Reza had no surname—at least, not one Eduard had ever bothered to learn. A member of the crew of the Prins Nicolaas, he was nineteen years old when he and Eduard first met. His tall, thin frame was covered with wiry muscle, his skin darkened like leather from working in constant sunlight. The moment Eduard laid eyes on the young man, he wanted him.
Their first day at sea, Eduard was strolling along the deck with his wife, enjoying the weather, when he caught a glimpse of that dark skin in motion—the crewman knelt on the deck as he scrubbed the boards, his light breeches plastered to his flesh by the soapy water that swirled around him. The muscles in his arms and neck stood out like cords as he rocked with a steady motion, back and forth, pushing a large, hard-bristled brush through the
