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SUTTON

Portholes are cute and all, but they’re shit for seeing the world.

The deep, lowkey terrifying blue of open ocean has given way to a turquoise with a white, sandy bottom as we approach the harbor. On the horizon, I can see a slew of boats.

I turn my phone on long enough to send Sydney a text message. We’re down to eleven percent charge and it’s dwindling fast.

I’m surprised I even still have possession of the thing, honestly. I thought for sure Oleg was going to snatch it out of my hands and jettison it overboard.

But, for now at least, it remains with me.

Wrapped in my towel, I search the stateroom for my clothes. Oleg took them when he left me alone to soak. He came back to leave me some food and then disappeared again.

But now, my clothes are nowhere to be found, not in the bathroom or the bedroom.

I’ve just about given up when the man himself steps in, his face as hard as the muscles I can see peeking out from the short sleeves of his white button-down.

Now that I’ve been washed and fed, my body is aware of other desires.

Like the desire to reduce him to a smoking hole in the earth.

Also, the desire to jump his bones.

It’s super annoying, really. I had hoped that the last few days would have rid me of those feelings for him.

But one look at his granite pecs, the way his hair brushes the stateroom ceiling, his bulging arms and I can feel that familiar stirring in my gut…

… and in other places that shall remain nameless.

“Where are my clothes?” I ask.

“They were filthy. I took the liberty of throwing them overboard.”

I whip around. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” he says with a perfectly straight face. “Even the fish veered wide around them as they sank to the bottom of the ocean.”

Scowling, I pull myself up to my full height. I probably still look like one of Snow White’s dwarves in his eyes, but it’s the best I’ve got.

“What the hell am I supposed to wear then?”

“Here.” He throws something onto the bed.

I wince at the flimsy choice he’s offering me. “That’s a bikini.”

“And a cover-up,” he agrees with a nod. “It was the only thing on board.”

“I’m not wearing that.”

He shrugs. “Then you can enter Nassau in that towel. It’s entirely up to you.”

I stare at him, weighing my options. The white bikini mocks me from the bed, barely enough fabric to be considered clothing. It’s probably illegal in some countries.

The transparent cover-up beside it might as well not exist, either.

Part of me wants to refuse on principle—to deny Oleg the satisfaction of controlling even this minuscule, meaningless aspect of my situation.

Why?

Because fuck him, that’s why.

But another part of me recognizes a rare opportunity.

Power . I’ve had so little of it lately.

My fingers tighten on the edge of the towel, knuckles whitening. Our gazes lock.

Who’s gonna cry chicken first? His golden eyes dare me to back down, to cower, to submit.

Not me. I've spent too long playing it safe. Too long covering up. Hiding. Disappearing.

Fuck it.

The decision crystallizes in an instant. If he wants to play games, I'll show him I can play, too.

One swift movement and the towel is gone, dropped carelessly to the floor at my feet. The cool air kisses my bare skin, raising goosebumps across my exposed flesh.

I’m shivering and red-faced—but Oleg’s reaction is worth every second of discomfort.

His lips are parted in what passes for a jaw drop from a man whose face is usually carved from marble. His pupils dilate rapidly, huge black holes of surprise.

His breath hitches.

Hitches.

Hitches again.

I may be battered and bruised—but I can still turn him on.

It’s painful comfort, but it helps to know that not everything between us the last several months was a lie.

I make a show of putting on the bikini. One, because he can’t seem to look away.

And two, because if he’s going to make life difficult for me, I can certainly return the favor.

Once the white string bikini is on, I glance at the transparent knit cover-up that barely covers up anything.

I decide to leave it off a little while longer.

Let him suffer.

“Are you ready to have an adult conversation with me now?” he grits out.

I almost give in to the urge to mimic his patronizing drawl, but that would just prove his point. “Why? You’ve already made your mind up about me, so what’s the point in talking?”

“Because there are things I need to know.” His jaw tightens, the scar tissue along his cheek pulled taut.

“Whether my baby is yours or Drew’s?”

The vein in his forehead has never been more pronounced. “For one, yes.”

“Fuck you.”

His jaw tightens. I can see every tendon in his tense hands. It’s petty, yeah, but it does help to know that I can rile him up.

