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But the problem is…where the fuck are we?
Day 10
ICAN’T BREATHE.
Water fills my lungs, and no matter how hard I try to break the surface, I continue sinking. My muscles ache. I kick my legs and use my arms, but it’s useless, and eventually, I surrender to the darkness. Everything falls quiet, and I await the tender embrace of death. It’s a relief, in a sense, because what do I have waiting for me? My husband is possibly not the man I thought him to be, and after everything I’ve seen and done these past ten days, how can I go home and pretend none of it happened?
My heart begins to slow, and I don’t fight it. Once upon a time when I believed in God, I would expect my father to be waiting for me in front of those pearly white gates, welcoming me home. But after everything I’ve been through, it’s safe to say I’m on my own.
I close my eyes, surrounded by peace…finally. There is no more pain. No more tears. But more importantly, no more shame for wanting a man who I shouldn’t. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.” His words shouldn’t hold such comfort, but they do. “We’re almost there.”
But I push them aside and focus on floating away.
Abruptly, however, the silence shatters as those chartreuse swirls come to life before me, and those sinful lips utter a name.
Ah???.
My body constricts, and everything warms as a spicy sweet taste lingers on my tongue. “Breathe, ah???.”
Those two simple words are like an electric shock to my heart. The darkness soon becomes light as the air in my lungs is from the lifeforce Saint breathes into me. He’s bringing me back to life.
“That’s it.” I follow his voice and wade through the stagnation before I surface and free myself from the manacles weighing me down.
My first sense of awareness comes when I gag on the saltiness from coughing up water to free my airways so I can breathe. The second thing that hits me is that I’m lying on rocks and sand. And lastly, I’m here with Saint. But the question is, where is here?
Electrocuted back to life, I spring up, coughing madly as I wheeze for air. It’s sensory overload as I attempt to uncover where I am. My head snaps from left to right to gauge my surroundings, but I have no idea where we are.
From looks alone, it appears we’re on an island and a deserted one at that. Dense greenery surrounds us. There are no hotels. No jetties. No people. Nothing.
It’s dark out, but dawn is lingering. A new beginning is close by. When I clear the fog, I immediately search for Saint. I don’t have far to look. He’s crouched by my side, running a hand through his wet hair.
A life vest and a first-aid kit sit a few feet away—the one I tossed his way before I…oh, god.
The last thing I remember was sinking our boat. I didn’t think it would work, but clearly, it did because here I am, surrounded by…nothing.
“Wh”—I clear my raspy throat—“where are we?” It hurts to speak. Actually, I ache all over. On instinct, I rub the back of my head. When I feel the grapefruit-sized lump, I groan.
Saint leaves his hand atop his head, clutching the strands. “I don’t know,” he replies, stumped. “I don’t know how long I was asleep before…” He doesn’t need to elaborate. “When we capsized, you hit your head. Your life vest came off, so you were sinking.
“I pulled you to safety. You were out cold, so I swam.” Swam? If I was out cold, that means he was my arms, legs, my heart. “I don’t know how long for, but after what felt like half an hour or so, I saw land. But the waters turned rough again. We got swept up in a wave and were separated, but when I finally found you, you were drowning. You had stopped breathing.”
Thinking back to feeling weightless, I now know it was because I was drowning, but the fact that I’m here now confirms I was saved—by Saint.
“Thankfully, the wave pushed us toward land and well”—he sweeps his hand outward—“here we are.”
“What about the rest of the men?”
Saint raises his shoulders in an untroubled shrug. “They all got what was owed to them.”
The thought of our attackers has me remembering Saint’s wound. Without thought, I reach out and attempt to shift his soggy shirt aside so I can see his wound. On instinct, however, his hand shoots out and grips my wrist to stop me.
Peering up at him, I question, “It’s okay for you to touch me, but it’s not okay for me to touch you?” It’s no secret that Saint shies away from being touched, but considering we almost died, I thought things would be different.
I don’t pull out of his hold, but instead, I deadpan him. The dynamics have changed. We are both prisoners, prisoners to this forsaken island. Saint clenches his jaw, but he eventually loosens his grip. I don’t make a fuss because even though it feels good to take back a small piece of my independence, I don’t want to push my luck.
Our situation may have changed, but that doesn’t mean Saint will have turned into a soft, cuddly teddy bear. I only have to think about what he did to those men to remember, stranded or not, he’s still a hitman, and I’m still here against my will.
His shirt is torn, so I move it aside gently to see the gaping, weeping wound is still very much there. “How are you still alive?” I say more to myself than to him.
