Atlas smirks, that crooked thing that sets every nerve on edge.
I shove past him, my eyes flicking to the women whose gazes linger too long. Even behind their masks, they don’t hide their hunger for me. Or Atlas.
“Sloths,” I mutter, biting off the word.
Narrow stairs disappear beneath my feet as I climb, hands trembling with the urge to explode, to be anywhere but this endless spinning hell of perversion and smoke.
I shove through the door at the landing.
Motion rocks the yacht, a single light swaying overhead. Along the walls, shadows melt and stretch, twisting a dark ballet beneath the flickering bulb. Chains hang from the ceiling, and my stomach rolls with nausea. Wrapped in a flowing black robe, a girl dangles there—blood painting a gruesome mask across her face and hair. She's pale, and as still as a corpse.
Her head lolls between her shoulders like a broken doll. Fragile, hurt. It cuts through my chest like a machete.
I step closer. Chains clink with her movement, a soft, accusing sound. Brine and metal hang thick in the air.
Then she snaps awake.
“Who's there?” Brittle and raw, her voice cuts through the dark.
Everything locks in place—muscles, breath, thought. My heartbeat spikes. Blood pounds in my ears as the room tilts around me.
“Fuck,” I exhale, the word cracking apart on my tongue.
Three strides and I'm on her.
My fingers fumble with the knots—these bastards knew what they were doing, double sailor's knots, pulled wet so they'd tighten when they dried. My knuckles scrape raw against the rope, trying to work it loose.
“Stop.” The chains rattle as she jerks away, metal singing against metal. “Just… stop.”
I keep working. The knots aren't giving.
“Get out.”
If I can just get this one… “I can get you—”
“There's no getting out for me.” Laughter spills from her lips, a sound that makes my skin crawl. Blood bubbles at the corner of her mouth. “Who the fuck are you? What, you my new child play?”
Something warm slicks the rope. My hands are red when I look down. “I'm not exactly free, either…”
Tilting her head, she tests the chains' limits—not much give—and something shifts in her eyes. Disappointment? I can't tell. Can't tell if she's used to it. Or this.
“Well then.” Another laugh, wet and broken. “Guess you're just worse at hiding it.”
Behind me, the door crashes open, slamming against the wall with a force that rattles the chains.
My heart jackhammers in my chest as I spin around. Father fills the frame, his mask jutting out and spikes curling like thorns from the edges, glinting under the swaying light.
“Asher.” His voice cuts low. He's used to this. Being the one calling he shots. “Downstairs. Now.”
I step back from the girl, rope still slick in my fists.
Her gaze flicks between us, wide but sharpening.
I need to help her. Somehow. “She's—”
“Downstairs.” He grabs my shoulder, fingers digging into muscle. “You wandered too far.”
I twist free, or try to. His grip holds. “What's she doing here? Chained up like—”
