Page 62 of Gabriel
I twisted my left wrist just enough to reach the inside seam of my sleeve, letting the edge of the fabric pull taut.
The handcuffs bit in deeper—sharp pressure, enough to sting—but I didn’t flinch. With a flick of my fingers, I popped the button loose. The sleeve relaxed, and the small embedded mod revealed itself. A stitch line just a little too straight. A fold that was a little too precise.
I didn’t need to dislocate anything, thanks to my tailor who prepared for all possible scenarios.
Carefully, I rolled onto my side and exhaled through my nose. Slowed my pulse. Focused.
From beneath the cuff, I eased out a sliver of steel no thicker than a thread. Spring-loaded, needle-fine. The kind of tool that passed unnoticed through most scans because it wasn’t metal—it was carbon alloy.
Jackpot.
I worked the lock with muscle memory and breath. Pressure. Tilt. Twist. My fingers danced like they’d done this a thousand times. Every cuff had a rhythm. You just had to find its tempo.
Click.
The sound was quieter than a sigh, but loud in the stillness.
Freedom.Or a version of it.
I flexed my wrist once, then slid out of the bed. I flexed my fingers while surveying the cabin.
The room was absurdly lavish with white leather, gold fixtures, and mahogany walls. It was a room designed to feel indulgent, not like a prison.
A failed design, in my opinion.
Why? Because of two unhinged women lurking nearby and windows I couldn’t crawl through unless I felt like going for a long swim.
I rolled my sleeve back down, smoothing the fabric over the raised skin, then rebuttoned the cuff with deliberate care. The handcuffs stayed where they were—close to the rails, visible but undisturbed.
Checking my pockets, I let out a string of silent curses. My cell phone was gone.Fuck!
It was a good thing we’d inserted the tracker into the flesh beneath my left bicep, or that would have probably been gone too. I had to assume that the tracker still worked and Luis was watching.
I carefully cracked the cabin door and peered outside.
The hallway was empty and the air smelled faintly of sea salt, diesel, and something sweet from the galley—orange peel and stale coffee. I spotted a crew member and waited before he disappeared from view to slip through the door.
Keeping my steps light, I was careful not to step on any loose floorboards. Not that this yacht was poorly built. On the contrary, it was built too well.
I made three slow circuits of the boat, sticking to the shadows, when another crew member appeared. I pressed my back against the wall and waited for him to disappear. Frustration simmered under my skin, but I knew better than to let it boil over.
It might be best to hold off on exploring for now since the crew seemed to be out and about. Once the echo of footsteps receded, I turned around and slipped back into my cabin, closing the door behind me.
I would let them think I was shackled for a bit longer. There was no need to tip my hand too early. If playing the helpless victim bought me time to learn their plans, I’d fill the role for as long as necessary.
I didn’t smile fully, but something like it twitched at the corner of my mouth as I slid back on the bed and handcuffed myself.
Now we were on my timeline.
And that meant trouble for Amara and Elira.
Amara
Despite it being late September, it felt slightly chilly due to the breeze coming off the ocean. The low hum of the engines was the only sound in the office while I considered our choices, Jet’s device sitting on the table.
Gabriel had been our prisoner for twenty-four hours, and I was surprised he wasn’t making this difficult. In fact, he’d been very pleasant, almost behaving as if he were on vacation.
I didn’t like it. Or maybe it was the whole thing with Jet that made me anxious because we were following the trail he’d laid out.
