’ words still echoed in her mind, like chains wrapping around her chest. I am a Figarland… Shamrock is my brother… Celestial Dragons aren’t born monsters, they are made…

Her whole body shook. She felt as if the ground had vanished beneath her. She thought she knew Shanks better than anyone. She thought she was the one he trusted completely, the one who shared his scars, his laughter, his fears. But no. There had been a chasm in his history, ten years erased. And that chasm… was Mariejoa.

Part of her wanted to scream, slap him, spit her pain in his face. How could you hide this from me? How could you love me, touch me, promise me the world, while half of you remained invisible? But another part… another part saw his tears, his shame, his despair. And that part suffered even more.

She thought of the baby. Their baby. The fragile life already growing inside her, which she had begun to love with an almost animal intensity. And now… that promise was being torn from her. Not out of lack of love. Not out of rejection. But because Shanks feared their child becoming like Shamrock. Shaped, broken, dehumanized.

A sob rose in her throat. Am I ready to give up? Can I accept killing my own child for a promise of a future that may never come?

She felt betrayed by Shanks, but even more by this world. By Mariejoa. By Garling Figarland. By this system that had turned a brother into a stranger, a twin into an enemy, children into monsters. And deep inside, a quiet rage was born.

If the Government fell… if Mariejoa burned… then yes, we could have a free child. But how long? How many more years would we have to wait? And how much blood would be shed?

She wrapped her arms around herself, unsteady. She loved Shanks more than anything. But in that moment, she hated him almost as much. Not for his origins. Not even for his secrets. But for the choice he imposed on her. For the cruel promise he offered: a child, perhaps, in an uncertain future… in exchange for the one she already carried.

And this pain, she knew, would never fade.

Shanks looked her straight in the eyes, his voice broken but resolute, like a man on the edge of a cliff.
“Anissa… I beg you…” he whispered, every word trembling with pain. “Don’t keep this child. It would be… selfish. Selfish to want our happiness at any cost, when this world is ready to devour them.”

He leaned toward her, his hands gripping hers tightly, his eyes burning with a despair nothing could soothe.
“You don’t understand… or maybe you refuse to. What you carry… our baby… wouldn’t be free. He would be… shaped. Broken. Turned into what I despise most… into what I’ve seen born in my own blood, in Shamrock’s.”

His voice cracked, yet he continued, pleading with all the love and fear he had stored up.
“Please… for us… for him… for me… do what I never wanted you to have to do. Let it go before it’s too late. Before this world devours him.”

Anissa recoiled, tears streaming down her cheeks, unable to speak. Her heart was torn between anger, love, and fear. Every fiber of her being screamed to refuse. And yet… she saw Shanks… a man broken by the world, haunted by the ghosts of his past, asking her to choose life… for the outside world, not for their love.

He pressed his forehead to hers, barely breathing, as if his entire life depended on her decision.
“I beg you…” he repeated, so softly it sounded like a whisper. “For our baby… for our love… for me… be reasonable.”

And in the suffocating silence that followed, Anissa understood the depth of his fear. This was not just a request. It was an ultimatum, a cry of anguish, the confession of a man who loved too much to bear the suffering this world inflicted on those he loved most.

Her body trembled, her hands clutching Shanks’. Between rage, despair, and love, her heart broke once again.

A long silence weighed in the cabin. Finally, Anissa lowered her head. Her voice was a broken whisper.
“…Okay. I’ll do it. Reluctantly… but I’ll do it. At the next island… I’ll see a doctor. He’ll give me the pill.”

Her eyes dimmed a little more with each word.

Shanks closed his own, unable to look at her any longer. He clenched his fists, his heart in shreds. But he remained silent.

That night, the Red Force continued slicing through the calm waves. But in the captain’s cabin, love had cracked. An irreversible decision had been made, and nothing would ever be the same again.

Chapter 9: The Weight of Loss

CHAPTER 8

The Red Force docked at a quiet little island. Nothing hinted at the tragedy that was about to unfold. Anissa stepped down alone, wearing a dark cloak, her steps heavy and her face closed off. In her belly, the secret still beat, fragile, but soon that heartbeat would cease.

The doctor welcomed her in a small clinic, away from prying eyes. His usually calm eyes darkened as he understood.
" Are you sure?" he asked gently.
Anissa lowered her gaze.
" No… but I have no choice."

The doctor sighed deeply, then handed her a small vial containing two pills.
" One now, and the other tomorrow morning. Stay in your cabin, near Shanks. It might be violent."

She simply nodded, her fingers clutching the vial like a weight of lead.

 

---

Back on the ship, Anissa locked herself in the captain’s cabin. Shanks was already there, nervous, unable to meet her gaze. At noon, she swallowed the pill in a quick motion, without a word.

The hours passed slowly. The sea was calm, but a storm raged within her.

At first, there were just twinges. Then, as night fell, the cramps became waves of pain. Her ragged breaths filled the cabin. Shanks paced, helpless, his hands trembling.
" Breathe, Anissa… I’m here… I’m here…" he murmured, but his voice sounded hollow.

She writhed, gripping the sheets, sweat soaking her temples. The contractions became unrelenting, excruciating. The hours dragged on endlessly. Every moan sounded like a dagger in Shanks’ heart.

Around three in the morning, her body gave way. Suddenly, a warm rush poured between her legs. Her scream tore through the cabin.
" SHANKS!"

He rushed over, panicked, seeing her lower body soaked in blood. She gasped, eyes rolling back.
" I… I have to push…" she murmured.

And in inhuman pain, Anissa expelled what remained of the fetus. But the bleeding didn’t stop. A brutal, uncontrollable hemorrhage erupted.
" No… no, please…" Shanks whimpered, pale, kneeling beside her. His hand were covered in red as he tried in vain to stop the flow.

He broke down in sobs, forehead pressed to her cold skin.
" Forgive me, Anissa… it’s my fault… my fault…"

She barely had the strength to turn her head toward him, her eyes misted. Then everything went black.

Shanks screamed her name and bolted out of the cabin, running desperately to the infirmary.
" HONGO! QUICK!"

 

---

Two days passed.

When Anissa finally opened her eyes, the pale light of the infirmary blinded her. Her first instinct was to place her hand on her belly. Empty. An abyssal emptiness.

Next to her, Shanks slumped on a chair, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, keeping watch without sleep. When he saw her awaken, he immediately straightened, searching for her hand.
" Anissa… you’re here… you’re alive…"

But his words had no effect. She turned her face away, her eyes drowned in silent tears. The silence between them was no longer one of intimacy but a chasm.

She had survived, yes. But something had died inside her.

The days passed, dull and cold.

Anissa’s body refused to forget. Her belly remained swollen, a grotesque reminder of a life lost, and her breasts, sore, let drop milk that no child would ever claim. Each drop that ran over her skin was an arrow pierced into her heart.

She wasted away before their eyes, cheeks hollowing, gaze emptying. Food had no taste, the sea had no color. Only a silent, heavy pain remained, crushing her.

Shanks stayed close, always vigilant but helpless. Every attempt to approach, every tender word, struck against a wall of ice.
" Anissa… let me help you…"
" No."

Her answers were only refusals. She wanted none of his extended hand. None of his love. None of him.

For she was angry at him. She blamed him for this chasm.

 

---

One morning, as the ship coasted along a peaceful shore, Anissa finally stood, wearing a simple light dress. Her eyes were rimmed with dark circles, her features drawn, but her voice was firm.
" Drop me here, Shanks."

He jumped, staring at her as if she had struck him again.
" What? You want… to leave?"

She held his gaze, unflinching.
" I need to be alone. Here, everything reminds me… I can’t breathe on this ship anymore."

He clenched his fists, shaken.
" Then I’ll stay with you. If you leave the Red Force, I’ll get off too."

She shook her head, relentless.
" No. You must continue your path. I need silence, space. If I stay near you, I will break completely."

"Anissa… I…"

She cut him off, her voice breaking despite herself:
" When I make my final decision… I will contact you via the Den Den Mushi."

A heavy silence fell. The waves against the hull seemed to echo the rhythm of their separation.

Shanks watched her as if his heart were being torn out. But he did not insist. He knew he had lost that right.

The Red Force slowly pulled away. Anissa stepped down alone, unburdened, just a coat over her shoulders. On the quay, she looked back one last time. Their eyes met.

Shanks wanted to run to her, to hold her back. But he remained still.

The ship continued cutting through the sea, but the crew remained silent. Behind them, Anissa had disappeared, swallowed by the horizon.

In his cabin, Shanks sat, elbows on his knees, hand pressed to his forehead. He had not spoken a word for hours. The bottle of rum beside him remained full.

The door opened quietly. Beckman entered, a cigarette at the corner of his lips, his gaze calm but heavy with concern.
" So… you’re really letting go of the only woman who ever mattered to you?"

Shanks lifted his head. His red, swollen eyes contrasted with the faint smile he tried to muster.
" I pushed her to this. I killed our child, Ben. And with it… everything she still saw in me."

Beckman drew a slow puff, then exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling.
" You had your reasons. Damn good reasons."

Shanks straightened abruptly, pounding his fist on the table.
" Reasons?! Do you think that matters against her tears? Against her empty belly?! I destroyed her dreams to protect mine."

A silence. Then, in a low voice, he added:
" The worst… is that I would have loved that child more than anything. But… I’ve seen too many kids in chains. Too many lives stolen by that damn government. I refuse to let a Celestial Dragon come into the world because of me."

Beckman stared, thoughtful.
" So… that’s it. You still curse your blood."

Shanks looked away, jaw clenched.
" I curse what they did to my family. I curse Mariejoa, its chains, its laws, its gods. And I curse myself for being born of it."

He inhaled, trembling.
" If they ever touch Anissa… if they ever lay a finger on her… I will burn the entire world to ashes."

His voice rumbled, fierce, almost monstrous. A glimpse of what Shanks always held deep inside. Beckman saw it and understood how broken his captain truly was.

He placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
" Then make sure you become strong enough so that never happens. You don’t have the right to break, Shanks. Not now."

Shanks closed his eyes. The Red Force sailed on, but he remained prisoner of his own emptiness.

Chapter 10: No Longer Alone

CHAPTER 9

The island where Shanks had left her was modest—a strip of pale sand framed by rolling green hills. The village had barely a hundred inhabitants: fishermen with faces weathered by salt and sun, women with calloused hands but bright, warm laughter, and children running barefoot between the wooden huts.

They welcomed her with disarming simplicity, asking no questions. A stranger from the sea, beautiful and fragile, yet able to smile despite the fatigue in her eyes.

Anissa quickly found her place among them. She helped mend fishing nets, tended to scraped knees and elbows, and prepared communal meals where the tables overflowed with grilled fish. She was invited to sit by the evening fires, and the villagers listened as she sang with her soft, gentle voice. They adopted her as a sister, a friend, a comforting presence.

And yet, every evening, when she returned to the small wooden house they had given her, silence was her only companion. The bed felt too wide. Shadows from the flickering flames danced across the empty walls. And under her hand, her belly remained hollow.

At night, her bed felt like a chasm. She lay there in silence, the sheets cold against her skin, and her thoughts ran rampant. Then, Shanks would come to her in memory.
His deep laughter, the scent of salt and rum, the warmth of his body—she missed it all with a ferocity that left her breathless. Sometimes she closed her eyes, hoping to feel his embrace, only to find an icy void instead.

She missed the crew too. Yasopp’s booming laughter, Lucky Roo’s teasing, Beckman’s calm, reasoned voice… On the island, everyone accepted her, but no one truly knew her. Here, she was just a stranger. On the Red Force, she had been part of a family.

A cruel thought took root: what if she had been wrong? What if running away had been a mistake, driven by pain and anger? By asking Shanks to leave her here, had she betrayed her own heart?

On those nights, tears slid silently down her cheeks, soaking into her pillow, mute witnesses to what she could never confess.

It was after a month, with her pillow still damp from her crying, that Anissa realized she could not manage alone.

One evening, she could take it no longer. The moon hung high, the waves were calm, but her heart screamed. Her hands trembled as she took the transponder snail from the little pouch she had never opened since her arrival.

The shell immediately came to life, its bulbous eyes moving as if to encourage her. She hesitated, tears blurring her vision, then she dialed.

" Brrrr… brrrr…"

The silence between each ring felt endless. Then finally, a voice came, and she caught her breath.

