Dangerous Desire

7

There’s no television, phone, or computer in the stateroom, and nothing to read, either, so after I pick up all the shards of crystal from the floor and toss them into a wastebasket, I give in to the fatigue dogging me and sleep.

I dream of Naz. Of him holding me in his strong arms and softly asking, “You ever think about kids?”

When I wake up, my cheeks are wet.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me for this.

The knock on the door comes just as I’m standing up. This time Killian doesn’t bother announcing his entry. He simply walks in, holding a bundle of folded clothing.

When he catches sight of my face, he stops. His lips thin. His brows draw down over his eyes.

I suppose tears will get me a beating, so I quickly swipe my fingers over my cheeks to dry them and stand up straighter. My head feels so light without all the hair, but also naked in an uncomfortable way. I run my hand nervously over the back of my neck, waiting for him to say something. Waiting for the next move in our sick little game of chess.

Silent as a panther, he moves slowly to the unmade bed.

How can a man so big be so quiet?

“Get cleaned up and put these on.” He sets the clothing on the mattress, then turns to look at me. “Then come up to the main deck.”

I bite back my automatic Why? and simply nod instead. He exits as silently as he came, leaving the door wide open behind him.

I stare out into the empty corridor, hearing nothing but the sound of the wind and the waves and my own erratic heartbeat. Is this some kind of test? I don’t know, but I’m unsettled.

Perhaps that’s the point. Keep me rattled. Keep me guessing. Get my defenses down so he can get off when I slip up and he’s “forced” to punish me again.

I close the bedroom door, then go into the bathroom and lock that door, though I know it’s the most superficial kind of defense. Killian and his dumb bulging muscles could break it down with a flick of his wrist.

Under the spray of the shower, I soap my body and use the lemon-scented shampoo, then rinse off, turn off the water, and dry myself with a thick white cotton towel. There’s no comb or brush in the drawers, so I finger comb my hair. The short cut suits me, even if it is shaggy and botched.

I look like someone else. Like a woman who doesn’t have time for frivolities like a nice hairdo because she’s too focused on more important things. More deadly things.

“Vengeance is mine, says the Lord,” I tell my reflection, watching my eyes glitter. “But nobody ever said you weren’t allowed to help him along.”

It occurs to me that I might not be of completely sound mind at the moment—the combination of physical and mental trauma might have set me off my rocker—but I’m oddly unmoved by the thought. Which is also probably more proof that my brain has taken a vacation and I’m in a mental no-man’s-land, but I’m feeling one big meh about the whole thing.

There’s no need for sanity where I’m going, anyway.

I get dressed, dab the arnica cream on the worst of my bruises, and head upstairs.

In daylight I can see how luxurious the yacht truly is. Polished wood, gleaming mirrors, and white leather furnishings are accented by tasteful oil paintings and objets d’art. I wind my way up a curved glass staircase and find myself in a large main salon, with a media room and sitting area on one side and a big open sundeck on the other.

Outside in a chaise longue, enjoying the sun with a glass of champagne in hand, sits Raphael. He’s dressed head to toe in crisp white linen. His face is tipped up, his eyes are closed, and though in all other respects he looks utterly relaxed, there’s a furrow between his brows, like he’s thinking of something unpleasant.

He must sense me standing there, because he turns his head and opens his eyes. When he sees me, he stiffens and his face goes white, as if he’s been slapped.

“Good morning,” I say, unmoving from my place at the top of the stairs. “I’m glad one of us is enjoying himself.”

He rises, unable to hide his expression of horror. In his hand, the champagne glass trembles. He walks slowly inside the main cabin, so clearly shocked by my appearance I can’t help but wonder what he thought all that screaming was about last night.

And what he expected any “punishment” Killian saw fit to dole out would look like.

Whatever it was, it surely wasn’t this. The man looks as if he’s going to pass out.

“My dear,” he says faintly. Pale and shaken, he stops a few feet away from me and puts a hand to his throat. “Oh my dear. Whatever has he done to you?”

“His job, I presume.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows. In what looks like a gargantuan effort of will, he produces a pinched smile. “Yes. Of course.” He smooths a shaky hand down the front of his shirt. When he notices the ice bucket with the champagne bottle on a mirrored console to our left, he brightens.

“Would you like some champagne?”

I narrow my eyes. What’s going on here? Why is he acting so weird? “No.”

He doesn’t let my answer deter him from topping off his glass. He guzzles it in one go, like he’s hoping it will help steady his nerves.

Speaking of nerves, mine are singing with intuition. I sense Killian before I see or hear him. He’s a dark presence approaching from behind, all pressure and powerful intensity, as electric as an advancing storm.

His arm brushes mine as he passes, raising all the little hairs on the back of my neck.