Elena was pulled from her troubled sleep by the noise of men shouting and a large banging coming from outside. The commotion wasn’t inside the manor. It was coming from out back near the lake.
Opening her eyes, she pulled herself up and looked out the window, light barely seeping over the hills.
She pushed back the covers. The packed bag sat by her door. She’d thrown things into it last night with a numb resignation. Now, she had to slip into the sundress, its soft fabric freshly washed and returned to her wardrobe. She grabbed the bag’s handle, the leather cool against her palm, and left the room.
The manor didn’t have its usual stillness. People could be heard moving around; everyone appeared to be busy. She followed the sounds through the large, opulent halls and out the French doors to the rear terrace. The morning air’s warmth flowed through her sundress. She walked to the stone balustrade overlooking the lake.
Below her, the dock moved with organized precision. The Briar Rose, Liam’s sleek sail yacht, was tied alongside the long dock. Its white hull and wooden deck were so much more active than she had seen before. Three men she didn’t recognize were moving between a waiting van and the boat’s aft deck, carrying a few small crates and supply bags. Their movements were precise and organized, quick except for the quick stop orders.
And there was Liam. He stood on the deck near the open salon door. He looked different. A new sight was in her eyes. He wasn’t wearing his normal suit pants and white button-up shirt. He was wearing white shorts and a loose… Was that an Aloha shirt? Sure enough, he was wearing the Hawaii-style button-up shirt. It was white, patterned with red and orange flowers. The shirt stretched across his shoulders, no suit jacket in sight. Presley was beside him, holding a clipboard, receiving instructions. Liam’s gaze tracked the loading process, his blue eyes missing nothing. He pointed at something in one of the crates, his mouth moving, and the man carrying it adjusted his grip instantly.
Elena watched the precision of his control. It was in the set of his jaw, the way he occupied space without seeming to try. This wasn’t the predatory stillness of the billiard room or the calculated charm of the restaurant. This was a man in his element, commanding a machine. He wasn’t smiling, yet he looked so alive? She felt it in her chest, a tight, warm pull.
She descended the winding flagstone path that cut down the hillside. Dew-wet grass chilled her bare feet. The sounds grew clearer: the lap of water against the hull, the low thrum of a generator, the crisp sound of Liam’s strong voice.
He looked up as she reached the dock. His eyes found her immediately, a hunter’s reflex. There was no surprise in his face, just a slow, thorough assessment that traveled from her windswept hair down to the bag in her hand. He handed the clipboard to Presley without looking away.
“You’re early,” he said. His voice cut through the morning air, not loud, but carrying. It carried a faint note of approval.
“The noise,” she said simply. Her own voice sounded small.
He nodded once, as if he understood. His gaze lingered on her face, and for a second she thought he might mention the game, her different behaviour, or the frozen silence of the last two days. He didn’t. “Good. Stow your gear in the master cabin.”
He turned back to Presley, refocusing on his work of preparing. One moment, she was the sole focus of that blue stare; the next, she was no longer there. The casual ownership of it—of her, of this boat, of the men following his orders—stung. Her business mind, the part not screaming in panic, cataloged the efficiency. The small crates contained food, liquor, and spare parts. The duffels were linens, tools. This wasn’t a weekend jaunt. This was a fully supplied expedition.
She stepped from the solid dock onto the boat’s deck. The subtle shift under her feet was immediate, a live thing. She moved past the working men, feeling their eyes flick over her and away just as quickly. The salon door was open. She ducked inside.
Stepping down the few steps, the world changed. The warm, damp breezing air was replaced by warmth and the rich smell of wood. Inside was its own little kitchenette. LED lights are set into the ceiling. To her left was its own little kitchen that wrapped back under the deck. Just past it, a small table that would fit two. Across from it, a small couch. Directly to her right, a small closed door she was sure had to lead to a bathroom. Just past the open room, a closed sliding doorway led to another room.
Stepping ahead, she felt the light shifting of the boat on the water. It was calming. Inside, the room was small and cosy, taking up the entire width of the inside area. From one side to another. A couple of windows look out the sides of the boat into the water and the dock. Though the room wasn’t large, it was dominated by a large bed, neatly made with navy blue linen. She looked it over in wonder.
Where am I going to sleep? In here with him? The thought crossed her mind. Then turned to think how the table area or something would have to fold down into another bed.
She let her bag drop onto the bed, a soft thud. The sound was swallowed by the bed’s plush softness.