"… Hello?"

Shanks. Hoarse, weary—but real.

"It’s me…" she whispered, barely audible.

A heavy, almost sacred silence followed. Then a trembling sigh:
" Anissa…"

She closed her eyes, throat tight.
" Come back… please."

On the other end, she heard a shuffle, as if Shanks had jumped to his feet. His breathing was short, ragged, betraying the emotion he tried to hold back.

" I’ll come. By all the gods of the sea, I’ll come. But… you have to wait. Two months. The crossing will take that long. I swear I won’t leave you."

Anissa bit her lip to keep from crying out. Two months was an eternity—but it was also a promise.
" Then… I’ll wait for you", she said, her voice breaking.

Silence returned, filled with words neither dared speak. Then Shanks murmured:
" Hold on. Please."

The line went dead.

On the other side, Shanks sat frozen, the transponder snail still pressed to his ear long after the call ended. Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face—a smile he hadn’t had in weeks.

He had believed Anissa had erased him from her life, that she would never forgive him, that he had lost her forever in the abyss of pain he had caused. But she had called him. She had reached out.

A shaky, almost nervous laugh escaped him. Beckman, standing near the door, raised an eyebrow.

" Captain…?"

Shanks lifted his eyes, tears glistening at the corners, but his gaze bright with a new flame.
" She called me, Ben… do you understand? She… she hasn’t turned her back on me."

Beckman stayed silent, took a slow drag from his cigarette, and a faint smile touched his lips.

Shanks clenched his fist, trembling with emotion.
" I thought I’d ruined everything. But she’s waiting. She still wants me."

He sank into his chair, gasping, his heart overflowing with relief. For the first time since leaving the island, the pain receded, replaced by a burning joy.

He repeated it, as if to convince himself:
—" She’s waiting for me."

Anissa remained still for a long moment, the snail pressed to her chest. On the beach, waves lapped at her ankles. The sea stretched endlessly, vast and indifferent.
But that night, something had changed: she was no longer completely alone.

The days passed, monotonous but bearable. Every evening, as the moon rose, she picked up the transponder snail. She called—always at the same time. And every time, Shanks answered.

Sometimes they said nothing, simply listening to each other breathe. Other nights, she told him of village life—the children’s laughter, the taste of grilled fish—while he confided tales of storms at sea, the crew’s songs, his sleepless nights.

Three weeks passed this way, marked by the voice she found each night. Shanks still could not reach her, but these calls became their secret refuge, a fragile thread stretched between two worlds.

Each time she set the snail down, Anissa caught herself smiling. The wait was long, but she endured it because of him.

Yet even in the silence that followed, unease lingered: what if the sea stole this fragile hope from them too?

One morning, Anissa decided to go gather mushrooms in the forest to make soup for the village children. It had become her ritual, a way to occupy her mind, to find some sweetness in the routine.

She walked among the trees, basket cradled in her arm, the air thick with earth and freshness. Her thoughts drifted elsewhere—to Shanks, to the crew, to the future she waited for so anxiously.

Lost in her reverie, she didn’t notice the figure emerging around the bend. She collided hard with a solid chest.

" Oh! Sorry…"

She stepped back, raising her gaze. Before her stood a hooded man, tall and broad-shouldered, his face hidden in shadow. Beside him, a woman, also hooded, silent, unmoving like a shadow herself.

Their features were obscured, but their presence sent a shiver down her spine, a flash of instinctive alarm.

Her basket nearly slipped from her hands.

Without a word, the man inclined his head slightly. The woman did not move.

Anissa felt her heart race. Something had changed.

Chapter 11: From freedom to Chains

Anissa had barely brushed against the man’s chest when her heart began to race. Without thinking, she stepped back, nearly dropping the basket of mushrooms from her arms. The shadow of the forest seemed to close in around her, and every crack of a branch under her feet made her head snap around.

She made an instinctive decision: to turn back. The village, her home, safety—it all felt vital. But as she moved forward, fear overwhelmed her. Her heartbeat quickened, and before she knew it, she was running, weaving between trunks and roots, her thoughts blurred by panic.

The next day, she hoped she could forget that encounter. Yet, when she left the house to gather herbs, her eyes once again fell on the familiar silhouettes: the two hooded strangers. But this time, they weren’t alone. Beside them stood a third man, taller, more imposing, his identity hidden beneath a dark hood.

Anissa’s blood ran cold. Something bad, threatening, emanated from that silent trio. The basket trembled in her hands. Their steps echoed in unison, heavy and precise.

Frozen, Anissa felt her breath catch in her throat. The three figures halted before her, and in the thick silence of the forest, she finally heard the voice of the tallest one:

"You…"

He slowly lowered his hood. Shamrock’s face emerged, angular, severe, marked by authority. His steel-gray eyes locked onto hers, and Anissa felt her body react against her will, as though struck by an invisible current.

A thin smile tugged at his lips.
" The witch of the Red-Haired’s crew…"

She clutched her basket so tightly her fingers whitened. The rumors. Of course, they had spread. Pirates always talked, turning every whisper into legend. But in this man’s mouth, the word sounded like a sentence.

" I thought you were nothing more than a tavern tale for drunken sailors, he continued, stepping forward. But no… you are real."

Behind him, Gunko and Sommers exchanged a wary glance. They knew Shamrock: never had his tone carried such a vibration. His pupils gleamed with a dangerous, almost uncontrollable fascination.

Anissa’s breath caught. When the man lowered his hood, her heart nearly stopped.

It was Shanks.
No… not Shanks.

The same features, the same half-smile, the same deep eyes. But where Shanks always carried the air of a carefree pirate, this man radiated a glacial presence. His neatly trimmed beard emphasized the symmetry of his face, and his long, sleek hair contrasted with his brother’s wild mane.

And when he spoke, Anissa was shaken: the voice was identical. But the accent, the diction—everything breathed nobility and discipline. Where Shanks let his words roll like a sailor at the tavern, this man carved each syllable with sovereign precision.

" So, he murmured softly, the rumor was true."

Anissa, petrified, pressed the basket against her chest.
"Shamrock…" she whispered.

The name slipped past her lips before she could think. She knew. Instinct told her. This was him, the forgotten twin, the other half of the Red-Haired.

A faint smile curved his lips.
" I see my reputation preceded me."

At his side, Gunko observed with sharp eyes, as though already weighing the destiny of this encounter. Sommers remained straight as a statue, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his awareness of the moment.

Shamrock advanced slowly, his boots sinking into the carpet of dead leaves.
" You share Shanks’ bed. They call you a sorceress, the whore of my incompetent brother. They even say he gives you as a gift to his men."

His words were cold, but his eyes burned with a fascination he couldn’t hide.

" And yet… none of those tales ever captured your beauty."

Anissa swallowed hard, unable to answer. Shanks’ echo rang in his voice, twisted, elevated by an elegance that froze her blood. She didn’t know whether to flee, strike, or surrender to the magnetism radiating from him.

Anissa lifted her chin. Her heart pounded, but her eyes lit with defiance.
" Yes, I am Shanks’ companion, she said firmly. But I am not a whore."

Her words cracked through the cold air like a whip. Gunko raised an eyebrow, amused by the audacity. Sommers turned his head slightly, impassive but attentive.

Shamrock fell silent for a moment. His lips curved into a slow smile, intrigued, almost predatory.
"Interesting… You dare answer like that, even to me."

He stepped closer, closing the space between them. His voice—so like Shanks’, yet utterly different vibrated with icy, calculated energy.
" Then the rumors lied about one thing: you’re not just beautiful. You have fangs."

Anissa did not step back, though her stomach knotted with fear and confusion.

A strange light flickered in Shamrock’s eyes. Not anger, nor contempt… but a contained fever, a dangerous fascination. He laughed softly, a laugh reminiscent of Shanks—but without warmth.
" So that’s why the Red-Haired kept you by his side."

Anissa drew in a deep breath and asked neutrally:
" Why are you here? This island has nothing of value."

Shamrock exchanged a brief look with Gunko and Sommers. His smile widened ever so slightly.
" We are on a mission, he replied simply. Nothing that concerns you."

The words fell with elegant finality, like a barrier she could not cross.

Anissa frowned. She disliked the tone of this man, the way his eyes devoured her. Then, with a surge of pride, she turned on her heel.
" In that case, I have nothing to do here with you."

She took two steps.

A hand seized her arm with brutal strength. Shamrock’s gloved fingers closed around her like steel chains. Anissa stifled a cry: his grip was unyielding, crushing, almost painful.

He pulled her closer, close enough for her to feel his breath. His steel eyes burned into hers with unsettling intensity.
" You think you can just walk away?" he murmured, his voice cold, yet trembling with feverish desire.

Gunko crossed her arms, as though watching something inevitable. Sommers remained silent, but his hand rested on the hilt of his sword, ready at any moment.

Anissa tried to wrench her arm free, but it was like pulling against an ancient oak.
"Let me go!" , she hissed, anger mixing with fear.

Shamrock leaned closer, close enough for her to see the details of his neatly trimmed beard.
" No."

Anissa met his gaze, though his grip crushed her arm. Her voice trembled, then sharpened into blades:

" Shanks told me about you. He said you were nothing but a dog of Marijois… A puppet trained by your masters. A toy of… Imu."

Silence fell. Even the forest went still.

Shamrock’s face darkened instantly. His Shanks-like features twisted into a shadow of rage. His steel eyes filled with cold fury.

Then his hand struck.

The slap cracked like thunder. The blow nearly knocked her to the ground, blood flooding her mouth. Her cheek burned, but the humiliation burned more: no one had ever struck her like that.

Shamrock stood trembling—not from weakness, but from contained fury. His voice vibrated with chilling coldness:
" You have no right to utter that name."

He stepped forward, his shadow engulfing her.
" That you dare defile this secret with your tongue disgusts me."

Anissa’s cheek blazed, but she lifted her head. Her eyes gleamed with tears of rage. Without thinking, she spat in his face.

Gunko and Sommers stiffened in shock, but Shamrock didn’t move. Slowly, with precise calm, he wiped the spit from his cheek with his glove. Then, before their eyes, he raised it to his lips. His tongue slid across the leather, savoring it.

" Hm… he breathed. Even your insolence has a taste."

A cruel grin tugged at his lips, a mix of disgust and obsession. His eyes burned into Anissa with near-inhuman intensity.
" You think you’ve humiliated me. But you’ve just sealed your fate."

Shamrock’s gaze lingered on her, feverish and animal. The silence grew heavy.

Gunko finally broke it, her sharp voice cutting through the air:
" Commander, you’re going too far. We must complete the mission."

Shamrock turned his glare toward her. His eyes flashed, but his body relaxed slightly.
" She knows of our Lord’s existence…"

Sommers stepped forward, placing a hand on Shamrock’s shoulder.
" We must neutralize her before she causes more problems, commander. The mission now comes second."

Shamrock’s face hardened, but he nodded slowly, acknowledging their caution. His grip on Anissa’s arm loosened slightly, though his eyes never left her.
" Let no one forget, he said coldly. She belongs to me now."

Gunko stepped forward, casting Anissa a severe look.
" You’re coming with us. Resistance is useless."

Anissa instinctively stepped back, but Sommers blocked her escape. Shamrock’s hand clamped back down, firm but controlled.
" Stop playing with fire, he whispered coldly. Your words will not go unpunished."

Anissa’s breath quickened. She knew she couldn’t escape. Her mind raced, searching for a way to turn this situation in her favor. For now, she was trapped.

Gunko gestured sharply:
" Move."

Sommers took the lead. Shamrock followed closely, Anissa bound between them. Her heart thrashed with fear, defiance, and unwanted fascination.

As she walked, her thoughts turned to Shanks. If only I could call him now… She tightened her grip on the small transponder snail hidden in her pocket, but the knights’ presence made it impossible. Waiting a whole month for Shanks to come searching felt like an eternity.

She had no idea where they would take her—Mariejois? Garling’s palace? Some remote, merciless island? Her imagination conjured cages of gold, cold halls, towering guards. Every vision was worse than the last.

I must keep calm, she told herself. But her body betrayed her panic: sweaty palms, short breaths, a tight stomach. Yet beneath the fear, one thought burned: I must find a way to manipulate them… Shamrock, Gunko, Sommers. Even here, I can turn the situation to my advantage.

