by Amelia Wilde
She won’t close her legs.
She can’t.
I circle her hole with my fingertips until she starts making noise again. Small, pathetic things, slutty wishes without words. She’s wetter now. I’m braced over her, but I have enough room to put my foot on the ball and kick it away from the bed, creating tension in the chain.
Let her feel that.
She does.
Her body sags into the bed and she brings it back to neutral, trying her best to keep her hips from moving. She’s committed now. Not going to let on that she needs me. I laugh at her, giving my fingertips enough room to feel her swallow while I keep her head turned.
And then I shove two fingers inside her.
She gasps, those slick muscles clenching down around my knuckles, but she keeps her hips down. I can feel how badly she wants to move. Feel it in my palms and in the rest of me, too.
I draw my fingers out slowly.
Push them back in hard.
It’s another kind of torture, going slow. But that’s how I’ll break her of this nonsense. That’s how I’ll tease her enough to get some sort of satisfaction. Not nearly enough of it, that’s for fucking sure. She moans and I add another finger and twist.
Her cries have turned short and sharp. Begging cries. I let her do it long enough to shame her before I finally give her what she wants.
My thumb on her clit.
The moment I make contact she breaks her own rules. Ashley arches off the bed and into me, as close as she can get. As close as she was in the water, but she’s half naked and I’m fully fucking clothed and it is killing me. I finger-fuck her back across the bed until it’s not me she’s straining against, it’s the chain around her ankle, and I lean down to speak directly into her ear.
“Do you feel that?”
A sob. “Yes.”
I fuck her harder, as deep as I can get. “I’m not talking about my fingers, princess.”
“I—” Her eyelashes look so long in the moonlight, her cheeks so flushed and mortified. “I feel the chain too.” When she says it her hips rise off the bed and her pussy grips my fingers tighter.
“It must be embarrassing for you.” More pressure on her clit. More tiny circles.
“What must be?”
I won’t let her look at me. If I let her look at me, if I let her turn her head, then I’ll take her out of this bed right now and fuck her over my desk.
“Coming so much harder because there’s a chain on your ankle.”
“No,” she breathes, and then her entire body tenses and curves. She comes hard all over my fingers, her legs open wide for me, one hand on her shirt and the other clutching the sheets. The shirt goes up an inch, then another, and she shudders out the peak of it while I fuck her through it.
It’s hard to stop.
But I do it.
I pull my fingers out of her and wipe them across her shirt—my shirt—and stand up.
Ashley gapes at me, astonishment written all over her. You’re leaving? is written all over her.
Fuck yes I am.
Back on the deck I hop up on the railing and lean out far enough to get hit with ocean spray. I’d let myself fall, but I have a call to make. “Nicholas,” I bark.
Far down the deck there’s a creak of a hammock, and then he’s leaning on the railing next to me.
“You have my phone?”
“Yeah.” He hands it over.
I hook my feet through the bottom rung and swipe the phone open. The number I need is in the dossier.
“Who are you calling?” Nicholas asks.
“How the fuck is that your business?”
“Do you speak to your mother with that mouth?”
I swing a fist around toward his face and connect mostly with his cheek. My own ribs contract around my lungs. “Next time you give me that kind of lip I’ll jump down with you.”
“Why?” My first mate rubs at his cheek and plays sullen, but he’s curious.
“To hold your head under.” The words taste like lake water. “I’m calling the father.”
He drops his hand to his side. “Ransom?”
“What else?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d drop her off for free.” He heads back toward his hammock.
“You’re fucking funny,” I call after him, and then I dial.
Joseph Donnelly is waiting for me, or someone like me. I know, because I’ve dialed the direct line to his private office. No secretary to waste my time. There’s a hitch before the call connects. Empty space, and the hope of a worried parent. “Hello?”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
There’s a brief scrambling on the other end of the line. “Who is this?”
“I met your daughter on spring break. She’s having the time of her life.”
“Do you have her?” I can hear the hope in his voice. The fear. The grief.
“How much do you miss her?”
Joseph curses under his breath. “Whoever this is, if you’re fucking with me—”
“I wouldn’t fuck with you. Your daughter, on the other hand, she’s much prettier. I wouldn’t mind spending time on a deserted island with her.”
A crash in the background of the call. “What’s your price?” He’s trying to be cool, Joey boy. But he’s not doing a very good job. “What’s your name?”
I don’t bother giving him my name. I give him something more important—the amount. Along with the details of the account where he can send the money.
He takes a heartbeat to answer, his words stretched tight with fury. “She’s returned to me unharmed. Untouched. She’s my daughter. You haven’t touched her. Tell me you haven’t touched her, God damn you to hell.”
“Not yet,” I lie. “She’s tempting, though. I wouldn’t wait too long to pay up.”
And then I end the call, leaving him alone a thousand miles away, raging about what I might do to Daddy’s little girl. It’s more money than he’d have in liquid assets. It will take a few days for him to pull together the money. Maybe another day to contemplate bringing in the cops. Enough time for me to enjoy the sweet little hostage in my room.
