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I only know how to do this thanks to the first-aid skills Lea taught me.
My eyes flicker as I almost pass out from the pain. But I shake my head and breathe in and out heavily. Once the dizziness subsides, and I think I can walk without throwing up, I head for the small window near the sink and cautiously peer out of it.
I ensure to stay out of sight, shielding myself as I scope out what’s going on outside. I can’t see much, just a flurry of shadows. Cursing, I decide to use the window in the bathroom. Hobbling toward it, I brush the sweaty hair from my eyes and position myself so I can hopefully see what’s going on outside.
I can hear the voices clearer. One belongs to Saint. And another deep, menacing voice belongs to a stranger. Craning my neck, I stand on tippy toes for a better look, but when my vision focuses on a figure, I almost fall from my perch.
Ensuring I’m not seeing things, I press my nose to the glass, and when I see the unmissable uniform of a police officer, adrenaline soars through me, and I run for the hatch. My breath is heavy, and my heart is in my throat because the police are here. In moments, I will be rescued. This must be because of Drew. I feel awful for doubting him for even a second.
Charging up the stairs, I throw open the hatch and almost fall flat onto the deck as my feet can’t keep up. “Help me! Please!” However, what I see before me has me skidding to a sudden stop.
The full moon is high above me, a true spotlight for me to see my colossal fuckup. Before me stands eight men. Three I know. The rest I do not. And from the filthy look of them, I don’t want to get to know them.
The man in uniform, my supposed savior, is indeed wearing a police outfit, but in no way is he here to protect me. His long dreadlocks fall limply around his dirty face. His toothless smile lifts when he sees me—I’m a lamb to slaughter.
The air is heavy with utter fury, and it takes my breath away. When I center on the reason, I forget everything and instead give way to the absolute beauty in front of me. A broad, golden back faces me, each sculptured muscle catching the moonlight, emphasizing the perfection to not only the canvas but also to the artwork which adorns it—Saint’s creation.
Angel wings which glisten to life are tattooed across his back and shoulders, and then running down the length of his hulking arms. The delicate feathers sweep across his rippling biceps and curve downward, stopping halfway down his taunt forearms. His name is all the more intriguing now.
I know it’s him because I’m intoxicated by those eyes as he glares wickedly at me over his shoulder. He is wearing his ski mask as he clearly doesn’t want this band of nomads to know his identity either. But he is topless, and seeing him bare does something—it makes him human.
The man in uniform who lurks toward me, however, is not. “Oh, I’ll help you,” he says in an accent I can’t quite place. Persian maybe? He is beyond tanned, his skin resembling leather from clearly being at sea for a while.
I don’t know how he got that police uniform, and I have no interest in finding out because everything about this man screams danger. His fellow sailors, dressed in ripped and dirty rags, follow him, sneering. Are they pirates? I suddenly wish for the friendly Captain Jack Sparrow.
I instantly back up.
“Now aren’t you a pretty thing. We haven’t seen a girl like you for quite some time, have we, boys?” They nod and grunt in acknowledgment. “With all the pretty soft skin, I bet you taste like a cherry.” He snaps whatever remaining teeth he has left together.
I stand tall, but the predatory behaviors of these men have me fearing for my life.
Saint turns slowly, watching to see how I handle myself. His chest and stomach are yet another creation adorned with more ink, but I don’t have time to appreciate it or the silver bar piercing his left nipple.
“How much?” the man asks, and I pale.
“She’s not for sale,” Saint barks. I exhale in relief.
“Everyone has a price,” he argues, continuing to advance. I am hit with his stench—stale piss, sweat, and rum.
“She doesn’t,” Saint replies, unbending. The two Russians stand by him, rubbing the back of their necks. They are clearly worried.
Saint, however, is as calm as can be.
The man runs a hand over his unkempt beard. His long fingernails have thick dirt caked underneath them. I swallow down my revulsion. “Okay, friend. How about I pay for an hour with her? A few bottles of wine and some precious jewels should do.”
“I’m not a whore,” I spit, storming forward. What century are they living in anyway? Who trades goods for sex?
However, setting sights on their wooden ship, which does resemble a pirate boat, I figure this is the law of the sea. These people are true nomads, sailing the seas and robbing and pillaging where they can.
“Good, I like them virtuous. They always seem to scream the loudest.” I feel sick to my stomach as his slippery tongue licks his dry bottom lip.
Saint is our barrier, the point of no return. When the man gets closer and closer, I peer around for a weapon because I don’t know if Saint will protect me or feed me to the wolves for my defiance.
“You smell like lavender,” he groans, rearranging the front of his pants. Just as he advances, I recoil swiftly, but Saint’s arm snaps out and stops the man from taking another step. “I only need twenty minutes. I’ll pay you two thousand dollars.”
His friends gripe, clearly not seeing my value to match that of what their leader just offered. “Pipe,” one of them says, but Pipe, the man in uniform, holds up his hand, signaling this isn’t negotiable.
“Two thousand dollars?” Saint whistles, shaking his head. “That’s a lot of money.”
