Page 14 of A Princess, Stolen (A Kiss of Revenge, Blood, and Love #1)

I heard their footsteps recede and didn’t make a sound.

For the next few minutes, I played opossum, not moving.

I breathed so shallowly as if I was hiding and the monsters out there couldn’t hear me.

All I had to do was hold on. It sounded so simple, but the floor was icy as was the wall I was leaning against; it felt like they’d put me in a freezer. Or a morgue.

I knew from Dad that every ship had to have a holding cell, not just in case of a crime on the high seas, but also for mental health problems of the crew, paranoia or other psychoses. Even Dad’s yacht had a type of panic room.

I strained to listen, not to miss any sound in my surroundings, as if doing so would ward off impending danger, something that was, obviously, completely insane.

My hands were bound behind my back and I was blind, so I couldn’t do anything.

All I could do was wait for Dad to pay and hope they would let me go afterward.

But I had no idea how long a ransom handover or money transfer took.

With a lot of luck, it would all be over the day after tomorrow and I would be safe and sound in Dad’s penthouse.

Of course, and tomorrow North Korea will declare peace with the world! Nobody is going to go to the trouble of taking you across the Atlantic and then let you go after two days. Even the dilapidated mental institution on Staten Island would have been a better choice!

When I didn’t hear anything near me after a while, I stood as quietly as possible.

My fingers tingled from the restraints and I needed to go to the bathroom.

I hadn’t said anything to them before for fear that two or three of them would put me on the toilet, stand next to me, and laugh themselves half to death.

I listened again. Somewhere up above, music was playing, bottles were clinking—or glasses—and now and then, the men laughed.

They were probably toasting to having successfully abducted me.

I wanted to despise them, but the fear was too embedded in my bones, leaving no room for other emotions. I merely wanted to get out of here alive!

With tiny steps, I crept along the wall.

Maybe I could find a cot, something I could lie down on and rest, but each wall was as cold and completely bare as the next.

As I shuffled from one corner, I felt hard bars instead of a wall.

Bars. I clumsily felt around the frosty bars and my mind painted a picture of my cell.

Small, like a prison cell: three bare walls and one made of bars.

When I reached the end of the bars, I moved toward the next corner.

I now should have come full circle, but there was nothing here at all: no cot, no toilet, no sink, just ice-cold walls and a permafrost floor.

A few times, I staggered through the middle, hoping to find a mat or blanket, but apparently, they wouldn’t permit me that luxury either.

I swallowed and sank to the floor again against a wall.

The boat rocked, but my fear of the Atlantic was currently buried under the fear of my situation.

I kept thinking about the Lindbergh kidnapping, the crime of the century that had shocked America.

The father had paid fifty thousand dollars and yet never saw his son again.

“Dad,” I whispered, pulling my legs up and staring blindly ahead. I was so cold. The ship’s engine roared beneath me, feeling like the Power Plate in our gym.

What are you doing now, Dad? Are you at home or the police station?

I saw him, his face furrowed with worry, pacing our living room, past one arched window, then the next, the largest living room in New York , the green city lights illuminating his restless silhouette.

Had he informed the police or had he received a call demanding that he keep quiet?

From what I could piece together from Isaac’s information, they had either threatened Delilah’s niece, Sophie, or blackmailed Delilah, threatening to hurt Sophie.

And through her father, who had dementia, they had certainly found Delilah’s cell phone number, and she had given them mine. Maybe Dad’s too.

For a few seconds, the darkness behind the blindfold blurred.

“Make this not true. Let me wake up,” I whispered.

I gulped convulsively to fight back tears and buried my face in the soft fabric of the Belle dress, the tulle and silk caressing my cheeks.

Dad’s favorite dress—and this man just ripped it to shreds as if it meant nothing, as if it was merely a cheap scrap of fabric.

I won’t touch you, don’t worry. Nothing could be further from my mind . That contempt in his voice. He sounded as if it was a complete imposition, as if I was the imposition, not him! He couldn’t be the boy from Baton Rouge, impossible! And even if he was, he was a bastard! A criminal. A thug.

I didn’t know how many minutes or hours had passed when I heard footfalls. They approached lightly and unhurriedly, causing my heart to hammer wildly. Maybe now they would tell me what they were planning to do with me. I wondered which was worse, certainty or uncertainty, when the person arrived.

