Chapter 8

EIGHT

Laura

B right light hitting my face pulled me from the depths of sleep. Confusion swarmed my mind as I tried to roll over, a deep ache tugging at my chest. Tightness held my wrists fast, something rough biting into my skin as I attempted to move.

With a groan, I forced my eyes open.

The gravity of my predicament hit me with a punch. Ropes bound my wrists, and through the small, round window, I could see the sun sinking low beyond the endless blue horizon. Not to mention how exposed I felt from the lack of clothing underneath the thin blanket covering me.

And then, there was him.

He sat silently on a chair by the bed, stalking me with his stare.

Eyes as dark as sin. That dreadful mask covering half of his face. Swallowing hard through the dry scrape of my parched throat, I contemplated my options.

Which were incredibly few.

Did I accept my fate and take whatever he intended on inflicting on me? Did I fight? Kill him and try to find my way to land? Did I play pretend until I could convince him to take me back to shore?

Rationally, the last option was the only viable one.

I had to make him trust me enough to bring me back to civilisation.

He shifted in the seat, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his thighs, his head tilting just a touch while his eyes roved over me.

Pin pricks crept across my stomach at his open stare, panic flooding my system. How could I play pretend in the face of a predator?

He leant forward, and I flinched, the rope digging further into my skin.

‘Please,' I whispered, my words catching in my throat. ‘Please, untie me.'

Those dark eyes narrowed, moving from my face to my red, chafed wrists. My stomach knotted as he stood, towering over the bed, his head nearly scuffing the roof of the low cabin ceiling. Reaching behind him, he picked up a marker pen from a thin desk and began to write on the mirror.

The black ink pen squeaked against the reflective surface, making me wince as I watched words take form in large, black letters.

NO SCREAMING

NO RUNNING

NO FIGHTIN G

I nodded my head when his eyes met mine in the reflection. It wasn't a promise if I didn't say it aloud.

Within three steps he was by my side, I shifted slightly to make a little more space between us, the thin blanket falling away from my chest. His nostrils flared, and his gaze dropped to my exposed breasts. Lifting his hand, he grazed two fingers along my collarbone, making me want to sob. Swallowing hard, I forced the emotions down. I just had to hold it together long enough for him to untie me and get to a weapon.

I could do that.

I had to.

I expected him to squeeze my breasts, or graze my nipples, but he didn't. With a gentleness that turned my stomach, he traced the edge of the stitching he'd performed the previous night.

With a seemingly satisfying nod, he withdrew his hand and thrust it into the pocket of his dark camo trousers. The knife he brought out glittered in the morning sun, the blade bursting out as he pressed a button. It took every ounce of my willpower not to cry out.

Just act good.

Just a little longer.

Placing one knee on the bed beside me, he slid the blade along the soft skin of my inner forearm. The scratch of it made my nipples peak and shame filled me.

What the fuck was that?

Putting my body's reaction down to stress, I held my breath until he slid the sharp metal through the ropes like they were butter. Fighting down the flight response, I took his hand as he pulled me into a sitting position.

My fingers trembled when he took my wrists into his hands, rubbing feeling back into them. Every part of me screamed to attack him. To fight the gentle touches like a cornered animal. To slash and punch and kick.

While his attention focused on my wrists, I took a moment to truly look at my captor.

The mask covering his lower face was weathered, the phoenix on it faded with age. Old scars webbed the left side of his face, extending from his cheekbones, all the way up to his hairline. Pitted and taught, they marked the skin like a series of mountains on a map. A tiny flicker of pity lit in my chest, but I quickly extinguished it.

No matter his past, he had no right to take me prisoner. Feeling sorry for an injured lion made it no less likely to hurt you. I stifled a moan as his fingers worked my aching wrists and palms, inviting the blood to flow right back into my fingers. The touch of a monster shouldn't make me swoon. I pulled my fingers, and his grip tightened. My pulse picked up in my throat as he continued to stare at my wrist.

‘I need to use the bathroom,' I said after a few moments of strained silence.

Dropping my massaged wrists into my lap, he got up and left the bedroom without another look.

I swiftly let myself into the minuscule bathroom that joined the bedroom cabin to relieve myself.

Desperate to find anything that might be useful, my eyes wandered the tiny room.

Shampoo. Shower gel. Toothpaste.

Fuck.