The forbidden name Imu still rang in her mind, heavy with danger. If she failed to control this game, if she couldn’t twist their obsession or arrogance… she was lost.

Each step drew her further from freedom. Still, her determination, though flickering, refused to die. She had to survive. She had to remain mistress of her own fate, even in the hands of the Holy Knights.

Suddenly, Shamrock stopped. His steel gaze pierced her. He extended his hand.
" What are you hiding there? he asked calmly, though his tone was edged like a blade."

Anissa’s chest tightened. The transponder snail! Her fragile link to Shanks.

But Shamrock gave her no chance. With a swift movement, he plunged his hand into her pocket and pulled it out. The tiny snail squirmed in his gloved palm.

He turned it over, studying every detail. His eyes narrowed, lips curling into a cruel smile.
" Interesting…"

Then, with a sudden motion, he drew his sword, Cerberus. The blade flashed in the filtered light. Before Anissa could protest, he struck down.

The snail split in two, a small hiss of steam rising from the ruined device.

Anissa’s heart plummeted. A wave of icy despair crashed through her. Her last link to Shanks, destroyed. Her world shrank to this clearing, these knights, Shamrock’s crushing grip.

And yet, in that despair, one thought still burned: I must survive. I must find a way…

But for now, one certainty remained: she was utterly at their mercy.

They marched through the forest until Gunko stopped, pointing at strange symbols carved into the ground, glowing faintly.

— The Government Seal, she said calmly. It will take us directly to Mariejois.

Anissa’s heart clenched. Every fiber of her body screamed to run, but she was trapped. No communication, no escape.

Sommers activated the seal. A cold light swirled around them, and the world dissolved. The forest, the sky, the trees—all vanished as though swept away by an invisible wind.

Dizzy, Anissa clutched Shamrock despite her panic. The light intensified, the air trembled, and in an instant, the ground was gone. Her body felt pulled apart, atom by atom.

Then everything changed. The wind, the forest, the light—gone. She stood in a vast golden hall, with towering ceilings and glittering walls. Mariejois.

Shamrock finally released her, though his eyes remained fixed, cold and obsessive.
" Welcome to Mariejois" , he murmured. You are no longer on your island, Anissa." Here, everything is under control. And you… you have no escape."

He led her through gleaming streets, towers of crystal bridges and golden facades. Nobles walked in disciplined silence. But deeper within, the city shifted. The gilded walls gave way to narrow alleys and darker buildings. Slaves moved silently, heads bowed, chains rattling.

Shamrock brought her to a discreet yet imposing building.
" This is where the slaves sleep, he said. You’ll remain here until I return."

Before she could react, he pushed her inside. The hall was vast but bare, rows of cots, bodies slumped or lying still. The air was thick with metal, wood, and fear pressed into the walls.

Shamrock leaned close, his steel eyes burning into hers.
" I must return to finish my mission. I’ll be back in a few days."

His gloved hand brushed her cheek, a mix of possession and warning.
" Don’t try anything. You’ll regret it."

Then he turned and left, his footsteps echoing away.

Anissa knelt on a cot, her heart pounding. The shattered snail haunted her—her link to Shanks, gone.

The sound of footsteps fading, the creak of chains, and the whispers of the city above hammered the truth: she was now a prisoner in the heart of Mariejois, under the watch of Shamrock and the World Government.

Anissa collapsed to the cold, damp floor, chains biting her wrists. She trembled not only with fear but with anger at herself.

Why was I so insolent? she repeated over and over. If I had kept silent, if I hadn’t provoked Shamrock, I would be free now.

Tears burned her cheeks. She tore at her hair, screaming inwardly at her rage and despair. The sound of her sobs blended with the others—soft cries, whispered prayers, silence heavy with misery.

The place stank of blood and mildew. The air was heavy, suffocating, as if fear itself was a weight pressing down.

Around her, the other slaves wept quietly, some praying, others staring blankly. Every breath, every cry reinforced the oppression, and Anissa felt her heart clench tighter.

Chapter 12: Chains of Desire

The cell reeked of damp stone and despair. Iron bars jutted upward like twisted fangs, caging her in with a handful of broken souls whose faces had long since forgotten the light of day. Their dull, hollow eyes lingered on her with a mix of pity and resignation. A newcomer. Still unscarred. Still beautiful. Still burning.

Anissa had curled herself against the wall, knees pressed tightly to her chest. The sting of Shamrock’s slap still burned on her cheek, but it wasn’t the pain that haunted her—it was the humiliation of that involuntary shiver that had run through her body when his fingers brushed her skin. That cursed attraction. That dangerous magnetism she could neither escape nor deny.

Around her, the slaves whispered in the shadows. Some prayed. Others muttered nonsense. One man, wild-eyed, rocked back and forth, staring blankly at the ground. Anissa studied them in silence, searching for cracks, for openings. If she wanted to survive here—if she wanted to rise above this cage—she couldn’t let herself sink into the same stupor.

A guard passed, his torchlight flickering across the bars. His gaze lingered on her longer than it should have. Anissa met his eyes, unflinching, and let the faint curve of a smile touch her lips. His Adam’s apple twitched. The torch shook slightly in his hand. It works here too, she realized. Even in chains, even sullied by these walls, her allure hadn’t vanished.

But she didn’t press her advantage. Not yet. Patience was a sharper blade than steel.

Time crawled by, heavy and suffocating. Sleep brushed against her only to be stolen away by the clatter of chains and the low drone of voices. She closed her eyes, digging for the strength that had carried her this far. Shanks’s face flickered in her mind, only to be swept aside by Shamrock’s shadowed, mocking smile.

Footsteps echoed suddenly in the corridor. Firm. Deliberate. Nothing like the lazy shuffle of the guards. The slaves froze, shrinking deeper into the dark.

Torchlight advanced. A figure took shape.

Shamrock.

He wasn’t supposed to return so soon. And yet here he was—calm, unreadable, eyes glinting with that unsettling curiosity, as if studying a rare treasure he had locked away.

“Still awake,” he murmured through the bars. “Good. I like when the fire doesn’t die too quickly.”

Anissa’s breath caught, but she straightened her spine, forcing herself to meet his gaze. If he had come to test her, she wouldn’t break.

The chains rattled as his hand slid along the bars, his eyes locked on hers.
“Tell me, Anissa,” he whispered. “How long before this place breaks you?”

She didn’t answer. She held his gaze, chin high, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

But his eyes shifted downward, slowly, deliberately. Not to her face. Not to her shackles. Lower. His stare clung with a silence that was almost indecent.

A cold shiver ran through her. She followed his gaze—and understood.

Shame crashed over her like a wave. For the first time since the abortion, her body had betrayed her. Her menstruation. In the suffocating darkness, she hadn’t noticed. The blood had seeped into the fabric of her shorts, run down her thighs, leaving visible stains.

She hadn’t realized. But he had.

Her face burned. Not with anger, not with desire—pure humiliation. She wanted to clamp her legs shut, to hide, to curl into herself, but the instinct would have marked her defeat. So she remained still, frozen, trapped in his silence.

An imperceptible smile brushed his lips. Not mocking. Predatory. As though he had uncovered a weakness to exploit.

“Interesting…” he murmured, stroking the bars.

Anissa looked away, rigid. It was worse than pain, worse than chains. He was stripping her down to something fragile, bleeding, vulnerable.

His silence lingered, cruel, his eyes still fixed on her stained thighs. Then, in a low, even voice, his words cut into her:

“You thought yourself above the rest, didn’t you? Beautiful. Proud. Untamed… But you’re just a woman. A woman betrayed by her own body.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to reply, but no words came. Only silence, thick with rage and shame.

The keys clinked. The lock clicked. The heavy iron door groaned open. The slaves shrank further into the shadows like frightened rats.

He entered. Calm. Certain. His boots struck the stone with measured weight. He stopped before her, then slowly knelt. The son of Figarland—on his knees. But not in submission. Like a lord examining an offering.

His gloved hand slid down her thigh, leather scraping against her skin before pulling back. Then, with bare fingers, he touched the scarlet trace that had slipped free. His movements were deliberate, ceremonial.

Anissa’s eyes widened in horror as he lifted the stained fingertip to his lips. His tongue brushed the droplet. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring as though tasting rare wine.

A smile stretched across his lips.

“Bitter… and yet fascinating. Like you.”

Anissa wanted to scream, to strike him, but her chains bound her in helplessness. Her body trembled, torn between disgust, fury, and the dizzying pull he knew how to awaken in her.

Shamrock rose smoothly, towering over her once again. He turned slightly toward a slave huddled in the shadows and ordered coldly:

“Water. Tomorrow she will be washed.”

Then his gaze returned to Anissa, brighter than ever, as he declared in a chilling tone:

“Tomorrow, you’ll leave this pit. You’ll come to my father’s manor. There, you’ll learn your true place.”

The door clanged shut behind him, echoing like a sentence passed.

And Anissa, left in the stench of the cell, sat trembling, her heart pounding, knowing this was only the beginning.

When the door slammed shut, Anissa’s legs gave out beneath her. Her whole body trembled. Not from cold, not from fatigue—but from what he had just done.

Why? Why had he tasted her blood? The act made no sense. Was it provocation? Ritual? Just another way to strip her down? She couldn’t understand. Her mind clawed for logic, for explanation, but all she found was the unbearable sense of being defiled on a new, intimate, unspeakable level.

Shame consumed her, scorching. She wished she could sink into the stone, erase herself, vanish. She imagined the slaves in the shadows, witnesses to her disgrace. Her blood, her weakness—exposed, weaponized against her.

And yet, her thoughts strayed elsewhere. To the Red Force. To Shanks. His hands gripping hers, his voice breaking with a vulnerability he never showed anyone else.

He had begged her to end the pregnancy. Not out of cruelty, not out of apathy—but because he knew. Because he feared the name. That twin brother he’d whispered about with dread.

“Shamrock is dangerous. You don’t understand, Anissa. He takes everything he wants, and gives nothing back.”

Those words still rang in her mind, cruel prophecy. Shanks had tried to spare her. But she hadn’t listened.

And now, in this frozen dungeon, she was tasting that truth in ways she could never have imagined.

Tears slipped down her cheeks despite her will to remain strong. She clenched her fists, bit her lip until it bled. She could not break. She had survived Shanks, the sea, the abortion—she would not let herself be destroyed in this pit.

Yet deep inside, a gnawing dread consumed her. The question she couldn’t escape:

Was she doomed to become Shamrock’s possession, just as Shanks had feared?

Her heartbeat thundered, threatening to shatter her ribs. She swore to herself she would find a way. One way or another, she would keep control.

Even if, for now, she was nothing but a humiliated woman, sitting in her own blood.

The oppressive silence pressed on her, and memory crept in. Shanks’s broken voice—that one time his mask of captaincy had cracked. He had begged her, not just to renounce the child, but to understand.

“If you keep this child, Anissa… they will come. My father will come for it.”

She had thought him exaggerating. An old fear, a brother’s grudge. She had never imagined that “they” would extend to her as well.

Never thought she would one day become the desire of a Celestial Dragon.

Hot, silent tears welled again. She gritted her teeth to hold back sobs, to deny the dungeon that pleasure. But the truth was undeniable: Shanks had been right. He had seen what she refused to see.

The cruelest part was knowing she was no longer chained by iron, but ensnared in a darker trap—a twisted desire closing in on her. Shamrock had tasted her. And he would not stop there.

The door’s echo still haunted her when another metallic groan split the silence. Hinges shrieked. Anissa lifted her head, breath still ragged. This time, it wasn’t Shamrock.

A hunched figure entered, burdened by a ring of keys too heavy for his frail wrists. An old slave. His eyes glazed, his skin scarred by whips. He didn’t speak, only gestured weakly toward the corridor.

Anissa rose slowly, chains rattling with each movement. The old servant lowered his gaze, unable to look at her. He didn’t see a woman, nor a prisoner—just another piece of merchandise, passed from one master to another.

They walked through a maze of narrow corridors, torches casting warped shadows along stone walls. At every step, the weight of the place crushed down on her. Mary Geoise. The Holy Land. But in these halls, nothing was holy. Only fear, obedience, and silence.

At last, a tall door opened, and warm, perfumed air washed over her. The slave bowed low, and a pair of white-clad attendants took her in hand.

They spoke not a word, offered no smiles. They guided her like a broken doll into a marble chamber gilded with gold and crystal. Steam hung in the air, fragrant, softening the cruelty only slightly.

