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Summary
Colin Bridgerton is utterly fucked.
Without a doubt. Entirely. Biblically. Fucked in ways that he is unsure any other man has been fucked, actually.
And as he paces the tiny cabin he has been stuffed into, considering his inevitable and untimely fuckery, all he can think is how vexing it is that his eldest brother Anthony was right.
His brother’s words ring in his ear like some sort of satanic prayer, torturous and bitter: “You are no pirate, Colin. You are nothing more than a child playing dress-up. Mark my words: you’ll be dead in a month.”
OR - Colin Bridgerton gets captured by the Pirate Featherington