An hour ago, I'd wanted to drown myself, but I really, really didn't want to go this way, ripped to pieces by a sea monster with conveyor-belt rows of sharp, pointy teeth.

"Damian!" I started waving my arms. "Damian!"

I didn't know why I was calling for him. Maybe it's just basic human instinct to turn to the only person around. Maybe a part of me sensed that somewhere, deep inside, he still held a shred of humanity.

I felt something brush against my feet, something cold and hard. I probably shouldn't be moving or making so much noise, but I didn't know how else to get his attention. I removed my waterlogged, bloody bandage and tossed it as far away from me as possible.

"Damian. Help!" I screamed.

I saw him get up and peer into the water. Then he went to the deckhouse and brought out binoculars. I waved frantically while he looked through the lens. The damn thing was circling me openly now, preparing for the kill.

Damian looked a little longer. Then he dropped the binoculars and sat back down. I could see him reach into his tackle box and pull out something.

Yes. A gun. A sniper rifle. A mother-fucking harpoon.

He retrieved something I couldn't make out, put his feet up and popped something in his mouth.

I choked on a lungful of seawater.

He was eating peanuts while he watched, as if it was time for popcorn and a matinee.

I coughed and flailed around. How could I have even entertained the notion that he would jump to my aid? So he hadn't killed me. And he'd stopped me from killing myself. But he wasn't opposed to letting me go this way. The hot blond in shark movies always gets ripped to shreds.

I could feel the water churn around me as the shark got closer. A dark face broke through the surface and I screamed. It disappeared and came forward again. I braced myself, expecting the sharp slice of teeth, but what I got was a beak. I was nose to nose with a smiley-faced dolphin. My heart was still racing a mile a minute when it nudged me, as if to say, "Hey, lighten up."

I let my breath out in a big splutter that must have startled it, because it drew away. It had a prominent back fin and its flippers were long and slender with pointed tips.

Not a shark, Skye. A dolphin.

And judging by the size of it, a curious baby.

It zoomed around me, showing off its pink underbelly, before turning sharply and swimming away. I made out another form-this one bigger, most likely the mother. The two dolphins exchanged high-pitched squeaks before the little one came back to me. It swam beside me for a while, mimicking my motions, floating when I floated, flipping when I flipped. Then it whistled three times-little dolphin chirps-before taking off.

I watched the mother and calf disappear. I could see the flash of binoculars from the boat. Damian was watching too. He knew the sea, he knew the difference between a shark's fin and a dolphin's, and he'd chosen to let me be.

I floated on my back, exhausted, elated, horrified, glorified. I thought I was going to die and yet I'd never felt more alive. I heard the engine rev up and I knew Damian was coming for me. He cut the engine a few feet away from me. I looked longingly at the outline of the land mass on the horizon, but I knew I'd been foolish to think I'd get there. Damian had known that too. He'd just hung back, waiting for me to wear myself out. And it had worked. I couldn't go any further, float any longer.

I would have to plan things more carefully next time.

I climbed up the ladder at the back of the boat and flopped, belly down, on the deck.

Damian continued fishing.

WHEN I WOKE UP, I was still facedown on the deck. The stars were out and Damian had covered me with a blanket. It was late May or early June. I had lost track of the days, but I knew we were heading south, somewhere along the Pacific coast of Baja Mexico.

I was born in Mexico, birthed by a midwife at Casa Paloma. Mexico had been home for nine years, but I had never been back. I wondered how far we were from Paza del Mar, and if MaMaLu had retired there, and bought a white house with a red tile roof-the kind she'd always stopped to admire on our way to the market. I wondered if Esteban put in a wrought iron fence and helped her plant flowers in the yard. It would be small, of course, because MaMaLu never dared to dream big, and she was always afraid when Esteban did. Even then, he had been larger than life, and no one, and nothing was going to stand in his way. And if he knew someone had abducted me, he would find me and rescue me, and God help Damian.

Maybe he already knew. Maybe he'd heard the news. Maybe he believed I was dead, just like my father. Either way, Esteban would not rest until he had Damian. He was my hero, my champion, my lean, mean, Gidiot-punching machine. I could picture him in pirate garb and a fake eye-patch, commanding a ship from Paza del Mar, scouring the seas for me.

I smiled, because the brain can conjure up the most ridiculous, improbable scenarios that are so far off center, you have to wonder at the power of imagination. Even in his absence, Esteban was keeping the bad guys and bad thoughts at bay.

I heard the scrape of something on the deck.

