by Monica James
He frantically shoves at my forehead, trying to pry me off, but I only bite down harder, shaking my head from side to side. He called me a bitch, so I intend to act like one. Rage overtakes me, and all I want to do is hurt him just how he did to me.
The moment the gun drops from his hand and tumbles to the floor, I hear an ear-splitting roar. The room then explodes into pandemonium.
I use my ears as I’m still on my knees with a locked jaw, gnawing off this bastard’s dick. When I taste blood, it only has me biting down harder. Fighting erupts around me, and I can only hope Saint is the one delivering those punishing punches.
Kazimir begins twitching, and I assume he’s on the cusp of passing out from the pain. I should feel remorse, but I don’t. Blood and spittle trickle down my chin.
I jolt violently when I hear gunshots pop around the small room, but when I feel a comforting touch at the back of my neck, I sag in relief. “Aнгел, let him go.”
The thought of letting this bastard go after what he’s done to me feels almost blasphemous, causing me to snarl. But when Saint strokes along my cheek, I eventually comply. My jaw aches as I slowly release him, and Kazimir drops to the floor, twitching as blood spurts from the gaping wound I inflicted at the base of his dick.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, transfixed as it comes away with blood. But when what I did smashes into me, my stomach roils, and I feel bile rising. I lunge forward on all fours and throw up violently. My body shudders, and my head grows light.
“Go upstairs,” Saint gently orders, arranging my bra and dress as best he can so I’m no longer bare.
The wind still howls around us, rocking the boat from side to side. So if Saint believes being up there in the storm is safer than being down here, I’m afraid to know what he’s about to do.
When I think I can breathe again, I lift my head gradually and peer up at Saint. My bloody warrior is slathered in war paint while his victims lay in broken, lifeless heaps around the room.
“Being Popov’s number one…hitman.”
This is just another day in the office for Saint. Being around blood, gore, and murder is nothing new for a hitman.
Saint crouches before me, carefully reaching out as if he doesn’t want to spook me. But I remain perfectly still. He grips my chin between his thumb and forefinger, sweeping his thumb under my lip as if wiping it clean. I realize I’m still coated in blood when his thumb comes away with a smear of red. “Go,” he commands softly, his eyes combing over every inch of my face.
There is so much I want to say, but it will have to wait.
On hands and knees, I feel almost feral, but I suppose what I did to Kazimir can classify as being animalistic. I’ve crossed a line, and I have a feeling it’s just the beginning. Slowly rising, I step over the unmoving bodies, pulling it together.
As I open the door, I almost tumble over from the force of the wind. The weather is punishing, but I persevere and slam the door shut behind me. The heavy rain pelts down around me, making it hard to see and hear. Brushing the hair from my face, I peer around from left to right, squinting to see if I can find a life vest. The boat thrashes to the side, but I hold the railing to keep my balance. The waves crash down around me, and a bolt of lightning illuminates just how rough the waters really are.
My body shivers, though it’s not from the cold or being soaking wet; it’s from the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I focus on the small glass window on the door. When I see consecutive booms of light, I shudder, knowing what they are.
Gunshots.
Kazimir has paid the ultimate price for betraying Saint. They all have. Everything suddenly crashes into me, and I feel faint. My legs are as firm as overcooked spaghetti, and I slump to the floor. Tears merge with the rain, and soon, I can’t tell the difference between the two.
Who have I become? Just a few minutes ago, I was intent on gnawing off a man’s penis. If Saint hadn’t stopped me, I would be sitting here picking the flesh from my teeth. Opening my mouth, I tip my face to the heavens, needing to be baptized and wash away my sins.
I scrub at my face, mouth, and chest, but my immoralities have marred my soul forever.
“It’s okay, ahгел.” It’s Saint. I don’t even know how long he’s been here.
“No, it’s really not,” I cry, shaking my head from side to side. “Are they dead?”
His silence is all the answer I need.
“So what now?” I risk a look at Saint, who is clutching his side. Blood trickles through his fingers, reminding me just how serious his wound is. “Oh my god. Let me look.”
