My Lorenzo.
He's here.
He hobbles into the room, rifle sweeping the space as his eyes land on me, and Rafael struggling in my grip.
He grins, a small, pleased curve of his lips that I doubt he's even aware of. Limps toward me, draws his combat knife—a long, serrated, razor-sharp KA-BAR—and tosses it onto the floor beside me.
Rafael sees it, hears it, and thrashes even harder, gasping for air, gurgling, trying to plead.
I grab the knife hammer-style. "I have waited a very long time to do this,husband,” I whisper, the words intended only for his ears.
I press the tip against his belly, just above his navel. Apply just enough pressure to slowly—so, so slowly—drive the knife into his belly. It pierces his skin first, and he tries to cry out. I loosen the grip of my thighs so he doesn't choke out too soon.
Sucking in a hissing, desperate breath, he gurgles a plea. "So—Sophia—p-p-please." He wriggles like a worm on a hook.
I slide the knife in another inch. "This is what gets you off, is it, Rafa? This?" I twist the knife a little. "Not so arousing when you're the one in agony, is it?"
He tries to scream, and when he does, I drive the knife in a little further. Twist it. Push it deeper.
I hear footsteps—many.
Flick my gaze toward the door—Lorenzo is just inside, watching impassively; his jeans are dark with blood from a wound to his hip. Silas is just behind him. Chance, Rev, Lash,Kane, Saxon, Solomon, and Scarlett are all clustered behind Silas, crowded in to watch.
Plunging the knife in to the hilt, I grab a handful of his hair and yank his head to the side. "You see them, Rafa?" I whisper. "My friends. My brothers. My family. We are survivors. Warriors. We beat you."
I yank the blade free, release my grip on his throat, and scramble to my feet, slipping in the blood. He gasps, coughs. "Sophia—"
I whirl, kick his face as if trying to boot a football across the pitch. His jaw cracks and teeth clatter.
I stomp out. "Bring him topside. Do what you want on the way, but make sure he's alive."
Lorenzo grabs at my arm. "Sophia,meu amor—"
I jerk my arm free. "Not yet, Lorenzo."
He lets me go.
"What about…her?" Kane's voice follows me.
I turn in place, frantically trying to keep my icy mask in place, to keep my shoulders from shaking. My legs threaten to give out as I look at the poor, dead, innocent woman. "I…she…" I choke on my guilt and sorrow. Turn to Lorenzo but don't meet his eyes—I can't. "Deal with it. Please? He—so I’d…but I didn't. I couldn't. Ren, please. I can't. I can't."
He brushes my cheekbone with a thumb. "Of course. I'll take care of her."
I turn away, leave the room. Ascend the stairs. I hear a dull, soft thud and a groan.
Back under the open sky, dawn is a creeping blush of salmon and tangerine on the endless western horizon. Acid batters the back of my teeth, and I bend over the bow railing and vomit until my stomach curls in on itself, empty, and still I retch.
The scent of death surrounds me, wafting to me in snatches and fragments, and that's when I look around.
Dead bodies everywhere—Rafael had quite a few men on this boat. No way I'd have taken them all out alone, had I tried to escape any sooner. I couldn't have saved her. I could only have died trying.
Each dead body leaks gore from bullet holes to T-boxes, precise and perfectly placed, each one.
A minute or two later, I hear scuffling. Rafael lurches and trips onto the deck, sprawling face-first. His face is a ruin. He's drooling blood, groaning, sobbing. His belly seeps blood. But all in all, I think the men let him off fairly easily.
Kane goes to yank him to his feet, but I hold out a hand to stop him. "Leave him, for now. He'll need what strength he has left."
I turn, spying an orange life preserver on a nearby wall. With curious eyes watching me, I tie the ring to a corpse. Glance at Silas, nearest me. "Knife."
