by Dori Lavelle
I hear a click at the door again. This time Faith enters the cabin with a first aid kit and a small bowl. I have not seen her since the day she was introduced to me. Her face is blank as she comes to sit next to me. She points to my back and gestures for me to turn away from her. Too tired to question anything, I do as she says.
I wince when she lifts the negligée, which I’m sure is taking pieces of my skin with it.
As much as it hurts, it also feels comforting to be touched by someone who’s not Dax, someone who is gentle. Tears flood my eyes and roll down my cheeks. Maybe these people care after all. I don’t blame them for being afraid to show it when Dax is around. With the negligée lifted, my ass and my breasts are exposed, but I’m beyond caring at this point. There’s nothing on me they haven’t already seen.
As long as I’m on this yacht, my body is public property.
Faith takes her time cleaning my wounds and smearing ointment onto them while speaking to the others in a low voice. I wonder what she’s saying to them. I guess I’ll never know. When she’s done, she drops the blood-stained cotton balls into the bowl and hands me two pills. I glance down at them, suspicious, but the fire on my back reminds me that I cannot afford to reject any form of pain relief. I take the pills and wash them down with the glass of water Karl gives me.
Faith picks up a slice of bread and brings it to my mouth. My tears flow faster as she feeds me patiently.
The silence in the cabin is broken by the sound of a helicopter overhead. We all look up at the ceiling as if it were see-through.
Faith suddenly drops the piece of bread back into the tray and scurries out of the cabin with Karl at her heels.
My chest tightens. Please God, don’t let it be Dax. Don’t let him return before I get some sleep.
The sound of the helicopter soon disappears into the distance and silence returns. Only then do I notice that Mr. Mustache had not left with the others. I guess he has nothing to fear. I’m sure he has been instructed to keep a close eye on me.
Ignoring him, I push away the tray and lay myself down on the bed, my head resting on my hands. As I watch him watching me, an idea drops into my mind. This man is in charge. Maybe he’s the one I should make a connection with.
Silence stretches between us as I think of what to say to him, how to start up a conversation without arousing suspicion.
“Do you speak English?” I ask.
He scratches his beard for a moment then gives me another one of his winks. Is that his way of communication? I guess it’s better than no communication at all. His colleague, on the other hand, never shows any sign of emotion on his face.
“Little bit,” he says.
My heart lightens at his response. A little bit is a great place to start.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Otto.” He lifts his chin and puffs out his chest.
I don’t ask any more questions. It wouldn’t be a good idea to overwhelm him right at the beginning or to arouse suspicion.
To my surprise, he crosses the space between us and comes to crouch down close to where my head is resting. “My name is Otto,” he repeats slowly, like someone newly learning to speak. His breath is tainted by garlic and spice. My eyes widen when he raises a hand to touch a lock of my short, butchered hair.
The urge to move away and out of his reach tugs at my heart, but I stay put. I’ve just discovered the crack in Dax’s foundation. Otto had been winking at me because he likes me. I have to use his weakness to my advantage.
The second good news is, there can’t be any cameras in here. Otto would know if there were any, and he wouldn’t dare cross the line. Dax is not the kind of man to share his woman.
It could also be that the cameras are switched off, of course. Either way it’s a relief to know I’m not being watched by Dax from a distance.
Instead of pushing away Otto’s dirty hand, my gaze meets his lust-filled, slate gray eyes.
I will get off this yacht alive, and Otto is the person who will help me.
Otto leaves my bedside and goes to stand at the foot of the bed, a hand on his weapon.
We no longer speak until my medication kicks in to take the edge off the pain. My eyes close on their own and I tumble into the arms of sleep. This time, Otto does not wake me. He’s on my side.
Chapter Nine
When Dax returns at sunset, my heart turns a shade darker. Not long after his helicopter lands, he strides into my cabin, wearing a dark suit with no tie.
My gaze flickers to the glass wall. Thank God Otto returned to his station a couple of hours ago. There’s no knowing what Dax would have done if he found him in my cabin.
As Dax approaches the bed, Otto lowers himself onto his bench and watches. Does he wish it were him inside my cabin instead of Dax?
Otto looks away at the same time that I do.
Dax climbs into bed next to me. I try not to wince or recoil when he runs the tip of his finger down my cheek to my chin. He smells of soap and aftershave.
Unsmiling, he holds my gaze and searches my eyes. Does he know Otto was in here, that he got close to me? I doubt it. If he even suspects anything, I would be feeling the heat of his rage already.
I pull in a shaky breath and hold it for a few seconds before releasing.
What’s going on inside his sick mind? Why isn’t he saying anything? The wait is killing me.
“How are you feeling, my sweetheart?” His voice is smooth as he caresses my face and presses a kiss onto my forehead.
I swallow down the saliva I wish I could send flying into his sadistic face. But I’m still in too much pain to risk another beating.
“It hurts.” I grind the words between my teeth. Asshole. He has no right to inquire about my well-being when he’s the one responsible for my pain. “It hurts a lot.”