Without ceremony, the attendants unshackled her and began to wash her. Their hands were swift, mechanical, almost violent in their neutrality. Anissa let them work, face cold. She longed to scream, to resist—but every splash of water reminded her: this cleansing was not for her. It was for someone else.

When they finished, they dressed her in sumptuous silks, crimson threaded with silver, the fabric clinging indecently to her body. They combed her hair, powdered her skin, shaped her into something exquisite.

In the crystal mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. The wretch from the dungeon was gone. In her place stood a creature of velvet and light—eyes still raw with shame and exhaustion.

One attendant opened a door. The old slave reappeared, bowing lower than before, crushed beneath the sight of her new splendor. He beckoned.

They crossed another corridor, this one lined with portraits—cold faces, haughty stares. The Figarlands. Every painted gaze judged her, reminding her she was nothing but an intruder in a world that devoured those not born to it.

Finally, they reached massive double doors of dark wood inlaid with gold. Two armored guards stood sentinel, spears crossed. At a nod, the doors opened.

A hush swept over her.

The chamber loomed vast, oppressive. Endless shelves of books towered on the walls. At its center, a massive mahogany desk reigned like a throne. Velvet drapes bled daylight into a somber crimson.

And behind the desk, waiting, sat Saint Figarland Garling.

His white mane cascaded like a lion’s, his face carved in severity and pride. Eyes of icy gray pierced her instantly.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. His very presence pressed down on her like a mountain.

“Approach,” he said, his deep voice echoing like divine command.

Anissa’s heart raced. Her legs trembled, but she advanced. Each step struck the marble like a sentence.

The heavy doors shut behind her, sealing her in this tribunal-like chamber.

Garling studied her with glacial severity. To his right, slightly behind, Shamrock stood waiting. When he saw her—cleansed, dressed, adorned—his face lit with awe he couldn’t hide. His eyes shone like a child’s before a treasure.

Garling noticed instantly. His hawk’s gaze flicked to his son, then back to Anissa.

“So… she is the ‘witch’ of the red-haired one. Shanks, my son…” he murmured, each word sharp as a blade.

Anissa flinched. She hadn’t expected his name to fall so soon here. Shamrock, meanwhile, bowed his head, tense.

Garling’s voice cracked like judgment:

“Explain, Shamrock. Why have you brought her here, to the Holy Land? You know what this means. Shanks is an Emperor of the Sea. To bind him by his heart or provoke his wrath is to flirt with open war.”

Shamrock drew breath, clearly rehearsed.

“Father… we had no choice. She… she knows the name of Lord Imu. Had we left her free, the secret would have been endangered. Bringing her here was the only way to protect it.”

Silence fell, sharp and cold. Garling’s eyes drilled into his son, his stare unblinking.

At last, in a slow, merciless voice, he spoke:

“You lie by omission. You could have killed her in the forest. One sword, one arrow, and it was done. But you didn’t. Why?”

The silence thickened. Shamrock clenched his fists. His lips trembled. No words came.

Garling narrowed his eyes. A flicker of cruel amusement touched his face.

“I see. She pleases you.”

Shamrock flinched, color rising in his cheeks.

Garling’s voice, implacable, cut the air:

“Tell me. Do you want her as your slave?”

Anissa’s heart stopped. Breath caught. Her gut twisted. All of this—all the corridors, the cleansing, the finery—had led to this. She wasn’t a guest. Not even a prisoner of war. She was prey.

“Yes!” Shamrock burst out, too fast, his voice thick with hunger.

The words lashed Anissa like a whip. Now she understood. Shamrock bent blindly to his father’s authority. Even his desire was just another chain, forged by Garling’s approval.

And she, in the middle of it all, was nothing but a piece on the Figarland chessboard.

Garling leaned back, fingers steepled, regarding his son like an animal behind glass.

“Very well,” he said at last. “But remember, Shamrock… what we desire binds us tighter than what we already possess.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy as a curse.

A snap of his fingers. A slave entered at once, head bowed, wrists still scarred by irons. With a sharp gesture, Garling indicated Anissa.

“Take her to her quarters.”

The man obeyed in silence. Anissa cast one last glance at the chamber, catching Shamrock’s burning eyes. He seemed to want to speak—but under his father’s gaze, he stayed mute.

The doors closed behind her, her footsteps echoing down endless marble halls.

 

---

Once she was gone, Garling leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His cold eyes fixed on Shamrock, who still trembled from the confession forced out moments before.

“You are weak, Shamrock,” he said calmly. “But weakness can become a weapon, if well used.”

Shamrock grit his teeth.
“Father, I… I only brought her to protect Imu’s secret.”

“Pointless lies,” Garling cut, his voice icy. “You want her. That much is plain. But hear me well, boy. If you think to possess her by force, you will only drive her to escape. And if she flees… Shanks will come. There will be no negotiations—only war. A war even the Celestial Dragons do not want.”

Shamrock lowered his head, fists tight.

Garling pressed on, pitiless:

“So here is what you will do. You will treat her well. No torture, no brutality. If you want to keep her, she must come to love you of her own accord. Let her forget the red-haired one. Let her choose to stay.”

He rose, towering over his son.

“Do you understand? If she turns away from Shanks out of love for you, he will have no reason to claim her. She will cease to be his weakness—and become your asset.”

At last, Shamrock lifted his gaze. Hope and burning desire glimmered in his eyes.

“I understand, Father. I’ll make her love me.”

Garling’s lips curved into a cold smile.

“Good. But never forget… true love is a chain stronger than any iron.”

Chapter 13: A Taste of Will

Chapter 12

Anissa was led down a silent corridor, the walls draped in deep crimson velvet. The guards stopped in front of a dark wooden door, engraved with the Figarland crest. Without a word, the slave walking ahead opened it, revealing her new room.

The room was vast and richly decorated—far too beautiful for a prison. A large canopy bed dominated the center, draped in scarlet silk. The windows overlooked the hanging gardens, but the finely wrought steel bars were a cruel reminder that Anissa remained captive.

She was not alone. A girl of barely twelve, dressed in a simple gown, bowed awkwardly. Beside her, a young man in his twenties, standing tall but with downcast eyes, dropped to one knee.

"We will serve you, Mistress..." the girl whispered, her voice fragile.

The word cut through Anissa’s chest like a blade: servants. These two lives were now bound to hers, forced to attend her every need, chaining her even more tightly. Her heart tightened. The walls, the silk sheets, the forced smiles… it was all just a gilded cage.

The truth hit her like a wave: Shamrock wanted her as his personal slave. A living jewel to flaunt, to possess, to humiliate at his whim. A shiver ran down her spine.

In her despair, her mind turned to Garling. She had noticed something troubling: despite Shamrock’s arrogance and cruelty, he faltered before his father. His voice became measured, his gaze evasive. He erased his insolence like a shadow under the sun.

And Garling… he resembled his sons but older, shaped by experience and authority. Where Shamrock was raw cruelty, Garling embodied true power. He was the master of this house.

An idea sparked. To survive, she would have to divert her eyes from Shamrock and focus on his father—not by choice, but out of necessity. Only Garling’s attention could protect her from his son’s whims.

In this mansion, where every smile hid a threat, she would have to play with the most dangerous wolf of all.

A heavy silence fell. Anissa felt a surge of rage and pain rise in her throat. She stepped forward, her dark eyes fixed on the two young slaves.

"No." Her voice was soft but firm. "I am not your mistress."

The girl blinked, surprised, as if the words were foreign. The young man slightly lifted his head, intrigued. His face was marked by fatigue, youthful features already broken by years of servitude.

"Here, they force you to serve me, but I will never see you as my slaves."

Her throat tightened, but she added with conviction:

"You are free… at least in my heart."

The girl, moved, turned her eyes away to hold back tears. The young man remained silent, but his gaze briefly met Anissa’s, filled with quiet gratitude.

Despite her fear, the girl dared a timid smile at Anissa—a tiny gesture of humanity that warmed Anissa’s heart in this cold world.

The door suddenly swung open. Shamrock entered, his boots clanging against the floor, his eyes gleaming with impatient cruelty. He froze at the sight of the little girl smiling.

A heavy silence fell. Slowly, he drew his sword. The dark blade gleamed ominously in the light: Cerberus.

"Looks like you’ve found a reason to be happy, vermin..." he muttered, amused.

The girl paled but had no time to defend herself. Shamrock raised the sword and struck the flat of the blade violently across her fragile back. The room echoed with the impact, followed by a muffled cry.

"A slave has no right to smile. Surely you have other things to do, don’t you?" he spat, pushing her toward the exit.

The girl rose, trembling, eyes brimming with tears, and fled without a word. The young servant, frozen in place, had not moved an inch, knowing that any reaction would draw Shamrock’s wrath.

Anissa remained still, fists clenched. Her instinct screamed at her to intervene, but she knew a single word could endanger the girl. And Shamrock relished that power, his cruel smile aimed squarely at her.

"There… now you’re settled in," he said, sheathing Cerberus as if nothing had happened.

Shamrock put the sword away, a satisfied smile on his lips. But as he turned to Anissa, a sour thought crossed his mind.

His father had ordered him to treat her properly. Not to break her with torture, but to seduce her, to make her come to love him. An idea he found as ridiculous as it was repulsive.

How could one love such a creature? A girl of nothing, reduced to a slave, an insect he could crush with a flick of his hand. Every time he met her gaze, he had to fight the contempt burning in his gut.

And yet… he had no choice. He feared his father. In Garling’s presence, he shrank, losing his arrogance. Only the head of the Figarland house had the power to silence him.

So Shamrock smiled at Anissa. A cold, dissonant smile, contrasting sharply with the brutality he had just displayed.

"I hope you like your room."

His eyes sparkled with restrained arrogance, and Anissa realized instantly that this mask of courtesy was a fragile veneer, ready to crack at any moment.

Before leaving, Shamrock paused before her, his eternal mocking smile plastered on his face.

"Tonight, you will dine with us. Me, my father… and a few handpicked slaves."

His tone was meant to be friendly, but his eyes revealed all the disdain he felt.

When the hour of the meal arrived, the little girl, still trembling from the earlier scene, came for Anissa. Wordlessly, she guided her through the long corridors to a vast hall, where an endless table was laden with fine dishes.

Garling was already seated at the head of the table, his imposing figure dominating the room. Shamrock stood to his right, perfectly straight, playing the model heir.

As soon as Anissa crossed the threshold, Garling’s deep voice boomed:

"Sit."

She stepped toward the table, hesitating. But the man laughed, harsh and cruel.

"Not there. Dogs don’t belong at the table."

He indicated the floor at her feet. The other slaves, accustomed to this, bowed their heads, afraid that even a glance could betray their emotions.

Anissa’s heart clenched, but she obeyed. Slowly, she knelt, feeling her blood boil with rage under the humiliation.

The meal began. Garling sampled every dish slowly, savoring it, and once sated, tossed to the floor what he did not wish to finish. Like a dog. Each morsel landed at Anissa’s feet, in oppressive silence.

"Eat," he commanded in a cold voice.

Shamrock did not dare follow suit. He simply sipped his wine, a mask fixed on his face. He had no right to treat her this way—not in front of his father. The contrast between his restrained gestures and Garling’s assumed brutality did not escape Anissa: all the power here belonged to the patriarch.

Every bite she brought to her lips burned her throat. She felt she was swallowing shame and anger, piece by piece. But under Garling’s unyielding gaze, she could do nothing but stay silent and survive.

Once the meal was over, Garling placed his massive hands on the table and fixed Anissa with a piercing stare. The silence grew heavy, oppressive.

"It is said..." he began slowly, his icy eyes boring into her. "That you and the Redhead… my son… live a life of indulgence. That you spend your days drunk and fornicating without restraint."

A shiver ran down Anissa’s spine. Her heart raced, her hands clenched in her lap. What was he talking about? What did it mean? She didn’t even understand the reference, and the humiliation was worse for it.

Garling tilted his head slightly, a cruel smile stretching his lips.

"I was told you were the prostitute of my son’s ship."

The silence that followed was deafening. The slaves lowered their heads, trembling, while Anissa felt her throat tighten and her cheeks burn with shame. She wanted to scream, to protest… but a single gesture or word could unleash the patriarch’s wrath.