“Hey, you.” It was the man with the casual, young voice who had told me the only good news of the day: that Isaac wasn’t on board. And he sounded friendly, something that almost made me cry in my current situation. “I’m Troy.”

I pressed my lips together. Castor. Troy. Another stupid name from Greek mythology! What would come next? Hades?

A metallic knock sounded near me. A kind of clang-clang-clang that sent an icy shiver down my spine.

What is he doing? Is he standing in front of the bars? Is he going to come in?

Tense, I listened, but apart from the echo of the knock, it was quiet.

“Just so you can get an idea of what I’m like because of the blindfold… I’m twenty-three, brown hair, and brown eyes.”

I raised my head. “Okay,” I responded softly because I wanted to say something before he became annoyed with my silence.

“Well, in reality, I look like Orlando Bloom in Pirates of the Caribbean , but I don’t want to boast.” Now he laughed loudly, a pleasant, infectious laugh. Under normal circumstances.

I didn’t laugh. Even if Troy sounded as charming as a salesperson in Bloomingdale’s, I wouldn’t trust him.

He could deceive me with his superficial goodwill and then do something bad to me, like come in and cut off my little finger with a pair of pruners to send to Dad with the help of the motorboat and a courier on land.

Psychopaths did things like that. They lulled their victim with niceties and then struck when they were no longer expecting it.

Maybe he would touch me to make his time on the high seas more pleasant.

Hey, don’t be a bitch, darling, after all, I look like Orlando Bloom!

God, I’d rather die than become these men’s pastime!

Unable to control the shaking of my body, I curled up in a tight ball.

“For God’s sake, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said promptly and waited a moment. “I simply want to give you some well-meaning advice about the boss and the crew—remain calm, do what they tell you, and don’t provoke them. The boss doesn’t like you anyway. No one here does.”

“But I didn’t do anything to you,” I whispered. “And neither did my father.” Why was he even giving me advice?

“Your father is a piece of shit and that’s putting it mildly.” Troy no longer sounded so friendly.

I swallowed. “Because he has money and eats beluga?” Or slaps it on his bread like butter? In truth, my father only ate the much more luxurious Almas caviar; it was ivory-colored and cost thirty thousand dollars a kilo, but I wasn’t going to rub Troy’s nose in it.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Troy said cryptically.

“My dad uses his private military units to ensure peace in the Middle East. He builds children’s homes in Canada and supports several local hospices.

He organizes charities and donates to so many charitable causes that it would bore me to list them all,” I stated using the leader’s words about my dad’s luxury cars. No idea why.

“Oh, well, then everything’s cool if your dad does that.” Judging by his voice, Troy was still in the same spot. “But if I were you…”

“Hey—damn it!” The sharp call rang out from further up and it came from the man who had torn my dress earlier. His angry, dark voice had etched itself into my nerves. I would probably have recognized it even blind in the Arctic. “Are you down there, Troy?”

“Yes.”

Something rumbled, perhaps he was coming down the stairs they had manhandled me down earlier. “With her?”

Could two words sound more stunned? It sounded as if he was choking on them.

Something moved nearby and then Troy whispered, “I told you not to provoke him. Anger is his middle name.”

“So, what’s his first?” I hadn’t wanted to ask, but it would definitely be an advantage to be able to assess each individual here.

“Not peacefulness, ha-ha. Just think of the ha-ha as a grin.” Troy clicked his tongue briefly. “Yeah, I’m coming!” he called to the other.

The footsteps hadn’t come any closer, so his boss was obviously further away, but he spat out words that flew in my direction. “She’s a hostage and she’ll be treated like it, got it? We agreed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I heard Troy respond, sounding as casual as the typical yes, yes , which could also mean fuck off ! Not that I’d ever used such words. The etiquette lessons that Dad gave me personally forbade me from doing so. Swear words were more Penelope’s thing.

“Tucekilemeur,” Troy mumbled.

“Excuse me?” I whispered.

“His first name.”

I didn’t quite catch it, but his footfalls receded and others drew closer. If they communicated, it didn’t require words.

A moment later, a key turned in the lock, and there was a sound like chalk screeching across a blackboard.

“It’s been a while since it was greased, hasn’t it?” I heard Troy say, but the guy who was now with me didn’t answer.