BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Two-2

I submerge fast, the water sucking me under, and as I sink, I fight the urge to kick back up and break the surface. Drowning would be less painful than having to deal with Saint, who handcuffed himself to me right before I jumped. He’s always two steps in front of me—so much for outsmarting him.

He wraps his arm around my waist as he swims us toward the surface. When we emerge, I take a deep breath. Saint does the same.

“You asshole! You could have killed us!” Those words are ridiculous in light of our current situation, but when I go, it’ll be by my hand, and that hand will not be attached to his.

He laughs, and I notice his teeth are a sharp shade of white. The top ones are perfectly straight; however, the two bottom middle ones are slightly crooked. “Hardly. Besides, you said you’d drown. I wouldn’t want that.”

“Ugh!” I groan, attempting to swim away from him, but I can’t, seeing as we’re handcuffed to one another.

He digs around in his pocket with his non-cuffed hand and produces a bar of soap. “It’s lavender.”

I snatch it from his palm, scowling. When we make contact, however, I notice he flinches. It seems he doesn’t like to be touched.

“This is the reason you want me to wash out here, isn’t it? So you can watch me?” The bathroom is tiny, and there is no way we’d both fit in there. He clearly doesn’t trust me, but he respects my privacy. So this is the happy medium.

Saint doesn’t reply. Instead, he twirls his finger in the air, hinting I’m to hurry up.

Not interested in being tied to him for longer than I have to, I unwrap the soap and lather it up as best I can. I dip my head backward, relishing in washing the grime from my hair. Saint bobs beside me, surprising me as he turns his cheek to give me some privacy.

Everything about him is an oxymoron.

“You look ridiculous with your ski mask on,” I state, passing the soap over my upper body.

“Lucky for me, I don’t care what you think,” he replies, head still turned away.

I take this opportunity to examine him for any clues that might give away his identity. He’s still dressed in his usual attire, but now that we’re surrounded by daylight, instead of cloaked in darkness, I can just make out wisps of dirty blond hair curling at his nape.

Thanks to the gentle sway of the ocean, his long-sleeved shirt has shifted slightly, allowing me to see a hint of ink just over the crease of his upper shoulder. I have no idea what it is, but I suppose it just adds to the mystery.

Even though I’m cuffed to a psychopath, feeling the water against my skin is wonderful. This is hardly what I thought when I agreed to a shower, but I suppose it’s better than nothing. Peering around, I wonder if, by some miracle, an escape route will present itself. But it doesn’t. I’m surrounded by absolutely nothing.

“Okay, time’s up.”

“What’s in Turkey?” I respond to his suggestion.

He turns slowly, clearly not interested in having a heart to heart. “Let’s go.” He swims us toward the boat, but I pull back with all my might.

His eyes widen, clearly surprised by my rebellion.

“You don’t scare me,” I reveal, leaving out the word much.

He wades in the water, watching me closely. The air begins to grow thick, and I brace myself for my punishment. “Are you always this disobedient?”

I gulp as I was not expecting such a response, especially with a hint of wickedness wrapped around his words. Desperate to escape, I attempt to swim away, but Saint swings his arm inward so I’m forced to face him as he turns his body.

We’re paddling together, eyes locked, wrists bound. “I asked you a question.”

“So did I,” I counter, thankful my legs are submerged so he can’t see them trembling.

He snickers, shaking his head at my insolence. “We’re not going to Turkey,” he reveals while I c**k a brow.

“But I heard—”

He abruptly talks over me. “Turkey is merely a means to an end…like you.”

My lower lip quivers because that was just plain mean. Being out here in the open, with the sun shining and not a cloud in the blue sky, I have let my guard down because Saint has shown me a sliver of kindness. But as his words come back to haunt me, I won’t make the same mistake again.

Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness…

“I’m ready to go back,” I say blankly as I refuse to allow him to see what his words have done.

He nods once without any argument; he’s probably happy to shut me up. We swim toward the boat, and when I see a ladder hanging off the side, I allow him to ascend first. He is sopping wet as he climbs the steps, dragging me behind him.

There are a million things I want to say, but I decide the less I speak to him, the better. I need to save my energy to strategize how the f**k to get off this yacht.

I don’t give him the respect of looking at him, but instead, I turn over my shoulder, refusing to make eye contact. When I feel the cuff snap open, I instantly rub my raw wrist. As he pushes me lightly, hinting I move, I shrug from his touch as I want no part of him near me.

If I were thinking straight, I would be covering myself as I am parading around in very transparent white underwear, but what do I care about modesty? It’s clear he sees me as nothing but chattel.

