But in the end, all of it is still pointless.
He's too strong, and nothing I do - just nothing I do at all makes a difference.
Mr. Sinister sets my still-struggling body down on one of the leather couches.
"Stay still."
He doesn't shout, but he doesn't have to. The steel underlining his words is more than enough: it reminds me that I'm completely at his mercy, and it decimates my ability to move.
"I know you panicked," he says evenly, "so I'll forgive your ill-advised attempt to escape. But do not expect me to do so again. You literally can't swim to save your life—-"
My heart nearly shatters. How does he know that?
"—-and I shall be extremely furious if I ever end up having to rescue you from drowning."
If this were a fantasy, I'd be over the moon that Mr. Sinister is shaping up to be everything I want in an imaginary kidnapper. He's beautiful. Bad. Brutal. He might even have billions in the bank. He has all the sexiest Bs that I can think of, but...
This is real life.
Real.
And that's why all of those Bs only make me feel like I'm about to implode.
I used to find it ridiculous how the dialogues of nameless extras in slasher movies all sound the same. I used to laugh and roll my eyes when I hear the would-be victim ask things like 'why me' or 'why are you doing this'. I used to be such a horrible snob when it comes to those movies, and now it's like karma is biting me in the butt as I find myself whispering the exact same thing.
"Why me?"
"Because it can only be you."
He says it in a way that it's almost as if he expects me to see something profound in his words, but all it makes me think is that he's being impossibly cruel. "Why does it have to be only me that you want to hurt? You don't even—-"
"I never said anything like that—-"
"But you said that you're going to punish me—-"
"And I will," he agrees. "But did I say anything about hurting you?"
I stare at him, stunned and uncomprehending, and my confusion only grows when he suddenly stands up. I watch him walk away, and I'm struck by how tall he is. I've always thought my height at 5’4 is decent, but him being a foot taller (at least) makes me feel puny. He bends down to take a bottle of water out of the fridge, and I notice belatedly that he's ditched the field jacket I saw him wearing earlier. All he has now is a thin cotton shirt and a snug pair of denims. Makes sense, too, since the breeze coming from the open doorway behind him is more warm than icy, and it tells me for certain that we are far, far away from Ivy Creek, New Jersey.
My gaze strays back to Mr. Sinister, who's now pouring fresh sparkling water into a crystal goblet.
Will you look at that, Sara?
A kidnapper with manners.
He takes a seat beside me when he returns, and I fight against the urge to inch away, not wanting to unnecessarily antagonize him.
"This might help settle your nerves."
I don't think it will, but I just nod. He insists on slowly guiding the goblet to my lips, and the first sip makes me realize I am thirsty. I drink hungrily after that, but when he asks me later if I want another glass, thirst is not what makes me want to say yes.
The truth is, I'd be more than willing to drink gallons if he lets me; anything is better than getting tortured. Or murdered.
Mr. Sinister sits even closer to me when he comes back with my second glass. He lets me drink on my own afterwards, but when I'm done, he surprises me by slowly wiping a drop of water from the corner of my mouth. His touch is feather-soft, the pad of his thumb rough and callused, and it makes me feel hot and cold all at the same time.
"Better now?"
The question makes me look at my kidnapper helplessly. I don't want to lie, but I'm scared to speak honestly.
Just because I'm no longer dehydrated or in shock doesn't mean I'm alright. Surely he knows that?
"You're distraught."
Blue eyes hold mine captive, and I'm somehow unable to look away. "If there's something you'd like to say, do so. You can tell me anything."
His tone is almost...cajoling, but this only makes the whole situation surreal. I'm imprisoned in a yacht, this too-beautiful man is my captor, and I am his captive.
I used to dream of being someone's captive, and now I am one, and the realization drives me to the verge of hysteria.
"Please." My voice catches. "Please don't hurt me."
"Let us put it this way, my dove. Whether you're hurt or not is up to you."