“Honestly, do you have to be such a bratty little child?”

“If I’m forced to be your prisoner, I might as well have some fun.”

His eyes narrow. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” I demand, following him reluctantly.

“Oh, no. I’m not answering your questions until you answer mine.”

I roll my eyes. “Who’s being a bratty child now, Mr. Big Fucking Deal?”

The name-calling slightly undermines my point, but whatever—I’m strolling into a new country in a stupid string bikini. I’m allowed to be a little testy.

That, and I’m pregnant.

We leave the yacht on the marina, moored next to others just like it, all of them glistening bone-white in the sun. Paradise stretches before us—palm trees swaying against a cloudless sky, colorful colonial buildings in sherbet hues lining the harbor.

The contrast between this idyllic setting and my personal nightmare couldn't be starker as Oleg leads me toward a big, white Mercedes parked at the harbor's edge.

There are people everywhere—most look like tourists enjoying their vacation. It should calm me down.

But there are too many uniforms walking around, too.

Am I about to be handed over to one of them? Thrown into some foreign jail cell where no one would find me, where I'd lose all control over my pregnancy, my baby, my future?

My heartbeat pounds as I watch Oleg gesture to a couple of cops standing near the marina entrance.

He leaves me standing by the Mercedes and strolls over to them. They start a conversation that I'm too far away to hear.

I glance around, realizing how far away from home we’ve travelled. Nausea starts to fight its way back up my throat but I suppress it with a swallow and a deep breath.

Nauseous in Nassau. That’s funny.

Title of my autobiography.

I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

My eyes dart across the busy marina. The tourist district looks promising—crowds to disappear into, maybe shops where I could beg to use a phone if mine dies too soon.

I might not get another opportunity like this, with Oleg distracted and thinking I'm safely contained.

I've got no money, no ID, and nowhere to go—but I’ve survived worse. Sydney and I learned young how to make do with nothing.

And right now, freedom is worth every risk.

I can call Sydney once I'm safe. She'll help me figure something out. She always does.

Oleg makes eye contact with me. He snaps his fingers and gestures to the car. Like he thinks I’m a dog who follows commands.

Gritting my teeth, I slip into the Mercedes and the driver sits up a little straighter.

“Morning, ma’am. Good day to you.”

I return his greeting with a half-hearted smile, checking to see if Oleg is still preoccupied with his cop friends.

Yup, still deep in conversation.

And here’s me—a sitting duck, an obedient little prisoner. The only silver lining is that I spot a spare charger sitting in a cubby at the back, between our seats.

Seizing the moment, I lean forward. “What’s your name?” I ask.

While he makes eye contact with me, I pocket the charger.

“I’m Chad, ma’am.”

“Chad,” I smile, doing my best to appear sincere. “Do you happen to have any mints on hand?”

He starts rummaging around in the console, looking flustered. While he’s busy searching for mints, I slip out the other side of the car.

I don’t dare look in Oleg’s direction. If he or one of his cop friends spots me, my whole escape plan is blown.

Then I race away, slipping repeatedly in my flip flops.

"Miss! Stop!" Chad yells, his voice shifting from confusion to alarm. I hear a car door slam and heavy footsteps behind me. "Mr. Pavlov! She's running!"

Shit.

I dig deeper, forcing my legs to move faster.

The realization that Oleg and his buddies now know I've bolted sends a fresh surge of desperation through me.

I push harder, weaving through startled tourists, ignoring the stares my bikini-clad body attracts.

I'm hyper-aware of my surroundings—every potential exit, every cluster of tourists I can blend into. My time with Drew taught me something useful after all:

When you're prey, you develop instincts.

I make for the most populated area of the marina, hoping to disappear into the crowd. Sweat drips down my back despite the sea breeze, my breath coming in short, painful gasps.

My body hasn't fully recovered from days of hiding and barfing on that yacht, but fear is one hell of a motivator.

I hear male voices shouting behind me—Chad, maybe the cops, possibly Oleg himself.

I don't waste energy looking back.

I keep going until I find a window of opportunity to duck behind a food stall, breathing hard.

I have no money, no passport, barely any clothes, and a dying phone—but I have freedom.

For now.