Page 53 of Black Sheep

“Because we live in a tropical paradise.” Vik smirks, squeezing my hand as he tows me along.

“Are you going to teach me how to ride a jet-ski?” I ask.

“No,” he scoffs.

“Shoot a gun?”

“Not on the beach, we have a range in one of the outbuildings.”

“You what?”

“We have a practice range set up in one of the barn outbuildings behind the house. If you want to learn to shoot, I’ll teach you.”

“You will?” I can hear how shocked I sound, but really, how crappy a kidnapper must he be to think teaching me toshoot a gun is a good idea?

“Of course. Learning how to shoot is an essential life skill. Do you know any self-defense or any fighting technique?”

“Yeah, I’m a black belt in kick ’em in the balls and run like hell,” I snark.

“Cute.” He winks. “Lev can teach you some basic moves, once he’s taught you how to swim.”

“Urgh,” I groan. “I don’t need to learn to swim.”

“We live on an island,” he says, leaving theduhimplied.

“Can I swim anywhere from here?”

“Not unless you become an endurance swimmer overnight, and even then, you’d probably drown before you got anywhere useful.”

“Exactly, so what’s the point of me learning to swim?”

His smile is slow and drugging. “You’ll learn to swim, because we told you to.”

A witty retort is on my lips, but it dies away when we step out from behind the pool and the beach in all of its glory reveals itself. I’ve never seen the sea before in real life. There was a swimming hole and a really pretty lake in the town I grew up in, but when all the other kids were hanging out there in the summer, I wasn’t invited. No one’s parents wanted their kids to be friends with the town whore’s daughter.

For a while before my mom died, I had a poster of a white sand, blue sea, clear skied paradise pasted on my wall. When she was clear headed enough to remember I existed, she’d promise me we’d go there one day. But she overdosed before we ever had a chance.

Aunt Darla’s idea of a vacation was taking a day off work and spring cleaning the whole house. Tropical islands and picture perfect beaches weren’t exactly on our radar.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Vik says.

“Beautiful,” I whisper reverently.

“Kick off your shoes, we can walk along the edge of the water.”

Sliding my feet free of the sandals, I bend over to pick them up, but Vik grabs my arm, pulling me away.

“My shoes,” I protest.

“Will be there when we get back. This is our island, who is going to take them?” He laughs.

Stepping off the brick paved walkway, my toes sink into the warm, soft sand. The only sand I’ve ever stood on was in a sandbox and that was hard and gritty. This sand is smooth, almost velvety and, wiggling my toes, I watch the grains sink over my skin.

“Come on,” Vik says, tugging at my arm and towing me forward. It doesn’t seem like he’s noticing the sand, but then he lives here, he’s probably used to it. The grains move, swallowing my feet as I try to hurry to keep pace with him, but the closer we get to the sea, the cooler and more compact the sand gets and the easier it is to walk on.

Smiling widely, the man who only this morning was cruel and angry, looks carefree and young. Letting go of my hand, he jogs into the water, splashing through the tiny waves that lap at the shoreline.

His eyes crinkle at the sides, and he purses his lips as he watches me cautiously edge closer to the water. I’m not scared to get wet, but I have a healthy respect for thewildness of the ocean and how easily it could consume me.