From here, the voices outside were muffled, indistinct. She could hear the deep rumble of Liam’s voice, but not the words.
Elena stepped back out onto the deck. Her eyes re-adjusting to the morning’s light. The men had departed the boat. The crates and duffels had vanished into hidden lockers and holds, leaving the deck clean and ordered. Presley stood on the dock, a man untieing the final line.
Liam was at the helm, a polished wheel set before a console of glowing screens. He didn’t look at her. His attention was on Presley, a single nod. The man tossed the heavy rope coil onto the deck with a soft thump, then stepped back. Liam’s hand moved, a lever pushed. A low, liquid growl vibrated up through the soles of Elena’s feet.
The boat eased away from the dock. Water churned white at the stern. The gap of dark water widened, becoming irrevocable. The manor on the hill shrank, taking with it the room, the work, the bed. Elena stood amidships, her hand gripping a stainless steel railing. The metal was cold. She watched the dock until it was just a finger of wood against the green shore, and then it wasn’t anything at all.
Liam guided the boat with a touch. The engine’s murmur deepened, pushing them faster. The bow lifted slightly, cutting a clean V through the lake’s surface. Wind pulled at her hair, her sundress flapping against her legs. She turned her face into it, the bouncing of the boat on the water a physical relief.
As they motored through the water, they moved toward the far end of the lake, where the water met a narrow channel between high, pine-covered banks. The engine’s echo changed, bouncing off stone. The channel opened, wider and wider, the water changing from fresh lake blue to a deeper, greener hue. The scent shifted—less earth, more salt, a sharp, mineral tang on the air.
Elena’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t a lake. The channel spilled out into a vast expanse of open, moving water, gray-blue under the morning sky, stretching to a hazy horizon. A bay. Connected to the sea. The realization was a surprise that stirred up fear inside her. This wasn’t just some day out on the lake. This was leaving her only tether to something… Anything physical.
Liam pushed the throttle forward. The engine roared in response, a raw, throaty sound. The bow lifted higher, slapping down against the chop. Spray flew back, a fine, cold mist that tasted of salt. Elena held on, her knuckles white. The land became a smudge, then a line, then memory.
He let them run like that for long, pounding minutes, the boat eating the distance. Then his hands moved again, a series of practiced motions. The engine’s roar softened to a purr. He stepped away from the wheel, locking it in place, and moved to the mast.
He unclipped a line, his muscles corded under the bright shirt. He began to crank a winch, the sinews in his forearms standing out. Above, the heavy white sail began to climb, unfurling with a series of soft, powerful snaps. It caught the wind with a sudden, filling groan. The boat heeled, a smooth, insistent lean that pressed Elena’s feet into the deck.
Then the world went quiet. The engine’s roar faded away. Now there was only the wind’s push, the sigh of water along the hull, the creak of rope and wood. The sail, full and taut, was a white wing against the sky. Liam trimmed a line, his focus absolute, then returned to the wheel. He looked… satisfied. Alive in a way that had nothing to do with her.
The silence stretched, filled only by the sea’s breath. Elena’s voice felt rusted. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes were on the horizon, on the set of the sail. “On a vacation.”
The word was so absurd, so deliberately bland, it punctured the awe of the moment. She stared at his profile. “A vacation?”
“You’ve been working hard. I’ve been working hard.” He adjusted the wheel a degree, his touch feather-light. “The manor has eyes. And ears. I find I want a few days without them.”
He finally glanced at her. The wind had tugged his shirt open at the collar, revealing the tanned hollow of his throat. His blue eyes were bright, reflecting the sea. “Plus, what’s the point of having a boat if you don’t use it?” He let out a grin, crossing his face.
That’s right… A grin on his face. She had seen him fake his smiles before, but this… This one felt different. Something she felt no one had seen before.
It had to be a lie. Why would he take her on a vacation? Her mind, the part still screaming, trying to connect it: Alexander Stern’s warning, what would this be playing in his plan? This wasn’t an escape. It was a maneuver. She just didn’t understand how pulling her into open water would be a part of that plan.
She turned back to the railing, gripping it until the metal’s bite was the only solid thing. The sail blocked the sun for a moment, casting a swift, cool shadow over her. The boat moved with a living rhythm, a rise and fall that began to sync with her breath.
The upper deck was a walkway that went over the cabin, reached near the back by a few steps. Elena climbed it, the aluminum cool under her palms. Up here, the wind was a constant, pressing force. It flattened her sundress against her thighs, whipped her long hair into a wild, stinging banner. She walked towards the front and sat on the edge that ran along the rail, her back leaning against one of the bars, and faced the open water.
