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Wanting to get as close as possible to the radio, I sit across from Saint on a small wooden bench seat. Sitting cross-legged, I place my plate on my lap and the coffee beside me. I reach for the biscuit and separate it into two pieces. Using my fork, I pile on the fluffy scrambled eggs onto one side before sealing it shut.
A perfect meal.
The moment I take a bite, a small moan leaves me as my taste buds sing in delight. It’s the first real thing I’ve eaten in days. Uncaring I look like a caveman, I shove the entire biscuit into my mouth, stuffing my cheeks full.
Once I’m done gulping that down, I dig into the hash browns, scraping the plate clean. It takes me all of five minutes to finish my meal. Leaning back against the railing, I place my hands on my full stomach and sigh.
That was so unladylike, but lucky for me, I don’t care. Saint only sees me as a means to an end anyway, so why bother with manners. However, I risk a glance his way, and if I didn’t know any better, I could swear I see his lips twitch. But that’s impossible.
As I sip my coffee, my mind wanders to Drew. It’s been four days since I was kidnapped. He must be beside himself.
We didn’t even get a chance to consummate our marriage. What a cruel fucking joke. The need to escape has never been more crucial.
“When will we arrive at wherever we’re going?” I ask cautiously, unsure how he’ll respond.
His fork pauses en route to his mouth.
I know I’m overstepping a boundary, but he did say if I behaved, he’d reward me. And the fact I didn’t stab him in the jugularisme behaving. I don’t expect much, so when he replies, I almost fall from my seat.
“A week. Give or take. Then we go by car.”
“Go where?” I ask in a small voice.
He finishes his eggs, appearing to need the time to prepare his response. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
His ominous reply has tears welling in my eyes. “Will you let me go?”
“No, I can’t,” he replies, averting his eyes. It’s the first sign he’s expressed that reveals he’s human.
“Where I’m going”— I pause, steadying my quaking voice —“will it hurt?”
“Yes,” he simply yet remorsefully responds.
“Will I ever be able to go home?” I work my bottom lip, fearful, but better I know.
Silence.
The only sound is the gentle sway of the ocean. But in that silence is a riotous ruckus within me.
“…No.”
A single tear scores my cheek as Saint locks eyes with me. I’m trying to be strong, but I’ve just been told that life as I know it has changed forever.
“Will you be there?” I ask, picking at my dusty pink nail polish. “Wherever there is.”
I don’t know why it matters, but a familiar face or, rather, a familiar swirl of chartreuse might ease the pain. But this is all a false sense of security because nothing ever will.
“No…Willow, I won’t be.”
I gasp. It’s the first time he’s used my name, and it sounds almost forbidden slipping past his lips. In some ways, I know that it is.
I sniff back my tears, attempting to be strong, but the quiver to my lower lip gives me away. “So you’re just going to deliver me and then what? Get paid?”
He stands abruptly, passing a hand over his head. I presume this is an involuntary habit of his because if not for the ski mask, he’d be able to run his fingers through his hair. “I don’t get paid how you think I do.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means”—he interlaces his hands behind his nape—“that I don’t get paid with money.”
