Devereux Ryde was a pirate. Well, at least he used to be, ten days prior to prison. Almost an entire week—sadly he only reached 6 days and 19 hours before being kicked off. So, yeah, he'd been in prison for longer than he'd been a pirate, which was an accomplishment in and of itself.
And, he didn't hate it. Sure, it meant being locked in a cell, sharing a mattress thinner with paper with two other people, but he had more food than he'd had in years. Or, well, when he was a pirate, he had more food, but before that, he hadn't eaten properly in years, and the slightly moldy slices of bread and left-over meat and potatoes from St Adalia tasted like...
Heaven. Just heaven. He couldn't describe it any other way.
While his cellmates took their time praying under the tiny, barred window, Devereux threw himself over the food and devoured it in seconds. Taste and texture hadn't meant anything to him in years. Those 6 days and 19 hours of proper food and nutrition had been nice, but they didn't undo the not knowing when your next meal is going to be mindset that Devereux adopted after years serving for pirates, cleaning decks and cooking food and fixing their liquor cabinets.
Okay, pretending to clean decks.
And maybe he had a sip of liquor every once in a while.
And maybe he'd gotten fired after drinking several bottles more than once.
But a hungry man is a desperate man, and those people should've known better than to starve their cabin boy.
And Devereux should've known that pirates don't take lightly to people stealing from them.
And it would've been a good lesson to learn before he got several bounties on his head.
Even better lesson after he started to get those bounties and still kept making the same mistakes over and over again.
Still, he was clearly alive, and yes, he sat in a cell and waited for someone to take him to court and give him a death sentence. But as a professional of fucking up, Devereux knew that fucking up a second time usually cancelled out the first fuck-up and got him out of trouble. How? He had no idea, only several examples of that logic working.
"Heard the Crown Prince is back," one of the cellmates said.
He was a tall and big man, all muscles, tattoos, a bald head and a scruffy beard. The woman looked about half his age—so probably around Devereux's age—but almost more threatening. Her dark auburn hair laid braided over her shoulders, her copper eyes bore into Devereux's blue. Out at sea, he'd pass plenty of women with more strength than himself. Not a big accomplishment, considering Devereux had been malnourished for years and could probably stab someone with his bony elbow. It sure as hell was threatening, though.
Once they'd been staring at him for a moment, Devereux realised the man had been talking to him. "Good for you? What do you want me to say?"
The woman tilted her head, studying Devereux like he was art at a museum. "You clearly haven't been to a Montauresian prison before."
"Apparently, I'm a lot better in the crucial aspects of not getting caught." Lie. In reality, Devereux was a professional at getting caught, just not in Montauris, which depended mostly on the fact that he'd never been there before.
"Getting cocky, are we?" The woman shot a smirk back to the man, who imitated it.
"You know what happens to inmates when the prince gets back?" the man said.
Devereux shook his head. "And frankly, I don't care, because I'm sure it will be a lot nicer than being stuck here with you two."
More often than not, he regretted the words that left his mouth. With him sitting on the floor, and that big, strong man taking a step closer, he almost gulped.