The land was gone. Truly gone. In every direction, there was only the shifting, heaving gray-blue, meeting a bleached sky at a seam so sharp it hurt to look at. The Briar Rose was a speck, a floating splinter. The vastness should have been terrifying. Instead, it hollowed her out. It made the panic seem small, irrelevant. Her problems were landlocked. Here, they had no weight.
She let her head fall back against the rail. The sun warmed her closed eyelids. The boat’s motion was a deep, rhythmic roll, a cradle’s push and pull. She could feel the thrum of the hull cutting through the water, a vibration that traveled up through the bench and into her bones. Salt coated her lips. She licked it, tasting the mineral sharpness, the clean decay of everything.
Time dissolved into the rush of wind and water. She didn’t know how long she sat there, letting the emptiness fill her. Long enough for the sun to climb higher, for the shadow of the sail to shorten on the deck below.
His voice came up to her, not a shout, but clear and carrying. “Elena.”
She opened her eyes. He was at the wheel, one hand resting lightly on the polished teak, his body angled against the heel of the boat. He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the luff of the sail, a slight tremor in the canvas. “Come here.”
It wasn’t a request. The command was firm, yet soft spoken. She stood, her legs unsteady from the long stillness, and went down to the wheel. The deck felt more alive beneath her now, more purposeful. She walked to him, the wind pushing at her back.
He didn’t turn. “Take the wheel.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Your hands. Here.” He nodded at the spokes in front of him. “Hold our heading.”
She hesitated, then stepped forward. To reach the wheel, she had to step into the space his body occupied. Her back came within an inch of his chest. The presence surrounded her, a radiating warmth that cut through the wind’s chill.
She lifted her hands, placing them on the smooth wood where his had been. The wheel had a life of its own, a subtle, insistent pull against the pressure of the sail and water.
His arms came around her. Not an embrace. A bracket. His hands closed over hers on the spokes. His chest pressed against her shoulder blades. The contact was shocking in its totality. He was solid, supporting. The entire world was moving, but he was the fixed point.
“Feel it,” he said, his voice a low vibration against her ear. “The pressure. Don’t fight it. Keep the bow on that cloud.” He nudged her hands a degree to the left. The wheel resisted, then yielded. The boat responded, the groan of the rigging shifting pitch. “Good. Now you’re steering.”
He kept his hands over hers for a long minute. His skin was rough with calluses. She could feel every ridge, every hard edge. His breath stirred the hair at her temple. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. She was excruciatingly aware of the cradle of his hips against the curve of her lower back.
Then his hands lifted away. The heat of his chest vanished. He stepped back. The wind rushed into the space he left, cold and sudden.
“Just like that,” he said. His tone was matter-of-fact, instructional. “The compass is there. Keep it on two-seven-zero.”
She stared straight ahead, her hands locked on the wheel. Her knuckles were white. She could still feel the imprint of his body on hers. He was teaching her to steer the boat that might carry her to her own end. Why would it be her end? She found herself crazy to consider the thought. If he wanted to harm her, he could easily have done it by now. Unless he was waiting to let it be some accident at sea…
The thought felt absurd. If he wanted her dead, she would already be. He had been too caring with her since she arrived to want to cause her harm.
She heard his footsteps recede, the soft click of the door opening and closing. She was alone at the helm of the Briar Rose, the vast, empty sea stretching before her. The wheel tugged in her hands, alive. She adjusted her grip, her fingers curling tighter around the wood. She kept the bow on the cloud, her eyes fixed on the horizon he’d chosen.
Time lost its shape on the water. The sun had climbed, and her arms ached from holding the course, when the door clicked open. His footsteps were silent on the teak, but she felt his presence like a shift in barometric pressure. A hand, tanned and sure, settled on the wheel beside hers. “I’ll take it.”
She didn’t release her grip. As he slid into the space behind her, his body started to reclaim the helm. He took his hands and went to place them where hers were. She didn’t release. She wanted to prove she could do this.
She could feel him watching the stubborn set of her shoulders with quiet interest. He stopped and let her hold the control. Holding his place right behind her.
For a long while, there was only the sound. The creak of the rigging, the shush of water along the hull. He stood, a statue of concentration behind her, reading the sea and sky. Finally, she broke the silence. Her voice was sandpaper as she focused on steering. “Why did you bring me out here?”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes tracked the luff of the sail. “The sea has always been my favorite place.”
