Page 31 of Break Out the Girl

François stands at the bow, legs braced against the fiberglass deck, as his black eyes scan the blank horizon. Every few seconds, the air around him seems to shimmer. Does that mean his beast-senses are activated?

If so—good.

I’ve a feeling we’ve a battle ahead. And that’s not just navigating a channel of shifting sand, then trying to land a boat on an unknown island away from the main dock and any cameras. The Grieves aren’t fools. I imagine they have highly trained guards protecting their ‘investments’.

I clamp my hand on the metal rail, watching the dark water churn. For several minutes all we hear is the whine of the engine, a far off fog horn from something, and London singing about the ‘alley, alley, oh,’ on repeat. But the further we get out into the channel, the lower and slower his voice becomes.

Until it dries up altogether.

“London?” Aurora asks, leaning forward, her yellow coat a bright spot in the fog. “You OK?”

He doesn't answer her, just stares straight ahead, fingers gripping the steering wheel tight.

The set of his shoulders becomes hunched.

The wolf inside me senses the growing turmoil inside him.

Pack. Pain.

And it’s not just my beast. Those strange starlight bonds that seem to connect us all are also quivering. Something is definitely wrong with London.

“Hey, kid,” I grunt, stepping closer until my shoulder brushes his. “Are we approaching the shallows yet?”

“The shelf…the shallows." His voice is entirely devoid of its usual energy. It’s flat. Hollow. “Left hand, left hand,” he mutters, then shakes his head from side to side violently. “It’s OK, just a quick trip. No sleepovers. Just a quick trip.”

I look from his bleak profile to his white knuckles and the pieces in my head suddenly slam together with an unwelcome click.

Fuck.

The red tattoo of a product number is burned into London’s chest, just like Sky. I knew that. That’s why he’s here in the first place.

But I’d not spent a second considering what revisiting this hell hole would put him through. He’d have been transported across these very waters as a terrified sixteen year old.

And that journey would just have been the tip of the iceberg. The beginning of a tortuous life that I don’t even want to imagine.

London shifts the throttle, dropping the speed until the hull settles deep into the black, oily swells. “Burt,” London mutters, not looking at me. “Silt's coming up, gonna clog the pipes. Not good.”

The jet engine dies with a soft hiss.

The silence of the open ocean rolls over us, thick and heavy.

Do I say anything? Acknowledge what he’s facing?

Or will that make it harder?

I clap a hand on his shoulder, feeling out of my depth. “Good eye, London. Stopped just in time then.” I sound ridiculously hearty. Like my dad when he tried to talk to give me the ‘sex talk’.

“De Vaux, drop anchor,” I call out, but London mumbles something and pushes past me, grabbing the long coil of chain and casting it out himself.

“We’re sailing the rest of the way?” Aurora asks, trying to find her balance in the rocking boat.

“Sail away, sail away,” London whispers, straightening up again, his face pale and eyes haunted.

Shit, should he stay in the boat and just me and François head onto the island?

It’s not a bad idea, Aurora could keep behind with him, and that would make sure she was safe. Though I can’t imagine Rory agreeing to that plan.

I look at her. She’s watching London intently.