Page 80 of Saving Her

“I-I was meant to help you find Luther’s office. And the safes,” I ramble, trying to drown out more regret. “I forgot.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get this fucker to talk. He’ll give us a lead or two.” He jerks his head toward the bench seat. “You should sit down and rest.”

How can I sit when the scum of the earth thinks I enjoyed my punishments? How could I possibly rest with those accusations hanging over my head?

God. I feel so dirty. So worthless.

I turn away, dragging my feet to the back of the boat to stare across the inky black. It would be too easy to jump over the edge with one of those duffels tangled around my feet. I’d drown, the death not coming quickly or painlessly, but at least my suffering would soon be over.

There would be no more taunts of illusive freedom.

I’d finally escape this hellish existence.

“She’s a fucking whore.” Otis’s voice raises over the purr of the boat. “A dead whore.”

I close my eyes and wrap my arms around my middle, the weight of Luca and Sebastian’s judgment on my shoulders.

I don’t flinch at the thud that sounds moments later, or the cry of masculine pain.

“Ignore him, Penny,” my brother demands. “Just fucking ignore him.”

I try my best, but the alternate thoughts lying in wait are all about Chloe. About death and fear and failure.

By the time we reach Torian’s island, I want to vomit. Bile teases the back of my throat. The only thing stopping me from falling to my knees is the knowledge I won’t have the strength to get back up.

I remain in place as Otis is hauled to his feet and dragged onto the jetty. I don’t follow when Luca calls out, “Are you coming?”

“In a minute.” I need more time. Maybe a lifetime.

He nods, his focus already on retribution as he helps Sebastian drag the guard along the trail to the mansion, all three of them quickly disappearing from sight.

I stay there, alone in the silence, blanketed in darkness.

Is this what freedom feels like? Is it the tightness of pure isolation? The punishing weight of guilt? The acidic taste of failure?

Otis implied I remained in Luther’s house because they thought I was a joke. They laughed at my actions. They knew I was willing to sleep with my rapist, but they didn’t spare a thought as to the reason why. Maybe nobody else will, either.

I dig my fingernails into my palms, pressing harder and deeper, attempting to lessen the emotional torment with something physical. When that doesn’t help, I climb from the boat and use the sharp pebbles of the trail to punish me from my soles upward.

I walk with hard steps, increasing the pain. I stomp. I twist. I don’t stop until the faint shriek of male torture leaves me motionless.

For a second, my excruciating thoughts cease, my suffering placed on pause.

My breath remains trapped in my lungs as I wait for more of that rewarding sound. My heart pounds with yearning. My palms sweat with impatience.

I have to hear that cry again. I want Otis to wail and scream and blubber. I need it to help ease my anguish.

I run for the house in search of the sweet comfort, sprinting around the pool to pull the glass door wide.

Keira waits in the kitchen, her eyes widening at the sight of me. “Are you okay?”

I ignore her in my trek for the hall.

“Wait.” She hustles after me, cutting me off before I reach the archway. “What happened? Nobody has told me anything. Did your friends get to safety? I overheard Cole—”

“Three of my sisters are on their way home.”

She huffs out a relieved breath. “I’m so glad to hear it.”

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