10. The Devil in Red
The Devil in Red
W endy lay on the floor, her cheek cold with tears as she rested her face against the carpet. She decided some time ago that she was better not thinking right now because when her mind worried about what might happen to her, she went into a full-blown panic attack.
Time was hazy. Whatever drugs were in her system had worn off, and there was nothing left to dull the fear. She was going to die here, or worse. She was sure of it.
These men were not interested in negotiating, and their brutality had been more than proven. But she knew it could still get far worse.
She ached for the familiarity of her safe little nursery and would give anything to have that sort of security back. A cage shared with monsters was far worse than any gilded cage her parents locked her in.
What an absolute fool she was. She could have avoided all this if she only knew how unhinged Peter Pangbourne was. She blamed him for bringing her here but also held herself accountable for stupidly trusting a stranger.
What was taking so long?
As much as she dreaded the future, she wanted to know what was coming next. That brute, Jukes, said the boss would be down shortly, but that had to be at least an hour ago.
In the unmoving silence, she studied her surroundings.
Despite the lawlessness of this ship, there existed undertones of order, however tyrannical.
These pirates were not of the Never Lands or any land.
They belonged only to themselves and to the sea.
A thought that terrified her, especially as someone who couldn’t swim.
Wendy had always been enchanted by danger, but the truth was, she wasn’t cut out for a world without consequences. She liked order and achievable objectives. Those things didn’t seem to exist here.
How was she going to escape this place? The deck had been strewn with ropes and barrels, plenty of places to hide, but they were at sea, and leaving the ship promised a watery death. Besides, the men outnumbered her at least ten to one.
The ship's rocking turned her stomach as muffled voices passed in the hall. Fear confined her as much as the chains holding her. Soon, something would happen. She didn’t know what, but she sensed it coming closer.
Rolling to her back, she grew still and listened. Minutes passed, perhaps hours. Every now and then, she’d hear masculine voices holler. What happened to everyone at the lagoon? Were they dead? Was anyone left to save her?
Heavy footfalls approached, and her heart jolted into a rapid gallop.
She forced herself to stand up despite how frozen and stiff her bones were.
This was it. She could not lay helpless on the ground, awaiting her sentence.
Whatever was coming for her, she would be prepared.
Balling her hands into fists, she rose to her full height, ready to fight.
The metal lock on the door clicked, and the chains rattled as she stepped back. The air left her lungs in a whoosh. Nothing could have prepared her for the man who stepped inside.
Tall and broad, with hair blacker than a raven’s wing, he entered the room and locked the door. His authority was palpable. He was obviously the owner of the ship, perhaps by deed or law, but more so by his presence. When he finally looked at her, she felt him in her stomach.
One glance at her oppositional stance and he chuckled. “A little, wet mouse.” Flicking an invisible fleck of lint from his cuff, he closed the distance slowly. “Don’t strain yourself. Resistance, at this point, is futile.”
His low voice carved through the air between them, deep enough to leave scars. She stayed standing no matter how much she trembled.
“What’s your name, little mouse?”
“W—Wendy.”
“Wendy, what? When someone asks your name, give it to them in its entirety.”
“W-Wendy Moira Angela D-Darling.”
He glanced over his shoulder and raised a dark brow. He had the lean muscle and graceful confidence of a wild jungle cat. “Do you typically speak with a stammer, Wendy Moira Angela Darling?”
“No.”
He moved as though the air bent for him, as if everything in his path was under his command. Dragging a chair across the floor, the scraping sound rubbing her nerves raw, he let it wobble into place beside her. “Sit.”
She glanced at the chair, reluctant to give him the upper hand.
“When I give a command, you obey.”
Shaking like a leaf, she met his hard stare with challenge, refusing to follow his orders.
“Very well.” He swept his boot behind her ankle, tripping her off her feet. She fell into the chair. “I don’t repeat myself.”
She cowered under his hard stare, the heavy chains jangling as she situated her arms. He moved to the hearth and lit a fire, and she closed her eyes, grateful for the anticipated warmth.
After lighting several long candles about the cabin, he pulled another chair to the carpet and turned it to face her but didn’t sit. At the sideboard, he poured two glasses of blood-red wine.
“What brings you to the Never Lands, Wendy Moira Angela Darling?”
Her heart thundered wildly in her chest. “I came here with a friend.”