Shamrock, seated beside his father, could not help a soft snicker. His eyes gleamed with a mix of perverse pleasure and frustration. He could not openly mistreat Anissa, but watching his father humiliate her seemed to amuse him.

Garling, relentless, let her stew under the weight of his words for a few seconds, savoring every fraction of discomfort. Then, in a calm but cutting voice:

"So… is it true?"

Anissa, frozen, felt a cold anger mingle with anxiety.

The silence was heavy. Garling’s icy eyes burned into her, while Shamrock struggled to contain his amusement and contempt.

Finally, Anissa took a breath, clenching her fists but lifting her head defiantly.

"Yes… it’s true," she said, her voice clear despite the tension. "And tell me… is it wrong to love alcohol, sex, and freedom?"

A shiver passed through the room. The slaves averted their eyes, fearing Garling’s reaction.

Yet he let out a low laugh, surprised and amused by her audacity.

"Interesting…" he said, a smile mixing amusement and curiosity shaping his face. "Very interesting, young lady."

Shamrock, beside him, frowned, a mixture of contempt and frustration on his face. He did not like Anissa daring to defy his father, but in his father’s presence, he dared say nothing.

Anissa felt a small thrill of triumph course through her. Even in this room, under the patriarch’s merciless gaze and surrounded by trembling servants, she had scored a point. A tiny point… but enough to remind herself she could still resist.

Garling’s grave laughter had barely faded when Shamrock, unable to contain his disdain, spat out a venomous comment.

*"And your Redhead…" he growled with a sneer of disgust. "A mangy dog… and he had to have a bitch like you."

A freezing silence fell. The slaves instinctively recoiled, some stifling a gasp, while Anissa felt her heart pound. The disgust in Shamrock’s voice burned more than any blow, more than any physical humiliation.

Garling, however, remained still, impassive, his gray eyes glinting with amusement and curiosity. He did not intervene. His son’s remark, far from offending him, seemed only to heighten his interest in the girl.

Anissa felt a surge of anger and disgust. But she knew she could say nothing; every impulsive word could cost her dearly. She breathed deeply, clenching her fists on her lap. Even faced with Shamrock’s pure hatred, she had to remain cautious.

The oppressive silence stretched after Shamrock’s venomous remark. Anissa felt her anger and shame boil inside her, but instead of shrinking, she took a deep breath and lifted her eyes to him.

"You know," she said calmly, her clear voice cutting through the room, "Shanks is better than you. He’s a good, upright man… not like you."

Shamrock froze, his scornful smile faltering for a moment. His black eyes blazed with anger, but he dared not interrupt the dinner.

*"And you…" she continued, daring to meet his gaze, "you’re only jealous of his freedom. Jealous that he can be what you never will."

A hoarse chuckle escaped Shamrock, but it died in his throat. His jaw tensed, fingers whitening on the wine glass he held. Then, abruptly, he slammed it down on the table with a sharp crash.

Before anyone could react, he leaned forward and spat violently in Anissa’s face. The saliva splashed her cheek and mouth, burning with humiliation.

Shamrock, panting, straightened slowly, his lips twisted in a hateful smile.

"That’s what I think of your Redhead… and of you," he hissed.

Anissa froze, fists clenched until her knuckles whitened.

As she was about to raise a trembling hand to her face, Garling’s icy voice cut through:

"Don’t move."

The tone brooked no argument. Her fingers froze mid-air.

"You will keep this on you," he added, his merciless gaze fixed on her. "A gift from my son. And you will learn to smile with it."

Tears burst forth, uncontrollable, rolling down her cheeks, mixing with the vile moisture that sullied her skin.

Shamrock, panting, savored his revenge. But Garling observed with icy satisfaction. His orders had been clear: seduce the girl, gain her trust, pull her away from the memory of the Redhead. Yet he did not stop it.

For behind his icy eyes, a darker truth emerged: he hated his second son. Shanks, the outcast. The one who had left Mariejois, rejected the Figarland lineage, spat on his blood. Seeing him glorified as a free emperor was a stain he would never forgive.

So, to see Anissa thus defiled by Shamrock was more than a cruel whim—it was revenge. Every tear she shed, every humiliation she endured, Garling savored as a strike against Shanks’ image.

A faint, imperceptible smile touched his lips. She thought she suffered alone… but in truth, she had already become his most intimate weapon against the rebellious son.

"You think your Redhead made you strong, hm?" Garling mused, amused. "You are only the trace he left behind. And now, this trace belongs to me."

Each tear of Anissa’s was a trophy, a reminder of the price Shanks would pay for daring to reject his name. She would be shaped, broken if necessary, until she became the symbol of his dominance over that unworthy son.

Garling raised his glass to his lips, as if the scene were mere high-society entertainment. His voice, soft and almost paternal, broke the silence:

*"Look at her, Shamrock. She’s still crying for him…" He paused, savoring every word. "But the time will come when those tears are for you. When she will think no longer of the Redhead, but of the Figarland."

Shamrock turned his red eyes to his father. His ragged breathing gradually calmed, replaced by a glint of cruel satisfaction. Being acknowledged, even indirectly, by Garling was worth more than any trophy.

"I will break her," he replied with a wicked smile. "I will make her love me… until she forgets that mangy dog."

Garling watched him long, his grin widening with icy pleasure. In truth, he did not care about love. What mattered was the image. Shanks had fled, rejecting his blood and name. But through this woman, he would forge a counterbalance. A living weapon, molded in Shamrock’s humiliations and obsession, to someday display as proof that nothing—even his renegade son—escaped the Figarlands’ control.

He raised his glass and took a sip, as if to seal his silent verdict.

"So do it well, Shamrock," he concluded coldly. "Let her cry, let her resist, let her remember him still… It only makes her fall sweeter."

Garling, relentless, finished his meal without glancing at her. Only once his glass was empty did he speak, his voice slicing the silence like a blade:

"The slave. Take her."

Anissa lifted her head slightly, expecting the familiar word: “her room.” But Garling prolonged the tension, savoring the moment as Shamrock almost clutched his chair back, hanging on every syllable.

Then he released it, cold and final:

"To Shamrock’s room."

Anissa did not move. Her mind raced.

Shamrock rose slowly and approached her. The contrast was cruel: she still kneeling on the cold tile; he standing, panting, transfigured by a morbid excitement. His hand trembled as he extended it toward her.

"See?" he murmured with a feverish smile. "Even he knows you belong to me. Even he acknowledges it."

Garling, in the background, watched without emotion. He needed no further orders. Every humiliation, every word, every look was enough to stoke the flames of jealousy, desire, and dependence consuming Shamrock.

Anissa was escorted to Shamrock’s room.

Garling slowly set his glass on the table, his icy eyes fixed on his son.

"You’ve lost your temper," he said, low and cutting.

Shamrock, still panting with rage, met his gaze for a moment before looking away.

*"I just wanted to…" he began.

"Silence." The tone snapped like a whip. "Spitting on a slave? A vulgar gesture, unworthy of you."

Garling allowed a heavy silence, savoring the tension tightening his son’s throat.

"We are not beasts governed by hatred. We are Figarlands. Every humiliation, every word, every gesture must be a sharpened weapon, not the whim of a mad dog."

Shamrock clenched his fists, tensed, but dared not reply.

A cold smirk grazed the patriarch’s lips.

"Remember: if you want her to forget the Redhead, do not remind her of your weakness. If you soil her in rage, she will still think of him. But if you mark her with your control, then she will have no escape."

"You want her to belong to you?" he asked in an icy voice.

Shamrock nodded, short of breath.

Garling leaned forward slightly, his features chiseled in stone.

"Then listen carefully. It’s not enough to possess her. You must break her from within. That mangy dog must cease to exist in her heart. She must breathe only for you."

The silence lingered a second. Shamrock felt a brutal exhilaration rise in him. This was more than an order: it was a sacred mission, a consecration.

"Seduce her," Garling continued, each word punctuated like a decree. Make her love you, beg you, renounce even her past for you. If she cries for Shanks, if she still desires him, you have failed."

Chapter 14: Tje Fever of Desire

Shamrock’s room was anything but a cell. It was a jewel of opulence, vast and radiant, decorated with oriental rugs, crimson drapes, and carved gold. A grand bed, wider than a ship, dominated the center of the room, piled with silk cushions and embroidered sheets. Everything radiated wealth, but behind the sparkle of jewels and gilding, Anissa saw only a more refined kind of cage.

She moved forward slowly, her steps muffled by the thick carpet. Her heart raced—not just from fear, but from the lingering rage, the humiliation at the dining table. She could still feel the dry stickiness on her cheek, the mark of Shamrock’s affront.

Her fingers brushed over a crystal vase, an ivory sculpture, a velvet drape. Everything shouted the power of a noble lineage, yet it all felt empty. A sumptuous room, designed not for sleep, but for possession.

The door opened behind her. Shamrock entered.

He had changed his outfit: a black shirt embroidered with silver, open at the chest, his hair falling in disarray over his shoulders. Shamrock froze for a moment, his red eyes glowing with contained fire. His jaw tightened, then slowly, his cold smile returned, carved in stone.

He sat in a velvet armchair, legs crossed, a glass of wine in hand. When he spoke, his voice was no longer feverish but icy, as if all emotion had been smothered. Shamrock forced himself to breathe slowly. The fever of earlier still burned in his veins, but his father’s cold voice echoed in his memory. He had to remain master of himself. No anger, no crude gestures. Only control.

“Anissa,” he said calmly, his voice sharper than a polished blade. “You might think you’re still waiting for your Red… but you’re wrong.”

He fixed her with an intense gaze, his red eyes gleaming with a cold light.
“Whether he comes or not, whether he tries to take you back or not, you are here. And under this roof, you are nothing but a Figarland. You belong to me.”

His fingers clenched around the crystal of the glass with restrained force. Anissa saw him struggle to maintain his mask of calm, though he showed nothing.
“If this Red loved you so much… why were you alone, abandoned on an island?”

The silence was heavy.

Anissa felt her heart tighten. She recalled leaving Shanks’ ship, the pain of separation, the weight of the abortion. Yet she also knew that Shanks had promised to return. It wasn’t abandonment, but a pause dictated by his own choices.

Her lips parted, but no words came immediately. Shamrock held her gaze with that half-cold smile, waiting for doubt to make her falter.

Anissa lifted her head, her eyes shining with a firm light despite the pain.

“You’re wrong,” she said clearly. “Shanks didn’t abandon me. He left me on this island because I asked him to. It was… for personal reasons.”

She drew a steady breath, refusing to look away.
“He was supposed to return. In one month, he would have set foot on this island to take me back by his side.”

A heavy silence followed her words.

Shamrock studied her, first surprised by the precision of her response, then his lips curved into a cold smile.

“One month…” he repeated, savoring each syllable. “How touching, that loyalty. You waited for his return like a dutiful wife… and instead of him, it’s me who found you.”

He stepped forward, his footsteps soft against the thick carpet. His dark red eyes never left hers.

“And do you really think he would have kept his word?” he added, his voice low, almost caressing. “Pirates have other priorities before their women…”

He reached for her chin, not roughly, but enough to force her to look into his eyes.
“I would never have left you behind.”

Anissa felt the cold of his fingers against her skin. She knew he was lying—or at least trying to sway her from Shanks. Yet in his burning gaze, she also saw a disturbing truth: he wanted her, enough to defy even his father if necessary. Shamrock tightened his grip on her chin slightly, asserting authority without brutality. His lips stretched into a cold, venomous smile.

“Your Red has no morality, no honor, Anissa,” his voice dripped with icy contempt. “He shared you with his men like a cup of wine passed around the table. Is that a captain? At the Figarlands, we would never demean a woman like that. You were a toy to them…”

His words fell like blades, sharp and aristocratic, full of the disdain he had inherited from his father.

But Anissa did not flinch. She locked her eyes on his, her breath short but steady.

“You’re wrong, Shamrock,” she said, clear and unwavering. “Yes, I shared Shanks’ bed, and sometimes his men’s. But it was my choice. And I liked it. Because on his ship, I was not an object, but an equal.”

Shamrock’s smile faded, replaced by a shadow of surprise.

Anissa pressed on, the fire of her anger fueled by the dinner’s humiliation.

“You speak of values, but yours are nothing but contempt and arrogance. Shanks never spat on the weak. He respected his men, and he respected me.”