Damian was unfolding a deck chair. He propped it up beside his, with a small table separating the two.

"Eat." He motioned to the plate on the table, before digging into his own. One hand held a bag of ice over his jaw, where I'd hit him.

I got up warily, not knowing what to expect. Food? Punishment? Retaliation? But he said nothing as I took the seat next to him. Maybe he was just as tired and wrung out as me. I was suddenly aware of being pant-less, and wrapped the blanket tighter around myself.

Dinner was the same as always. Fish and rice. Maybe a different kind of fish, but always the same rice. I guess it was convenient-it didn't spoil and it did the job. Simple, uncomplicated rice.

We ate in silence, watching the half-moon that rose in the sky. It was bright and warm, like a slice of powdered lemon candy. Without any lights to obscure them, the stars were dazzling and diamond clear. Big bands of light glowed in the water as swirls of fish streaked phosphorescent trails below the surface. Larger, darker forms chased after them and they danced like whirling dervishes around the boat.

It was better than any fashion show-the shine and sparkle and music of the night. The water was miles and miles of midnight velvet, and we were bobbing up and down on it like a piece of lint, small and insignificant in the face of its majesty.

I thought of all the nights I'd spent in temperature controlled clubs and restaurants, under artificial lights, drinking artificial cocktails with artificial friends. Artificial problems. Artificial drama. How many real, glorious nights had I missed? Nights like this, when the universe dances for you, and you become a tiny but beautiful note of the magical song it sings.

"Skye," said Damian, but I couldn't stop the tears.

It was like a great, big cleansing. All the good and bad and sad and glad broke loose.

I hated being weak in front of him. I hated when he picked me up and I clung to him. I hated when he carried me downstairs and put me in the shower. I hated when he wiped me dry and helped me dress. I hated when he put medicine and a fresh bandage on my finger. I hated when he tucked me in and turned off the lights. I hated that I wanted him to stay and hold me and stroke my hair, because that Stockholm syndrome shit? I hated that it was happening to me.

I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to what sounded like dozens of canons being hurled into the sea. We were under attack-someone had caught up to us. I ran up the stairs, expecting to be surrounded by a fleet of boats, with my father holding a loudspeaker: Come out with your hands in the air.

He'd see me and I was alive! And three kisses would turn into six, and nine, and twelve.

Thank God you got here, Dad, because it was just me and Damian, and he cut my finger, and I was surrounded by sharks, and he left me, but it was just dolphins, you see, and then I saw a real night, and something was starting to happen, and my head wasn't right and- There were no boats. No loudspeaker. No Dad.

We were anchored in the shadow of a steep cliff. Dozens of pelicans were diving into the water, and coming up with sardines for breakfast. Sometimes they hit the water at the same time and the resulting splashes sounded like shells exploding in a war zone.

Damian was swimming on the other side of the boat. His strokes were long and lean, and he was oblivious to the chaos around us. He had the perfect swimmer's body-powerful legs, broad shoulders, narrow hips. He rotated his body left and then right, one shoulder out, as he breathed through each stroke. He was quiet and efficient, barely lifting his chin above the surface, but I was so focused on each inhalation that everything else faded-all the noise, all the birds-until there was only him, his breath, and the wet rasp of his lips. It was rhythmic and steady and forceful and mesmerizing and . . . overwhelmingly male.

Something clicked inside me at that moment. I stood outside of myself, realizing how easy it was to judge someone, to vilify and condemn the things we don't understand, because: OMG. How can she even THINK that way about the guy who kidnapped her? HE CUT HER FINGER OFF!

Or That person should have known better than to get into the car with a stranger.

Or How could she stay with him that long when he abused her day in and day out?

Or Monster. He shot and killed his own family.

Because those are all things we're not supposed to do, and yet inside of me was a kernel of the inexplicable from which dark things bloom, something I couldn't understand or justify. I knew better than to romanticize my captor, but there it was-sick and twisted and disgusting as it was. And it scared me. It scared me because I saw a glimmer of all the terrifying things we're capable of, because the human psyche is such a fragile thing, a yolk contained within a brittle shell-one crack and out it spills: a neighbor goes on a suicide mission, tribes massacre tribes, countries turn their faces away from injustices. And it all starts within, because within is where all things begin.

I ran to the bedroom and shut the door. I needed to barricade myself against . . . myself. I needed to think about foosball and Pacman and pizza with Nick-a triathlon of nice, normal things with a nice, normal guy-someone worth romanticizing.

"Breakfast." There was no knocking or privacy or nice, normal courtesies with Damian. He just walked in.

