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He reaches my eyebrow, splitting it in half, scraping the blade along my skull. He keeps going despite my screams. I feel the kiss of the knife on my eyelid, poking hard enough to make me whimper. Blood pools in both my eyes. Shock seeps into my body.
“Cerbera!” a voice shouts. So demanding it actually makes him pause. God, it’s another voice I vaguely recognize, but my brain is so wired I can’t think.
“What?” Cerbera snarls.
“I don’t remember the part where we harm women and children,” the man says.
“I see no children here,” Cerbera mocks.
The man comes forward, but all the blood in my eyes means I can’t quite see him. “Put the knife away. You’re being manic with no cause.”
“And you need to watch your mouth,” Cerbera stands, pointing the knife at the man. “You forget your place.”
I flick my uninjured eye open for a second. I see black hair that’s curly, yet styled neatly, not a hair out of place. A significantly tall figure and eyes so brown they might be mud.
I know that face.
Henry Martin.
Thank fuck. Thank fucking fuck.
My mouth opens to scream his name, but I clamp it shut when I remember he’s undercover. He’s not one of them, but he’s also not here to rescue me.
Martin comes toward me, grabs my arm and hoists me up. I stumble into him, my shoulders tight, my face pinched. I only see red. “Pull yourself together,” Martin chastises Cerbera. “Your men have sisters andwives and mothers. They will not appreciate seeing the harm you have caused her.”
“She’s a whore,” he says coldly. “None of them will care.”
Martin is not convinced.
They stare at one another for several long seconds. If the air in the room wasn’t tense enough, it certainly is now.
“They need you on the bridge,” Martin informs.
Cerbera’s lips curl. He wipes the knife on his cream pants, my blood staining them instantly, and stalks off.
Martin takes me away, guiding me toward a room deeper into the yacht. Inside, he undoes my binds with a quick flick of his knife and I collapse onto the bed that’s taking up the majority of the tight space. My heart is out of control, beating too fast. My forehead is on fire, a deep stinging agony. I can’t breathe properly. I can’t think beyond the fact that I might die.
I can’t die. Not yet. Not now.
“Here,” Martin brings a towel to my face and presses down.
“I need—” I gulp, pant, cry. “I need to stitch it.”
“You might be a doctor, Mrs. Bolt, but you can’t possibly sew your own wound.”
My hands shake as I reach for his wrist. “You have to get me out of here.”
Martin’s eyes fill with empathy. “I can’t.” I groan, the agony from the wound only increasing. He puts my hand on the towel, urging me to keep the pressure. Already I can tell I’m going to need a new one. It’s saturated with my blood, filling the room with a metallic scent I know all too well.
Martin swings his head around, stands and closes the door. He does a quick sweep of the room and returns on his knees in front of me. “We are going to get you out.”
“We?” I croak. Dear God, I hope he means Odin.
“You need to stay quiet and stay rested. You’ve been hurt too much already. I will keep Cerbera at bay.”
Someone knocks on the door. I flinch, my body recoiling.
Martin stands. “Wait for my signal.”
