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I’m going to make a goddamn difference.
I’m—
“Dakota.”
I stop.
It’s his Daddy voice. Master voice. The command of the Dom who isn’t taking shit. But I don’t want another person staining his soul. I don’t want to be the reason he suffers.
I square my shoulders. “No, Orion. I’m going to rescue him. Are you coming with me? Or am I doing it alone?”
THIRTY-ONE
orion
“Are you still not talking to me, baby girl?”
I push my still damp hair out of my eyes as I drive the boat. Malone’s with the kid—a teenager, for fuck’s sake. He’s still passed out, and thank fuck for that. I know Malone understands why I did what I did, but getting fucking Dakota off the island and onto the boat put everything at risk.
The boat is designed not to register on radar, and it’s also almost impossible to spot at night. There’s a covering but no amenities. This thing is designed to be fast, silent, and something you never see coming.
It's for the transporting of Marines, SEALS, Black Ops, and other Special Forces, some of them so fucking specialized they don’t have a name.
Dakota sits wrapped in a lightweight blanket, staring out at the water. In the moonlight, her features look sculpted like marble, her hair a light-gold river of starlight.
She stopped talking to me the second she woke up on the boat after I dropped a sedative into another bottle of water that she guzzled when it became clear I was going back, not her and her fucking nail gun.
Malone comes up and her gaze shifts to him.
“How is he?”
“How are you?” he asks. He pokes the cut in my shirt and the wound there that I superglued before diving into the water with the second deadweight of the evening. “Want me to show off my sewing skills?”
I slap his hand away. “No.”
He blows out a breath. “Hey, kid, someone got their revenge on your mountain here.”
“I don’t care.”
“She speaks,” I say, deliberately pushing for light. Because I hear the concern and pain in her voice, and that cuts deeper than a fucking knife ever could.
“Not,” she mutters, “to you.”
We look at each other for a long minute. There’s nothing in her expression but pain and heaviness and exhaustion that crushes bones.
“Dakota, can you check on the kid?” I ask.
For a second I think she’s going to say no. But she does what I ask.
Lowering my voice, I say, “Poor kid had been knocked out.”
“He had some Mercer potion?”
“Syringe. Who the fuck knows what was in it?” I grit my teeth.
“He’s dressed?—”
“The kid was naked with welts on him. And they had a cock ring on him that I had to get off because it was turning his dick the colors no man wants their dick to be. It was erect, too. The blood caught, trapped, I don’t know. I don’t make a habit of studying this kind of fucked-up shit.” I shake my head, hands savagely moving the controls of the boat.
