Page 6 of Bad Saint
I awake from a nightmare so heinous, I can’t believe my brain could conjure up such images.
Blood, violence, abduction. I really need to lay off the caffeine.
As I attempt to roll over and snuggle into the warmth of my new husband, terror overcomes me because I can’t move.
No.
My eyes snap open, only to be confronted by pure blackness. I try to scream, but it dies a muffled death when I realize I’m gagged. Panic overcomes me as I attempt to move, but I can’t because I’m bound.
No.
Realization hits, and I shake my head helplessly. Passing out from shock and fatigue was a small mercy, but now that I’m awake, I have no other choice but to face this reality.
Three men kidnapped me while on my honeymoon. Two Russian. One American named Saint. I scoff at the notion. We’re on a boat headed to Turkey to see someone they call Boss? Ugh, this is adding to the throbbing in my head.
I think back to what I remember, hoping it’ll give me more clues. Flinching when I recall Saint beating Drew to a pulp has something materializing. In the pocket of his white bathrobe, I could have sworn…but I shrug it off. It’s impossible that what I thought I saw buried deep in his pocket was a cell phone because if it was, why didn’t he call the police?
Yes, he was struck down, but when I left, he was moving and moaning. He had every opportunity to dial for help, so why didn’t he?
I scold the troublesome voice for even thinking such blasphemy and instead focus on getting the hell out of here. There is no way I’m doing that tied up, so I need to think outside the box. Saint was the only one who showed a lick of humanity, so he’s the key to getting me off this boat.
Your looks are used for evil…
It’s time I listened to Momma.
Even though it’s a long shot, I can’t sit here and wait for them to strike. So I take a deep breath and scream. It comes out as a wail, a muted whimpering, but I can only hope it’ll draw the attention of the person I want. I continue yelling, tears leaking from my eyes as I thrash about, hoping to evoke some sort of a response.
Finally, it works.
The latch opens, and I’m hit with the crisp ocean breeze as well as a punch of spice. That masculine and refined smell seem to be his trademark fragrance. I listen as he descends the stairs slowly. My chest rises and falls swiftly, and my heart is in my throat.
“What’s wrong?” he has the gall to ask.
I’m bound and gagged, you asshole. That’s what’s wrong,I silently reply, but I merely just whimper, hoping he understands what I want.
His footsteps advance toward me before they come to a stop. I have no idea what I look like, but I try my best to feign submission. “Please,” I muffle from around the gag, shaking my head, implying I want him to take off the pillowcase.
Silence surrounds me, but his pensive thinking can be felt.
“I’ll take out your gag, but you have to promise me you won’t scream.” His voice is deep, rough even.
I nod quickly, holding my breath.
A heavy sigh leaves him as he’s clearly hoping I’m not lying. When his heavy footsteps hint that he’s proceeding forward, I’m glad I’m a convincing liar even when gagged and bound. I hear a rustle, like he’s putting something on.
I wait with bated breath, mentally crossing my fingers that he doesn’t back out. He doesn’t.
His scent is unique, and when he steps closer, I’m once again cloaked with a spicy, sweet cloud of promise. He’s careful not to frighten me as he gently removes the pillowcase from my head. The cool air on my flushed cheeks feels like heaven, and I sigh. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, needing a moment to center myself.
With two deep breaths, I open them gradually, blinking rapidly to focus on where I am. My eyes are caked in dried tears and blood, causing everything to appear blurry. Peering around as best I can, I see that I’m in a small room below deck. There is hardly any lighting, but I can make out a small table and chair set, a kitchen sink with shelves stacked with canned goods above it, and a white leather bench seat in front of me. It matches the one I’m tied to. The décor is wooden and almost modern. I take a guess that we’re on a yacht.
In the far corner, there is a door. I can only hope my plan works.
My panting is heavy, and the gag in my mouth isn’t helping. I need it out. Now. Gradually peering upward under my lashes, I see him—Saint. He stands unbending a few feet away, the pillowcase hanging from his fingers.
His eyes are on fire, watching me closely. He’s donned the ski mask, which is no surprise as it’s clear he doesn’t want me to see his face. I didn’t realize how tall he was. But now that he’s in front of me, I crane my neck up to take in his whole stature.
His shoulders are broad, and his muscles are bulging through his tight, long-sleeved top. He is in black cargo pants and black boots, but I still have no clue who he is. And the air of mystery around him has nothing to do with his mask. His eyes are the only thing I can really see, but they are the window to one’s soul, so they say.