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By the time I complete my routine, the face that peers at me from the mirror is cool and composed, with makeup covering the worst of the whisker burns on my jawline and along my neck. My lips are still puffy from Alexei’s bruising kisses, but with my signature red lipstick painted on, it’s as if a skilled surgeon has given me a touch of filler.
I look like myself, even though my body feels like that of a stranger.
I half-expect Alexei to be in the bedroom, waiting for me as he did yesterday, but the room is empty when I come out. Feeling incalculably grateful, I hurry to the closet and get dressed, pulling on one of the many designer cocktail dresses my captor has procured for me. There are also more casual, comfortable clothes—shorts, T-shirts, soft cotton sundresses—but I have no intention of being comfortable here, with him.
A pair of strappy designer heels completes my look, and then… I don’t know what to do. Do I stay in the cabin, waiting for him to appear? Or do I go out there and expedite the inevitable confrontation?
My stomach makes the decision for me by emitting a loud growl. I have no idea what time it is, but my last meal—just a few bites of the lavish spread Alexei’s cook, Vika, prepared for us—was at some point yesterday, long before the sun went down. Was it lunch? A very early dinner? No idea, but my body is convinced it’s starving. Already, I can feel a headache building, the pressure gathering to squeeze my temples in a familiar vise. Of course, in my case, that’s more likely to be due to stress than to hunger, but still, a nice, solid breakfast couldn’t hurt.
As I exit the cabin and head toward the stairs, I realize I’m thinking about food to stop myself from dwelling on the cold, hollow ache in my stomach, the one I get each time I think about being tied permanently to Alexei.
No, it’s not hunger hollowing out my insides.
It’s fear.
Fear and dread, overlaid with growing despair.
For a decade, I’ve run from my fate, hoping to escape it, but it’s caught up to me. He’s caught up to me—and there’s no longer any chance of escape. I’m on a boat in the middle of the ocean with a monster who’s made it his life’s goal to have me… and now he does.
Stop it. Think about food. Only food.
Sunlight blinds me when I emerge onto the deck. It’s a beautiful day, warm with just a hint of a breeze. After yesterday’s storm, the air feels lighter and fresher, the sky once again a clear, brilliant blue.
Nobody is on the deck or anywhere in sight. I’m both disappointed and glad. The confrontation I’ve been mentally gearing up for has been postponed.
My stomach growls again, demanding sustenance, but I ignore it. I’m pretty sure the kitchen is by the nose of the boat, but I’m not ready to go over there yet. Instead, I walk over to the railing and squint into the distance, trying to figure out if there’s something out there or if my imagination is playing tricks on me.
If there’s so much as a hint of land in sight, I will dive into that water, sharks and my mediocre swimming skills be damned. But there’s nothing. Just blue water, extending all the way to the horizon. Whatever I thought I saw must’ve just been the sun reflecting off the water. Still, I stand by the railing, staring and wishing—
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
My captor’s deep voice is low and furious, his fingers biting into my shoulder as he spins me around to face him. I’m so startled my left heel buckles underneath me, and for the second time in my life, Alexei Leonov saves me from falling—this time, possibly overboard—by gripping both of my arms.
Breathing shallowly, I stare up at his thunder-dark face as a treacherous fire kindles in my veins and spreads to my core. He’s glowering at me, his near-black eyes narrowed into slits, and all I can think about is what he did to me yesterday, about the sublime mix of pain and ecstasy he wrenched from my body, over and over again.
“Were you going to jump?” he demands in the same harsh tone, his grip on me painfully tight, and I realize what he thought when he saw me… what he feared.
It’s not an entirely baseless fear. Six years ago, during those dark months after my parents’ deaths, I might’ve jumped, even with no land in sight.
A faint outline of an idea flickers into existence. Before I can think better of it, I lift my chin and ask coolly, “And if I were?”
Maybe, just maybe, if he thinks I’m suicidal, he might—
“Then I will lock you in the cabin, or better yet, chain you to my bed.”
