Come and Get Me

THE ANCHOR OF DESIRE

The darkness was absolute, save for the rhythmic, ghostly pulsing of the emergency lights submerged beneath the rising tide.

The water was waist-high now, a frigid contrast to the feverish heat radiating from Elena’s body.

The yacht groaned, a dying beast shifting its weight as it prepared for the final descent into the abyss.

Dominic’s teeth clamped onto the serrated hilt of the knife his mother had tossed.

With a violent, neck-straining jerk, he sawed through the silk restraints.

The moment his hands snapped free, the blood rushed back to his fingertips in a painful, needle-like prickle. He didn't waste a second.

He grabbed Elena by the waist, hauling her upright as she slumped against him, her mind still lost in the chemical haze of the serum.

"Elena! Look at me!" he roared over the sound of rushing water.

She blinked, her dark eyes unfocused, her lips swollen and bruised from their encounter. "Dominic... It’s so cold..."

"Move," he commanded, shoving her toward the steel operating table.

But as he moved to find a way out, the yacht lurched again. Elena slipped, her wet feet losing purchase on the slick floor.

She fell forward, her hands catching the edge of the table, her body instinctively arching her back to stabilise herself.

The sight hit Dominic like a physical blow.

In the flickering strobe of the emergency lights, her backside was a masterpiece of pale skin and desperation.

The white lace stay-ups were still anchored to her thighs, but the back of her uniform was shredded, revealing the elegant curve of her spine and the rounded, rhythmic pulse of her hips.

The serum in Dominic’s blood hadn't finished its work.

Seeing her like that—vulnerable, arched, and dripping with the remnants of their shared f**k—triggered a surge of territorial lust that overrode the survival instinct screaming in his brain.

He didn't just want to escape; he wanted to reclaim the power she had helped Marcus steal.

He moved behind her, his body a shadow in the rising water.

He pressed his chest against her cool back, his hands sliding around to grip her hips with a bruising intensity.

"Dominic?" she gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. "What are you—"

"You wanted to see me break?" he whispered into her ear, his voice dark and jagged. "Watch me survive."

He didn't ask.

He reached down, guided his hard c**k—which had remained a thrumming, angry pillar of heat—to her opening. She was so wet from the serum and the sea that he slid in with a sickeningly perfect squelch.

Elena let out a shattered moan, her fingers clawing at the metal table. "Oh god... Dominic..."

He began to come from behind, his movements primal and rhythmic.

Every thrust sent a spray of salt water flying.

Because she was arching her back, he was hitting her deeper than before, his d**k bottoming out against her cervix with every violent shove.

The sensation was amplified by the cold water swirling around his thighs, making the heat of her internal walls feel like molten lava.

"Higher," he barked.

Elena obeyed, her pride long gone, her body a slave to the neural feedback.

She pushed her hips back into him, meeting every thrust with a desperate hunger.

She began to ride him from the front of the table, her hands bracing her weight as she tilted her pelvis to catch every inch of him.

The sound of their bodies colliding—a wet, rhythmic slapping—competed with the roar of the ocean.

Dominic watched the muscles in her backside flex and release, the dim light catching the droplets of water on her skin.

He was a man drowning in more ways than one.

"The key..." she sobbed, her head tossing wildly. "I... I can feel it... the frequency..."

"Forget the key," Dominic growled, his hands moving up to cup her heavy breasts, his thumbs rolling over her n*****s until they were hard as stones. "Feel me."

He accelerated, his thrusts becoming a blurred frenzy.

He was no longer a doctor or a genius; he was a force of nature.

Elena’s p***y clamped down on him, milking him with a ferocity that threatened to snap his spine. She hit her climax first, her body shuddering so violently she nearly slipped into the water, her internal walls pulsing in waves that dragged him over the edge.

Dominic let out a guttural scream, his c*m firing into her depths in a hot, rhythmic sequence that felt like it was purging the poison from his soul.

They collapsed against each other, the water now reaching their chests.

The room was tilting further into the dark.

"Dominic," Elena whispered, her voice finally clear. "The door... the second lock..."

Dominic looked toward the shadows. The clicking sound he had heard earlier returned. But it wasn't a lock being engaged. It was a countdown.

A small, red digital timer was mounted to the emergency hatch above them.

00:15... 00:14...

"The boat isn't just sinking," Dominic realised, his blood turning to ice.

"She’s scuttling it. It’s a thermite charge."

He grabbed the knife he had used to cut his ties. He didn't have time for the door.

He looked at the heavy glass partition that had shattered earlier. If he could bridge the gap to the ventilation shaft—

"Get on my back!" he ordered.

Elena didn't hesitate.

She climbed onto him, her legs wrapping around his waist.

Dominic lunged for the rising water, swimming toward the shattered glass. He felt the heat of the thermite charge beginning to glow in the ceiling.

As they reached the vent, a hand reached down through the grate.

It wasn't his mother. It wasn't Marcus.

It was Vivienne. Her glasses were gone, her face streaked with blood and grease.

"Move!" she hissed, reaching for Dominic’s hand.

"Marcus is waiting at the surface with the secondary team.

He’s going to kill everyone on this boat, including Celia."

"Why are you helping us?" Dominic asked as he hauled Elena up.

Vivienne looked him dead in the eye, a cold, predatory smile touching her lips. "Because I don't want to be a tech anymore, Dominic.

I want to be the CEO. And you’re the only one who knows the backdoor codes to the offshore accounts."

The timer hit 00:03.

They scrambled into the vent just as a blinding white light consumed the hold.

The yacht didn't just sink. It vanished.

Dominic, Elena, and Vivienne breached the surface of the freezing Atlantic, bobbing in the dark water.

The only light came from the distant, retreating silhouette of a second yacht.

But as Dominic looked around, he realised they weren't alone in the water.

Floating ten feet away was a black briefcase.

The one Celia had been carrying.

And attached to it was a tracking beacon that began to beep with a steady, haunting rhythm.

The hunt wasn't over. It had just moved to the open sea.

Who was following the beacon?