BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Five-2

I’m expecting him to storm out, leaving me tied up, but he walks around the chair and uncuffs me. His fingers against my skin have me flinching as his touch is a reminder of what he did to me last night. He waits for me to move, but I don’t. I remain slumped forward, my arms hanging by my sides. The relief from being uncuffed is wonderful, but I remain unresponsive.

His heavy breathing indicates my silent act is pissing him off, but he can go to hell. “Fine, have it your way then.”

He marches up the stairs coolly, closing the hatch. The moment it seals shut, I fumble with the gag as my fingers are trembling, but when I eventually get it off, I throw it across the room. I gulp in mouthfuls of air and rub my aching arms. Gradually, I stand, as my legs are shaky and my body throbs. I waddle to the bathroom, thankful to use the toilet. Once I’m done, I shimmy out of the swimsuit.

I kick it out of sight as I never want to see the infernal thing ever again.

As I turn on the water and wait for it to run warm, I turn over my shoulder and glimpse the red lashes across my back, ass, and legs. They aren’t as bad as I thought, which means Saint went easy on me. But I already knew that.

In spite of that, I feel nauseous and jump into the shower, desperate to wash away the evidence as best I can. The water stings, but it’s an appreciated pain. After five minutes, I begin to feel and smell like me again.

Turning off the water, I dry myself and hobble over to the sink. Wiping down the glass, I gasp when I see my appearance. Who is this stranger staring back at me with lifeless eyes? I arch my neck and sigh. The inflamed rope burn has feelings of shame crushing me.

If it wasn’t for my shitty knot tying, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. Clutching the cross at my neck, I like to think it’s my father’s presence watching over me, lending me the strength I so need. “I promise you, I will never do that again,” I whisper to my mirror image, hopeful my dad can hear.

And I never will.

There is always another way. I can only hope that way is when we dock and get the hell off this boat.

Deciding to dress, I hunt through the chest, digging out a pair of white underwear from the bulk pack of ten and a green cotton summer dress. I can’t stand to wear anything tight or restricting as my skin hurts.

It’s still hard to believe they’ve packed me clothes and in my size, no less.

“Your husband sold you to Popov…”

Saint’s words echo loudly, but I shake my head, refusing to entertain that notion.

Once I’m dressed, I look around the room in vain, on the prowl for a weapon. There is no way Saint would leave me down here if there were. But I humor myself anyway. The only thing I find is a non-stick saucepan. I could linger in the shadows and strike whoever walks down those stairs unaware.

But then what?

If I come out swinging, I’ll be knocked to my ass before I can make it up one step.

Sighing, I give up my vigilante plans for now and make my way over to the window. Kneeling onto the bench seat, I peer out and attempt to gather my bearings and figure out where we are.

Seven days ago, I was in the Greek Islands. Then I believe we were on our way to Turkey. Thanks to me ruining that plan, however, we are now off course. If our destination is Russia, that means we must be somewhere in between.

The scenery doesn’t hold any distinguishing landmarks. Just deep blue seas. But Saint did say we would be docking in an hour, so we have to be approaching land soon. I wait patiently because time is all I have of late, and after ten minutes, I see it…a rocky landscape in the distance.

I press my nose to the glass, my eyes scanning from left to right. There isn’t a hint of green. Just a sandy texture to the scenery. It looks dry and hot. I instantly think we’re in the Middle East.

As we drift farther, it becomes apparent by the old-world feel that we aren’t sailing into a big city. A few small fishing boats contain fisherman standing on the edge holding outdated fishing rods as they eye our fancy yacht.

The landscape is still sandy, and other than enormous hills, there is nothing to see. I try to distinguish anything that will give me a clue to where we are, but we could be anywhere. Though it’s obvious that wherever we are, we are certainly off the grid.

Defeat overtakes me because I was hoping we would at least dock in a major city, but the closer we get to the weatherworn, wooden port, it’s apparent that is not the case. I can see fish markets and other food stalls set up along the marina. Everything is simple. No fancy flashing lights or franchise brands in sight. The stalls are run by men in white robes, which seems to be the general attire for the populace.

Women wearing long gowns with head scarves carry local produce. This is clearly a fresh food market as such. The closer we get, the more attention we seem to attract as a lavish yacht such as this seems like an eyesore compared to the modest boats surrounding us.

Our speed slows, and the boat turns slightly to the left, finding a spot to dock. I continue watching, desperately seeking any hints as to where we are. When I see a woman on a cell, however, I don’t care because wherever we are has cell service.

