“We’re going for a drive.”
I shake my head, my throat tightening in preparation for the onslaught of pepper gas. “What are you going to?—”
“Drink.”
I whimper, scrunching my nose to fight the build of tears. “Please, don’t do this. I?—”
“Drink or suffocate, which is it?”
“No.” I grab the bars, my palms sweating. “Please.I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”
“Drink.Now.”
I struggle to breathe, the air brittle in my lungs, my blouse too tight.
“Drink,” he roars, the volume of his voice bleeding through the sterile modulation.
I latch onto the sound, turning it over in my head, trying to place it.
“Are you going to make me count?” He grabs the ring pull at the top of the canister. “One… Two…”
“Wait.Stop.” I fall to my knees, the bottle laid before me. “I’ll drink. I promise. Just tell me what’s in the water.”
“A sedative.”
I hyperventilate at the thought of being unconscious and at his mercy again. And yet the memory of being pepper gassed and choking hits equally hard. “Last time you undressed me when I?—”
“I don’t want to touch you any more than you want me doing it.” He jerks his chin at the bottle as if to hurry me up. “I did you a favor last time. Your clothes were covered in chemicals. They would’ve continued to irritate your skin.”
I dig my nails into my palms, hating that sedation seems like the lesser of two evils.
“Hurry.Up.” He cocks his head and poises to pull the canister ring, his dark eyes predatory through the balaclava. The deepest, bleakest brown.
“Okay.” I scramble for the bottle through the bars, my hands trembling as I twist the lid. I take a sip, the liquid sliding down my throat and colliding with the bile rushing to meet it.
“All of it.”
I drink. One swallow, then another, each harder than the last. My stomach revolts. My lunch threatens to make a comeback.
I cough. Retch. Gag.
Tears trek my cheeks as I force the water down, draining the bottle before letting it fall to the floor. I swipe my runny nose on the sleeve of my crinkled suit and brace myself to stand, determined to meet whatever comes next head-on.
The moment I grab the bars to pull myself upright, the world tilts, my head a victim of vertigo.
“I suggest you remain seated,” he instructs.
I’m about to defy him with what little grit I have left when a thud sounds above us. A bang. Loud and heavy.
My captor stiffens, shock flashing in his eyes. Or maybe it’s guilt. Possibly fear?
Whatever it is, his reaction makes it clear I wasn’t meant to hear the commotion.
“Iknewit.” I force myself to my feet, my limbs heavy. “You’re not working alone.”
He’s one of the men from the yacht. Raffael’s cousin or Bishop. I can’t tell which, but it’s one of them.
He ignores the accusation and stalks to the door, pressing an ear to the jamb, pretending I haven’t exposed him for having a co-conspirator.
