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“You probably want a shower? Use the bathroom?”
My full bladder rejoices, but I squash down the happiness as I don’t want to owe this asshole anything. I remain silent.
I’m expecting him to storm out, leaving me tied up, but he walks around the chair and uncuffs me. His fingers against my skin have me flinching as his touch is a reminder of what he did to me last night. He waits for me to move, but I don’t. I remain slumped forward, my arms hanging by my sides. The relief from being uncuffed is wonderful, but I remain unresponsive.
His heavy breathing indicates my silent act is pissing him off, but he can go to hell. “Fine, have it your way then.”
He marches up the stairs coolly, closing the hatch. The moment it seals shut, I fumble with the gag as my fingers are trembling, but when I eventually get it off, I throw it across the room. I gulp in mouthfuls of air and rub my aching arms. Gradually, I stand, as my legs are shaky and my body throbs. I waddle to the bathroom, thankful to use the toilet. Once I’m done, I shimmy out of the swimsuit.
I kick it out of sight as I never want to see the infernal thing ever again.
As I turn on the water and wait for it to run warm, I turn over my shoulder and glimpse the red lashes across my back, ass, and legs. They aren’t as bad as I thought, which means Saint went easy on me. But I already knew that.
In spite of that, I feel nauseous and jump into the shower, desperate to wash away the evidence as best I can. The water stings, but it’s an appreciated pain. After five minutes, I begin to feel and smell like me again.
Turning off the water, I dry myself and hobble over to the sink. Wiping down the glass, I gasp when I see my appearance. Who is this stranger staring back at me with lifeless eyes? I arch my neck and sigh. The inflamed rope burn has feelings of shame crushing me.
If it wasn’t for my shitty knot tying, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. Clutching the cross at my neck, I like to think it’s my father’s presence watching over me, lending me the strength I so need. “I promise you, I will never do that again,” I whisper to my mirror image, hopeful my dad can hear.
And I never will.
There is always another way. I can only hope that way is when we dock and get the hell off this boat.
Deciding to dress, I hunt through the chest, digging out a pair of white underwear from the bulk pack of ten and a green cotton summer dress. I can’t stand to wear anything tight or restricting as my skin hurts.
It’s still hard to believe they’ve packed me clothes and in my size, no less.
“Your husband sold you to Popov…”
Saint’s words echo loudly, but I shake my head, refusing to entertain that notion.
Once I’m dressed, I look around the room in vain, on the prowl for a weapon. There is no way Saint would leave me down here if there were. But I humor myself anyway. The only thing I find is a non-stick saucepan. I could linger in the shadows and strike whoever walks down those stairs unaware.
But then what?
If I come out swinging, I’ll be knocked to my ass before I can make it up one step.
Sighing, I give up my vigilante plans for now and make my way over to the window. Kneeling onto the bench seat, I peer out and attempt to gather my bearings and figure out where we are.
Seven days ago, I was in the Greek Islands. Then I believe we were on our way to Turkey. Thanks to me ruining that plan, however, we are now off course. If our destination is Russia, that means we must be somewhere in between.
The scenery doesn’t hold any distinguishing landmarks. Just deep blue seas. But Saint did say we would be docking in an hour, so we have to be approaching land soon. I wait patiently because time is all I have of late, and after ten minutes, I see it…a rocky landscape in the distance.
I press my nose to the glass, my eyes scanning from left to right. There isn’t a hint of green. Just a sandy texture to the scenery. It looks dry and hot. I instantly think we’re in the Middle East.
As we drift farther, it becomes apparent by the old-world feel that we aren’t sailing into a big city. A few small fishing boats contain fisherman standing on the edge holding outdated fishing rods as they eye our fancy yacht.
The landscape is still sandy, and other than enormous hills, there is nothing to see. I try to distinguish anything that will give me a clue to where we are, but we could be anywhere. Though it’s obvious that wherever we are, we are certainly off the grid.
Defeat overtakes me because I was hoping we would at least dock in a major city, but the closer we get to the weatherworn, wooden port, it’s apparent that is not the case. I can see fish markets and other food stalls set up along the marina. Everything is simple. No fancy flashing lights or franchise brands in sight. The stalls are run by men in white robes, which seems to be the general attire for the populace.
Women wearing long gowns with head scarves carry local produce. This is clearly a fresh food market as such. The closer we get, the more attention we seem to attract as a lavish yacht such as this seems like an eyesore compared to the modest boats surrounding us.
Our speed slows, and the boat turns slightly to the left, finding a spot to dock. I continue watching, desperately seeking any hints as to where we are. When I see a woman on a cell, however, I don’t care because wherever we are has cell service.
I’m lost in the foreign sights when the hatch opens. Peering toward it, I instantly shrink back when I see Kazimir walk down the stairs. The moment he sees me, his eyes narrow, and the hair at the back of my neck stands on end.
He isn’t wearing his ski mask, so I can see the angry, egg-sized lump on the side of his temple—the one I put there. “We docking now. You stay here.”