“It’s empty.”
“That’s the point.” He leaned and adjusted the wheel a fraction. Letting her keep control. “On land, everything has a foundation. Walls. Contracts. Eyes. It’s all unmoving. It’s all negotiation.” He glanced at her then, a quick, blue flash. “Out here, there are no foundations. Just wind, water, and the flow. You react. You adapt. Or you sink. It’s simpler.”
“Simpler,” she echoed. The word felt foreign. Nothing about him was simple. “So this is… adaptation?”
“This is a pause.” His gaze returned to the horizon. “The world is full of noise. I find I want quiet. A few days without the noise.”
She watched his hands, relaxed, but she remembered their weight over hers, the specific calluses. “And I’m part of the quiet?”
“You’re not making any noise right now, are you?”
She fell silent. He was right. The panic, the calculations, Stern’s hissed accusations—they were still there, but the vastness had muted them, turned them into background static. She stared at the endless blue-gray. “It makes my problems feel very small.”
“Good. Then you understand.”
The wind, which had been a steady, pressing force, began to falter. The sail fluttered, then sagged. The boat’s forward momentum bled away, leaving it in a gentle, rocking drift. The silence became profound, broken only by the liquid slap of waves against the hull.
Liam watched the dead sail for a moment, his expression unreadable. He reached over and engaged a lock on the wheel, fixing it in place. “Wind’s died. We’ll wait for it to fill back in.” He turned from the helm, his movements loose and practical. “I’m going to make food. We should eat.”
He moved past her towards the cabin door. As he did, his leg brushed her bare knee. The contact was incidental, fleeting, but it flared on her skin with a sudden, shocking heat, causing her to flinch.
He stopped. Looked down at her. His eyes held hers, and for a second, she saw the man from the billiard room again—the one who had kissed her like he was taking territory. The one who had smiled with a genuine, unguarded ease she’d never seen before. The contradiction was a knot in her chest.
Then it was gone, smoothed over by that familiar, impenetrable calm. He pushed the door open. “Come below when you’re ready.”
He disappeared inside. Elena stayed on the bench, the ghost of his touch on her knee. The boat drifted, turning lazily in the gentle swell. The sun was directly overhead now, a white, blazing coin in a bleached sky. The heat was immense, coming down hard on the shaded canopy above her. She could smell the salt, the hot fiberglass of the deck.
After a few minutes, she stood. Her legs were unsteady. She went to the cabin door, pulled it open, and descended the few steps into the cool, dim interior.
The main cabin was all rich teak and polished brass. A small galley kitchen lined one side. Liam stood there, his back to her. He’d shed his deck shoes. His feet were bare on the teak floor. He was slicing tomatoes on a cutting board, the knife moving with a sharp, precise rhythm. A loaf of crusty bread, a block of cheese, and a container of olives sat beside him.
He didn’t turn. “Sit.”
She slid into the dining spot, its leather cool through the thin cotton of her sundress. She watched him. The muscles in his back shifted under his shirt with each movement. He worked with an economical grace, no wasted motion. She never expected him to be doing things for himself.
He assembled two sandwiches, his hands layering ingredients with a care that felt at odds with everything she knew about him. He placed one on a plate, set it in front of her, then brought his own and sat next to her. The space was small. His leg almost brushes hers under the table.
“Eat,” he said, picking up his own sandwich.
She looked at the food. It was simple, beautiful. Tomato, cheese, basil, and a drizzle of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Her stomach clenched with a sudden, sharp hunger. She took a bite. The flavors exploded—the acid of the tomato, the cream of the cheese, the peppery basil, the rich oil. It was the best thing she had ever tasted. She ate ravenously, the physical need overriding everything else.
He ate slowly, watching her. When she finished, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, he pushed a glass of water toward her. She drank it down, the cold liquid a shock.
“Thank you,” she said, the words automatic.
He nodded, still watching her. His eyes were dark in the cabin’s shade. “Out here, you feel things more,” he said, his voice quiet. “Hunger. Thirst. The sun. The wind.” He leaned back, studying her. “It strips everything else away.”
She felt stripped. Raw. The food in her belly, his proximity in the confined space, the memory of his body around hers at the wheel—it all coalesced into a single, throbbing point of awareness. She was on a boat in the middle of nowhere with the man who owned her. And for this suspended moment, there was no past, no future. Just the taste of salt and basil, and the blue, unblinking weight of his gaze.
