Chapter 32 · Crimson Sunset

Caspian's hand was still on my throat when the engines cut.

No warning. The growl under the floor just died, the yacht coasted on its own momentum, and the water glass on the side table tipped over and rolled in a slow half-circle until it knocked the wall.

Then nothing but the sea slapping the hull. Slap. Slap.

"Don't," I said. It came out like a hinge that needed oil.

He let go. Not gently. He let go the way you drop something you already broke.

I dragged air in. It hurt all the way down. My wrists were still zip-tied to the arms of that leather chair — good leather, in a stateroom his father's money paid for. Five years I'd sat in rooms like this one and called it a life.

Caspian straightened his cuffs. Sweat had gone through the back of his shirt. Thirty-six years old and he sweated like a boy caught lying.

"Say it again," I said. "The part where you're in charge."

"Shut up."

"You keep saying that. It's the only true thing you've said all night."

He hit me. Open hand across the mouth.