He doesn’t fight me when I hesitantly reach up and gently remove his warm fingers, the hands which saved my life. When I see blood oozing from the deep gash, I gasp at his stab wound. “You need stitches,” I shout to be heard over the roar of the rain.
“I’m fine.”
“Stop being a jackass and let me help you!” I yell, uncaring if he punishes me for my disobedience. At this rate, he’ll bleed out anyway.
A ghost of a smile plays at his lips. “There’s a first-aid kit over there.” He gestures with his chin to a box near the wheel. As he takes a step toward it, he stumbles to the right and pales. I worry he’s about to pass out.
Instantly springing up, I wrap my arm around his middle to support him. It was pure instinct to save him. Timidly peering up at him from under my lashes, I realize my body is pressed quite close to his. It feels good to have him near. I feel safe.
His wet hair flicks forward as he stares down at me, ripping the air from my lungs. A bead of water backflips from a strand of his hair and lands directly on my lips. Again, impulse takes over, and my tongue shoots out to sample the offering. It tastes how he smells—spicy and sweet.
His eyes widen, and his lips part. Most of the blood has washed off him, but he still appears wild. He slouches against me, his heavy breathing warming my dowsed cheeks. My heart begins a pitter-patter, and the uncontrollable urge to…kiss him overwhelms me.
My mouth waters as the small taste I had was just a tease. I want more.
Absolutely horrified at my thoughts, I slowly untangle myself, ensuring he’s steady on his feet. He nods once, indicating he’s fine as he slouches onto the railing so he can sit. Needing to put some distance between us, I make a mad dash for the kit.
I’m silently berating myself, wondering what is wrong with me. Even though Saint saved me, that doesn’t excuse the fact he’s the reason I’m out here in the first place. Nor does it change his occupation. I need to focus on what comes next instead of romanticizing about how his lips would feel against mine.
The rain, if possible, begins to get denser, so much so, I can barely see two feet in front of me. I grab the kit, and when I see two life vests, I have the sense to snare them as well. A thunderclap rumbles, and I scream, my already frayed nerves not needing the extra tension.
Just as I’m about to turn around, I feel it. The crackle of something sinister lurking. I should have known this wasn’t over.
Spinning swiftly, I brush the rain from my face and squint, but what I see—there must be some mistake. But there isn’t. Standing a few feet away is Saint, and he’s surrounded by four filthy men. They are no doubt part of Gringo’s crew.
Where did they come from?
The moon comes out of hiding, showcasing the fishing boat swaying in the distance. They were no doubt awaiting Gringo’s cue, and when they didn’t get one, they knew trouble lingered, and they’ve come armed to the teeth.
There is no way Saint and I will get out of this alive, especially when they see their friends butchered downstairs. I watch as they yank Saint up brutally, shoving him and screaming. Through the rain, I lock eyes with him, desperate to save him just how he did for me.
“I have money. You can have it. Just let her go.”
This isn’t the end. I need answers, and I’ll be damned if I die without them.
Searching frantically for an escape route, I ignore the man char
ging toward me with his gun raised. When I hear Saint grunt in pain, I look down at the first-aid kit, and then at where it came from. The wheel.
Grabbing the first-aid kit, I frantically throw the life vest over my head. I try my best to toss one Saint’s way before I run to the helm, peer into the heavens, and spin it like it’s a wheel of fortune.
“I didn’t think you’d care if we capsized.”
Saint is right yet again.
The boat tips violently to the left, sending me off balance, but I grip the wheel and continue to turn it. The monster waves aid my ploy as it tips us further over until before long, the boat begins to take on water.
It seems like something out of a movie as torrents of water wrap around us and drag us toward a watery grave. Screams sound around me as our boat begins to submerge, and an enormous wave swallows us whole. I’ve probably killed us all, but it looks like I got what I’ve always wanted—I’ve gotten off this fucking boat.