She broke free with a sharp movement, breaking the icy contact of his fingers.

“I do not spit on others either, Shamrock.” Her gaze burned, each word landing like a slap. “Unlike you.”

A spark of irony crossed his red eyes. He leaned slightly toward her, voice low and mocking.

“You have a short memory, Anissa.” A cold smile stretched across his lips. “The first time you saw me, in that forest… you spat in my face.”

Anissa stiffened. The image came back, brutal: her rage, her refusal to yield to this man who had found her like prey.

She lifted her chin, proud despite everything.

“Yes. And I do not regret it. It was not contempt, Shamrock.” Her voice burned with an indomitable flame. “It was defiance. The only weapon I had left.”

A heavy, oppressive silence stretched between them. Shamrock stared at her, his lips still curved in a cold smile, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed the obsessive flame he could not extinguish.

The silence weighed on them, heavy as a storm-laden sky. Shamrock stood frozen, his cold smile fixed. But his eyes betrayed the crack. This fragile-looking woman had just opposed him with a truth he could not break: her inner freedom, which no chain, no insult, no order could crush.

“Defiant, always…” he murmured, low, almost whispering. “That’s what drives me crazy about you.”

His fingers brushed her cheek for a moment, no longer icy but burning with barely contained tension. He seemed to be struggling with himself, torn between his father’s lesson—seduce without debasing—and the raw desire to claim her on the spot.

Anissa did not look away. Her breath quickened despite herself, but her chin stayed high.

“You will never get what you want, Shamrock. Not like this.”

A red flash crossed his pupils. He clenched his jaw, lips trembling with a bitter smile.

“Not like this?…” He repeated the words, savoring each syllable with restrained venom. “Then tell me, Anissa… how should I take you? Like your Red did? Shared with a second, a cabin boy, the whole crew?”

"Why not? You could share me with Sommers or even your father..."

Shamrock’s cold smile froze. His red eyes widened, flickering with raw disgust.

“…My father?” he whispered, as if the word burned in his throat.

Anissa held her gaze, her lips curling in a venomous smile.
“Yes. Since you say I was just a toy… why not share me with him too?”

The silence that fell in the room was so dense it seemed to crack. Shamrock took a step back, as if repelled by his own thoughts.

His face, usually so controlled, twisted in revulsion.
“Never say that again.” His voice was low, sharp, vibrating with restrained anger. “Never.”

He pressed a hand to his forehead, as if to wipe the image her words had planted in his mind. To him, the very idea of Anissa mixed with Garling was a corruption, a blasphemy.

The crystal of his glass cracked in his palm, red wine dripping through his fingers like an open wound. He barely noticed. His red eyes snapped back to her, blazing with rage and confusion.

“You think you’re provoking me, Anissa?” His voice rose, trembling with fever he no longer controlled. “What you say is… vile.”

He stepped forward, so close that she could feel his hot breath on her face. His hands trembled, caught between the desire to seize her and the fear of sullying himself further with the thought.

“You and him…” He clenched his teeth, words refusing to pass. “I will never allow that to exist. Never.”

The silence pressed down again, oppressive, after Anissa’s words. Shamrock, breath short, stared at her as if she had committed a sacrilege. His broken glass dripped wine onto the carpet, yet he seemed unaware.

Then he let out a sudden, cold, dry laugh, devoid of joy.
“I understand better now…” His voice dripped with cruel venom. “The rumors were true, after all. You, the Red’s woman… you were nothing more than a high-class prostitute, offered to whoever would reach out.”

He stepped closer, his red eyes flaming with restrained fury.
“How ironic. You boast of your freedom, your choices, but deep down… you were just a body to share.”

His words fell like blades, cold and venomous. Each syllable carried the aristocratic contempt he wielded like a weapon, turning his sentences into condemnations.

Anissa felt the blow, her heart aching painfully in her chest. But her eyes did not lower. She knew he was trying to crush her, to tear from her the pride that still defied him.

She inhaled deeply, throat tight, but held his gaze.
“If I was a prostitute, then I was a happy one. Because I chose who I wanted, and never… never did I have to endure a master.”

Shamrock’s face contorted with a mixture of rage and inner turmoil. He would have preferred to see her crumble, yet she remained standing, burning with defiance—and that burned him more than anything.

His bitter laugh faded, replaced by feverish silence. His red eyes, blazing, did not leave Anissa. She, upright and proud despite her cruel words, refused to yield. And that insolence, that refusal to submit, shattered everything he had tried to build: his mask of coldness, Garling’s teachings—all crumbled.

A hoarse breath escaped his lips. His shoulders tensed, his entire body vibrating with an uncontrollable tension.

“Enough…” he whispered, voice strangled.

He lunged at her with a sudden, forceful step, gripping her wrist firmly. His hold was iron, but no longer the calculated coldness of a noble: it was the fever of a man breaking.

“You think I’ll just stand here and listen to your venom?!” His voice trembled with both rage and desire. “My father wants me to be patient, to seduce you… But I can’t.”

He slammed her against the wall, his hot breath on her face. His red eyes blazed with uncontrollable intensity.

His fingers brushed her cheek and jaw, anchoring her, making sure she couldn’t escape.

“You obsessed me from the very first second. In that forest, with your defiant gaze… You lit this fire in me. So stop provoking me with that Red, or with my father, because I won’t bear it…”

He stopped, lips trembling a few centimeters from hers. It looked as if he would give in completely, kiss her, claim her—but he struggled, torn between desire and fear of crossing an irreparable line.

Anissa felt her heart race. For the first time, Shamrock was no longer just a cruel, cold prince, but a man trapped by his own contradictions.

Shamrock broke. His icy mask shattered, revealing the raw fever consuming him. His hand slid from Anissa’s cheek to her jaw, gripping firmly, forcing her to tilt her face toward him.

“You are mine…” he breathed hoarsely, before crashing his lips onto hers.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was conquest. He forced her lips apart, thrusting his tongue brutally into her throat, invading relentlessly. His grip on her jaw prevented escape, compelling her to welcome this intrusion.

Anissa stifled a gasp of surprise. She had never been kissed like this. Even Shanks, in his most passionate moments, had not been so violent, so devouring. It was as if Shamrock wanted to leave his mark inside her mouth, to impose his presence in every corner.

Fear tightened her chest. She wanted to push

herself away, but her hands trembled, uncertain. Amid the turmoil, another sensation rose, unexpected and confusing: she was enjoying it. Shamrock’s heavy tongue exploring her mouth, the sharp taste of wine mingling with his saliva, the way he claimed her so forcefully… it was wild, unsettling, yet intoxicating.

Shamrock moaned against her lips, as if finally tasting what he had desired for too long. The kiss became even more insistent, almost feral, each movement of his tongue asserting his domination.

Anissa, trapped in his embrace, felt her heart hammering in her chest. She feared him, feared his strength, feared his hold. Yet she could not deny the truth: a part of her was savoring this forbidden kiss, this violence that ignited her from within.

When Shamrock finally broke the contact, their lips hovered close, still damp with saliva. His red eyes blazed with feverish intensity.

“See, Anissa…” he murmured, voice trembling but victorious. “What Shanks never gave you… I impose upon you.”

He did not wait for her to recover her breath. His hand slid from her jaw to her throat, not to choke, but enough to remind her she could not escape. With his other arm, he circled her waist, lifting her slightly before pushing her back.

Anissa’s body hit the grand bed, sinking into the silk sheets. Cushions flew around her, scattered by the force of the motion.

Shamrock loomed over her, his red hair falling in disarray, eyes burning with uncontrollable fire. He pressed his lips to hers again, more ravenous than before, his tongue invading her mouth with a force that made her gasp.

Anissa struggled briefly, hands trying to push him away, but her wrists were quickly seized, pinned beneath his iron grip.

The taste of wine and his saliva filled her mouth, each movement of his tongue sending shivers of disgust and thrill through her. She was terrified—yes, terribly afraid—but a shadowed part of her shivered under this wild ardor.

Never before had Shanks—or any man—kissed her like this, as if her entire throat had to yield to Shamrock’s weighty, insistent claim. It was brutal, humiliating, yet intoxicating. She hated yielding, yet her body responded despite herself.

When he finally broke the kiss to catch his breath, their foreheads met, lips still damp. His voice trembled, vibrating with victorious fever:

“Look at you, Anissa… Already trembling under me. My brother never knew how to kiss you like this, did he? He let you play the equal… but I will show you what it means to be possessed.”

His hands left her wrists, only to trail along her arms, then down to her hips. His fingers dug into her flesh through the fabric, as if to ensure she already belonged to him.

The bed creaked under their weight, the air thick with fever and the scent of wine. Shamrock leaned forward again, ready to resume his assault, to go even further…

Yet, as the fever of their kiss reached its peak, something within him reasserted itself: his father’s cold voice, the discipline he had to maintain… and the awareness that some lines could not be crossed so quickly.

He abruptly broke the contact, pulling his lips away with restrained violence. His red eyes still burned with nearly unbearable intensity. He drew a deep breath, fighting to regain control of his body and mind.

“…You stay here tonight,” he murmured at first, then his voice grew firmer, colder. “No… go back to your room. Now.”

Anissa looked at him, breathless, heart hammering. Her fingers still trembled, her body still tingling from the fierce kiss. But she said nothing. She knew he was serious.

Slowly, she rose, legs still unsteady, and stepped back toward the door. Shamrock watched her, red eyes still blazing, breath heavy, but control restored in his posture and expression.

“And think about what I’ve shown you tonight,” he added, his voice low, a burning warning. “You have no idea what it means… to be mine.”

Anissa quietly closed the door behind her, heart racing, aware that the night had forever changed their relationship. In the silence of her room, she felt her body still shiver, conscious that she had crossed a threshold from which she could never return.

Chapter 15: Unbroken

Anissa walked slowly down the corridor, escorted by a silent slave who kept his eyes lowered with every step. Her legs still trembled. She held her head high, as if to hide her weakness, but each step reminded her of the brutality of the night.

When she reached her room, she collapsed onto the bed. The cold silk slid against her burning skin. She closed her eyes, trying to banish the images… but they returned with cruel clarity: Shamrock’s grip, his ragged breathing, and above all, the moment his lips had crushed hers.

A shiver ran through her. She bit her lip, furious at herself.
"Why… why do I still feel this?" she thought, ashamed.

She pulled the sheets around her, as if to shield herself. But her stomach tightened, her breath quickened. She hated herself for feeling this arousal despite the pain. Shamrock’s magnetism had crossed a line… and she realized she could no longer drive him from her mind.

The night was long, punctuated by sweaty dreams and sudden awakenings.

 

---

In the morning, the door opened again. The same slave entered, silent. He bowed slightly and, with a sharp gesture, signaled her to follow.

Anissa understood immediately. Her heart raced.
— “Shamrock…” she whispered.

She rose, smoothed her dress in a mechanical gesture, then followed the servant through the silent halls of Mariejois. Each step echoed like a tolling bell.

In front of Shamrock’s door, the slave stepped aside. Anissa took a deep breath, then entered.

The door closed behind her with a heavy whisper. Shamrock’s room was bathed in pale light, the curtains half-open, letting in the morning sun. The air was thick with perfume and dried wine.

Shamrock sat at a mahogany dressing table, his tall silhouette reflected in the mirror. His thick, long red hair fell in messy strands over his shoulders. When he saw Anissa in the mirror, a near-tranquil smile spread across his lips.
— “Ah… there you are.”

He didn’t turn his head, but lazily gestured toward the brush on the table.
— “Today, you’ll be taking care of me. Start by brushing my hair.”

Anissa froze for a moment, stunned.
— “…Your hair?” she repeated hesitantly.

A cold glint passed through his red eyes.
— “Yes. My hair.”

He leaned back slightly, hand resting on the arm of the chair.
— “Consider it an honor. Few people have this privilege.”

A surge of anger boiled in Anissa’s chest. This wasn’t a request—it was a disguised order. Subtle humiliation, meant to tame her gradually.

Reluctantly, she approached, her trembling fingers brushing the ivory-handled brush. The handle was cold, carefully carved. She positioned herself behind him, throat tight.

His red eyes still fixed on her in the mirror.
— “Gently,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t like pulling.”

Anissa began to brush. Each stroke slid thick strands through her fingers. The texture of his heavy, silky hair made her nauseous, as well as imparting a strange sense of forced intimacy.