The two of them talked for hours. A genuine conversation about Liam asking her questions about schooling. How college treated her. What made her choose art? She excitedly talked about it before trying to turn and ask him questions, but found his answers always generalized and unclear. When she finally asked about his parents, he went silent. She could clearly see pain in his eyes. He never answered. Just sat there in silence.
She should pull away. Instead, her hand slid across the gap, fingers outstretched, until the tips brushed the back of his hand, where it rested beside his empty plate. The contact was a spark in the dim cabin. His skin was warm, the faint dusting of dark hair soft against her knuckles.
He went perfectly still. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t turn his hand to capture hers. He just let her touch him, his gaze locked on hers, a silent question hanging in the salt-thick air.
“You said the sea strips everything away,” she said, her voice low. “What’s left?”
“The truth.” His answer was immediate. His eyes dropped to where her fingers rested on him. “No contracts. No debts. No games. Just two people on a boat.” After a moment of silence, Liam stood up.
“Come here,” Liam said, his voice a low command that vibrated in the cabin’s quiet. He stood, his movement fluid, and walked to the small leather couch set against the hull. He sat, spreading his legs, his bare feet planted on the teak floor. He pointed to the space on the floor between his feet. “I command you to kneel here. Facing away from me.”
“Yes Sir.” Elena’s breath caught. She slid from the bench, her sundress wisping against her thighs as she quickly moved. The floor was cool and hard under her knees. She positioned herself as instructed, her back to him, the long fall of her brown hair a curtain between them. She stared at the polished wood grain inches from her face, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.
His hands came to her shoulders. They were warm, heavy. His thumbs found the knotted ridge of tension at the base of her neck and pressed. A sharp, bright pain flared, followed by an immediate, shocking release. A gasp tore from her throat.
“Breathe out,” he instructed, his voice close to her ear. His fingers began to work, not gently, but purposefully. He kneaded the tight cords of her trapezius, his thumbs digging into the stubborn knots along her spine. The pain was exquisite, a bright counterpoint to the soft, giving ache it left behind. She let her head fall forward, her hair spilling over her shoulders. A low groan escaped her as his hands moved lower, pushing the thin straps of her sundress aside to access the muscles of her upper back.
His touch was magical. He worked the tension from her body like a craftsman, his fingers learning the geography of her stress. The silence was filled with the sound of her breathing, the faint creak of the boat, and the wet, rhythmic slide of his skin on hers. He used oil from the galley—coconut oil, she realized, smelling the faint, soft scent—and his slicked hands moved over her shoulders, down the wings of her shoulders, tracing the line of her spine.
Heat bloomed under his palms. The relentless pressure melted her. Her thoughts, a constant swarm of fear and calculation, dissolved into a warm, humming blankness. Her muscles, clenched for weeks, surrendered. A deep, liquid relaxation seeped into her bones. She was melting under his hands.
His fingers slid lower, to the small of her back. He pressed the heel of his hand against the taut muscles there, circling. The motion shifted the fabric of her dress, pulling it tight across her ass. She became aware of the cool air on the backs of her thighs, the warmth of his body so close behind her. The relaxation deepened, but it changed. It pooled lower, a slow, gathering heat in her belly.
His touch softened. Instead of digging, his hands began to sweep. Long, gliding strokes from her shoulders down to the base of her spine. The slick oil, his warm skin, the rhythmic pressure. It was no longer just therapeutic. It was sensual. His thumbs traced the dimples at the base of her spine, a whisper of a touch that made her stomach clench as they moved down her.
She was wet. The realization arrived like a shock. A slick, undeniable heat had gathered between her legs, soaking through her thin lace underwear. The ache was a slow throb, completely separate from the will of her mind. Her breathing shallowed. She could feel her own pulse everywhere—in her throat, behind her closed eyelids, between her thighs.
One of his hands left her back. She felt the loss of heat, a cool absence. Then his fingers were gathering her hair, lifting the heavy mass of it. He draped it over one of her shoulders, baring the nape of her neck. His breath feathered against the exposed skin. He didn’t kiss it. He just hovered there, and the anticipation was its own kind of touch, more devastating than contact.
His hand returned, sliding down her spine once more. This time, it didn’t stop at the waistband of her dress. His fingertips slipped beneath the cotton, touching the bare skin of her lower back. A jolt went through her. Her back arched, a slight, involuntary offering. A sound, half-moan, half-whimper, almost leaked from her lips.
She was sure he felt the movement, but he didn’t stop.
The boat lurched.