9
Ashley
In the morning I can feel the echoes of his hands on me.
Fortunately, Poseidon isn’t in the room to witness my futile attempts to get the chain off my leg or the awkward five minutes I spend trying to figure out the best way to carry it around with me. It’s got to be twenty pounds.
Fine. I won’t escape. But that doesn’t mean I’m staying in bed all day.
I do my best with my hair in the bathroom and do a more thorough search in there. It’s pretty barren, as far as bathrooms go, but there is toothpaste and a toothbrush still in its packaging. I find another pair of pants and a clean shirt. It’s Poseidon’s own fault that he’ll have more laundry. The pants are their own special adventure, what with the chain, but it turns out the ball fits through the ankle hole. I don’t look normal when I’m dressed, but I look normal enough to walk down to the galley.
I’m hungry.
Ravenously hungry.
That’s what I get, I suppose, for going on a midnight swim and then...
All the rest.
I follow the scent of something cooking down the hallway. Then comes the clatter of pots, the slice of a knife. A pass-through window opens to a steel, industrial looking kitchen. So I didn’t imagine this. Or the oatmeal.
There are stools on this side of the window, making a kind of bar. They’re too high for me to reach with the heavy ball on the floor. Humiliation warms my body from the inside out. I take the ball in both arms, climb up, and perch it in my lap.
It’s weird, I think, for a ship like this to have a set of stools near a pass-through window. In the movies, pirates eat in a different room from the kitchen. I don’t know where that room is on this ship. The movies are a terrible guide to real-life pirate ships.
For a minute I let myself stew in the shame of being her
e like this, trapped in literal iron, but the empty pit in my stomach wins out.
“Cook?”
The metallic clanging stops. Through the strange angle of the window I can see part of his back, but after a hesitation his face comes into view.
He’s older, but I can’t tell how much older. Weathered skin. A birthmark across one cheek. Gray eyes that could be blue if he were out on deck, but I can’t imagine him spending much time in the sun. He’s got a rolling pin in both hands, and from the way he looks at me, I can tell this is going to be an uphill battle.
“Am I too late for breakfast?”
“Yes.” He turns away and goes back to his project of the morning.
I have an enormous ball on my lap. It gives me patience I otherwise might not have. Patience to let him start making noise again.
“Cook?”
He comes back. This time, his eyebrows are brought low over his eyes.
“I understand that I’m late for breakfast, but do you have any eggs left over? Or toast?” My stomach growls loudly as I say it. I couldn’t have wished for better timing.
“Yes.” He delivers this with a flick of his eyes that might be a roll, but he turns his back too quickly to see.
A pounding noise comes from the cooking area now. Eggs don’t involve pounding.
I wait a bit longer. “Cook?”
When he returns, he passes the rolling pin from one hand to the other. It would be threatening if he slapped it against his palm, but the way he’s doing it doesn’t seem dangerous. It seems more curious than anything. Curious about why yours truly would have the gall to sit here and bother him until he finally snaps.
But he doesn’t snap.
He presses his lips tight together, watching me.
Then he clears his throat. “What is it you want from me?”
“Eggs. Also, bacon, but I don’t think you have that. Also, toast. I haven’t eaten in what feels like a hundred years, and I think you’re the kind of guy who could make really good eggs.”
He huffs, adjacent to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Is this how you always are?”
“Annoying?”
The corner of his mouth turns upward. “I could spare a couple of eggs.”
It must be a giant stove back there, with pots and pans on hooks and in cupboards. One of them bangs down on the stove. The seal of a fridge door pops, and the door swings shut a moment later.
I’m willing to sit here in silence if it gets me a breakfast that’s not oatmeal. I would kill for salt. And not because Poseidon kissed me in the ocean. That has nothing to do with it. I’m sure it has to do with being dehydrated. Electrolytes, and all that.
“How do you like them?”
The question takes me by surprise, but I’ve been quietly fantasizing about eggs long enough that I have an answer. “Scrambled. Not—not dry.”
He makes an almost-laugh sound again, like he cannot believe the audacity of me. It’s an opening. “You’re a mouthy one for a hostage, you know that?”
Hostage. I choose to ignore that. “How long have you worked on ships?”
“Longer than you’ve been alive.”
I run a hand over the ball. It’s old, that much is obvious. But the ball itself is shiny and smooth. Like someone treasured it for a long time. “Have you always worked on this ship, or do you go wherever the sea is calm?”
“Calm seas,” he bursts out. His voice is gruff, sharp, but his tone isn't wounding. It’s like he doesn't speak to people very often. “No. Where I go has nothing to do with the state of the sea.”
A toaster dings. A plate clatters against metal. A saltshaker grinds. A minute later the cook reappears and slides a plate in front of me. He did not, in fact, have bacon. He had a sausage patty, two scrambled eggs, and a stack of toast. He reaches across and gives me a fork wrapped in a paper napkin.
“There.” He folds his arms over his chest but doesn’t retreat back out of sight. “That’ll taste decent. Not like the slop I feed everyone else.”
I put a hand to my heart. “I’m grateful.”
“Don’t waste time on that. It’s getting cold.”