Eventually, my gaze fell on the glass shower door, and I wondered if I could use a piece of it as a makeshift knife. Unfortunately, I'd probably just cut myself rather than injure the weirdo.

I scrubbed my hands over my face and let out a muffled, frustrated groan.

After flushing the toilet, I washed my hands, scrubbing the soap into my skin so vigorously that the rope burns stung anew.

I couldn't just sit on the motherfucking boat and be his toy.

I needed to get back to England. To get to the authorities and have them put Massimo and my captor behind bars for their sins. For what they'd done to me and my family.

A little voice in my head taunted me. They deserved it.

Screwing my eyes shut, I shook the deranged thought from my mind.

The little mirror above the sink barely showed my whole face when I opened my eyes. Standing on my toes, I examined the wound on my chest. It ached something fearsome whenever I lifted my arm, and the skin around the crude black stitches was purpling up toward my neck.

You could be dead.

You should have been dead.

The man I thought was my freedom pushed me into this floating cage, and I fully intended to kill him.

Right after taking out the asshole aboard.

Pulling on a hoodie and pair of shorts from the bedroom, I walked through the innards of the boat, stopping at a galley kitchen. Glancing toward the door that led out onto the deck, I saw no sign of the masked man. My pulse skipped as I opened one of the drawers, hunting through the utensils in search of potential weapons.

Unless I could mash his brains with a potato masher, there was nothing useful.

Bar a rolling pin, nada in the next drawer down.

Frustration made me growl as I slammed door after cupboard door. Wrenching open the last one, I saw a block of knives. With sweat gathering at the base of my spine, I glanced back at the doorway. The wooden handle was rough in my palm as I clenched my fingers so tightly that they began to whiten.

Even with a weapon, how did I think it would go down?

You're an idiot, Laura.

Probably a soon-to-be-dead idiot.

But that was better than nothing.

The deck of the boat was neat but worn, a far cry from the plush-looking interior. Rust clung to any metallic, dulling its shine. The rough flooring scratched at my bare feet when I inched quietly toward the silhouetted figure that stood at the bow, looking out over the sea.

The vast fucking sea.

If I couldn't stab him, maybe I could just shunt him overboard.

Squeezing the blade of the kitchen knife, I tried to amp myself up for what I needed to do. The closer I crept, the more his massive stature sent concern through me. His back was packed with muscle beneath the thin t-shirt he wore, and his biceps were like fucking tree trunks.

My mouth dried out with every step toward the beast of a man. The silent creep.

My heart beat so fast I worried he'd be able to hear it. It would give me away before I could strike.

My palm slickened around the knife, making it more difficult to grip. I desperately wanted to shift the blade to my other hand and wipe my sweaty palm on my clothing, but I didn't dare make any movement I didn't need to.

So close.

Holding my breath, I lifted the blade and lunged forward, striking it down toward the left side of his upper back. He turned right as I made my move and caught the slash on his upper arm—more of a graze that drew a dark red line, really. His hand fit over my wrist, squeezing as I panted. Pain filled my arm, but I held onto the knife, determined not to let him win.

Amusement danced in his eyes, and I wanted nothing more than to see him dead.

Grabbing the blade with my other hand, I sliced wildly at him while kicking and pushing against him in an attempt to launch him over the railing.

He reacted like my attack was that of a child—like it was nothing.

I let out an angry scream and shoved hard. He let go of my wrist at the same time and slid out of my way.

My foot slipped, and I toppled toward the waist-high rail.

‘No,' I gasped, dropping the knife and hearing it clatter on the deck. Time slowed. My balance tipped as I hit the rail, sending me right over the edge.

For a few long moments, only air wrapped itself around me.

Then, I hit the water in a wall of cold that stole my breath right from my chest.

Fighting the shock, I kicked my legs and fought to find the surface amid the panic rising inside me. Nothing but icy water around me, and nothing to hold on to either.

With a great heaving sob, I broke the surface, turning myself to look for the boat.

‘Help me,' I panted to the lone figure leaning against the railing, watching me suffer.

Silence.

‘Please.' Cold numbed my extremities, making treading the water all the more difficult. ‘I'm sorry.'

Nothing.

‘I'm scared. I've lost everyone, and I want to go home.' Hot tears mingled with the frigid saltwater that streaked my face.

Beneath the surface, something nudged at my thigh. Fear enveloped me as I tried to look around me. Something rough grazed my calf, and I let out a scream.

I wasn't as alone as I thought.