Page 108 of Captive Heart

I nod, feeling like I can’t possibly keep my eyes open for another minute. From experience, I can guess that the feeling will pass in about twenty minutes. “Is, pescado y arroz.” Fish with rice. If I time it right, I can take a power nap before it’s ready.

Marta seems like she’s about to say more. Then she shakes her head and waves me inside the front door.

Bone tired, I head inside the mansion. The very first time I came in this entryway, I was awestruck by the sleek, white marble everywhere and the obvious opulence of the chandelier and large tropical floral arrangement on a side table. Today I’m used to the opulence of having every single place your eye lands on be made of stark white marble. I climb the grand stairway, which is really the centerpiece of this part of the house. I’m only vaguely aware of the trail of wet sand I leave in my wake. All I know is that all traces will be removed in the time I am in my room. By the time I come back down, it will be swept and mopped, shining as if new.

I head up to the master bedroom, kicking off my flip flops and pulling my beach cover up over my head. This room is as white and luxurious as any downstairs, with a large white canopy bed, a small sitting area, and a balcony that overlooks the wilderness behind the mansion.

I discard the silky cover up on the lush white carpet as I barrel toward my bed. Piling onto the bed headfirst, I close my eyes and sigh in a moment of sheer bliss. I let my body rest there for a few minutes before I push myself up to a sitting position again. It’s the easiest thing in the world for me to just wake up every day, go exhaust myself amongst the waves, and crash when I come back to the house. If I weren’t being held captive… if I wasn’t pregnant… if I wasn’t anxious about eventually having to give birth alone…

I could live like this without a single complaint.

However, that is not my situation. My reality calls for action rather than the lazy numbness that I’ve settled into. I creep to the window of my room, moving aside the curtain and peering out.

A man stands guard there with a big, shiny automatic weapon sung loosely over his shoulder. His bald head is facing away from me so I can observe him unseen for a minute.

Aside from this man and Marta, there are three other men who live here and watch over me.

I purse my lips and watch for several minutes. Though I don’t have a watch, I am pretty sure that the guard is about to change. For the past week, I’ve kept close track of the movements of the people assigned to keep me here.

Another minute passes. I lick my lips, growing anxious. Maybe they have changed their routines.

Maybe the guards are onto me somehow.

But as soon as I think that, another man emerges from the house and greets the bald guard. I drop the curtain, peering at them through a crack as they exchange a few words. Then the bald man heads off into the trees behind the house, disappearing.

I step back, sucking in a deep breath. I need to know where he is going. When the guards finish their shifts, they always head in the same direction.

My thoughts are interrupted by Marta knocking softly at my bedroom door and calling my name.

“Senorita?”

I turn around, a little surprised. “Yes?”

She pushes the door open with her elbow, then comes into the room bearing a tray. It holds my dinner and a glass of water.

I arch a brow at her as she sets it down in the sitting area. Marta puts a finger to her lips and crosses the room, closing the door. Then she comes close, whispering. “No coma.”

She points to the tray, then slides her hands around her neck, miming being choked. “Comprende?”

I keep my voice down, mirroring her hushed whisper. “It’s poisoned?”

“Esta…” She searches for a word. “Drogada. Is drug.”

“The food is drugged?”

Marta clasps my hands, nodding emphatically. “Is, si. Podia see malo para la bebe.”

She presses her hand against my stomach, searching my face to make sure I understand. I don’t know a word of Spanish, but I understand that she is warning me off eating or drinking what she has prepared.

Why she brought it up here, I have no idea.

“Si. I understand. Gracias, Marta.”

Her eyebrows knit. “El jefe? Boss? He… come.”

My eyes widen. My pulse picks up, my heart hammering hard against my chest. “Now?”

“Señor Lyon viene esta noche.” She holds out her wrist, pointing to the number nine. It’s only half an hour from now.

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