47. Caro

I will not cry.

The door closed behind me, and I heard the lock click.

I will not cry.

Aiden had left me in a crumpled mess on the floor, blood trickling from my lip, more bruises than unmarred skin, every muscle aching. This was the second time he'd raped me on the boat, face-down on the floor, wedged between the two bunks so I couldn't fight back. The second time of many, he promised. He'd done it before, back in California, but he'd always apologised afterward, sworn he wouldn't do it again, or occasionally blamed me for leading him on. Here, the mask was off. Funny, I'd feared death for so long, but now I realised I'd welcome it.

And I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing my tears.

Of knowing how angry I was with myself.

I will not cry.

He hadn't tried to stick his dick in my mouth—he knew I'd bite it off—but nor had he gagged me. No, he'd taken pleasure in my pain and laughed when I cursed him. And because he knew that he was going to kill me eventually, when he'd had his fun, when he'd destroyed every last fragment of my soul, he'd taken great delight in telling me that I hadn't broken him the way he planned to break me. No, he'd just pivoted, gotten dirtier, and used the money he'd squirrelled away offshore to invest in a new business venture. His good buddy Theron had already been supplying turtles on the black market, but they'd expanded. Grown from a few local sales to an international network. Aiden had the contacts; Theron had the foot soldiers. When I agreed to talk with Stacey, I'd thought we were taking on a handful of two-bit opportunists, when in reality, we'd been wading into my worst nightmare. Theron's men had been watching. Spying on Knox and me when we went to Monique Constantine's workshop to find her customer list. They'd been looking for Monique, Aiden said. Imagine his joy when they'd sent a picture of me instead.

All this time, I'd blamed Luna. I'd blown up at her for that stupid Instagram post, but it hadn't been her fault that Aiden found me; it had been mine. My fault the sanctuary had been invaded. Had Luna even survived? I hoped she had.

Muscles screaming in agony, I rolled onto my side, my watery eyes meeting the dead turtle's blank stare. Aiden had chuckled when he saw I'd opened the box. Left it there, the beautiful creature another reminder of my failure. I'd considered clocking him with it, swinging that hard carapace into his head and hoping he died, but what was the point? Where could I go? My hands were still bound, my wrists raw where I'd struggled to free them, and the sharpest thing left in the cabin was the disposable wooden spoon Barry had brought me alongside a bowl of gross-looking stew. The stew had come from Pescado, a tourist joint renowned for its shitty hygiene, and I'd puked without taking a mouthful.

"Sorry I screwed up," I told the turtle, and a sob escaped. "I tried."

Of course, it said nothing, and that was when I realised I was losing my mind. Three days of hell, and I was talking to a freaking turtle. At least, I thought it had been three days. They'd brought me six meals in total, and Barry referred to them as dinner and breakfast. No lunch.

"I don't suppose you have a knife?" The sob turned into a laugh, slightly hysterical, and the turtle just stared back at me, its expression snooty. Sometimes, when hawksbills opened their mouths, they almost looked as if they were smiling, but I figured the taxidermist or whoever Aiden had hired to create this abomination thought it would be too difficult to?—

The hawksbill.

Hawk's bill.

They'd gotten their name because of their beak. That sharp, curving beak, reminiscent of their namesake, so perfect for digging food out of hard-to-reach crevices. A hawksbill had bitten me once, soon after I arrived at the sanctuary and before I learned how to handle turtles properly. That bite had hurt like hell. The edge of its mouth had sliced into my finger, sharp as a blade.

I scrambled to my knees, my hands numb from being trapped underneath my body while Aiden punished me. The rope was nylon, made of a thousand twisted strands, as tough as steel when it was twined into fishing nets and used to pillage the ocean. I rubbed one edge of the cord against the turtle's beak, and the tiny strands began to fray.

Something exploded in my chest, and I realised it was hope. If I could get my hands free, then maybe…maybe… All I had to do was get to the main deck. We were in the harbour in Ilha Grande; I was sure of it. Pescado was right there. If I screamed, one of the tourists who roamed the promenade gawking at the yachts would hear me. People would notice. I mean, Aiden had shredded my clothes, so my boobs should raise a few eyebrows, at least.

Once, I'd hoped Aiden would forget me.

Now I was going to make sure he didn't.