by Monica James
But it’s not that simple. “What happened to my husband?” I ask quickly, afraid he’s going to leave me down here for another two days.
“Forget him,” he snaps, surprising me.
The ring on my finger burns in defiance because I will do no such thing. “He will be looking for me.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” I open my mouth, intent on arguing, but Saint hints this conversation is done. “I’m going to uncuff you, and then you’re going to take a shower.”
That sounds like heaven, but what’s the catch?
He reads my suspicion instantly. “This is your reward for listening. Would you like to take a shower?”
He waits patiently while I grind my teeth. “Yes.” When he folds his arms across his chest, I add, “мастер.”
I may as well have told him to go fuck himself, but he seems pleased.
He loops the chain out from under his shirt and eyes me closely as he bends low to unlock my cuff. We lock gazes, and I can’t keep the contempt from mine while he can’t mask the triumph in his. The moment I’m free, I rub my wrist, which is red and raw. The skin is grazed and swollen.
He walks over to a white waterproof box in the corner and opens it, revealing a stack of clothes inside. They are clearly for me. When I see a white bra and matching underwear on top of what looks like a yellow sundress, I sigh in relief.
He offers it to me while I purse my lips with my head tilted to the side. I can’t help but feel this comes with strings attached. However, the need to shower wins out, and I stand wearily as I haven’t used my legs for two days.
I stagger forward, the sting in my ass reminding me of what transpired between Saint and me. My cheeks flourish a deep crimson, but I snatch the clothes from his hand and await further instruction. He hums low, satisfied by my submission.
“Here.” He opens the box once again, and I almost cry in happiness when he produces a toiletry bag filled with shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, and everything else a girl who hasn’t had a proper shower in four days would need.
“Thank you.” It comes naturally, but Saint nods once.
Now the kicker.
There is no way I’m undressing with him in here. When I stand firm, he knows it.
“Cut the innocent act. Undress now.”
His judgment of me pisses me off, and I come apart. “It’s not an act,” I state defensively. When those green eyes widen, I arch a defying brow. “Where I’m from, saving yourself for marriage isn’t a crime. Stop looking at me like that.”
It’s not like I haven’t heard it before, but it still riles me up. It’s no one’s business but my own.
But what Saint says next has me gasping. “Where I’m from…it is a crime. A crime against you.” He sighs, heavy with burden.
What the hell does that mean?
“Where exactly are you from?” I’m speaking out of line, but his reaction confuses me. He almost looks…saddened by the fact.
He steps forward, and I’m engulfed in his spice as he towers over me. “A world you don’t belong in.”
The air suddenly sizzles, and a palpable electricity has the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. I have so many more questions, but he makes it clear that question time is over as he cocks his head toward the shower.
“You have ten minutes.”
I blink once, stunned he’s going to let me shower alone.
I don’t waste a second and quickly hobble toward the bathroom, sighing when I hear him march up the stairs and close the hatch behind him. With this newfound freedom, I don’t know what to do first. I have a bad case of cotton mouth, so I decide to brush my teeth.
When I peer at my reflection in the mirror, I stagger back, covering my mouth in horror. I barely recognize myself.
Caked in blood and my eyes wild, my soiled appearance scares me. Is this what I have become?
Unable to face the truth, I strip and toss my clothes into the corner of the room. The moment I step into the shower and turn the faucet to hot, I fold and relish in the feel of washing away my sins. The water runs red, but I coax it down the drain with my big toe.
My muscles uncoil from the warmth, and I melt into the feeling of being clean once more. The water feels wonderful, but when I turn, and the spray hits my ass, I flinch. Peering over my shoulder, I flush as bright as my ass cheeks when I see the red prints left by Saint’s hands. I still can’t believe he spanked me, but what’s most disturbing is I can’t believe my response.
Tears threaten to break past the floodgates, but I don’t have time to grieve.