“Don’t worry, baby. I’m here now. I’ll take great care of you.” His expression hardens. “But you have to stop misbehaving. Don’t make me hurt you again. When you hurt, I hurt.”
Fuck off, you monster. That’s what I want to say, but I bite my tongue, hard. Instead, I give him a small nod.
“From now on, let’s have more fun together. I want us to be happy.”
“Yes.” I push the word through gritted teeth.
He lays his warm hand on my head, smooths back what’s left of my hair. “You are so beautiful.”
He’s such a liar. Thanks to him, I’ve never felt uglier. My hair is a mess and my face is puffy from crying.
Pretending to be loving, Dax doesn’t leave my side the entire night. He does everything to try and make me comfortable. He feeds me, reads to me in German, and even cleans and puts ointment on the wounds he inflicted.
“Dax,” I say when he closes the German book he was reading. “Are you German or—?” I clear my throat. “It’s just that you speak the language fluently.”
He smiles, clearly pleased that I’m talking to him. “My father was German. My mother was American.”
Annoyance at myself sweeps through me. This is a question I should have asked him in the early stages of our relationship. I should have asked more questions about his past. Maybe his answers would have triggered some kind of warning inside me before I got in too deep.
But, then again, Dax has never been keen on discussing his family or his past. That alone should have been a warning in itself. Naïve me thought he just didn’t want to be reminded of his parents’ death.
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.” He waves a hand. “It wasn’t important.”
I fight the urge to snort in his face and force a smile. “Can you teach me?” I ask and hold my breath. As I wait for his response, panic grips me. What if he thinks I want to learn German to help me escape?
In truth, I’m trying to kill two birds with one stone. Conversing with him is a way for me to occupy his mind so he doesn’t come up with new ways to hurt me, or try to fuck me. As long as he was reading, I was safe. I’m smart enough to k
now the peace between us will not last.
I’m surprised when he nods and flips the book open again. He starts to teach me some basic words. I swallow down each word as if it were dinner served to me on a silver platter. Each word could end up being the key to my escape.
“Have you ever lived in Germany?” I blurt out and immediately wish I could swallow my words when he narrows his eyes, eyebrows drawn together.
“Why so many questions, babe?”
“I just want to know more . . . about you. I’m interested.”
He clears his throat. “Well, I was born in Germany. My parents brought me to America when I was two.”
“Do you have any family members left in Germany?”
“No. They’re dead. All of them.” His tone has turned chilly. I’ve struck a chord.
“I’m sorry,” I lie. I don’t give a damn about him at all. A thief of another’s happiness doesn’t deserve to be happy.
“Enough questions. You need to rest.” He snaps the book shut, but keeps his hand on me, still trying to fool me into thinking he’s a different man, not the sadistic killer that he is.
After a while, he slings an arm around my body and pulls me close. My stomach clenches in reaction to the pain from his touch.
My fear that he might try to have sex with me doesn’t materialize. He only kisses my cheek and lies quietly next to me.
I close my eyes and listen to him breathe.
It’s so unfair. So many people die every day while this monster gets to breathe freely.
To make myself feel better, I visualize him being arrested, handled roughly by the police, thrown behind bars. I see myself standing on the other side of the bars, relieved and happy to watch him pay for everything he has done.
“Emma.” I jerk at the sound of his voice. I thought he was asleep.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I love you. I know you’re hurting. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”
“I miss my sister,” I blurt out. “Please, I need to contact her.” I swallow the tears pooling into my throat. “I just—just want to tell her that I’m okay. She must be so worried.” I hold my breath, wait for him to explode, to serve me another blow.
I turn my head to face him. His somber expression takes me by surprise. Where are the thunderclouds I know are hiding below the surface?
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He blows out a breath and lays a hand on my cheek. “Sweetheart, I didn’t want to tell you this yet because you’re in so much pain already.”
“Tell me what?” My stomach tightens. “What is it you don’t want to tell me?”
“You don’t have a sister . . . Not anymore.”
“Of course, I have a sister. What are you talking about?” I brush the tears from my cheek to see him better. “You know I have a sister.”
“Wrong.” He sits up and pushes himself to the edge of the bed. The white shirt he had been wearing with the suit jacket is crumpled now. “You had a sister.”
I’m quiet for a long time as my world starts to crash around me. “What did you do to her?” Fear claws at the back of my neck.
“I did nothing to her.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “The cancer is responsible.”
“No. What do you . . . no, Dax.” My hand clutches my stomach, bile threatening to push up my throat.
“She’s dead, baby. I’m so sorry to tell you this.” His face shows genuine emotion, so do his eyes, but he can’t fool me.
“You liar,” I shout. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I were. I hate to see you so upset.” He lays a hand on my foot. “She’s the reason I was away. I wanted to make sure it’s true, for you.”
“Don’t do this, Dax. Don’t lie to me. Not about this.”
“My darling, I wouldn’t lie about something like this.” He rises from the bed. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears from the cabin, but returns within minutes, during which I
feel as though everything in my life is being blown up into pieces.
He comes back holding what looks like a silver urn. The oxygen I snatch from the air and struggle to force into my lungs is not enough.