It was a sudden, sharp roll to starboard. The hull groaned. A cup clattered in the galley sink. The spell shattered.
Liam’s hands were gone from her body instantly. She heard the swift rustle of his clothes as he stood. Cold air rushed in where his heat had been. Elena remained on her knees, disoriented, her body screaming at the sudden abandonment.
“The wind’s back,” he said, his voice stripped of all warmth, pure practicality. She heard his bare feet stride across the cabin floor, the sound of him pulling on his deck shoes. The cabin door opened, flooding the space with harsh white light and the roar of a fresh breeze. “Stay here. Relax.”
Then he was gone. The door shut behind him.
Elena slumped forward, her forehead resting against the cool leather of the couch seat. Her body trembled. The deep relaxation was still there, but it was now fused with a frantic, unmet need. Her pussy ached, a hollow, throbbing emptiness. She could still feel the ghost of his hands on her skin, the paths his thumbs had traced. She was soaked. The evidence was a cold, sticky pressure against her when she shifted her knees.
For a long time, she didn’t move. She listened to the sounds from above—the heavy slap of canvas being unfurled, the whir of winches, Liam’s curt shouts to the wind. The boat came alive, heeling over as it caught the breeze, the motion now strong. The world had resumed. Her moment in the silence was over.
Eventually, she pushed herself up. Her legs were weak. She went to the small head, splashed cold water on her face. Her reflection in the mirror was flushed, her green eyes dark and wide. She looked thoroughly touched. She straightened her dress and ran her fingers through her hair. The scent of coconut oil and salt and her own arousal clung to her skin.
She climbed back into the cockpit. The world had transformed. The sky was a dramatic sweep of purple and orange, the sun bleeding into the horizon. The wind was strong and steady, singing in the rigging. Liam stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel, his profile etched against the dying light. He was a statue of focused control, every line of him taut with purpose. He didn’t look at her.
Elena found a spot on the windward side, tucked into the curve of the cockpit coaming. The spray misted her face. The tension was back in her shoulders, but it was a different kind now. It wasn’t fear of him. It was the tension of a bowstring, pulled tight and waiting. Her body hummed with the memory of his hands, and her mind, clear and cold, held the image of Alexander Stern’s smiling face as he told her the secret.
Stepping back out onto the upper deck, the wind scoured the last of the fog from her mind. Elena let it. She focused on the sting of salt spray, the solid heave of the deck under her feet, the boat floating, cutting through water. It was a good distraction from the confusion going on in her head. She watched Liam work, his movements efficient and sure as he trimmed the sails to the shifting breeze. He was a man in his element, and for hours, she allowed herself to be just a passenger in his care.
The sun bled away, leaving a deep indigo sky. The wind softens to a whisper. Liam moved through the twilight, securing lines, folding the canvas shade above the cockpit back into its housing. The world opened up. The first pinprick of light appeared overhead, then another, until the velvet black was dusted with them, a breathtaking spill of diamonds. The only sounds were the gentle lap of water against the hull and the soft, rhythmic flutter of the mainsail. Elena lay back on the upper dock, her body fully relaxed.
After a bit, she felt his weight settle beside her before she saw him. Liam sat, his back against the coaming, one knee drawn up. He didn’t look at her. He looked up. “That one,” he said, his voice quiet in the vast quiet, “is Polaris. The North Star. It doesn’t move. Every other star wheels around it.” He pointed, his arm a dark line against the cosmos. “Sailors used it to find their way home when everything else was lost.”
Elena followed his gaze. She saw the steady, bright point. Then she looked at him. The starlight caught in his blue eyes, turning them into pools of reflected sky. In this moment, stripped of his suits and his schemes, he was just a man under an infinite night. The contradiction was a physical pain in her chest. This was supposed to be the same man who had orchestrated her ruin. This was the man whose mind created the drug that brought her and Lisa’s bodies to a trembling edge of bliss. The man whose hands were capable of relaxing her. Her anger and her want were a tangled knot, each strand pulling tighter inside her.
She stood up abruptly, unable to take any more. “I’m tired,” she said, the words too loud. She didn’t wait for a response. She moved and descended into the cabin, into the warm, enclosed space that still smelled faintly of coconut oil. Going back into the main room, the large bed dominated the small room. One bed. Her stomach clenched; she had to share this bed with him... She moved to the far side, peeled back the blanket, and slid in, her body rigid, deciding to leave on the sundress, and clinging to the very edge as if a few inches of mattress would be enough for her.
As she lay there in the dark, part of her waited for the door to open.
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