Page 28 of The Vipers' Vow

If Vani, Saint, and Zane show up, they will be in danger. I'm not going to wait around in the hope they'll rescue me. I’ll do whatever I can to get the fuck out of this situation first. If something happens to them just because they're trying to save me, I'll never forgive myself.

I yank at the cuff around my wrist, testing how strong the chain is. The metal-on-metal clanks noisily, and I wince, hoping no one has heard it.Merde. I'm not sure anything other than some kind of hacksaw or an axe is going to get me out of this one, and I certainly don't have one of those lying around.

I study the place where the metal cuff rests around my wrist. Of course, my hand and wrist are a lot more fragile than a metal pipe. I might not be able to cut metal, but can I cut my own skin.

The possibility has me sucking in a fractured breath. Could I do that? I yank at the handcuff again, trying to pull it off my hand this time. It's tight, wedging around the base of my hand, but if my thumb wasn't there, it would slide right off.

I close my eyes and draw in another breath, trying to quell a fresh wave of nausea. Cut my fucking thumb off to escape? Could I really do it? It’s irrelevant anyway because I don’t have my knife.

If I did, I'd have stabbed one of these motherfuckers the minute they got close enough.

Breaking my hand might work, but maybe not, and I’d be useless to fight these bastards then, which is kind of the point.

A tiny part of me, that I wouldn’t have willingly admitted to, is relieved the option has been taken away from me, because cutting off my thumb would have been insane, but then my gaze is drawn back to all the stainless steel cupboards and drawers around me. Surely they wouldn’t have been stupid enough to chain me up within reach of a weapon? Nothing is obvious on the countertops, but on boats that have a tendency to move, things aren’t just left out. They’re all secured inside cabinets and drawers, so they don’t go flinging around the kitchen when the boat hits rough waters.

I almost don’t want to look, but now the possibility has occurred to me, I don’t have a choice. I’m not a fucking coward.

I glance back up at the tiny flashing camera in the corner, trying to get some sense of anyone being behind it. If there is, they’re going to see me searching right away and get down here to put a stop to it.

I decide the best place to start is right behind me. I’m partially leaning up against one of the steel cabinets, so I edge myself forward to give myself enough space to twist to the side and open the door. The position is awkward, but I manage to crack the door a couple of inches to see inside. It contains a few saucepans, all clipped into a plastic rack, but nothing I could use as a weapon. Next is the drawer directly above it. This is harder to see, because my wrist is chained down low and limits my movement, but I manage to open the drawer and strain up to see inside.

Empty, apart from a couple of leaflets that look like instruction manuals for the stove, refrigerator, or microwave. I never understood why the hell anyone bothered to keep those things.

No one has come bursting in to demand to know what I’m doing.

I keep going, opening the cabinets and drawers that are within reasonably easy reach. I don't find anything of interest. It's as though the kitchen has only been stocked with basics. I don't believe anyone lives on this yacht full time. There's none of the debris or clutter I'd have expected to find otherwise. I've been at this for a good few minutes now, and no one has rushed in to stop me. It makes me more confident that no one is watching. What are the bastards up to? Living it up on the top deck, drinking champagne and toasting how clever they are? Jarl Olsen has the sort of money that could enable him to buy a boat like this simply so he could murder his enemies on it, and then blow the whole thing to smithereens, or sink it to the bottom of the lake. He couldn’t blow it up, though, without people possibly seeing and alerting the authorities, but maybe a fire? Yes, a fire on board would sink the vessel.

A fire…The thought gives me pause. Is the huge industrial stovetop within my reach?

What would happen if I was able to set a fire in this kitchen? Do they have a lifeboat? They probably do. Still, they'd have to escape, which would mean either putting the fire out or getting the boat to shore, but they probably wouldn't save me. If they let the boat burn, I'd burn with it.

I grit my teeth. Not a good plan, unless I also want to die in a truly horrific way. I’d take some satisfaction in taking Jarl and his cock-wearing friend with me, but I also have too much to live for.

My thoughts flash to Vani again.

I’ve never been in such turmoil over a woman before. It bothers me that she might have played a part in me being here, but I also know that if she told me it was a mistake, I’d forgive her in an instant. Fuck, she probably doesn’t even need to tell me she’d made a mistake. I’d still drop to my knees and bury my face between her legs the first moment she let me.

I’m sure my brother and Zane feel the same way, even if we haven’t given voice to our feelings yet. I need to get off this fucking boat so I can taste her again, touch her, give her the aftercare she needs so bad when Zane and Saint have destroyed her. That’s our bond, that’s what makes her and me special. I do believe I’m the one out of all of us who has a deep connection with her based purely on the moments we share in the aftermath. Saint doesn’t know what he’s missing out on, but I guess that’s why we work so well together, even if it is sick in other people’s eyes.

Renewed by thoughts of being with Vani, I fix my attention on the cabinets and drawers that aren’t within easy reach.

I debate how I’m going to open them. Just reaching across isn’t going to work. The distance I have when I stretch from the end of one arm to the other isn’t enough.

I scoot down, so I’m lying on my back on the cold floor, and use my feet to move closer to the cabinet. I stretch out my leg, and the toes of my boot just about reach the base of the one I want. I manage to hook my toe under the lip of the cabinet door and edge it open.

Fuck.

Attached to the inside of the door on hooks aren’t just knives. They’re fucking cleavers.

Movement comes at the door to the kitchen, the thud of footsteps and the jangle of a keychain. My heart lurches into my throat, and I quickly kick the cabinet shut again and scramble to push myself back into a seated position. I’ve broken out in a sweat from the effort, and I imagine my face has lost the paleness, and I’m probably flushed pink now.

The door swings open, and the huge guy with the cock necklaces stomps in. I try to remember his name…Amo…no…Apo. That was it.

“The boss said you’d need some water.”

He’s carrying a large plastic bottle under one meaty arm. I’d prefer not to put my lips around something that has been quite so close to his armpit, but the sight of the bottle reinforces how thirsty I am. My throat is like sawdust, and my tongue is thick and furry. The inside of my cracked lips keeps gluing to my teeth. I find my tongue sneaking out to try to wet my lips in anticipation of liquid.

Apo must notice my body language.

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