by Monica James
I am hot all over, and my flesh feels raw. Tears are streaming down my cheek, and I can’t breathe. But underneath that lies this…craving. I need it to stop.
“Please. No more. I’m sorry.”
The belt drops to the floor with a thud.
I am aching all over as my body feels as tight as a bow. A bundle of nerves scratches down low, and I discreetly rub my legs together, desperate to douse the flames.
“You can shower,” Saint says before he staggers up the stairs, leaving me alone with this deep-rooted shame…which is exactly what he wanted.
Once he’s gone, I only then allow myself to feel and collapse onto my side, sobbing. Drawing my knees to my chest, I hug them tightly, confused and scared. Through the pain is utmost confusion because I don’t understand why I responded the way I did.
Yes, it hurt, as he fucking hit me with his belt, but each blow masqueraded a luscious sensation, hovering between pleasure and pain. What is wrong with me?
Closing my eyes, I succumb to sleep as it’s the only place where my demons don’t judge me for the wicked creature I’ve become.
She is worming her way into my soul, and each time she cries, I want to console her. But then I remember I’m not the good guy in this story. I am her captor.
And she is my slave.
Day 7
I WAKE IN the same position I fell asleep in—curled in a ball, hoping this blanket of confusion will go away. It hasn’t.
It’s right at dawn, and usually, one can look into the heavens and be thankful a new day is upon them. But today, I don’t feel thankful. How can I be when I’m covered in red welts with an electric energy thrumming through my veins?
The hatch opens, but I don’t stir. I simply lie on my side, broken.
If my father were alive, he would be so ashamed of me. He would wonder when the exact moment his baby girl turned into some wanton fiend.
I know Saint is close by because his fragrance drifts down the stairs. I wonder what he sees. I wonder if he feels victorious.
“This cruelness is the only kindness I can show you.”
What does that mean?
Nothing makes sense anymore.
“Kazimir will live,” he says. I remain silent in response, staring at a smudge mark on the wall.
This is nothing short of awkward, but I can’t stop thinking about my response to him last night. I was…aroused. Closing my eyes, I shake my head, sickened.
“Aнгел…”
“Don’t,” I whisper, shifting away when he crouches down behind me. I can hear every single taut muscle bend and move with his lithe actions. “Don’t call me that. My name is Willow.” I need to say it for my sake as well as his.
He sighs, clearly frustrated. But that’s all he’s getting out of me because I just want to be left alone. He reads the silent “fuck you” and stands. When the hatch closes, I exhale, thankful for the solitude.
Escaping now seems impossible, which leaves me with dire thoughts. I don’t want to be sold to someone named Aleksei Popov, but according to Saint, the deal is already done. So what options do I have left?
The fact Drew was the one who apparently orchestrated this hurts more than I can explain. But how can I believe Saint? How can I believe Drew would do that to me?
What a mess, and to make matters worse, I have formed some sort of…attachment to my kidnapper.
I don’t know what it is. I don’t even like him, but I can’t deny whenever he’s near, my body responds in ways it shouldn’t. I know some say it’s normal to respond sexually in extremely anxious or stressful situations, but it feels wrong. I feel dirty, just how I once did.
My heart is heavy, but I’ve run out of tears. I have never felt more imprisoned than I do right now. Thoughts which scare me cross my mind because I can’t, I won’t be held captive anymore. Saint has made it clear where I’m going won’t be sunshine and flowers. I will never be able to go home. I will forever be a prisoner.
So the choice seems simple as my hands are tied.
Clutching the cross around my neck, I apologize to my father. “Sorry, Daddy, but I won’t live like this. I hope you can forgive me.”
Coming to a slow rise, I ignore the throbbing in every part of my body and mind and focus on looking for something to end the pain. My eyes instantly seek out a length of rope and then scan the wooden rafter above me.
It’s an out. A bleak end, but at least I’ll decide my fate.
