Page 10 of Bad Saint
“For you to let me go,” I counter in lightning-quick speed. Risking a glance his way, I scoff when I see him perched casually on the chair, boots resting on the table, ankles crossed. He has his hands linked behind his head. Just another day in paradise for this asshole.
When we lock eyes, I glare, hoping he knows how much I hate him.
“I can’t do that,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “So pick again.”
“Is this a game to you?” I ask, enraged he seems to be enjoying himself. “My husband is going to find you and kill you.” As far as threats go, it’s pretty severe, but once again, Saint finds my offensiveness hilarious.
“Ooh…I’m shaking in my boots.” He chuckles, waving his hands in the air and feigning horror.
I really fucking hate him.
“This is growing old fast, so you have one of three options.” He raises a finger. “One—you eat.” I curl my lip in response. He raises another finger. “Two—you shower.” When I don’t reply, he completes his counting with a third finger. “Or three—I gag you, and you don’t have any other options until we dock this boat.”
I pale at the thought. “So what will it be, ??????”There’s that name again. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him what it means, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of my curiosity. “I won’t ask again.”
“Two!” I shout when he kicks his legs off the table and slides his chair back. “Two.”
He stands slowly, nodding. “Good pick because you fucking stink.” My cheeks instantly redden as I’m mortified.
His eyes soften, but it’s probably just the way the sunlight hits his strange eyes because nothing about the man standing in front of me is soft. “Now, the last time I untied you, we had issues. Is that going to happen again?”
“No,” I reply because with him foiling my plans of slipping out the window, I need to find another escape route.
“Good.” He paces toward me, causing me to shrink back.
Now that I’m standing, I can see that he is, in fact, well over six feet. At a guess, I would say six-three. I have no hopes of outrunning or outweighing him, so it looks like I’ll have to outsmart him, and I will.
When he comes to a standstill behind me and begins untying the rope, I can’t believe I’m actually thankful since he’s the reason I’m tied up in the first place. When he frees my arms, I sigh as the relief is incredible. I rub my shoulders, hoping to get the feeling back.
He then unties my legs and lastly, my ankles.
I’m too relieved to be free to even attempt to run because where would I run to anyway? My jelly legs barely hold me up. That shower can’t come soon enough. I turn in the direction of the bathroom, but Saint grabs me by my bicep and leads me toward the stairs.
I dig my heels in. “Where are we going? The shower is back there.” I hook my thumb behind me, but he ignores me and continues to haul me up the stairs. With no other choice, I follow.
The hot sun blasts down around me, and I shield my eyes with my hand as it hurts my sensitive pupils. The Russians are mid bite of their breakfast when they see me behind Saint. It’s clear this wasn’t part of their plans.
They exchange words in Russian, and I am surprised when Saint replies back in their native tongue. I didn’t know he spoke Russian, but I suppose I don’t know a lot of things about him. They eventually cave as it’s clearly not a fight worth having.
I take in my surroundings and see nothing but blue ocean for miles. The scene would be quite pretty if I wasn’t here against my will.
I was right. We are on a mid-sized yacht. Nothing too fancy, but nothing too shabby to alert anyone of the illegal activities on board. Standing out here, I feel my skin begin to fry. I can’t believe they are sitting out here in long sleeves and ski masks. They look ridiculous. I wouldn’t be surprised if they sleep with the masks on.
Saint allows me to take it all in, which surprises me. His mood swings are sure to leave me with whiplash. I peer around, wondering if maybe a shower is located somewhere up here. But there doesn’t seem to be. Just when I’m about to ask, he clarifies just why we’re here.
“Strip.”
My mouth gapes open, and I blink once. “Excuse me?”
“Strip,” he repeats, releasing me.
I stumble backward, his command winding me. “I will not,” I argue, folding my arms around me in protection. The two Russians watch on, our quarrel much more interesting than their food it seems.
“Suit yourself.” He grips my forearm and drags me toward the front of the yacht. I squirm, attempting to break free, but it’s useless. When we get to the edge, he gestures with his chin to the water. “You can just jump in wearing your clothes. See if I care.”
“Jump?” I question, horrified. No way is he implying for me to shower in the ocean. But when he stands rigid, I know that’s exactly what he’s proposing. “You’re fucking insane! I’ll drown.”
He chuckles in response. “There are worse ways to die.” Even though he’s right, what’s wrong with using the shower?