Page 122 of Theta

And indeed my trust is well-placed; once we're out of the shelter of the cove, he kills the engine and starts putting up the sail; I've spent my share of time on sailboats, and I generally know how to pull my weight aboard when it comes to tacking and tying off lines and whatever, but it's quickly apparent that Killian is a sailor. He knows exactly what he's doing, and does it all efficiently and decisively. It doesn’t escape my notice that he does the lion's share of the work of sailing the vessel, only enlisting my assistance when he legitimately requires an extra set of hands. The rest of the time, I’m free to lounge nearby and enjoy the Killian show.

Once the sails are set and we’re locked in on a long tack, we settle in together at the wheel; despite our earlier flirty banter, we wordlessly agree to leave our clothes on and enjoy the sun and wind.

"So," I say. "Where exactly are we going?"

"Well, Mom, Dad, Uncle Val, and Aunt Key technically co-own just over four hundred acres of land scattered across seven islands. The main compound is the largest island, obviously, and the only one with any utilities like electricity or plumbing. Most of the other islands are remote satellite cays. We're going to one of those.”

"What's there?" I ask.

“Besides an acre or so of nearly impenetrable jungle?" he answers, tightening a line here and letting one out there. “There’s a fishing hut, and that’s it.” He gives me a hot, cocky smirk. "Its most important feature is complete and total privacy."

"Is there a bed?" I ask.

"Yup."

"A toilet?"

"Yup. It's not a plumbed toilet, but it's not an outhouse. Mom and Brynnie have no issues with it."

"Your mom doesn't give a shit, though."

He snickers. "Oh, she does. She'll do what she’s gotta do when needs must, but if she's faced with the choice between peeing in a porta-potty or outhouse and holding it for hours, she'll hold it."

I just grin at him. "I see. My point is that it has a bed and a toilet. As long as you brought food and water, that's all that really matters to me."

He goes still. "Oh. Shit. I knew I forgot something."

I frown at him. "You're kidding."

He holds the still, blank expression for another moment and then breaks into laughter. "Yes, of course I’m joking. I have enough supplies for several days. Plus, we're only an hour's sail from home, and I've got a full tank of diesel and several spare cans. We're good, I promise."

I clutch his arm and lean into him. "I never doubted you, Killy. Not now and not at any point."

He gazes at me. "You really mean that? You never doubted me?"

I shake my head. "Never. Not once. I woke up in that dark, awful place, but you were there. I…if I'd been alone?"

He shakes his head. "It was tough."

In addition to physical therapy, Killian has also spent a lot of time in psych therapy—his parents flew in a renowned PTSD specialist who focuses on prisoners of war or people who have been held captive in some way, like Killian was. He did EMDR, talk therapy, and horse therapy—he flew to Florida for a weekend for the horse therapy. He still struggles with the flashbacks at times, and dark rooms still give him trouble, but he's worked through the worst of his trauma responses. As much as you can in such a short time, at least. We both know it’s going to be a long process, getting over that captivity. His biggest issue is impatience with himself, feeling like he should be able to get over it sooner.

"The faith you have in me, Story?” he says, gazing down at me. “It's…" he swallows hard, shakes his head. "It's fucking everything to me."

"That goes both ways, you know," I say.

We sail for a little under an hour, a green lump of land in the distance growing larger by increments. Since we weren't going out into the seriously deep water of the open ocean, we're towing a rigid dinghy behind us. When we're within a hundred yards or so of the island, Killian anchors us and pulls the dinghy to the stern. We toss our bags into it and then Killy transfers the supplies—gallon jugs of drinking water, two large insulated coolers full of food, a portable camp stove, and a few other odds and ends.

As we zip from the boat to shore, Killian's face brightens, a grin spreading across his face the closer we get. "I've always loved coming here," he tells me. “It's one of my favorite places on earth."

“Really?" I ask.

He nods, throttling back as we near the beach. "Absolutely. It's paradise."

"You already live in paradise, Killy,” I point out.

“Yeah, but this is…" he shrugs. "It's different. You'll see."

The beach is a small crescent of sand against a backdrop of tropical island foliage. Beyond the beach, the jungle looks to be pretty damn well impenetrable, as advertised.