She saved my fucking life. This strong, brave, courageous woman saved my life. She had every right to let me drown, but she didn’t. She threw me a life vest, took the wheel, and showed us all who had the bigger balls.
But the problem is…where the fuck are we?
Day 10
I CAN’T BREATHE.
Water fills my lungs, and no matter how hard I try to break the surface, I continue sinking. My muscles ache. I kick my legs and use my arms, but it’s useless, and eventually, I surrender to the darkness. Everything falls quiet, and I await the tender embrace of death. It’s a relief, in a sense, because what do I have waiting for me? My husband is possibly not the man I thought him to be, and after everything I’ve seen and done these past ten days, how can I go home and pretend none of it happened?
My heart begins to slow, and I don’t fight it. Once upon a time when I believed in God, I would expect my father to be waiting for me in front of those pearly white gates, welcoming me home. But after everything I’ve been through, it’s safe to say I’m on my own.
I close my eyes, surrounded by peace…finally. There is no more pain. No more tears. But more importantly, no more shame for wanting a man who I shouldn’t. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.” His words shouldn’t hold such comfort, but they do. “We’re almost there.”
But I push them aside and focus on floating away.
Abruptly, however, the silence shatters as those chartreuse swirls come to life before me, and those sinful lips utter a name.
Ahгел.
My body constricts, and everything warms as a spicy sweet taste lingers on my tongue. “Breathe, ahгел.”
Those two simple words are like an electric shock to my heart. The darkness soon becomes light as the air in my lungs is from the lifeforce Saint breathes into me. He’s bringing me back to life.
“That’s it.” I follow his voice and wade through the stagnation before I surface and free myself from the manacles weighing me down.
My first sense of awareness comes when I gag on the saltiness from coughing up water to free my airways so I can breathe. The second thing that hits me is that I’m lying on rocks and sand. And lastly, I’m here with Saint. But the question is, where is here?
Electrocuted back to life, I spring up, coughing madly as I wheeze for air. It’s sensory overload as I attempt to uncover where I am. My head snaps from left to right to gauge my surroundings, but I have no idea where we are.
From looks alone, it appears we’re on an island and a deserted one at that. Dense greenery surrounds us. There are no hotels. No jetties. No people. Nothing.
It’s dark out, but dawn is lingering. A new beginning is close by. When I clear the fog, I immediately search for Saint. I don’t have far to look. He’s crouched by my side, running a hand through his wet hair.
A life vest and a first-aid kit sit a few feet away—the one I tossed his way before I…oh, god.
The last thing I remember was sinking our boat. I didn’t think it would work, but clearly, it did because here I am, surrounded by…nothing.
“Wh”—I clear my raspy throat—“where are we?” It hurts to speak. Actually, I ache all over. On instinct, I rub the back of my head. When I feel the grapefruit-sized lump, I groan.
Saint leaves his hand atop his head, clutching the strands. “I don’t know,” he replies, stumped. “I don’t know how long I was asleep before…” He doesn’t need to elaborate. “When we capsized, you hit your head. Your life vest came off, so you were sinking.
“I pulled you to safety. You were out cold, so I swam.” Swam? If I was out cold, that means he was my arms, legs, my heart. “I don’t know how long for, but after what felt like half an hour or so, I saw land. But the waters turned rough again. We got swept up in a wave and were separated, but when I finally found you, you were drowning. You had stopped breathing.”
Thinking back to feeling weightless, I now know it was because I was drowning, but the fact that I’m here now confirms I was saved—by Saint.
“Thankfully, the wave pushed us toward land and well”—he sweeps his hand outward—“here we are.”
“What about the rest of the men?”
Saint raises his shoulders in an untroubled shrug. “They all got what was owed to them.”
The thought of our attackers has me remembering Saint’s wound. Without thought, I reach out and attempt to shift his soggy shirt aside so I can see his wound. On instinct, however, his hand shoots out and grips my wrist to stop me.
Peering up at him, I question, “It’s okay for you to touch me, but it’s not okay for me to touch you?” It’s no secret that Saint shies away from being touched, but considering we almost died, I thought things would be different.