“Peter?”
“Yes.” She was surprised he knew Peter’s name.
“Are you sure he was only a friend?”
She’d been asking herself that same question all night. “I… thought he was a friend.”
“Speak clearly.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Was he your lover?”
Stunned by his bluntness, she shook her head.
“Are you lying? I despise liars, Ms. Darling.”
Her chin quivered. What if the truth got her punished? She didn’t know what he wanted to hear.
“I’m telling the truth.”
He wore danger the way one wears a perfectly tailored suit. Leaning forward, he dragged a knuckle up her cheek, slowly swiping away a tear, his watchful eyes missing nothing. “Convince me to trust you.”
She closed her eyes, staving off more tears. “I don’t know how.”
He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his stare. His sculpted features appeared hard as stone, a complete contradiction to the fullness of his sensual lips.
“You do know. Convince me.”
When he spoke, his voice sent shivers down her spine. His dark hair framed his face in shadows, and his gothic clothing spoke of wealth and elegance, black-on-black, with the slightest silver detail on the wrist.
He was older, perhaps in his mid-thirties. And despite the danger radiating from every square inch of him, there was something devastatingly beautiful about his cruel face.
“I’m waiting.”
“I don’t?—”
He grabbed her by the jaw again and snarled, “Don’t play naive with me. You’re a female. There are a myriad of tools at your disposal. Show me why I should trust you.”
Flinging her face away, he sat back and watched her expectantly.
Did he assume she’d use her body to persuade him? What else could he mean? She was running out of time. If she didn’t do something, he was going to threaten her again.
Her voice was small, shrinking under the pressure of his dark stare. “I don’t know how to persuade you.”
“Perhaps you should get on your knees and try.”
“You want me to beg?”
“That’s a start. But I expect it will take much more than begging to get me to trust you.”
“I… I’ve never been with anyone that way before.”
His eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Then you’re old enough for a lover.”
“But I haven’t…that is… I don’t…” There were ways to prove her innocence, but she hoped it didn’t come to that.
He held up a silencing hand. “Do you shake from fear or cold?”
Her teeth chattered from the chill in her bones, but she trembled out of pure fear. “My clothes are soaking wet, and I’ve been on the cold floor for hours.”
He arched a brow. “That doesn’t answer my question. But it does bring about another one. Are they your clothes?”
She glanced at her sleeves and stilled. Was this Black Jack, the true owner of the stolen coat she wore?
True terror gripped her as she feared being punished for another man’s crimes. “Not the coat.”
“I assumed not.” He grinned as if her answer pleased him.
Hopefully, that was enough to win his trust. She tested the theory. “Are you going to hurt me?” As his piercing emerald gaze drilled into her, she continued to tremble.
He had a wicked smile and mouth made for sin. “Such a bold question for a quivering little mouse, but we mustn’t spoil the surprise.” He stood and pressed the wine glass to her lips. She tried to reach for it, but he pushed her cuffed hands away. “Sip. It will warm you faster than the fire can.”
She extended her neck, and he tipped the glass. The dry bouquet chased away the taste of saltwater and tears. When she pulled back, he cupped the back of her head, holding her lips to the wine as it poured down her throat.
“More.”
“ Mmp— ” she moaned in distress as he tipped the glass against her mouth, forcing her to keep drinking.
“That’s it. Keep going.”
Her eyes widened, wondering if he’d poisoned the wine. She swallowed and swallowed, her stomach uneasy from her rough journey and sloshing uncomfortably. Her brows pinched as she looked up at him, fearful she might be sick.
“Swallow all of it,” he said, tipping the glass so much that a trickle spilled past her lips, down her chin, and onto her chest. “Good girl.”
Her head was fuzzy, and the room spun when he finally pulled the empty goblet away.
“You take direction well.”
Her skin remained cold, but the wine had warmed her insides.
“Now, tell me again, was Peter your lover?”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ve never had one.”
“Which makes you what?”
Her cheeks heated. He was going to make her say it. “A virgin.”
“A virgin,” he repeated thoughtfully, rubbing his hand along the black stubble of his defined jaw. “I think more wine.”
He swapped the empty glass for the full one, and she leaned back in the chair. “Please. I can’t drink anymore.”
“Don’t be silly.” He stood, once more cupping the back of her head and looking down at her. “Open.”
“Please—”