Climbing to my feet sluggishly, I flinch, breathing steadily through my nose to push past the pain. I put one foot in front of the other and commence my stagger toward the rope. I’ve been in a dark place before, but this time, it feels different.
I work in a robotic manner as I reach for the rope and tie a noose. Once it’s tight, I drag a chair along the floor and stand on it, looping the rope around the rafter and tying it tight. With the noose in hand, I go to place it over my head but stop, holding it in front of me and peering through the simple loop with the ability to take away life.
They say when faced with death, your life flashes before your eyes. That doesn’t happen to me. All I see is my hopelessness. With a deep breath, I loop the noose around my neck and tighten it. A single tear falls because I wanted to achieve so much, but it’ll never be.
Peering down at the floor, I wonder what Saint will do with my body. A sea burial makes the most sense, and besides, who would mourn me? If I had a gravestone, marking my existence to the world, who would visit?
My father is dead. My mother may as well be too. And my husband is apparently the reason I stand here with a noose around my neck.
“No one will miss you when you’re gone.” And Saint is right. No one will.
I don’t have any last words. My soul is broken. So taking a deep breath, I step forward, ready to take the plunge, but it seems God isn’t done with me yet. The noose tightens, and I gasp for air, but after only hanging for a split second, the rope comes undone, and I plummet to the floor with a thud.
Wheezing, I yank at the rope, tearing it from my neck and tossing it across the room with rage. I can’t even do this right. “Fuck you,” I curse at no one in particular, thumping my fist against the floor.
I’m half expecting Saint to come charging down here to cuff me until we arrive in Russia. But he doesn’t.
Helplessness overcomes me once again, so I surrender. I could lie down on the lounge, but I much rather prefer the coldness to the hard floor. Besides, I should get used to such lodgings because where I’m headed, I doubt I’ll be given any comforts. I was sold, remember? Like some animal at market.
Drawing my knees to my chest as I lie on my side, I close my eyes and wonder why I was saved…when I didn’t want to be.
“Come on, you need to eat.”
The urge to inhale deeply and bask in a delectable scent has my eyes popping open, but when I realize I’m still in hell, I quickly squeeze them tight.
Saint crouches behind me, attempting to lift me from my half-sitting position. I don’t know why he’s helping me, but I refuse to talk to him. I may be his prisoner, but I’ll be damned if I speak to him again.
I’m floppy from lethargy and a broken spirit, and it doesn’t take him long to coax me to my feet. I’m unstable, but he uses the chair I stood on hours ago to set me down. How ironic. It now offers me support, when once upon a time, it offered me death.
I don’t focus on anything. I just stare into thin air. This irritates Saint as he crouches down in front of me, forcing me to look at him as he grips my chin and offers me some jerky. But he can go to hell. “Eat.”
I turn my cheek in response.
“So you’re not talking to me anymore, is that it?”
We never talked. He’s delusional if he thought we ever did.
An infuriated sigh leaves him. I internally high-five myself. “You can either eat, or you can sit here gagged and cuffed. The choice is yours.”
Silly lamb. I never had a choice. He took away all my choices when
he kidnapped me and put me on this fucking boat.
I remain unmoving.
“Fine then,” he states, digging into his back pocket to produce the cuffs. He doesn’t even need to tell me to put my hands behind my back. I do it automatically. I know the drill.
He pauses, surprised, but soon recovers as he snaps the cuffs around my wrists. Next, however, the surprise is on me because he does something which rips the air from my lungs. Standing in front of me, he reaches behind him and yanks off the shirt from the back of his collar. His scent is absolutely potent, and I gnaw at the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.
He’s topless before me, and I want to claw out my eyeballs because they scan upward on their own accord, completely under his spell. I saw him out in the darkness, but now, the sunshine streaming in from the windows seems to only showcase him in all his glory.
His waist is tapered, his rock-solid abs golden and firm. The well-defined V muscle which peeks out from the low waistband of his black cargos is deliciously sinful, as is the light dusting of dirty blond hair which paints his navel and licks downward along his flesh.
