Chapter 51

Stopped from carrying the person over his shoulder or under his arm by Bakir, Caesar frowned as he picked Miguel up bridal-style from the bed. The first thing he said was, “…He really does smell like he’s about to go bad.”

Rick: “Tsk tsk, scumbag.”

Bakir: “Tsk tsk, beast.”

Without even bothering to glance at these two pieces of trash, the captain casually grabbed a bedsheet to wrap around the person in his arms and swaggered out like a crab.

He rudely kicked the medical room door shut with his foot. Along the way to the captain’s cabin, the well-trained crew members had already thoughtfully covered the deck with tarps. Only the rain pouring in from the sides of the ship hinted that the heavens must have flipped over a basin of water, drenching the world in a downpour.

Caesar turned sideways, his tall frame shielding them from the rain.

“If you’re awake, stop playing dead,” he said indifferently. “Keep pretending and I’ll toss you into the sea. The wind’s strong tonight.”

“I’m a patient,” came a hoarse voice, as if it had been scraped by a knife. In the man’s arms, the black-haired young man lazily opened one eye. “I think I smell just fine—manly, even. Look at how you guys are talking about me, like I just got fished out of a pickle jar.”

“Even the rag in a pickle jar smells better than you.”

The man replied expressionlessly. By now, he had already effortlessly climbed the stairs to the third deck. Miguel closed his eyes again, the moist sea breeze brushing against his overheated face, feeling incredibly soothing—he even wanted to stay on the deck a little longer… Well, this was purely a patient’s basic need, definitely not some girly desire to be carried in a princess hold for a bit longer. Definitely not.

But soon, they were back indoors.

After placing Miguel on the sofa in the captain’s cabin, Caesar pulled the bell rope and ordered two buckets of hot water from the sailor who rushed up. He then started undressing Miguel—or rather, tearing off his clothes.

“Slow down, can’t you just take them off properly?” the weakened black-haired young man complained. “You’re ruining my clothes.”

“Ruined is ruined. You planning to wear them forever?” the man snorted disdainfully. “What kind of person even wears this?”

“Aren’t I wearing it right now? You’re the one who’s not human. Hey, you don’t need to take off my pants—hey…”

“What are you covering up for? It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

“What’s with that smug tone?”

“You’re hearing things.”

With a blank expression, Caesar tossed Miguel’s pants aside—there were no underpants; they had already been torn to shreds back in the cell. Just then, the door to the captain’s cabin was knocked on, and four sailors carrying a large bucket of hot water entered. They huffed and puffed as they poured the water into the bathtub in the bathroom. On their way out, one of the sailors looked particularly apologetic: “Captain, we’re running low on hot water tonight. Some of it was taken to the medical room by Bakir. But if you insist on two buckets…”

“Never mind,” Caesar interrupted, unusually amiable. “You can go now. Everyone’s worked hard tonight.”

Surprised by the leniency, the four sailors scampered off. Meanwhile, Miguel wobbled up from the sofa, his legs weak and his bare bottom exposed. Driven by some inexplicable determination, he was determined to crawl to the bathroom if he had to, muttering as he staggered, “I solemnly and formally refuse to use your secondhand bathwater, Captain.”

Caesar watched him for a moment, the sight of those two pale buttocks making him both amused and exasperated. He wiped his face, reminding himself to be patient, then took two long strides to catch up to Miguel and scooped him up again.

Miguel let out a girlish yelp, then teased with good humor, “Don’t touch me. I’m naked right now. If you get me hard, you’ll have to take responsibility.”

“Shut up,” the captain said.

The bathroom in the captain’s cabin was something else—it was less of a bathtub and more of a wooden pool. Seeing such a bathing setup on a ship, Miguel couldn’t help but be amazed. When the man gently set him down, the supposed patient, who should have been weak and helpless, suddenly sprang to life and leapt into the tub with a splash—

Water sprayed all over Caesar.

“…”

Reminding himself once again that this was a patient, Caesar suppressed the strong urge to drag him out and beat him up. With a stoic expression, he grabbed a towel from the nearby rack, dipped it in the water, and began wiping himself down.

Splash, splash—

“…”

When the man who hadn’t seen hot water in ages started splashing it all over his face, the captain finally lost his patience. He threw the towel aside, reached out with a long arm, and grabbed the young man’s jaw, who was now flailing about as if preparing to swim a lap. He pulled him to the edge of the tub and tilted his head slightly, confirming that the freshly bandaged wound had indeed gotten wet, with a faint pinkish hue seeping through the bandage.

“Your wound’s soaked. Did you leave your brain at the door?”

With a dark expression, Caesar released his jaw and pressed a hand on Miguel’s shoulder to keep him still while he looked around for something. Finally, his gaze landed on a small square box by the tub. He reached out, effortlessly grabbed the brand-new, unopened wooden box, and crushed it in his hand, pulling out a solid, milky-white object.

The scent of roses filled the air.