No more wasted time, then. The food is good. It’s so good. And it’s not because it’s the first real food I’ve had since I threw myself off Robbie’s yacht. It has the perfect amount of butter and salt, and it’s warm, and I need it.
“You really feed them slop?” I ask around a mouthful of toast.
Cook waves this off. “It’s not going to be five stars if I can make it in a vat.”
My nerves make it hard to swallow. This is the longest conversation I’ve had with anyone on the ship, and I want to learn things like I want to keep breathing. This little back and forth could fall apart at any minute. I keep my eyes on my plate. “Poseidon doesn’t like the food to be good?”
“Poseidon likes the food to be available and in quantity. It doesn’t have to be fit for people like you. Sailors aren’t a fancy bunch.”
I put some egg on toast and take a bite. “How long have you known him?”
Some of the openness in his face—which isn’t much—closes off again. “Long enough to know you don’t want to test him.”
“Test him like jumping off the ship?”
He gazes into the middle distance, shaking his head. “No. I wouldn’t jump off the ship anymore.”
“Because he has a temper.”
“That’s not what it is.” He takes a step back toward his stove.
“What is it, then?” I look him in the eye, fork poised above the rest of my food. “Tell me about him. Nobody else is going to. He’s not going to.” I lay the fork across the sausage patty, though I want to eat it more than I’ve wanted most things in my life. “Please?”
Cook sighs. His shoulders hunch forward an inch, and worry clouds his eyes. Worry for me? He doesn’t have to be worried. I don’t think things can get much worse than being finger-fucked by a man who has put a literal ball and chain around your ankle. The worst thing would be liking it and thinking about it the next morning.
Not that I’m going to announce that during this conversation.
“A few years back we were out on a job, like usual. He never stays long at any one port. Doesn’t like to be in sight of the land.” He shakes off the topic and stands up straight. “We were meeting with another captain at sea, and the deal went bad.”
The cook’s voice sounds pinched. He doesn’t want to tell me this. “How bad?”
“Captain cheated him.” His eyes go to the floor now, away from mine. “Poseidon doesn’t tolerate being cheated. He made an example of them.”
“Of who?”
“Of the entire ship. Every person on the ship. Every crew member. He killed them all and threw them overboard. When he was done he set the ship on fire.”
I can picture it. That’s the scariest part. I can see him causing mayhem on deck. I can see the way his blue-green eyes would reflect back the embers of a burning ship. Nothing scares Poseidon. He’d brush his hands together and sail away without a backward glance.
From the expression on Cook’s face, that’s exactly what he did.
“And he did this because he...lost money?”
His eyes snap back to mine. “It wasn’t about the money. It’s almost never about the money. He wanted to send a message to the entire ocean about what happens to people who cross him.”
A shiver moves over my skin. “And did he?”
He won’t meet my eyes for this part. As soon as he’s back at the stove, a pan scrapes across a metallic surface, then bangs into it. “I think they already knew.”
10
Poseidon
I hear the chain before I see her.
Ashley pads along the deck with the ball in her arms so the chain doesn’t drag. It’s a subtle sound, but I’m listening for it. The moon is past its peak when she comes to stand beside me at the railing. I’ve been here for several hours, restless, that anticipation dogging me once again. Something’s coming.
I will be fucking pissed if that something is only Ashley, coming up on the deck.
But not that pissed.
“You should be asleep.”
“Yeah, well, it’s hard to sleep when my leg is chained in this thing.”
It’s impressive how fast she’s gotten used to it. A light blush plays over cheekbones. Not the bright-red shame I’d prefer. That’s the thing about her. I wouldn’t put it past her to jump overboard with the fucking ball and chain. She’d have a one-way ticket to the depths and I’d probably drown trying to save her.
The ocean laps against the side of the ship, making the silence almost comfortable. It’ll never be comfortable, not really. Silence means that things are about to get worse.
I should pay more attention to that warning.
I should send Ashley back home.
She’s too much trouble. She tempts me too much.
I can’t picture letting her go.
“Did you talk to my dad yet?”
Her question is so soft in the night, and her voice doesn’t shake at all.
Surprising, because she should know what a risk she’s taking to stand this close to me. I’ve wanted to cage her against the railing and make her cry since I first heard her footsteps. Since before then.
But she asked me a question, didn’t she? “I gave him the bank account to wire the money. It hasn’t happened yet.”
Ashley swallows hard and looks away. “What happens if he doesn’t pay?”
He’ll pay. The man is going to pay, even if he doesn’t love her. Any asshole can sound angry on the phone. That doesn’t mean pure love is the reason he’s willing to part with the price I set. The reason doesn’t matter. Payment isn’t the question.
The question is whether I’ll be able to send her back when I have his money.
Night wind ruffles her hair, and Ashley lets a stray lock skim across her face when she turns to look back at me. Her eyes seem brighter in the moonlight. I put a hand in my pocket to keep from tucking her hair behind her ear like some lovesick fucker. My brothers can tie themselves in knots over the women they’re obsessed with. Not me. I’m not going to do it.