I notice a tattoo on his flank. It’s a cursive font. A single word.
Sinner.
Seems appropriate.
I continue my examination, focusing on the silver barbell in his left nipple. The shine to it seems to emphasize his muscled, broad chest. He has some dark hair between his pecs, but it isn’t thick enough to cover the deep scars he has scattered all over him. They look like knife wounds.
Across his upper chest, he has more ink. It seems to work in with his wing tattoo as he has a thick scroll spread across his collar with two large red roses, the only color on his design, sitting just under each collarbone. Around the scroll looks like more feathers. The design is spectacular, but what has me transfixed is what is written inside the scroll.
Only God Can Judge Me.
I don’t know why, but those words resonate with me because I can relate…I can relate to that right now.
He has a thick black armband tattoo below his elbow. The feathers painted down over his bulging biceps ripple as he tenses, sensing me studying him. When I finally meet his eyes, they are smoldering beneath that mask he wears. He is utterly hypnotic.
He has just revealed a small part of himself to me, and I need to know why.
Rounding the chair, he ties his shirt around my mouth, forcing me to inhale his fragrance as I’m swimming in it. This is torture.
Without a word, he leaves me gagged and cuffed, the vision of his wings the last thing I see as he walks up onto the deck. The moment he’s gone, I sag, breathing heavily around the…gag. I’m gagged, and I didn’t freak out. Not once did I think about Kenny’s hands on me because I was too busy sniffing the delectable material in my mouth.
I don’t know what comes next because I am so lost. And the only comfort is inhaling his scent, which is somehow able to soothe the tempest within.
My thoughts once again drift to Drew. I need to know the truth. I don’t want to believe Saint, but how did they know where to find me? Why did Drew choose such a remote place to honeymoon? Shaking my head, I push those thoughts from my mind because I know my husband. He would never do what Saint said he did.
My body aches. Not only from the welts on my ass, back, and legs, but my neck is starting to chafe as well. Peering upward, I close my eyes and allow the tears to fall. After everything I’ve been through, I thought I was strong, but I’m not. I’m breaking, which is exactly what Saint wants.
I’m trying to be strong, but each day chips away at my resolve, and I feel the person I once was slip away. Before long, she’ll be gone for good.
Fatigue overtakes me, and I slump forward, happy to lose myself in the darkness once more.
I wake because someone is watching me. I can feel their astute eyes dissecting every inch of my flesh. No guessing who it is.
I’m still not talking to him, so I feign sleep. But he calls bullshit.
“Thanks to the shit you pulled…again, we now have to hang low for a couple of days. We also have to change boats. It’s too risky to continue sailing this thing.”
If Saint is expecting an apology, he’ll be waiting a long time.
“We’re going to dock in about an hour and stay there until shit blows over. I also have some business to take care of.”
My head is downturned, my hair shrouding my face so I’m hidden, and I intend on staying this way since I have absolutely nothing to say to him. However, this piece of information changes things. It buys me time. A couple of days is more days than I had moments ago. And docking means dry land.
But I remain passive as I don’t want Saint privy to my thoughts.
“You probably want a shower? Use the bathroom?”
My full bladder rejoices, but I squash down the happiness as I don’t want to owe this asshole anything. I remain silent.
I’m expecting him to storm out, leaving me tied up, but he walks around the chair and uncuffs me. His fingers against my skin have me flinching as his touch is a reminder of what he did to me last night. He waits for me to move, but I don’t. I remain slumped forward, my arms hanging by my sides. The relief from being uncuffed is wonderful, but I remain unresponsive.
His heavy breathing indicates my silent act is pissing him off, but he can go to hell. “Fine, have it your way then.”