We faced each other for the first time since my stupid, clingy breakdown the night before. I didn't know where he'd slept, but he hadn't come down after he put me to bed. He looked at me like he always did-intense and impenetrable. He must have showered because he smelled like absinthe and mint. And I really, really wanted him to smell like pelicans and sardines.

"We'll be anchoring in Bahia Tortugas tonight," he said as we ate. "We need to refuel and fill up the water tank."

I had no idea where Bahia Tortugas was, but fuel and water meant some kind of port or marina, and that meant we'd be around people.

Damian was warning me. Don't do anything stupid.

I nodded and finished my food. We'll see about that.

I was even more desperate to escape now.

It was dark when the rugged hills of Bahia Tortugas came into view. I had a feeling it was more out of design than coincidence. Damian had planned it so we came in when it attracted the least amount of attention. My heart started to race as we approached the harbor. I had to grab whatever opportunity presented itself in the next few hours.

I stood in front of the mirror and took a deep breath. My hair was dirty and knotted, and I was floating in one of Damian's t-shirts. I jumped in the shower and washed my hair. People were less likely to help a greasy haired androgynous runaway, so I rifled through my shopping bags and put on a slinky top and frayed denim shorts. Boobs and legs always get noticed. I found a make-up palette and applied some eyeliner and lip gloss.

By the time I was done, Damian had dropped anchor. We weren't as close to the pier as I'd hoped to be, and looking out from the porthole I could see only two other boats. It was the perfect lonely outpost for a pit stop.

My spirits lifted when a couple of pangas came out to greet us. If it weren't for the yellow glow from the kerosene lanterns on their masts, I would have missed the small dugout canoes. I remembered enough Spanish to figure out that the men were offering their services and negotiating rates for diesel and water. I thought of running topside, screaming for help, but it was dark and Damian could easily overpower me before I attracted much attention.

I was still peering out of the stateroom window when Damian came in. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me. For one full, glorious second, he wasn't in control. His gaze swept the length of my legs, over the hip-hugging shorts, and lingered on the swell of my breasts under the scandalous top. Ha! He wasn't immune after all. He caught the smug look on my face before I could wipe it off, and his eyes narrowed.

Shit.

I took one step back for each one he took forward, until I was jammed up between him and the wall.

God, he was intense. And deliberate. And he could say things with his eyes that made my knees tremble. One side of his face was bruised and distorted from where I'd hit him. He grasped both my wrists in one hand and pinned them above me. Every part of me felt flush with the heat emanating from his body, even though that was the only point of contact. He hooked a finger in the 'V' of my blouse, tracing the dangerously low cleavage. His touch was so soft, it was barely discernible.

"Skye?" He seemed hypnotized by the rapid rise and fall of my chest.

I swallowed.

"Don't play with scorpions unless you intend to get stung." He yanked the neckline apart.

Round, glass buttons popped onto the floor and rolled around like eyeballs, astounded by the sight of my bare flesh.

"We're harsh and predatory and full of venom." He gnashed his teeth at me and ripped my blouse in two.

He tore off a strip and bound my wrists. Then he used the hanging trail like a leash and led me to bed.

"You've been trying to get a rise out of me for days. Now that you have my attention, what are you going to do?" He leaned forward, so close that I fell back onto the mattress, trying to get away from him. "Or is it that you want me to do all the work so your pampered pussy gets a taste of the other side, but you can tell yourself you didn't have a choice?" He crawled up over me, slowly, until we were nose to nose.

I felt like hell was about to consume me. I could hear the men outside, gearing up to fill the tanks. Would they hear the sound of my screams?

"Would you like me to invite them in?" Damian secured my wrists to the bed post. "Do you really think you'd be safer with them instead of me?" He tore off another strip, giving me the chance to scream or yell or shout for help. When I didn't, he tied it around my mouth.

He sank back on his heels, kneeling between my legs, and ran a finger from my neck to the front clasp of my bra. I stopped breathing. He moved on, trailing over my stomach, until he got to the band of my shorts. He toyed with the tab, enjoying the start-stop effect it had on my heart.

"Such a frightened little bird," he said. Then he yanked my legs around his hips so I was flush with his rock hard arousal. "You should know better than to provoke me."

He rocked against me like that, fully clothed, imprinting his full weight and length on me. Then he got off the bed and spread my legs, tying them to opposite corners. I squeezed my eyes shut as he walked around, checking the knots, ensuring they would hold. Everything inside me was quaking and quivering. I was completely, completely at his mercy.