We walk past the Russians who are sitting near the wooden wheel, watching us curiously. They are ogling me, and just as I’m about to cover my breasts, I see it—my escape. Sitting under the helm is a CB radio. If I can get to this, I can alert someone, anyone that I’m in trouble.

One of the Russians sits on a white chest, eyeing me. But he can gawk all he wants because I bet flares and a life vest are in there. I want to take a closer look, but Saint hurls me away, sensing his partner in crime appreciates my transparency a little too much.

But this is exactly what I need, God save my soul. One of them expressed interest in me when he tied me…if I can play on that, then maybe I have a fighting chance at getting off this boat. The longer he stares, the more certain I am that he is the one.

I need a distinguishing mark, something to tell them apart, and when he turns his head to whisper something to the other Russian, I see it—a small birthmark under his left eye. He returns his attention my way, and that’s when I put my plan into motion.

As he’s spooning canned sardines into his mouth, I wink—it’s subtle, and I’m playing with fire, but this ship is only as strong as its weakest link, and I just found a hole in the design. His mouth hinges open.

Jackpot.

I don’t have time to gloat because Saint moves me down the stairs, but I go willingly. When down in my dungeon, I’m surprised to see a change of clothes on the leather seat. It seems they have this all planned.

Not bothering to ask if they’re for me, I walk toward the shorts and tank top. I really want to change my underwear, but they don’t seem to be that prepared. As I reach for the jean shorts, I only then realize that Saint is still here, watching me.

I’m about to spit a sarcastic comment, but the look in his eyes steals the air from my lungs. He watches me closely, just how he always does, but something is different, something dangerously…predatory.

My heart begins a deafening rhythm, and my legs begin to tremble.

I quickly slip into the shorts and throw the tank over my head, thankful to be dressed even though I didn’t dry off. My bravado soon dies, and I await his next move. His heavy breathing fills the small space while I toe over a flaw in the wooden floor design.

Finally, he breaks this tangible electricity and walks over to a small bar fridge to grab a bottle of water. I practically salivate at the sight because I am so thirsty, but I won’t ask this asshole to do me any favors.

“Sit,” he commands, gesturing to the bench seat, and I do.

If I could see his face, I imagine he would be arching a brow, surprised by my submission. But he doesn’t know a lot about me. He thinks he can break me, but he can’t. I will get off this hell on earth one way or another, and when I do, I will make him pay for all the horrible things he’s done.

There is something different about him, the way he seems to be careful not to touch me for too long as if he can’t stand to make contact. He removes the cuffs from his pocket and snaps one around my wrist, refusing to look at me. He then attaches it to the silver railing of the seat.

I’m expecting him to drop to his knees and tie my ankles, but he doesn’t.

He simply places the bottle of water near me and exits up the stairs. When the hatch closes, leaving me alone, I exhale, releasing the breath I was holding. Frantically reaching for the bottle of water, I place it in my cuffed hand and uncap it with my other. Once it’s opened, I gulp it down in one long swig.

The coolness has me gasping, but my body relishes in being replenished. The water dribbles down my chin, but I savor the feeling as I don’t know when I’ll experience it again. Once I’ve drained the bottle, I slouch back, but then sigh as I have a little room to move.

Tugging at the cuffs, I’m surprised Saint has bound me this way. My eyes grow heavy as the cushy leather beneath me and the sway of the ocean lulls me into a sleepy state. I rearrange myself to lie down, a comfort I will never take for granted again.

My arm is raised above my head, but I use it as a makeshift pillow, and here finally, I lose myself to the calm.

I wake to voices…a lot of them.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I see the full moon slipping in from the window, revealing I finally succumbed to my exhaustion and slept for hours.

Shuffling up, I come to sit, my arm throbbing from the odd angle it was bent in. But at least I was able to lie down. It’s dark as there is no light on, but the moon is my beacon, allowing me to see that on the table lies a black, long-sleeved shirt and a shiny key—the key to my cuffs. My heart begins to pound.

Saint must have taken off the necklace, intent on changing, but the fact it’s still down here has me guessing that whoever is upstairs was unexpected and Saint greeted them half dressed.

Is this stranger a friend or foe?

Steadying my breathing, I listen for any clue as to who they may be, but I can’t make out anything specific, just a clutter of voices. It’s now or never.

The table is a few feet away. Looking back and forth between it and the hatch, and ensuring the voices are still present, I tongue the corner of my mouth and slide my body off the seat, extending as far as I can go. My arm is jerked from its socket as I stretch out, willing my body to grow just a few more inches.