17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Martina
I sit in bed waiting for the warmth to die down after Vincent leaves. I don’t want to be in heat around him and wonder if there’s any chance he would allow me to take omega blockers. It shouldn’t affect him any. If anything, it would feed his sadism to make me enjoy sex less.
A crew member comes in carrying a tray with a glass of water decorated with a lime wedge.
“Your electrolytes,” the young woman says as she sets a coaster and the glass on a bedside table.
Misty stands within earshot, but I decide to chance asking, “Do you know what happened to the previous crew? ”
She smiles and shakes her head before leaving. I glance at Misty to see her reaction, but she remains stone-faced.
How can I find out what happened to Brady? It would be amazing if they just let the initial crew go, but Vincent is not the sort to leave a stone unturned. He’s always wanted to know who I was working with. And even if they did simply release the crew, Brady might try and come back for me. I can’t decide if that’s a good thing. Rescuing me might get us both killed.
While I mull over the possibilities, I start biting my nails—a habit I had pretty bad as a kid till Isabella started painting my nails to get me to stop. It worked.
When a tall, burly Asian man enters, I immediately tense. He wears what almost look like scrubs.
He hands me a towel and says in broken English, “Take down robe, then use this to cover. Lay on stomach.”
I don’t move.
“Tuina,” he explains. “Massage. ”
My eyes widen. I’m getting a massage? I take the towel from him. He turns around and, while he applies a balm to his hands, I do as he said. He adjusts the towel and puts his hands on my shoulders. I tense.
“Relax,” he tells me.
It’s not easy. I wonder if I’ll ever relax at a man’s touch thanks to Vincent.
The massage is deep and even painful at times. He finds knots and tender spots in places I didn’t realize were sore, like my upper buttocks and the webbing between my thumb and pointer finger. When he’s done, however, I feel rejuvenated.
The acupuncturists arrives. She has me turn onto my back. Now that I’m awake, the thought of having needles stuck in me is a little nerve-racking because I’ve never tried acupuncture before. She takes my pulse in different places around my wrist, then presses her hand on different parts of me before inserting the needles. The needles look scarier than they feel.
“Rest,” she tells me. “Try to sleep. ”
The masseur had left earlier, and now the acupuncturist leaves too. For an hour I lay there with the needles sticking out of me, half dozing. I feel myself floating, existing somewhere else, kind of like a dream. Is it a dream? Vincent is there, not that I can see in physical form, rather it’s more like the essence of him. The location is not his yacht. But somewhere familiar. Comforting even. I’m not afraid of Vincent here. It’s strange.
When the acupuncturist returns, I realize I had fallen asleep. She removes the needles, then she checks my pulses again.
“Heart is a little better. Lung is still very weak. Your life has much grief, yes or no?”
Her question surprises me because of the empathy in her voice. I haven’t heard that since stepping aboard Vincent’s yacht.
“Yes,” I answer. Could she be someone who would be willing to help me?
She checks another pulse. “Liver also weak. For young healthy woman, should not be this weak unless you are very angry.”
“How do you know? ”
“Very simple. This is Chinese medicine from thousands of years ago.”
She pats my shoulder, and I almost start to cry.
“Let go your anger, let go the grief so you can recover your health, your energy. Continue to rest.” She takes the small bowl of used needles and turns to leave.
“Wait,” I say.
But I don’t continue because Misty has walked over. If I say something to the acupuncturist, I may not get the chance to see her again, and she’s the only kind person I’ve come across here.
“Thank you,” is all I say.
She gives me a nod then leaves.
“Were you planning on saying anything else?” Misty asks.
I shake my head and close my eyes. What are the chances the acupuncturist would have a different reaction from the doctor? Everyone on this yacht is loyal to Vincent. It’s a near miracle that Brady and I even made it onto the yacht. It was all thanks to his cousin who works on payroll for the Black Dragon, and his cousin might not have helped us out if he knew our ulterior motives.
