I didn’t like the emotions surging through me. I should’ve been grateful it was her and not me, but I felt humiliated. Dejected. Rejected. I should’ve been disgusted by the sounds of their sex, steadfast in my hatred of Damian, but I was wobbly and confused.
The woman cried out when she climaxed—a sharp, shuddering sigh. Everything went still, except for the sound of heavy breathing. It didn’t last long though. The pounding resumed. I could hear her begging, pleading, but I didn’t know whether it was for him to stop or not stop.
They moved away from the door. There was a crash. Something cluttered to the floor. I closed my eyes, hoping to shut out the guttural sounds coming from the galley. It’s a silly thing we do—shutting our eyes to stop ourselves from hearing something. And it made it worse. I could picture them in the room now, her bent over the chair as he took her like an animal, because that’s what sex with Damian sounded like—wild and primal and ferocious.
It went on forever. The man was a beast. When he let go, it was in a series of short, breathless grunts. I unclenched my teeth, realizing I’d been coiled up through the whole thing, as if I’d been there with him.
The woman said something, but it was too soft for me to catch. I thought I heard Damian laugh, but I couldn’t picture him doing that—ever—so I must have imagined it. They conversed in low tones for a while. Then I heard their footsteps up on deck.
Damian was paying the men, or the woman, or both. Fuel and water for the boat, a good fuck for its owner. We were all set. I didn’t stand a chance—there would be no opportunity to escape. I listened to the drone of the pangas fading into the distance.
Damian entered the room when they were gone. He was still wearing his baseball cap. I doubted he’d let the woman see his full face, or if he’d even completely disrobed. Probably just dropped his pants and taken her against the door.
He surveyed me as I lay on the bed, my legs splayed, with nothing on but my shorts and my bra. “Dinner,” he said, as he removed the gag from my mouth.
“I’m not hungry.”
He took his time undoing the straps around my legs and wrists.
“I think you’re forgetting how this works,” he said quietly, deliberately examining my bandaged finger.
He didn’t have to say anything else. I loathed him, loathed myself for letting him break me. I followed him out to the galley, rubbing my sore wrists. He unfolded a greasy paper bag and placed some hot dogs on a plate. I should have been all over them after days of fish and rice, but all I could smell was Scent of Whore. The dish rack was on the floor and things looked liked they’d been swept right off the counter.
“Eat.” Damian wolfed down his share, and started putting away the supplies he’d picked up.
When the fridge was stocked up, he got a can-opener and opened a can of evaporated milk. I watched him pour it into a clear, lidded jar. I guessed it stored better than fresh milk. He turned to the coffee maker and started measuring out the coffee.
My eyes fell on the jagged, metal top of the can he’d just opened. It was lying in the garbage, by my feet. I reached down and grabbed it. Damian still had his back to me.
I closed my palm over the circular piece of tin and felt the sharp, barbed edge. That’s what I needed to sink into his jugular.
On five, Skye. On five.
I took a deep breath and counted down.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . .
I caught him as he turned. It was a perfect cut, except he intercepted my wrist before I could go deeper. His eyes widened at the sharp, piercing pain before the hard thwack of his slap hit me. He flung me clear across the kitchen, my cheek turning red from the imprint of his palm.
He plucked the metal out of his neck and clamped his hand to the wound. I wanted his blood to spurt out onto the counter, where he’d spilled mine. I wanted him to fall to his knees and die in a pool of red vengeance. I wanted to see me in his eyes when he took his last breath.
None of that happened. Damian swore and removed his hand to inspect the damage. It was a nice sized gash, but I had just scratched the surface—a couple of Band-Aids and he’d be good to go. He started walking towards me, an unrelenting, indestructible force that I just couldn’t get away from, and I broke down. I nursed my throbbing cheek and sobbed. And sobbed.
“If you can’t take, don’t give,” he growled.
If you can’t take, don’t give.
If you can’t take don’t give.
A boy I once adored had said that. Right after he’d knocked Gideon Benedict St. John’s tooth out.
My thoughts flip-flopped like livewires on an overloaded circuit.
No.
Every atom in me rebelled at the idea.
I looked up at the figure looming over me. The boy had changed into a man—his body had changed, his voice had changed, his face had changed. But people’s eyes should never be so different that you no longer recognized their souls; they should never turn so hard that they shut all the doors to the past.
“Esteban?” I whispered.
No. Please say no.