He comes to a halt in the middle of the cabin and lowers his gaze to the thing in his hands. “These are her ashes. I thought you might want them.”
His eyes still on me, he strides to the bed and places the urn on the bedside table.
I snap to a sitting position, all physical pains forgotten, my eyes hot with tears of fury. I slide my body to the other side of the bed, unable to be near it. “Don’t lie to me, you son of a bitch. You killed my sister.”
“I didn’t have to kill her. She had a ticking time bomb inside her body. We both knew that. I guess she didn’t have as much time left as the doctors claimed.”
“You’re such an ass,” I scream at him as tears roll down my cheeks. “My sister—she’s not dead.” Something about this is not right.
“Sweetheart, choosing not to believe the truth doesn’t make it go away. You don’t have a family anymore, not outside of this yacht. I’m the only one you’ve got, babe. I am your family now. The sooner you accept it, the less painful it would be for both of us.”
“Never. You’re full of shit.”
“Since you’re grieving your sister, I’ll ignore what you just said.” He jams his hands into his pockets and starts to pace. “But if you dare say that again, I’ll throw you into the dungeon.”
I don’t speak anymore as I lift the urn from the table, holding it to my body, in case it really does contain my sister’s remains. She had never shown interest in being cremated. My hands tremble as I lift the lid, look inside. I clap it shut again when I see the ashes.
“If you still don’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe this.” He reaches behind him and from his back pocket he pulls out a folded newspaper page. He throws it onto the bed next to me.
I pick it up slowly, afraid of what I might see. As soon as I flatten it out, my hand flies to my closing throat. It’s an obituary for Christa.
My body folds forward as cramps seize my stomach. He’s right. She’s really dead. I didn’t even get a chance to see her for the last time. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” I press my trembling lips together.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so very sorry.”
I’m too devastated and weak to respond or even fight him when he comes to hold me.
I weep in the arms of the devil, overcome with so much sorrow that I throw up on the bed.
Dax surprises me by getting a rag and wiping away my vomit himself from my mouth and my skin. Then he calls Faith to clean up the bed while he lowers me into the tub and washes me.
He spends the night with me, holding me as I stare into space like someone who has gone mad. Maybe I finally have.
Chapter Ten
It’s been three days since Dax told me Christa is dead. I still don’t want to believe it’s true. I’ve spent hours wrestling with my mind to prevent his words from sinking in, from becoming truth.
Since the moment he struck me with the news, he has barely left my side, insisting on taking care of me in his own twisted way.
It’s his fault that my sister is dead. I cannot say whether he has anything to do with her actual death, but he took me away from her. What if her condition worsened when she heard the news about me supposedly being a drug addict and checking myself into rehab without even informing her?
Numb with grief, I have refused any offer of food from Dax, drinking only water to stay alive.
“You have to eat, my darling,” he keeps repeating to me as he forces me to eat. Every time I turn my head away from him, gazing blankly into the distance, tears misting my eyes. I don’t speak to him and I try not to look at him.
Every second I expect him to grow impatient with me, to punish my indifference toward him. So far, he has kept his dark side tucked away, but there’s no doubt it will come out any moment.
He has stoppe
d reading to me in German. He’s not stupid. I’m pretty sure he figured out why I wanted to learn the language.
I’m curled up on the bed, my back to him, when he places a hand on my shoulder, moving it in circles over my itchy, healing wounds, offering me unwelcome comfort.
“Babe, don’t you want to do something about the ashes? We could hold some kind of memorial service for your sister, maybe scatter them on the ocean. What do you say?”
Ignoring him, I close my eyes and search for images of my sister inside my mind. The first image I see is that of her with her hands on her hips as she reprimanded me for swimming in the hotel pool. The stern look on her face could not hide the love she had for me.
Now he’s claiming she’s gone, and I didn’t get to say goodbye, to hear her laughter for the last time, or to hug her.
I hate that he’s right. In another place and time, I would’ve given Christa a proper send-off, but the idea of parting with the ashes makes my heart ache. If the ashes are really a product of her burned body, they are all I have left of her. Giving them away would mean accepting she’s gone. I don’t have the strength to handle it, not yet, perhaps never. In some weird way, having the ashes nearby makes me feel as though I’m close to her.
Even though it hurts to look at the urn, in a weird way I feel less alone with it close by.
“I know this is hard for you,” he whispers. I can feel his gaze on my skin. “But saying goodbye to her might make you feel better.”
“No,” I retort. “I’m keeping her… the ashes.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I don’t respond. After a round of silence, he sighs. “Fine.” He shrugs. “Well, it’s nice outside. How about we go out for some fresh air? You’ve been inside here for too long.”
I nod. Being inside this cabin is starting to feel claustrophobic.
“That’s my girl.” He places a hand on my arm, trying to help me up, but I shake him off.
I pull myself up in bed slowly. I can feel the tug of the dried-up wounds on my back, but they don’t hurt as much as they did when they were fresh. Or maybe it’s just because my physical pain is no longer my priority.
