Page 50 of The Last Lost Girl

I nod. He’s right.

He leans a shoulder against the building bracing my back and stares. “I didn’t take you there to rob you of your appetite, but to give you one. I want you to know what he does when he gets angry so you will know how important it is that we find Belle and get her the hell off that island.”

“Consider me properly motivated, Captain.”

He gives me a roguish smile, his pearly teeth gleaming in the silvery blue moon and starlight. His dark brow rises as he leans in closer. “Now that that’s settled, Ava, I can take you to a quiet, modest restaurant where you’ll enjoy the food enough, but won’t recall or wish for it again beyond today. Or… I can take you to The Ropes.”

“Is The Ropes a restaurant? It seems like there’s more to it than that, by the way you and your men keep talking about it.”

He shrugs one shoulder and offers a smirk. “It’s a unique dining experience. I’m not sure I can describe it properly. But if you’d prefer modest, I can easily oblige.”

He’s infuriating. Taunting me as he dares me to take his bait. I get the distinct impression that he believes I’ll balk and choose the safe, boring option.

I also think he hopes I’ll choose The Ropes – and whatever delights it offers beyond a filling dinner.

Taking the opportunity to get under his skin again, I flash a bright smile.

“I’d like for you to take me to Paris,” I say, wielding his friend’s name instead of the establishment’s, just so I can watch his pretty lips thin in irritation. I nearly cackle when they flatten and blanch, when the corner twitches in annoyance. But Hook doesn’t deny me.

Hook’s throat works as he gulps the rest of his coconut water, the delicious scent wafting toward me on the salty sea breeze. He returns our cups to their owner and pops out of the building with a smile fixed on his face again, sweeping his arm toward the broadest bridge I’ve seen in this town.

“Right this way.”

When Paris mentioned The Ropes and Hook and Smee reacted the way they did, I assumed it was a dive bar or some kind of nightclub or fight club, named for the sailors who dock here when they aren’t on the Never Sea. I imagined beer-soaked tables, card games, bloodied lips, swollen eyes, and busted knuckles.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

In hindsight, I should have considered how Paris’s flirtatious demeanor factored in, the glint in his eyes when he invited me here, and the captain’s teasing double entendres.

Because when Hook holds the door open for me and I step inside, I am not prepared for what I see. My lips fall open as my eyes adjust to the warm, dim lights and the people gathered around tables, feasting on delicious food and one another.

The scene is incredibly intimate. Decadent spreads of fruit and bread taken by teeth from outstretched fingers. There is more than one couple locked in a passionate kiss, lost to desire and unaware of anything but the feel of their partner.

Everyone is fully clothed. No one writhes against anyone else. This place is built upon the thrill of what comes after the meal. And there is rope… as the name suggests.

At least one of each pair or group is bound. Wrists before them, arms tied at their backs, or at the elbows with their proud chests pushed far forward.

“How does that quiet, modest restaurant sound right about now, Precious?” Hook laughs.

It sounds like Hook expects me to leave.

The pirate leans in close and nods into a corner of the room. “Paris is there, waiting to see whether you’ll stay or run. Or maybe he’s wondering if you’ll join him and his friend.”

The Frenchman tips his chin. He doesn’t look surprised that I walked through the door, though. Intrigued, perhaps. But not surprised.

A woman rushes over to meet us, absently holding a length of thin rope. Her gaze lands on Hook. At the sight of him, she freezes and a deep blush reddens her cheeks.

“Captain, I didn’t see you there,” she says, flustered. “I apologize for making you wait. I can see you to a table if you’re ready.”

I worry she’ll swoon and concuss herself in the fall.

Hook smiles at her. A genuine, beautiful smile. If he doesn’t dim it, I might end up in a heap on the floor with her.

The two of us are like wax tapers, melting to his flame.

“We just walked in,” he assuages. He takes a couple of steps toward the door. “Our plans for tonight have changed, though, I’m afraid,” he says, pressing against the wood until a seam of moonlight spills onto the floor.

She looks positively crestfallen.

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