The silence thickened in the room. The only sound was the bristles gliding through the hair. Shamrock closed his eyes briefly, as if the simple act brought him satisfaction.
— “There… see how easy that is? You learn quickly.”

Anissa clenched her teeth but said nothing. In her mind, one thought hammered insistently: He wants me to get used to serving him. He wants to tame me through these gestures.

Shamrock opened his eyes slightly and met hers in the mirror.
— “You have a gentle hand. Almost seems like you’re enjoying it.”

Anissa stiffened but continued. She knew that the slightest refusal could reignite his anger from the night before.

She passed the brush through Shamrock’s fiery hair. The strands slid through her fingers with an almost unreal smoothness, disciplined, shiny, knot-free. The subtle scent of musk and spiced wine lingered around him, making her tremble despite herself.

— “See?” Shamrock murmured, his gaze fixed on the mirror. “Well-kept hair. Strong. Clean.”

An ironic smile stretched across his lips.
— “Not like that filthy pirate… my brother.”

He turned his head slightly, his red eyes gleaming with cruelty.
— “Tell me, how can you bear to lie with a man who reeks of salt and sweat, whose hair is greasy and tangled?”

Anissa’s heart clenched. He was right. She had noticed long before that night: Shamrock always smelled of wine and cologne. Shanks, on the other hand, often returned sweaty, smelling of tobacco and rum. His hair was neglected, rarely washed. The comparison was cruel, merciless.

But her lips tightened. She refused to yield.
— “Shanks is a hundred times better than you, Shamrock,” she spat, her voice trembling.

Shamrock stared at her, first surprised, then a cold glint crossed his gaze.
— “Really?” he murmured.

Anissa, trembling but firm, yanked sharply on the brush, pulling a handful of red strands. Shamrock winced, his face twisted in pain.
— “Never compare him to you!” she yelled.

The silence fell again, heavy, suffocating.

Shamrock sprang to his feet, his imposing silhouette looming. He seized her wrist with an iron grip. His hot breath brushed her face as he growled through clenched teeth:
— “Insolent…”

A sharp crack echoed through the room. Pain shot through Anissa, making her scream, her legs giving way. The ivory brush tumbled to the floor with a dull thud.

Shamrock released her broken arm as if the touch had burned him. His eyes blazed with rage, but beneath, a turmoil flickered.

Collapsed against the bed, Anissa wept from pain, her breath shattered. Yet she lifted her head, her tear-streaked face whispering in a raw voice:
— “You can break me as much as you want… I will never betray him.”

Shamrock froze. His fist trembled. Behind his anger, something deeper cracked: a mix of envy, jealousy, and desire he could no longer control.

Anissa gasped, tears blurring her vision, her wrist hanging painfully against her chest. Shamrock towered over her, his shadow cast by the pale morning light engulfing her curled body.

He stared at her, his red eyes burning with a strange glow, a mixture of rage and unhealthy curiosity. His voice dropped, low and icy:
— “Tell me, Anissa…” He tilted his head, red strands falling over his face. “When you let him touch you… are you pretending?”

She clenched her teeth, breath short.
— “Do you close your eyes and force yourself to bear his smell of rum and sweat?” he continued, relentless. “Do you pretend to enjoy his caresses, even though you hate them?”

He crouched before her, face just inches from hers. His woody, sweet scent enveloped her, twisting her heart with a turmoil she refused to admit.
— “You’ve tasted my lips, my hands. You know very well that I’m better than him.”

Anissa felt her stomach twist. Yes, Shamrock was right in some ways. Shanks had never possessed the cleanliness, elegance, or even the refinement his brother exuded naturally. But her heart refused to yield to this cruelty.

She lifted her head despite the pain, eyes swimming with tears, and spat in a trembling voice:
— “You will never understand… Love isn’t about smell, or hair, or perfume.”

Her lips curled into a bitter smile.
— “He… at least… truly loves me. Not like you.”

Anissa, face ruined by tears, lifted her clear eyes to him. Her broken wrist sent waves of pain through her, but her voice rang with unexpected strength:
— “You will never touch me, Shamrock. Never.”

He froze.

She inhaled, throat tight, and spat with disdain:
— “I’d rather be a slave to any other Celestial Dragon… than yours.”

Silence fell over the room. Shamrock stood motionless, red eyes wide, chest rising in ragged gasps. Then his face slowly contorted with anger.
— “…Repeat that,” he growled, voice broken with rage.

Anissa held his gaze, despite the fear tearing at her insides.
— “You heard me.”

A guttural growl rose from Shamrock’s throat. His fist clenched so hard his knuckles whitened. His steps thundered across the room, heavy, threatening. Every fiber of his being called to crush her, to silence her.

But at the last moment, he stopped. His ragged breath filled the room. He fixed his gaze on Anissa, glowing with contained fury.
— “If you stay here… I’ll kill you,” he murmured, almost to himself.

With a brutal motion, he grabbed the silver bell on the dressing table and rang it sharply. The door opened almost immediately, revealing a young, frightened slave.

Shamrock did not take his eyes off Anissa.
— “Take her back to her room,” he ordered, his voice icy. “And don’t let her leave without my command.”

The slave hurried forward, taking Anissa by her uninjured arm. She, still trembling, held Shamrock’s gaze one last time.

He remained frozen, standing in the center of the room, fists clenched, unable to move. His eyes blazed with suppressed rage, but behind it, a pain he refused to admit showed in his features.

The door closed, leaving Shamrock alone in the silent room, the scent of his own anger saturating the air.

Chapter 16: Marked by the Figarland

The days passed in heavy silence, broken only by the soft footsteps of her two young servants.

There was the little girl, fragile, barely ten years old, with wary eyes that would eventually smile shyly whenever Anissa spoke to her gently. She had no name—at least, none she dared to speak—but Anissa decided to call her Lumi.

And there was the boy, in his twenties, tall, but marked by scars on his arms and back. His voice was rare, almost broken, but his gaze carried a painful maturity. He introduced himself simply as Kael.

At first, they lowered their heads whenever Anissa looked at them. But little by little, she managed to break down that wall. She shared small pieces of her past with them—memories from Shanks’ ship, tales of the sea, storms, and laughter around the fire.

Sometimes, she would catch the little girl listening with wide eyes, spellbound. Even Kael, behind his silence, seemed to relax, nodding as if he wanted to memorize these glimpses of another world.

These moments became her only refuges.

 

---

A few days later, a doctor entered her room. Under Kael’s impassive gaze, he examined her bruised wrist, bandaged it carefully, and prescribed enforced rest. Anissa understood immediately that it was Shamrock’s order: even in his absence, he was watching over her… in his own way.

Then he disappeared. An entire week passed without seeing him, as he was away on a mission. Anissa breathed a little more freely, but each night she dreaded his return.

The days without Shamrock rolled by like slow waves. For the first time since arriving in Mariejois, Anissa could breathe. The suffocating presence of Shanks’ brother had dissipated.

At night, however, the silence offered no comfort. It reminded her too much of Shanks’ absence. His salty scent, his hearty laugh, his strong arms when she fell asleep against him. She closed her eyes, imagining the waves, drunken pirate songs, and the freedom of the wind on deck.

Shanks… you must have noticed my absence. You know I would never disappear without reason. You’ll come. You’ll find me. I can’t hold on much longer.

She repeated this prayer like a mantra. She had to be brave. She had to endure a little longer.

With Lumi and Kael, she tried to smile. She told tales of the sea, epic battles, and wondrous islands. Lumi laughed freely, forgetting for a moment that she had been born a slave. Kael, quieter, simply listened, his eyes brightening with a newfound light.

On the seventh day, Shamrock returned.

His steps echoed through the corridors, heavy, inevitable.

But before reaching Anissa, he climbed the stairs to his father’s office.

Saint Figarland Garling, a rigid figure, awaited him behind a wide ebony desk. His white hair fell over his shoulders, his beard meticulously trimmed. His cold eyes lifted to his son.

— “So, Shamrock. Your reports?”

The young man bowed slightly.
— “Military affairs are proceeding as planned. But I’m not here for that.”

Garling raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
— “I’m listening.”

— “I’m going to brand her with the Figarland seal. She will bear our name on her skin until her death.”

A heavy silence filled the office. Then a slow smirk spread across Garling’s wrinkled face, his eyes shining with cruel delight.

— “Interesting… But tell me, do you remember what I asked of you when this woman arrived?”

Shamrock lowered his gaze slightly.
— “You ordered me to seduce her. To win her over to me.”

Garling nodded, amused by the confession.
— “Exactly. Because if she had offered herself willingly, there would have been no struggle, no conflict. Shanks would have understood that she was no longer his… and we would have avoided an unnecessary war.”

He paced slowly around the desk, hands clasped behind his back. His voice turned icy.
— “For now, you have failed. Instead of seducing her, you broke her wrist; she despises you.”

Shamrock clenched his fists, his red eyes glowing with restrained rage.
— “Then I will find another way. If she refuses my love, she will bear my mark. Whether she wants it or not, she will belong to me. And Shanks will know he never possessed anything.”

Garling stopped before him. His predatory smile revealed his teeth.
— “Now that pleases me even more. To reduce Shanks’ woman to Figarland property… What exquisite irony. What he believed to be his treasure will become our slave. And he, powerless, will have only his eyes to weep.”

He placed a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder.
— “Do it, Shamrock. Make her scream. And when your brother comes, let him see that his love was nothing but an illusion… forever marked with our seal.”

Shamrock bowed his head, jaw tight.
— “Yes, Father.”

But in his heart, behind the hatred and thirst for revenge, burned an even more dangerous turmoil: that unbearable desire for Anissa, that compulsive need to possess her entirely, both out of possessiveness and hatred.

The door swung open abruptly.

Anissa, sitting with Lumi and Kael, froze. Shamrock’s silhouette filled the doorway. His red eyes glimmered with dark intent, and behind him, two guards carried a brazier radiating suffocating heat.

Anissa’s heart tightened.
— “No…” she whispered, instinctively recoiling.

Shamrock entered slowly, his steps echoing like a sentence.
— “Tonight, you will finally become what you were meant to be from the moment you arrived here.”

The guards set the brazier down. The red-hot iron gleamed inside, like a cursed star. The air vibrated with heat, the metallic scent of fire filling the room.

Lumi screamed and tried to hide behind Anissa. Kael stepped forward, but a guard shoved him roughly to the floor.

Anissa, breathless, stared at Shamrock.
— “What do you want to do?!” she shouted.

He approached, face impassive, but his voice trembled with a strange fever.
— “You refuse to cooperate. You refuse my caresses. Then only one truth remains: you belong to me.”

She shook her head, trembling.
— “I will never belong to you!”

Shamrock clenched his jaw. He made a sharp gesture. The guards seized her brutally, pinning her despite her cries. Her arms were held, back exposed. She struggled like a trapped animal, eyes full of tears.
— “Let me go! SHANKS!” she screamed in desperate plea.

The iron came out of the brazier. The air whistled sharply. Anissa saw it approach in a red reflection, and panic exploded in her chest.
— “No! No, please—”

The iron fell onto her skin.

A horrific scream tore through the room, echoing off the marble walls. The stench of burnt flesh filled the air. Lumi collapsed in sobs, covering her ears. Kael knelt, closing his eyes, fists clenched, powerless to act.

Anissa arched her back, still screaming, her fingers clawing the floor until they bled. Her tears mingled with sweat, her body trembling in convulsions.

Shamrock, the iron still in hand, examined the smoking mark on her back: the Figarland symbol, engraved forever. His face remained impassive, but his eyes flickered with a troubled glint.

He dropped the iron with a dull thud. His hands clenched white, as if restraining himself from touching her.

For a moment, he looked away, struck by his own cruelty. But he regained control immediately.
— “There. Now, no one will ever sell you. No one will ever take you. You are mine, Anissa.”

He signaled to the guards.
— “Tend to her. And let her remember every day who owns her.”

Then he turned on his heel, disappearing into the corridor, leaving behind pain, smoke, and shattered silence.

Shamrock paused in the hallway, looking back at the door. Inside his chest, a strange warmth stirred, different from the anger or obsession he had felt for her for weeks.

She is mine. She belongs to me. No one can take her now.

For the first time, his possessiveness, his thirst for control, transformed into a raw, relentless satisfaction. He wanted her completely, and this symbol on her skin, the Figarland seal, was proof that he had finally claimed her: her body, her fear, her mind. Everything now belonged to him.

