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He was going to kill many, many men to survive. They were going to make a monster out of him.

No.

He had to stop them before they got to the shore.

He stretched his arms with an effort, pain piercing him, but the tangle of blankets and furs kept him in place like a cocoon. He wriggled, suppressing groans of agony. The dressing on his chest slipped away, and the rough wool of the blanket rubbed against the wound. It felt as if swarms of furious hornets stung him in the chest.

But it was the pain that gave him strength and set him free.

He roared and tore the cocoon off. The men looked at him, surprised.

But he didn’t need to concern himself with them.

Just the captain.

Ian stood in the bottom of the ship. The angry sea pushed and played with the vessel. Ian held on to the main mast and saw the captain.

He was at the bow, staring, waiting. On weak legs, Ian made his way through the sacks, the caskets, and the barrels. Through other slaves who lay helpless.

If he could only kill that captain, just that one person, he’d never go to Baghdad, he’d never be a cold-blooded killer. And once he met Kate, he could just be happy with her.

If he only killed this one person, his life would be completely different.

The ship careened left, then right, splashes of seawater shocking him.

“Ye bastart,” Ian spat, balancing on the escaping floor. “Ye wilna take me to slavery.”

The captain removed his dagger, the same dagger Ian had given Kate.

“I will kill ye, even though I’m unarmed.”

He roared and launched himself. The dagger swooshed past his side. Ian blocked the captain’s hand and kicked the man to the floor. The dagger fell and slid across the ship towards the center. Ian straddled the captain and wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat.

The captain’s neck was surprisingly thin, the skin soft. His fingers tightened around it and he pressed. The captain’s eyes bulged.

“Ian,” he choked. “Ian…”

The beard disappeared. The gray hair replaced by long, silky golden tresses. Red, weathered skin turned fair and smooth.

“Ian,” Kate’s voice croaked. “Stop. Wake up.”

He blinked.

And he was no longer in the sea. No longer on the ship. The cloth of a small tent was on both sides of him. The light of the fire outside played against it.

His hands weren’t wrapped around the captain’s throat. He was strangling Kate.

* * *

With an appalled expression, Ian loomed over her. He withdrew his hands and rolled off her.

“Katie.” He knelt before her. “Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, are ye all right?”

Her throat tight, the horror of suffocating chilling her body, she crawled back into the other corner of the tent, as far away as possible. Her neck and throat hurt, feeling raw and bruised. She rubbed her neck.

“I’m okay,” she croaked. “What was that? Did you have a nightmare?”

He looked so lost and forlorn. But it didn’t diminish the very real death she’d seen before her when he’d suddenly rolled on top of her with a wild stare and clasped his strong hands around her throat.