"Maybe now you'll behave," he said.

My heart was beating triple time.

I expected his hands on me, but he put on his baseball cap, turned off the lights and left, locking the door behind him. I heard him conversing with the men, and then the sound of a small engine, as one of the pangas took off for the shore.

I wondered if he'd taken my severed finger to mail to my father: Warren Sedgewick: Special Delivery.

I should have felt relief for whatever task had called him away, but I felt only apprehension-not knowing when he'd return, or what awaited me. My mind spun infinite, terrifying wormholes in the dark, the worst of which was the shameful possibility that I wouldn't fight him when he came back.

The fuel lines were still running when Damian got back. He wasn't alone. I knew the tap-tap-tap of high-heeled shoes; he had brought a companion.

My muscles tensed as I heard footsteps outside the door. I was soaked in a pool of sweat, and my finger was starting to throb. I jumped at the loud thud on the door, expecting it to burst open, but it remained locked. There was a muffled gasp and then more thudding.

For a moment I thought he had dragged in another victim, that she was struggling to get away, but the thudding turned rhythmic and the sounds coming out of her alternated between pleasure and pain.

Damian was fucking her against the door. Hard. Fast. The sick bastard wanted to make sure I knew exactly what he was doing-he was choosing her over me, working out the sexual frustration I'd stirred up in him. He'd rather pay a local hooker than acknowledge lust, desire, or weakness for any part of me. I was a non-entity, an empty vessel for vengeance. All the time that I'd spent imagining him forcing himself on me had been cruel, deliberate punishment. He'd set it loose in my head-passed on the baton and I'd run with it. I had let him defile me and violate me in the most unspeakable ways and I had done it all by myself, in my head.

I didn't like the emotions surging through me. I should've been grateful it was her and not me, but I felt humiliated. Dejected. Rejected. I should've been disgusted by the sounds of their sex, steadfast in my hatred of Damian, but I was wobbly and confused.

The woman cried out when she climaxed-a sharp, shuddering sigh. Everything went still, except for the sound of heavy breathing. It didn't last long though. The pounding resumed. I could hear her begging, pleading, but I didn't know whether it was for him to stop or not stop.

They moved away from the door. There was a crash. Something cluttered to the floor. I closed my eyes, hoping to shut out the guttural sounds coming from the galley. It's a silly thing we do-shutting our eyes to stop ourselves from hearing something. And it made it worse. I could picture them in the room now, her bent over the chair as he took her like an animal, because that's what sex with Damian sounded like-wild and primal and ferocious.

It went on forever. The man was a beast. When he let go, it was in a series of short, breathless grunts. I unclenched my teeth, realizing I'd been coiled up through the whole thing, as if I'd been there with him.

The woman said something, but it was too soft for me to catch. I thought I heard Damian laugh, but I couldn't picture him doing that-ever-so I must have imagined it. They conversed in low tones for a while. Then I heard their footsteps up on deck.

Damian was paying the men, or the woman, or both. Fuel and water for the boat, a good fuck for its owner. We were all set. I didn't stand a chance-there would be no opportunity to escape. I listened to the drone of the pangas fading into the distance.

Damian entered the room when they were gone. He was still wearing his baseball cap. I doubted he'd let the woman see his full face, or if he'd even completely disrobed. Probably just dropped his pants and taken her against the door.

He surveyed me as I lay on the bed, my legs splayed, with nothing on but my shorts and my bra. "Dinner," he said, as he removed the gag from my mouth.

"I'm not hungry."

He took his time undoing the straps around my legs and wrists.

"I think you're forgetting how this works," he said quietly, deliberately examining my bandaged finger.

He didn't have to say anything else. I loathed him, loathed myself for letting him break me. I followed him out to the galley, rubbing my sore wrists. He unfolded a greasy paper bag and placed some hot dogs on a plate. I should have been all over them after days of fish and rice, but all I could smell was Scent of Whore. The dish rack was on the floor and things looked liked they'd been swept right off the counter.

"Eat." Damian wolfed down his share, and started putting away the supplies he'd picked up.

When the fridge was stocked up, he got a can-opener and opened a can of evaporated milk. I watched him pour it into a clear, lidded jar. I guessed it stored better than fresh milk. He turned to the coffee maker and started measuring out the coffee.

My eyes fell on the jagged, metal top of the can he'd just opened. It was lying in the garbage, by my feet. I reached down and grabbed it. Damian still had his back to me.

I closed my palm over the circular piece of tin and felt the sharp, barbed edge. That's what I needed to sink into his jugular.