He exhaled slowly, satisfied, almost triumphant, before disappearing into the silent halls, certain that nothing and no one could prevent him from possessing what he had decided to take.

 

---

Inside the room, the oppressive silence lingered. The smell of burnt flesh hung in the air.

Anissa lay on the floor, her back branded, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her body trembled, battered, and each breath reminded her painfully of what had just happened.

She wept for a long time, releasing all the fear, pain, and humiliation. Her heart felt empty, destroyed. She had thought she could endure, hope for a respite… but this burning symbol was now etched into her flesh and mind.

It’s over… she thought, voice broken by sobs. I have nothing left. No freedom. No hope.

Lumi sobbed against her, while Kael remained silent, fist clenched against the floor, powerless. The room was filled with cries, pain, and the smell of burning—a memory Anissa would carry forever, far beyond a mere mark on her skin.

The corridor leading to Garling’s office was silent, broken only by the sound of Shamrock’s boots on marble. Each step rang like a drum announcing his victory.

He entered the room, back straight, chest puffed with raw satisfaction. Garling, seated behind his massive desk, barely lifted his eyes from his parchments.

— “Well?” he asked, cold but curious.

Shamrock inclined his head slightly.
— “The brand has been successfully made, Father.”

Garling let out a small smile, amused at first, then cruel.
— “Good. And where did you place it?”

Shamrock crossed his arms, eyes shining with cold pride.
— “On her back, just between the shoulder blades. Highly visible, but not exposed to strangers’ eyes.”

Garling nodded, satisfied, but his fingers tapped impatiently on the desk.
— “And the size?”

Shamrock looked down at his hands for a moment, mentally measuring the burn he had inflicted.
— “Large enough to be immediately recognized as a Figarland symbol. Impossible to confuse with anything else.”

A silence fell. Then Garling leaned slightly forward, eyes piercing.
— “Perfect. This mark is not just a warning to her… it is humiliation for your brother. Every time he sees it, he will know that everything he thought he possessed can become our property.”

Shamrock felt a shiver of satisfaction run down his back. He straightened, glowing with a mix of pride and obsession:
— “Yes, Father. Now she is mine… entirely.”

Garling sank into his chair, a predatory smile on his lips.
— “Excellent. You have honored your name. Continue on this path, Shamrock. Turn this possession into proof of your power.”

The young man nodded, already filled with visions of control and domination. But deep down, behind his possessive satisfaction, one thought persisted: Anissa was now etched into his skin and mind… and he would never let her go.

Chapter 17: Desire and Domination

The footsteps echoed down the corridor, heavy and steady.
Kael supported Anissa, who moved with difficulty, still weakened by fever and pain. Behind them, two guards quickened their pace, their halberds clanging against the floor with metallic sounds. Lumi had tried to follow, but she was shoved back with a sharp gesture.

Anissa’s heart pounded so hard she feared it might be heard. She knew where they were taking her. To him. To the man whose shadow loomed over even Shamrock himself: Garling Figarland.

The large carved door opened with a solemn creak.
Saint Garling Figarland stood there behind his massive desk, draped in a black cloak embroidered with gold. His steel-gray eyes slowly lifted to her, examining every fragile step she took.

— “Approach.”

His voice cut through the air like a blade.
Anissa obeyed, leaning on Kael, but the guards immediately stepped aside, forcing her to walk alone. She stumbled, catching herself just in time, the pain in her back tearing through her with every movement.

Garling watched her for a long moment before turning slightly toward Shamrock, who stood a few paces away, motionless.

— “You don’t know how to handle her, Shamrock.” His icy voice resonated in the room. “You break her like a wild animal, you snap her wrist…” His gaze returned to Anissa, piercing and contemptuous. “But tell me… did you even have time to take her to your bed? Did you gave her pleasure?”

A frozen silence fell.
Anissa’s face went still, her cheeks burning with unbearable shame. Her lips trembled, but no words dared to escape. She wished she could vanish.

Shamrock remained upright, but his red eyes darkened with restrained fury. Finally, he answered, his voice cold:
— “Not yet.”

Garling let out a brief, harsh laugh that echoed like a slap.
— “Pathetic.” His eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. “What are you waiting for? For me to do it instead?”

Anissa felt her heart stop. Her breath caught in her throat.
Shamrock tensed, barely turning his gaze, his fists clenching until his knuckles whitened. But he said nothing. He could say nothing.

Satisfied with his silence, Garling slowly straightened and snapped his fingers.
— “Undress.”

Anissa’s eyes shot up, incredulous.
— “W-what?”

— “Undress completely. I want to see the mark.”

Her legs threatened to give way. Shame and fear mixed in her veins like burning poison.
Shamrock, behind her, made an almost imperceptible step forward, as if to intervene. But his gaze met his father’s, cold and unyielding. He stopped, resuming his marble mask of composure.

Garling repeated, his voice sharp:
— “Naked. Now.”

The room felt heavy with silence. The guards had lowered their eyes, but Anissa knew they were listening, eager. She felt Garling’s weighty gaze on her… and, worse, Shamrock’s, a mixture of jealousy and restrained rage.

Trembling, tears at the edges of her eyes, she slowly reached for her clothing.
Barely had she begun pulling at her dress when a deep voice rose behind her.

— “It’s not necessary.”
Shamrock, his red eyes fixed on his father, spoke in a firm yet controlled tone. “Her back will suffice. You will see the mark.”

Tense silence filled the room.
Garling slowly turned to him, his steely gaze cutting through the air like a blade.

— “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

The retort landed sharply, snuffing out any hope of resistance. Shamrock clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms, but he dared say no more.

— “Continue,” Garling ordered Anissa.

Tears blurred her vision. She removed her dress with ragged breaths until the fabric slid down over her bruised skin. The cold of the room struck her immediately. She froze, vulnerable, arms crossed over her chest.

Garling rose slowly from his chair. His shoes echoed on the marble as he approached. His imposing shadow fell over her.
His eyes first rested on the mark, still red and swollen in the middle of her back. A satisfied smile brushed his lips.

— “Hm. Clean work. Wide. Unmistakable.”

Then his gaze drifted downward. Lingering.
Without warning, he reached out and grabbed one of her breasts, heavily, as one would gauge merchandise at a market.

Anissa froze, breathless. A shiver of disgust and fear ran through her, colder even than the burn on her back. Her heart raced. In the brutal touch of his hand, she sensed something more disturbing than Garling’s usual cruelty.

Desire.

His gaze, usually cold and unwavering, had taken on a dark gleam. He pressed a little more, as if weighing her, then slowly released.

Anissa turned her face away, ashamed and furious, but trapped. Her hands trembled.

She felt it. Yes… she felt the shift. Behind the patriarch’s ruthless authority, behind his cruel words, there was now this silent hunger.

Garling Figarland desired her.

Shamrock, behind them, had seen everything. His cold mask barely concealed the brutal jealousy that ignited his blood. But he remained silent, eyes fixed on his father’s gesture, each second a torment.

Garling didn’t take his eyes off her. He stepped back to better admire her, then slowly circled her, his boots clattering on the marble.

— “Good hips…” he said calmly, almost clinically, letting his hand brush the curve of her waist. “Wide enough to bear children.”

Anissa stifled a sob, curling in on herself, arms pressed tighter against her chest. Each word rang like an insult, a verdict etched into her flesh.

Garling continued his methodical circling, like a lion stalking a trapped prey. His gaze devoured her from head to toe, sometimes cold, sometimes tinged with a dark glimmer.

Strange… he thought silently. I hadn’t planned on this. She was just a tool, a piece on the chessboard… And yet…
A predatory smile stretched his lips.
There is a certain pleasure in humiliating my own son before her. Reminding Shamrock that, despite his predator airs, he is just a puppy under my boot.

He paused briefly, facing her, and placed his cold, heavy hand on her bare shoulder. The contrast between his firm grip and Anissa’s trembling flesh made her shiver.

Then he looked up at Shamrock, still frozen in his icy silence.
— “Look at her closely, my son.” His voice had hardened. “You are not the master here. I am.”

Anissa felt her stomach twist. Shame, fear, and anger intermingled in her wounded body. She sensed, in every movement of Garling, calculated cruelty, a desire to break both her soul and Shamrock’s.

Shamrock remained motionless, features fixed in impenetrable cold. But behind his red eyes burned a storm. Every gesture, every word from his father was a dagger to his pride.

Garling continued circling her, savoring every shiver he drew out. Then he stopped abruptly, fixing his icy gaze on hers.

— “Tell me, woman.” His voice dropped, heavy, a veiled threat. “Do you… like Shamrock?”

Time seemed to stop.
Anissa’s heart constricted painfully. She immediately understood the trap. If she dared say “no,” if she rejected his son in front of him, Garling would not hesitate to take her for himself, to defile her in front of Shamrock just to prove his dominance.

A cold shiver ran down her spine. I cannot say no. Not to him…

So, despite the shame strangling her, despite the burn of the mark on her back, she forced her lips to murmur:
— “… Yes. I like Shamrock.”

Silence crashed in the room.

Shamrock, surprised, raised his eyes to her. A flash of astonishment crossed his cold mask, before vanishing. He said nothing. But his heart beat faster.

Garling, meanwhile, smiled cruelly.
— “Good.” He said it in a drawn-out voice.
Anissa, short of breath, felt as though she had sold a piece of her soul. Her own voice echoed in her head, every word a blade she had plunged herself.

Shanks… forgive me…

Garling let silence linger for a moment, watching Anissa tremble under his gaze.
He gave a thin, calculating smile.

Not yet… forcing it now would be too easy. Too vulgar. He thought. I prefer to see how far she will go, and how far Shamrock will dare sink. A game of seduction… that will be far more amusing. And far crueler.

He made a sharp hand gesture.
— “That’s enough for today. Take her back.”

The guards straightened, and the massive door opened with a marble sigh.

Lumi, waiting in the corridor, ran immediately. Her small arms wrapped around Anissa’s waist as if to protect her. The girl looked up at her with silent tenderness, then, determined, gently took her hand to guide her.
— “Come… I’ll take you back…” she murmured, her voice trembling but brave.

Anissa’s heart tightened. She returned the weak squeeze, a pained smile on her lips. Lumi was all that remained of innocence in this world of iron and chains.

But before they could cross the threshold, a sharp sound echoed.

— “Tss.”

Shamrock’s foot struck the little slave girl harshly. Lumi was thrown to the ground, her cry of terror breaking the air. Her small form remained curled up, shaking with sobs.

Anissa froze, horrified.
— “LUMI!”

But already, Shamrock’s grip clamped down on her arm. His closed face betrayed none of the storm raging in his red eyes. He yanked her away from the girl without care.

— “She comes with me.” He said in a cold voice.

He asked no permission, neither from Garling nor the guards. His brutal strength made Anissa stagger, forced to follow despite the searing pain in her marked back.

Garling, remaining behind, allowed himself a satisfied smirk. Hands clasped before him, he watched the scene like a director observing his play unfold perfectly.

Yes… that’s how it is. Jealousy, rage, shame. All of this binds them further. Let him take her to his quarters. Let him possess her, or hesitate. Either way, I win.

The door closed behind them with a dull thud, leaving Lumi on the ground, sobbing and powerless.

Shamrock, still holding Anissa by the arm, dragged her furiously through the corridors, his silence more threatening than any scream.

When the door shut, Garling remained alone in his office. Silence filled the vast room, broken only by the crackling of flames in the hearth.

He sat again in his chair, elbows on the armrests, fingers interlaced before his face. His usually cold eyes remained fixed on the void with a troubled gleam.

She has something… he thought. A strength of character that resists even pain, a beauty untouched by the mark, and that look… that look which begs and defies at once.

A slow, almost predatory smile formed on his lips.
I hadn’t planned to desire her. I only intended to use her against Shanks and push Shamrock to assert himself… But no. She deserves more than a role as a toy. She will be mine. Officially.

He straightened, already thinking of the implications.
A Figarland must have a wife worthy of his rank. A spouse. And what could be more humiliating for Shanks than to see his become mine?

His eyes gleamed with cold calculation.
Yes. She will be my wife. Whether she wants it or not.

Garling let out a soft, low laugh, contained, echoing through his office like the sound of a fate already sealed.