I don’t pull out of his hold, but instead, I deadpan him. The dynamics have changed. We are both prisoners, prisoners to this forsaken island. Saint clenches his jaw, but he eventually loosens his grip. I don’t make a fuss because even though it feels good to take back a small piece of my independence, I don’t want to push my luck.
Our situation may have changed, but that doesn’t mean Saint will have turned into a soft, cuddly teddy bear. I only have to think about what he did to those men to remember, stranded or not, he’s still a hitman, and I’m still here against my will.
His shirt is torn, so I move it aside gently to see the gaping, weeping wound is still very much there. “How are you still alive?” I say more to myself than to him.
“It’s just a scratch.” He plays it off, but the hiss that escapes him when I gently prod around the gash reveals he’s in pain.
“Let me see what’s in the first-aid kit.” Even though I was out cold, I’m glad I had the good sense to clutch onto the kit because it’ll come in handy as god knows what lurks in the thick jungle.
My legs are shaky, but I come to a slow stand and hobble to the kit. I should be thankful I’m walking at all, seeing as I would be dead if it wasn’t for Saint. The fact I was out cold means he swam me to safety even though he was injured. It would have been easier for him to let me drown as I can imagine he could barely swim for one person, let alone two.
So helping him is the least I can do.
“Take off your shirt,” I instruct, walking back over to where he sits. He doesn’t argue and slips it over his head.
Even under the veil of darkness, his ripped body comes to life. But I focus on what’s inside the kit as I open it up. Tylenol, alcohol wipes, bandages, gauze, and some sort of ointment. When I see a sewing kit, a knife, and a gun, my stomach drops.
This isn’t your standard first-aid kit. It’s the essential go-to for every hitman.
Dropping to my knees, I place the kit on the sand beside me and tear open the packet of wipes. I don’t bother with a countdown and begin to clean the area gently. The jagged flesh will no doubt leave a scar, but what’s one more as his body is covered in them.
I silently wipe the wound, using a new wipe to disinfect the area as best I can. His eyes watch my every move; I can feel them. The scrutiny has my
fingers shaking, but I pull it together because for what I propose next, I will need a steady hand.
“I need to close it up. A simple Band-Aid won’t fix this.”
Gazing up at him from under my lashes, I wait for him to reply. The air is charged as I’m asking him to trust me to sew him back up. Beads of water coat his golden skin, collecting in the dark hair on his chest. My eyes leisurely drift to the barbell in his nipple. I’ve never really been a fan of ink or piercings, but having both within inches of me, I am suddenly a convert.
“Okay,” he finally says, his low voice adding to my nerves.
“Can you lean back a little? I need to get the skin as tight as possible.” He does as I ask, leaning back on his arms. The expanse of his torso has me wetting my lips because everything undulates as he shifts to get comfortable.
“I’ve never done this before,” I confess, unwrapping the sewing kit. When I see the needle and thread, my hands begin to sweat. “I don’t want to make a mess.”
“I’m already ruined, so what’s one more scar?” he confesses, surprising me. I wouldn’t refer to the sight before me as ruined. Each scar tells a story, showing the world you were stronger than whatever tried to beat you.
I don’t voice that aloud, though, as I attempt to thread the black yarn through the eye of the needle. My trembling fingers display my nerves, but Saint doesn’t move. He simply sits back and waits. After countless attempts, I finally get it through.
Now the hard part. I can’t imagine this will feel good. No matter how I go about it, it’s going to hurt like a bitch. Swallowing down my fear, I wipe down the needle with the disinfectant and exhale loudly.
“If you need me to stop, just tell me.” I meet his eyes, unable to read what flickers behind his.
“I won’t,” he replies firmly. He isn’t trying to be tough. It’s clear he’s done this before so a breather won’t be necessary.
With that as my green light, I position myself as best I can, count to three in my head, then pierce his skin with the needle and thread. I cringe at the absolutely disgusting sight, but I continue threading the thread through.