Saint said ten minutes, and I know he won’t give me a second more, so I hurried to wash my hair and condition it as I lathered the vanilla soap over my body. I’m clean with two minutes to spare, so I turn off the water and dry hurriedly.
I’ve applied deodorant, some body lotion, and brushed my hair when I hear heavy footsteps up on the deck. He’s coming.
Stepping into my underwear, which fit, I thread my arms through the bra, and although the cups are a size too small, I hook it and arrange my breasts so they don’t pop out. Just as I reach for my dress, the hatch opens, and Saint appears.
I attempt to throw it on over my head, but he stops me.
“Wait.”
With my arms raised in the air, I pause, my chest rising and falling quickly as I catch my breath.
“Come here.”
There is no point in arguing with him, so I remove the dress and place it over the edge of the basin and walk toward him slowly. I stop when I am a few feet away.
Bashful to be standing in nothing but underwear, especially a bra that barely fits, I cast my eyes downward, unable to look at him. I bite my lip, unsure what he wants me to do.
“Kneel,” he commands.
Although every fiber of my being is demanding I fight, I know this will be over a lot quicker if I just surrender…so I do.
Gradually, I drop to my knees, averting my gaze as I’m embarrassed to be seen this way. But something changes in Saint. His exhalations are deep as he takes his time before he reaches down and caresses the cross at my throat.
My skin breaks out into goose bumps, but I remain passive, unsure what comes next.
“You look…beautiful,” he says painfully slow while I snap my chin upward, locking gazes with him. I was not expecting him to say that.
The feral look reflected in those green depths has me instantly dropping my chin. My cheeks blister. Using my hair as a veil, I hide behind it as I sit back on my heels, measuring my breaths and wringing my hands together.
Although this could be looked at as sexual, as Saint dominating me, I don’t feel objectified. I feel empowered as I’m the one in control. That doesn’t make a lick of sense, but neither does any of this.
I stay this way, awaiting his next move, and when I hear the distinct shutter of a camera clicking, one on a phone, I realize I’ve just found another means of communication. Him slipping up is slim to none, but stranger things have happened—like him leaving his key for me to uncuff myself with or…calling me beautiful.
“Okay, you can get dressed now.”
This is bizarre, to say the least, but I don’t argue.
Standing, I flick back my damp hair, aware he’s watching me, but I quickly make my way into the bathroom and slip the dress over my head. I don’t know what happens next. So I make my way over to the seat and extend my hands, ready to be cuffed, but he shakes his head.
“You’re coming up on deck.”
“I am?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes,” he replies firmly, peering down at my grazed wrist. “You need some sunshine. And you need to eat.” The mere mention of food has my stomach growling.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention I look anemic because he’s locked me down here for four days, but I decide against it. The thought of feeling the sunshine on my Vitamin-D depleted skin is too good an opportunity to pass up.
In regards to food, I peer over at the poorly stocked
shelves and frown. “Do you have anything that isn’t canned?”
He sweeps his hand outward, gesturing I’m to look for myself.
This new sense of freedom is unsettling. Something which I took for granted has been snatched out from under me, and now that I’ve been given it back, I don’t know what to do with it—like a bird being released from her cage but is too scared to spread her wings.
Not sure when I will be given this freedom again, I brush past him, his trademark scent smashing into me. It’s not a bad sensation; it’s just…familiar, which is absurd. I stop in front of the shelves, placing my hands on my hips and blowing the hair from my cheeks.
Tuna fish, a few cans of soup, a small bag of flour, dry milk, and what appears to be dried jerky—nothing looks remotely appetizing. However, when I see some potatoes, eggs, and a bag of rice in a drawer below the sink, things start looking up slightly.
Tapping my chin, I begin to channel my inner MasterChef.
“See anything acceptable?” Saint asks, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say his tone carried a touch of playfulness in it.
“It doesn’t look completely hopeless,” I reply, my back still turned. “Growing up in my household, you were forced to make do with whatever was lying around.”