He marches up the stairs coolly, closing the hatch. The moment it seals shut, I fumble with the gag as my fingers are trembling, but when I eventually get it off, I throw it across the room. I gulp in mouthfuls of air and rub my aching arms. Gradually, I stand, as my legs are shaky and my body throbs. I waddle to the bathroom, thankful to use the toilet. Once I’m done, I shimmy out of the swimsuit.
I kick it out of sight as I never want to see the infernal thing ever again.
As I turn on the water and wait for it to run warm, I turn over my shoulder and glimpse the red lashes across my back, ass, and legs. They aren’t as bad as I thought, which means Saint went easy on me. But I already knew that.
In spite of that, I feel nauseous and jump into the shower, desperate to wash away the evidence as best I can. The water stings, but it’s an appreciated pain. After five minutes, I begin to feel and smell like me again.
Turning off the water, I dry myself and hobble over to the sink. Wiping down the glass, I gasp when I see my appearance. Who is this stranger staring back at me with lifeless eyes? I arch my neck and sigh. The inflamed rope burn has feelings of shame crushing me.
If it wasn’t for my shitty knot tying, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. Clutching the cross at my neck, I like to think it’s my father’s presence watching over me, lending me the strength I so need. “I promise you, I will never do that again,” I whisper to my mirror image, hopeful my dad can hear.
And I never will.
There is always another way. I can only hope that way is when we dock and get the hell off this boat.
Deciding to dress, I hunt through the chest, digging out a pair of white underwear from the bulk pack of ten and a green cotton summer dress. I can’t stand to wear anything tight or restricting as my skin hurts.
It’s still hard to believe they’ve packed me clothes and in my size, no less.
“Your husband sold you to Popov…”
Saint’s words echo loudly, but I shake my head, refusing to entertain that notion.
Once I’m dressed, I look around the room in vain, on the prowl for a weapon. There is no way Saint would leave me down here if there were. But I humor myself anyway. The only thing I find is a non-stick saucepan. I could linger in the shadows and strike whoever walks down those stairs unaware.
But then what?
If I come out swinging, I’ll be knocked to my ass before I can make it up one step.
Sighing, I give up my vigilante plans for now and make my way over to the window. Kneeling onto the bench seat, I peer out and attempt to gather my bearings and figure out where we are.
Seven days ago, I was in the Greek Islands. Then I believe we were on our way to Turkey. Thanks to me ruining that plan, however, we are now off course. If our destination is Russia, that means we must be somewhere in between.
The scenery doesn’t hold any distinguishing landmarks. Just deep blue seas. But Saint did say we would be docking in an hour, so we have to be approaching land soon. I wait patiently because time is all I have of late, and after ten minutes, I see it…a rocky landscape in the distance.
I press my nose to the glass, my eyes scanning from left to right. There isn’t a hint of green. Just a sandy texture to the scenery. It looks dry and hot. I instantly think we’re in the Middle East.
As we drift farther, it becomes apparent by the old-world feel that we aren’t sailing into a big city. A few small fishing boats contain fisherman standing on the edge holding outdated fishing rods as they eye our fancy yacht.
The landscape is still sandy, and other than enormous hills, there is nothing to see. I try to distinguish anything that will give me a clue to where we are, but we could be anywhere. Though it’s obvious that wherever we are, we are certainly off the grid.
Defeat overtakes me because I was hoping we would at least dock in a major city, but the closer we get to the weatherworn, wooden port, it’s apparent that is not the case. I can see fish markets and other food stalls set up along the marina. Everything is simple. No fancy flashing lights or franchise brands in sight. The stalls are run by men in white robes, which seems to be the general attire for the populace.
Women wearing long gowns with head scarves carry local produce. This is clearly a fresh food market as such. The closer we get, the more attention we seem to attract as a lavish yacht such as this seems like an eyesore compared to the modest boats surrounding us.
Our speed slows, and the boat turns slightly to the left, finding a spot to dock. I continue watching, desperately seeking any hints as to where we are. When I see a woman on a cell, however, I don’t care because wherever we are has cell service.