Casually wetting the handmade soap made from animal fat and plant extracts, Caesar roughly scrubbed one of Miguel’s arms.

“I’ll do it myself, I’ll do it myself,” Miguel said, nearly peeling off a layer of skin as he scrambled to escape.

“You don’t have the right to refuse,” the man said lazily, lifting an eyelid to glance at him. “Because I no longer trust your intelligence.”

“…”

Being inexplicably insulted, Miguel lay on the edge of the tub, almost moved to tears—though being personally bathed by the captain sounded pretty awesome, he’d have preferred a gentle, soft-spoken girl to serve him right now.

By the time Caesar finished scrubbing Miguel from the chin down to the waist with a frown, Miguel’s entire body ached as if he’d been beaten up. He lifted his now fragrant arm and was horrified to find a bruise—he was certain that bruise hadn’t been there before he stepped into the tub.

“Lift your ass,” came the captain’s impatient command from above.

Instinctively, Miguel buried his butt deeper into the water.

Caesar: “…”

Miguel: “…”

After a moment of awkward silence, the man snorted and shoved the soap into Miguel’s hand. He then began undressing himself, completely ignoring the black-haired young man’s “(⊙o⊙)” expression. Stripping down completely, his well-defined muscles were fully exposed in the steamy bathroom. With a long stride, he stepped into the tub, causing the water to churn violently as he settled comfortably at the other end.

Miguel was stunned, his mind repeating one sentence over and over: Big Dog is huge.

Secretly measuring with his hand underwater, the black-haired young man had to admit that Big Dog wasn’t lying—compared to his father’s eternal part, he had indeed surpassed him (…).

With his hands resting on the edge of the tub, the captain sighed in relaxation. He closed his eyes, his wet hair clinging to his perfectly chiseled face, water droplets sliding down his jaw and into the water, exuding an undeniable sexiness.

“Why did you act tough back then?”

Suddenly, Caesar asked out of the blue.

When he didn’t get a response after a while, he slightly furrowed his brows and opened his eyes, his amber eyes glaring at Miguel with dissatisfaction. The latter was stunned, then after a moment of silence, retorted, “Leoza has a title in Spain. Did you think you could take on an entire army by yourself? Did you think you were a god?”

“While you’re not wrong,” the man admitted frankly, “your blunt dismissal of my abilities is a little infuriating.”

“That’s just you being hot-headed,” Miguel said dismissively. “Must be menopause syndrome.”

Caesar didn’t respond, closing his eyes again as silence returned to the bathroom.

A minute later.

Caesar: “Kindly remove your foot from my calf.”

Miguel: “…Just a little rub.”

Caesar: “Remove it, or I’ll cut it off.”

Miguel, incredulous: “No reaction? Not even a little?”

Caesar: “Yes. The urge to punch you.”

Miguel silently retracted his mischievous foot, attributing the failed attempt at seduction to his lack of skill.

The bathroom fell into silence for the third time.

This time, it was Miguel who broke it. He rubbed the rough, primitive soap in his hands, scraping off bits of fluff that floated on the water’s surface. He absentmindedly swirled them into the water with his hand and said, “I heard everything in the medical room.”

Caesar paused, then hummed noncommittally.

“It’s not entirely their fault. It was dark, and I hadn’t taken off my wig—they probably thought I was some governor’s daughter,” Miguel said with a self-deprecating smile, glancing up at the captain, who had his eyes closed. Seeing no particular emotion on the man’s face, he continued, “Then they tried to grab the sapphire ring on my hand—don’t look at me, I just forgot to take it off. I told them I was from the Wind Fury, but they didn’t believe me.”

After the other man closed his eyes again, Miguel nervously added, “Then I fought them.”

“You fought your own people over that trash’s ring?”

“Where do you even get these leaps in logic? What kind of mental gymnastics is this?”

“Tsk.”

“Anyway, this counts as excessive self-defense, right?”

Caesar opened his eyes, propping himself up slightly with one hand on the edge of the tub. He drawled slowly, “What are you getting at?”

“I’m saying, if I’m gonna get whipped, those three pieces of trash shouldn’t get off easy.”

“Obviously.”

“They should get more lashes than me.”

“Granted.”

“According to Bakir, I might get to experience the cat o’ nine tails?”

“Hmm, according to ship rules, crew members who fight during wartime get thirty lashes each, with an additional fifteen for the instigators… Given that you’re my personal slave and hold a special position, I’ll give you a break and deduct five lashes. Those five will be on your tab.”

“Are you the one who’ll carry it out?”

“Are you a pervert? Want me to whip you personally?”

“Ah, just the thought of you leaving a mark on me gets me all excited.”

“Definitely a pervert.”

“…”

“If you want me to leave a mark, it’s not impossible.”

Miguel was stunned. He looked up, and through the steam rising from the hot water, he saw the man lazily leaning against the edge of the tub. Miguel couldn’t see his expression clearly, but he heard his voice, spoken in an utterly normal tone—

“Remember what I once said? When you joined my ship, I could personally give you a tattoo.”