I’m lost in the foreign sights when the hatch opens. Peering toward it, I instantly shrink back when I see Kazimir walk down the stairs. The moment he sees me, his eyes narrow, and the hair at the back of my neck stands on end.

He isn’t wearing his ski mask, so I can see the angry, egg-sized lump on the side of his temple—the one I put there. “We docking now. You stay here.”

I open my mouth, about to protest, but he stalks forward.

“Just in case you get any ideas.”

I have no idea what he means until he makes his intentions crystal clear. He stops in front of me, sizing me up. The waves of fury can be felt rolling off him, and just when I’m about to back away, he slaps my cheek—hard. I instantly taste blood.

Cupping my cheek as I turn my face away from him, stunned pants leave me as my brain tries to come to terms with this asshole laying his hands on me. “Stay,” he spits, addressing me like a dog.

Every fiber of my body is demanding I retaliate, but I don’t. This is his payback.

When he reaches out and violently grips my hair, yanking my head back, I cry out because he’s hurting me. He leans forward and runs his nose along the column of my neck, sniffing. “We not done, you f*****g bitch.”

His promise scares me, but he eventually lets me go.

I scamper away from him, drawing my knees to my chest, tears welling. My fear is like an aphrodisiac because he reaches down and rubs over the bulge in his pants. I feel sick.

“See you and that sweet pink p***y soon.” He licks his fat bottom lip while I whimper softly. He leaves me cowering, only breathing again when the hatch closes, and it sounds like it’s bolted shut.

The need to flee is even more imperative because Kazimir is out for blood.

I jolt forward as the boat hits the port, taking my mind off his ominous promise. This is the first time in seven days I’ve seen land, and I’m stuck in here. I watch as Kazimir jumps from the yacht and ties it to a large white cleat.

Saint surely would have removed his ski mask, but he remains out of sight as he no doubt knows I will be watching. I wait for him to come to get me, but after ten minutes, it’s clear that isn’t the case.

Groaning, I lift my hair from the back of my neck and hold it atop my head as it’s awfully stuffy and I’m annoyed. Sweat trickles down the length of my spine, but I focus on my surroundings, mesmerized by this foreign sight. They’re speaking in Arabic, I think, but it sounds different.

Placing my hand on the window, I try to tune in to the vibrations offered by this new world as a contagious buzz fills the air. The vendors hold up gigantic fish as they try to convince potential customers to take a closer look at their goods.

Kids run along the dock eating round golden dough balls, the syrup sticking to their fingers as they lick them clean. I have no idea what they are, but my stomach instantly growls.

Their laughter and the cheerful calls of the merchants are a nice thing to see, considering I’ve been surrounded by nothing but despair for so long.

When a street vendor with a portable cart stops in front of me, I crane my neck to see what he sells. It seems he has sunglasses, umbrellas, souvenirs. A one-stop shop. And when he unravels a blue linen scarf, he reveals just how versatile he truly is. We’re in Egypt, according to the shawl, and the gimmicky pyramid keepsakes and mummy mementos confirm this.

Holy s**t.

Saint said he has business here. I wonder of what nature? I doubt he’s here to sample the local produce.

The young vendor sets up a small radio, playing some 80s pop song as he drinks a bottle of Coke. If he’s here, surely that means he’s expecting tourists to arrive soon. The locals aren’t interested, but the gullible vacationers would be.

A surge of excitement overcomes me, and I bang on the window, screaming hysterically at the top of my lungs. “Help!” I shout, thumping my open palm against the glass. But he doesn’t hear me, thanks to Madonna blaring over the speakers.

Jumping down from the bench seat, I run up the stairs and attempt to open the hatch, but I almost smash my head into the hard wood because it doesn’t move an inch. It’s locked, which is no surprise.

“No!” I scream, forcing it with my shoulder as I work the handle frantically. It’s useless. It doesn’t budge.

Running down the stairs, I search the room, desperate to find something I can pry the lock open with. Or something I can use to smash through the hatch. When my search comes up empty, I sprint to the bathroom window, attempting to open the latch. But it’s locked as well.

I push at it with all my might, banging on it and working the handle desperately, but it doesn’t budge. “Goddammit!”

Refusing to give up, my feet slide along the flooring as I grab the saucepan and don’t think twice as I throw it at the window, bracing for it to break as I turn my back. When I don’t hear a shatter, I look over my shoulder, only to see the saucepan sitting in a sad heap on the floor. It bounced off the glass—the shatterproof glass it appears.

Breathless, I slide down the wall, tears welling. No wonder Saint had no qualms leaving me down here, unbound. The freedom is more of an imprisonment than being cuffed because I can look out at something that is just out of reach.