I realize this is the first piece of information I’ve shared about myself with Saint. How will he respond? Will he see me as a person and not merely a means to an end?
“Didn’t your parents stick around?”
Surprised that he actually cares, I don’t make a big deal about it and shrug. “My dad died when I was twelve. After that, my mom just sort of forgot I existed.” When he’s quiet, I turn over my shoulder, and add, “What? Not the story you were expecting? Expecting the life of a spoiled brat who turned to modeling after sleeping with every hotshot in LA?”
His predominant Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. I’ve caught him off guard. “I’ve come to learn not to expect anything when you’re involved.”
Well, damn. That’s given me food for thought.
Clearing my throat, I go back to making sense of our menu, rather than analyzing what he means by that comment. “I can probably make some sort of a frittata or omelet.” Forgetting he’s here, I walk over to the small fridge and find some frozen vegetables in the tiny freezer. I can work with that.
Grabbing what I need, I dump everything onto the table, pointing at each item to catalog its purpose in my head. The potatoes can’t go in whole. I need a knife. I switch my gaze from the small pile to Saint, who stands on the opposite side of the table watching me.
“I need utensils like a bowl, spoon. A knife,” I add nonchalantly, trying my best to mask my nerves.
He sighs low as if deep in thought.
“Or you can always help?” I suggest as I need to play this off. I don’t plan on using the knife, but I plan on gaining his trust with it.
A cloud of uncertainty lingers, but eventually, he reaches into his back pocket and produces his switchblade. My nose instantly screws up in revulsion. “I am not using that to prepare my meal.”
That blade is the same one he severed my attacker’s throat with. The sunshine catches the bright silver of the metal, and I shiver as memories crash into me. But I pull it together and extend my hand.
I wish I could see his face because right now, I’m just guessing his thoughts. Without any facial expressions, he is merely my captor, but that is exactly what he is, and I need to remember that. Just because he’s showing a shred of decency doesn’t excuse the despicable things he’s done.
This is a test. I’m testing him, and he’s testing me.
My gaze never wavers from his as I appear bored, waiting for him to give me the knife. But there is no doubt he’s contemplating his next move. This is the first step to gaining his trust because all I need is a little leeway to get to the radio or to somehow steal his phone.
The air is thick with anticipation, but eventually, he caves.
When he places the switchblade into my palm, every part of me sings in victory, but I remain passive.
“Thank you…мастер.”
A hiss escapes him as he takes a small step back, which is exactly the response I wanted. But I play it off and instead turn, hunting for a saucepan. When I find a small one, I place it on the stovetop and pour half a bottle of water into it.
I may have agreed to use the knife, but I won’t be using it without boiling it first. As I wait for the water to boil, I hunt for a chopping board and some bowls. Once I decide on eggs and hash browns, my mouth waters at the thought of freshly baked biscuits.
As the water begins to boil, I dump the blade into the pot, hoping it’ll be sanitized to the point of being able to use it without remembering it took someone’s life. But I know it never will.
Needing a distraction, I reach for the flour and dry milk and decide to attempt to make biscuits. It’s my comfort food, and right now, I need all the comfort I can get. Once the knife has bubbled and boiled for a few minutes, I turn off the stove and reach into the water with tongs. Images of using this blade for my escape crash into me as I begin to wonder if Saint is now unarmed.
Peering at his statue—arms folded, eyes sharp, legs spread—I know there is no way I’d make it three steps. Besides, I have to pick my battles wisely, and doing this is for the greater good.
Curling my fingers around the cold handle, I detach myself from what it’s capable of, of what I’ve seen it do, and focus on the good it can do, like make me breakfast. I begin to peel the potatoes, willing my shaky fingers to steady. It’s a little hard to do, however, when Saint pulls up a chair, straddles it, and watches me intently.
My heart is racing, and I’m certain he can see my fear, but I continue working, fixated on making food because I’m suddenly famished. “Can I make some coffee?”
