He was young. Probably only mid-twenties, yet he willingly worked for a monster like Sully Sinclair.
My fists curled in the water.
Don’t think about that bastard.
He was yet another topic I had no energy for.
For the first time in hours, my thoughts were my own again, and my throbbing body licked its wounds rather than drove me to do unspeakable things.
I could no longer ignore my wrung-out tiredness.
I hadn’t slept since I’d been corralled from the room I’d been held in with Tess, forced to shower, been tattooed, tagged, and knocked unconscious to fly halfway across the world.
After today and what Sinclair did to me, I had no energy left for escape.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow…I’ll get free.
With a groan and a thousand pounds pressing on my shoulders, I stood in the waist-deep water and made the agonising trek from the cushioning ocean back to harsh gravity.
The guard watched my every naked move, but he didn’t approach me; he didn’t give me any signal that I was in danger of him molesting me. Instead, he allowed me to inch my battered and lust-broken body up the beach to the private villa I’d been tossed into.
I didn’t know what part of the island I was on or if I even had neighbours. The way the villa had been constructed made it seem as if I existed entirely on my own. No hint of cages or locks. No obvious imprisonment or signs of co-inhabitation.
My feet ached. My back ached. My core ached. Even my fingers ached from making myself come over and over again.
All I wanted to do was to sit down in a sprawl and never move again.
But…I also wanted to shower away the last week of my life. I wanted to be clean when I finally succumbed to sleep.
Dripping saltwater over the white sandstone tile, I cut through the lounge with its matching silver driftwood furniture, gauzy curtains, and high thatched roof and rafters like Sinclair’s office. Unlike his office, though, this one had an annex with a huge king bed, crisp white sheets, mosquito net slung over the carved bamboo headboard, and a bathroom off an alcove where a kitchenette waited with a fridge stocked full of water and icy beverages.
In my exhaustion, I didn’t even care I was held there as his prisoner.
In another world, this was a beautiful hotel. In a previous existence, long travels equalled jet lag, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open much longer.
Stepping into the bathroom, I tried not to marvel at the exquisite vanity carved like a wave with the bowl curved and sensuous along the entire wall or the glass door leading to an outdoor shower surrounded by palm fronds and a rock wall for privacy.
Sluicing off salt and shampooing my hair, I barely managed to dry off and face plant onto the inviting bed before I passed out cold.
* * * * *
A phone.
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a phone.
My heart rate spiked from exhausted dreams to manic hope. Jack-knifing off the bed, I launched at the innocuous phone waiting on the simple side table holding a lamp with a rattan lampshade and a box of tissues.
Grabbing the receiver, I checked for a dial tone before punching the emergency number.
Nothing.
Clearing the call, I tried again, only to hear a click and a pleasant feminine voice, “Good afternoon, Jinx. Are you ready for something to eat? We can have room service delivered, or you’re welcome to come to the goddesses’ private dining villa.”
I froze.
My fingers latched tighter around the phone as my manic hope deflated to dejected desolation. Of course, they wouldn’t allow outside numbers. Of course, my freedom wouldn’t be that easily obtained.
“Hello? You there, Jinx?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I tried to squeeze away exhaustion and a headache caused by dehydration. Had I truly slept since twilight yesterday to lunchtime? No wonder my stomach was hollow and my body desperate for a drink.
“If you’re still listening, I’ll send lunch to your villa—”
“No.” I snapped out of my fugue. “I’d like to go to the dining room. How do I find it?”
A smile sounded down the line. “Great, I’ll send a staff member to escort you. Do you have any food intolerances, Jinx?”
Jinx.
What the hell was with this Jinx business? Vaguely, I remembered Sinclair calling me that. A strange name with no relation whatsoever to me.
Ignoring her question, I asked one of my own. “Why are you calling me that? My name is Eleanor.”
A pause before she said, “Jinx is the name you’ll be known as while you’re employed here. It’s a nom de plume, if you were. For your own protection from the guests and a way of distancing yourself from your time here when you return home in four years.”
My heart seized.
A name for a goddess.
A name for a whore.