And even the acupuncturist was willing to help me out, what could she do? Go the authorities? Assuming they weren’t already in Vincent’s pocket, the most they could do is get a search warrant. And I’m sure Vincent would outmaneuver them. And if he should find out the acupuncturist had helped me, I shudder to think what he would do to her.
Helen returns, this time wheeling a cart with lunch. Feeling more of an appetite, I put my robe back on and sit at the table. She sits down a plate of what looks to be Chinese chicken salad followed by three bowls of soup.
“This one is minestrone, this is lobster bisque, and this is butternut squash,” she says.
This is a lot of food. And what I told Vincent I liked to eat. This is…nice of him? No. There’s no reason for Vincent to be nice to me. Even if he’s trying to fatten me up for some pimp to buy, he could do so without serving my favorite foods.
What’s his game? Did he decide that he’s better off getting what he wants using carrots instead of sticks? Is he trying to fuck with my mind? Whatever it is, I’m not falling for it.
But starving to death isn’t an option. Vincent already established that with his threat to stick a feeding tube into me.
Helen places more food on the table. “And for dessert, this is a lemon tart with raspberry coulis and fresh whipped cream. And also coconut sorbet, made fresh today.”
“I’m not really a dessert person,” I say.
“You don’t like any kind of dessert?” she asks.
“My nonna’s zabaglione, but that’s about it.”
She pulls out a French press. “Would you like some coffee?”
I shake my head.
After she leaves, I help myself to the minestrone served with rustic bread. The food tastes incredible compared to what I was eating in the cage. I make it halfway through the salad and feel full.
Maybe Vincent feels guilty that I almost died? But does Vincent have a conscience? Maybe he never intended to push me to the brink of death or even mean all that he said to me? I shake my head. The rage I saw in his eyes was real. It was most intense when I first told him my name was Irene, and again when I was singing the ballad from Turandot . I’ve never known Vincent could be like that. I’ve only seen and heard that he doesn’t have a temper, that he is still in his veins.
I spend most of the afternoon staring out the window. My current accommodations are a huge upgrade from the cage, but I’m still in a floating prison. I’m a pretty good swimmer, so I could make it to shore, especially if the tide is going in. The hard part is getting off this yacht. I try to think of a way to escape but I can’t come up with a really viable option. I think I just have to hope an opportunity presents itself.
Even though there’s a TV, I have no interest. I haven’t watched television in years. All the programs seems so trivial to me. At one point, Helen returns to collect the dishes from lunch.
“When you are ready for dinner, let us know about a half hour before,” she tells me.
A little later, Xander takes over for Misty. Xander dresses slightly more casual than the other bodyguard but is no less imposing. His short sleeves expose muscular arms covered in hair.
I try to make conversation. “So what do you guys do for fun around here?”
“I’m not interested in talking,” he tells me.
Eat. Sleep. Twiddle my thumbs. Those were the things Vincent said I could do. That and use the bathroom, which I don’t want to do with Xander here, but I don’t have a choice.
Sitting on the toilet, I look to the bathtub. I could take another bath, but I don’t know that I trust Xander. Remembering how the sponge felt between my legs this morning, I start to warm. After washing my hands, I splash cold water into my face. But that doesn’t help. A certain part of my body wants attention.
I crawl back into bed. Sleep could help pass the time away, but I’m too awake. I want to touch myself, but not with Xander watching. Turning onto my side, I pull the cover up to my shoulders and slip one hand between my legs. I don’t think he can tell.
At first I just press my fingers against my clit, but slowly I start to stroke. Oh, that feels good…
It takes a while because I’m keeping my motions as subtle as possible, but eventually the pressure starts to build. It’s a slow climb to the peak, and the longer it takes, the more wetness flows onto my thighs. But I’ve got to get to the end. I want that release.
The orgasm is small, and I have to keep my body from shuddering too much, but it’s way better than nothing. I sigh. Now maybe I can sleep a little.
However, my rest is short-lived.
I hear someone enter the suite and know immediately that it’s Vincent.