I watch as he slices through the ropes and tape binding me. The skin on my wrists is flayed and dripping with blood. When removing the restraints tears off small pieces, I flinch, despite trying not to.
“Idiot.” Over his shoulder, he tells April, “Make sure you get a first aid kit and wrap these up when she’s done showering.”
April nods.
Is she mute? The question enters my mind as Vander crouches to slice through my ankle restraints and peels them off, cursing again and sending stabs of pain through my legs.
“Get in the fucking shower. April will have something for you to wear after she cleans these up. Don’t do anything stupid.”
With his last warning delivered, Vander rises and strides from the room, slamming the door behind him.
April’s dark eyes meet mine as she jerks her head toward the bathroom door. “Go. Don’t make me hurt you.”
She speaks.
I stand slowly and carefully, hoping I don’t fall on my face and give her a reason to kill me.
I’m not going to let them kill me. Dane is still out there.
As I walk toward the bathroom, the tears I thought I’d cried out burn behind my eyes.
Unless he’s already dead.
No. I don’t believe that.
I force the thoughts away and step into the opulent white-and-gold bathroom. Fluffy white towels are rolled and tucked into niches in the wall near the shower enclosure.
I make a mistake, glancing into the mirror above the sink, and freeze.
A wide dark bruise is beginning to show on my cheekbone. My eyes are bloodshot. The corner of my mouth is bleeding.
How is he going to hide all that for the photos?
The obvious answer occurs to me. “Photoshop. He’s going to Photoshop me.”
Human trafficking 101.
My shoulders slump, and I’ve never looked more defeated.
Fuck them. Fuck this.
I swallow back the pity and straighten. I’m better than this. I won’t cower.
“Get in the fucking shower.” April’s reflection appears in the mirror as she steps closer. “Don’t waste my time, or I promise you’ll regret it.”
I turn for the shower, and without caring that she’s going to see me naked, I strip the torn and dirty cover-up over my head and drop it on the floor before reaching for the door.
After turning the water on, I wait for it to get hot before stepping into the stream. It stings my cuts and torn skin, but within moments, I’m thankful for it. I reach for the soap, wishing it was as easy to scrub away today as the dirt marking my skin.
I try to stretch out my shower as long as I can until April bangs on the glass enclosure and throws a towel halfway over it.
“Wrap it up. Food is here.”
Until the moment she said food, I would have sworn that there was no way I could choke down a single bite of anything. But as soon as April steps out of the bathroom, the aroma of something amazing wafts into the room and my stomach growls.
“Really?” I say it out loud as I shut off the water and reach for the towel.
Apparently kidnapping doesn’t slow down my appetite. I’ll be led like the fatted calf to the sacrificial altar. At this point, I know my brain can’t really comprehend what’s happening, because all I can think about is stuffing myself until I can’t eat another bite.
And pray that somewhere out there, Dane is still breathing, and maybe, if there’s any kind of divine guidance, attempting another rescue.
I secure the towel around myself after drying off and step back into the bedroom where my bare feet sink into the plush white carpet. Well, white except for the bloodstains I left on it. Maybe they’ll be evidence for some CSI unit if this yacht is ever searched.
How are you going to explain that, Vander?
A tray is set up on a small table with two chairs on the opposite side of the room where I was tied up, and April nods at the chair, going back to wordless communication. I sit and unwrap a linen napkin from around a knife and fork. A knife . . . It’s not much, but it’s something.
I pick up the fork as a tremor grips my hand. When the fork lands on the silver tray with a metallic clatter, I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat and suck in a breath to calm myself.
I think this is the longest I’ve gone since my mother’s diagnosis without worrying about whether I have ALS. Probably because I might not live long enough to find out.
Pushing the thought out of my head, I pick up the fork again and dig into a steaming mound of scrambled eggs with what looks like grilled vegetables, crusty French bread, and jam.
In my peripheral vision, I see April watching me from her cross-armed position at the door.
I shovel in bite after bite, testing the limits of my stomach, not stopping until only a few bread crumbs remain.
Another knock comes at the door, and I turn to see April open it.
“Clothes and first aid kit, as requested.”
She grunts in response to the female voice, and takes an armful of fabric and a red bag through the small opening before shutting the door again.
I close my fingers around the butter knife and slip my hand under the table to hide it in the folds of my towel, then pretend to pick up crumbs with my fingers to get every morsel.
April walks toward me but pauses to toss the clothes on the bed before reaching the table. She shoves aside my breakfast tray and drops the red bag on the table.
“Give me your wrists.”
I hold out both hands, although with some apprehension. With that wicked knife at her hip and the angry expression on her face, she looks like she could just as easily slice a vein and leave me here to bleed out as administer first aid.
She unzips the bag, ignoring my compliance, and pulls out a bottle of peroxide, some antibiotic ointment, and bandages. She grabs my hands, flips open the cap on the peroxide, and douses the cuts.
“Shit!” The curse escapes my lips, and my instinct is to jerk away.