Saint nods.
For the next twenty minutes, I work like a madwoman, but it’s nice to lose myself in normality seeing as I’ve been surrounded by anything but. Once I’m done, I stand back, smiling at my creation. With limited ingredients and supplies, I was able to whip up hash browns, eggs, and biscuits, which are a little flat, but regardless, they smell amazing. The coffee, however, is the crème de la crème because after living without it for four days, my body craves a caffeine hit.
Saint has watched me the entire time, which, of course, is no surprise. I have to earn his trust before he leaves me unsupervised, which is why I give his knife a wash and slide it across the table. “Thank you.”
He reaches for it and places it into his back pocket. “You’re welcome, ангел.”
“What does that mean?” It’s out before I can stop myself.
Saint stiffens as if he’s just been called out, which just intrigues me further. He comes to a slow stand, and I gulp when peering upward, examining his tall stature. “Let’s eat.” And that puts an end to a conversation Saint clearly has no interest in having.
Yet his evasiveness just intrigues me all the more.
I’ve made enough food to feed a small nation, so I reach for four plates and serve up breakfast. Once the coffee is poured, I wait for further instruction. Saint turns over his shoulder and shouts in Russian. Although the language is so foreign to me, I find it almost entrancing when spoken in Saint’s hoarse tone.
When the two Russians pound down the stairs, all entrancement is long gone.
They look at the food on the table and then up at me. This is strange, to say the least, but clearly, their appetite is more important than dealing with this weirdness as they almost fight one another to snatch a plate for themselves.
Saint steps aside, allowing the scavengers to feed first.
I sip my coffee, relishing in the bitterness. I don’t fancy eating down here as I’m tired of the dark. I want to feel the sunshine against my skin. I also need to scope out the radio, and I can’t do that with Saint breathing down my throat.
“Let’s go outside.”
It’s a touch scary he c
an read me so well, but I suppose he’s at an advantage. He can see my face after all.
Mark stops shoveling the eggs into his mouth as I reach for my plate. His ravenous eyes instantly drop to the front of my dress as the scooped neckline reveals a little too much cleavage when bending low. I feel disgusting, like my mom’s words are true when I play on his attraction and reach forward for my fork.
It’s innocent enough, but I know it has the desired effect when Mark’s tongue sweeps along his bottom lip. His smell alone has me wanting to gag, but I smile shyly, hoping to feign innocence and submission.
The other Russian just continues to inhale his food, not at all affected by me.
I wait for Saint to lead the way with my eyes cast downward. When I hear his heavy boots march up the stairs, I follow, ensuring to brush Mark gently with my shoulder on the way out. I know I’m playing with fire, but Saint will eventually have to sleep. I can only hope when that happens, Mark is awake. I will then make up some excuse as to why I need to go upstairs.
It’s weak, but it’s all I have.
The sun feels wonderful against my skin, and I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and tipping my chin upward to savor the feeling as I don’t know when I will experience it again. My growling stomach interrupts my basking, so I open my eyes. Saint is sitting on the white chest near the helm. I try my best to remain unaffected, but it’s difficult to when that radio is within reach.
Wanting to get as close as possible to the radio, I sit across from Saint on a small wooden bench seat. Sitting cross-legged, I place my plate on my lap and the coffee beside me. I reach for the biscuit and separate it into two pieces. Using my fork, I pile on the fluffy scrambled eggs onto one side before sealing it shut.
A perfect meal.
The moment I take a bite, a small moan leaves me as my taste buds sing in delight. It’s the first real thing I’ve eaten in days. Uncaring I look like a caveman, I shove the entire biscuit into my mouth, stuffing my cheeks full.
Once I’m done gulping that down, I dig into the hash browns, scraping the plate clean. It takes me all of five minutes to finish my meal. Leaning back against the railing, I place my hands on my full stomach and sigh.
