Page 16 of Burn for Me

Placing one knee on the bed beside me, he slid the blade along the soft skin of my inner forearm. The scratch of it made my nipples peak and shame filled me.

What the fuck was that?

Putting my body’s reaction down to stress, I held my breath until he slid the sharp metal through the ropes like they were butter. Fighting down the flight response, I took his hand as he pulled me into a sitting position.

Myfingers trembled when he took my wrists into his hands, rubbing feeling back into them. Every part of me screamed to attack him. To fight the gentle touches like a cornered animal. To slash and punch and kick.

While his attention focused on my wrists, I took a moment to truly look at my captor.

The mask covering his lower face was weathered, the phoenix on it faded with age. Old scars webbed the left side of his face, extending from his cheekbones, all the way up to his hairline. Pitted and taught, they marked the skin like a series of mountains on a map. A tiny flicker of pity lit in my chest, but I quickly extinguished it.

No matter his past, he had no right to take me prisoner. Feeling sorry for an injured lion made it no less likely to hurt you. I stifled a moan as his fingers worked my aching wrists and palms, inviting the blood to flow right back into my fingers. The touch of a monster shouldn’t make me swoon. I pulled my fingers, and his grip tightened. My pulse picked up in my throat as he continued to stare at my wrist.

‘I need to use the bathroom,’ I said after a few moments of strained silence.

Dropping my massaged wrists into my lap, he got up and left the bedroom without another look.

I swiftly let myself into the minuscule bathroom that joined the bedroom cabin to relieve myself.

Desperate to find anything that might be useful, my eyes wandered the tiny room.

Shampoo. Shower gel. Toothpaste.

Fuck.

Eventually, my gaze fell on the glass shower door, and I wondered if I could use a piece of it as a makeshift knife.Unfortunately, I’d probably just cut myself rather than injure the weirdo.

I scrubbed my hands over my face and let out a muffled, frustrated groan.

After flushing the toilet, I washed my hands, scrubbing the soap into my skin so vigorously that the rope burns stung anew.

I couldn’t just sit on the motherfucking boat and be his toy.

I needed to get back to England. To get to the authorities and have them put Massimo and my captor behind bars for their sins. For what they’d done to me and my family.

A little voice in my head taunted me.They deserved it.

Screwing my eyes shut, I shook the deranged thought from my mind.

The little mirror above the sink barely showed my whole face when I opened my eyes. Standing on my toes, I examined the wound on my chest. It ached something fearsome whenever I lifted my arm, and the skin around the crude black stitches was purpling up toward my neck.

You could be dead.

You should have been dead.

The man I thought was my freedom pushed me into this floating cage, and I fully intended to kill him.

Right after taking out the asshole aboard.

Pulling on a hoodie and pair of shorts from the bedroom, I walked through the innards of the boat, stopping at a galley kitchen. Glancing toward the door that led out onto the deck, I saw no sign of the masked man. My pulse skipped as I opened one of the drawers, hunting through the utensils in search of potential weapons.

Unless I could mash his brains with a potato masher, there was nothing useful.

Bar a rolling pin, nada in the next drawer down.

Frustration made me growl as I slammed door after cupboard door. Wrenching open the last one, I saw a block of knives. With sweat gathering at the base of my spine, I glanced back at the doorway. The wooden handle was rough in my palm as I clenched my fingers so tightly that they began to whiten.

Even with a weapon, how did I think it would go down?

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