Chapter 33 · International Waters

The zip tie cut into both wrists every time the yacht rolled, and the yacht rolled like it was trying to make us sick.

Caspian had taken my shoes. Of all the things to fix on, that's the one my brain kept circling back to—my heels were somewhere up on the aft deck, and here I was at forty-one, eight months pregnant, barefoot on cold teak with my hands behind my back and a gold pen pushed at my chin.

"Sign it, Helena."

"Get your hand off me."

He didn't. His palm was wet against my wrist. Caspian always sweated when he was winning. Five years I told myself that was nerves.

I hated that I wanted Marcus in this room. Not just for the rescue—fine, for the rescue—but because I wanted somebody in here who could look at my ex-fiancé and be unimpressed.

Then the contraction came, low in my back, folding around to the front like a fist. I breathed through my nose so he wouldn't see it land.

He saw.

"Six minutes," he said. "Maybe five. I've been timing them."

"Get a hobby."

"Sign, and you get a hospital.