The Paper Swan(24)

“Maybe now you’ll behave,” he said.

My heart was beating triple time.

I expected his hands on me, but he put on his baseball cap, turned off the lights and left, locking the door behind him. I heard him conversing with the men, and then the sound of a small engine, as one of the pangas took off for the shore.

I wondered if he’d taken my severed finger to mail to my father:

Warren Sedgewick: Special Delivery.

I should have felt relief for whatever task had called him away, but I felt only apprehension—not knowing when he’d return, or what awaited me. My mind spun infinite, terrifying wormholes in the dark, the worst of which was the shameful possibility that I wouldn’t fight him when he came back.



The fuel lines were still running when Damian got back. He wasn’t alone. I knew the tap-tap-tap of high-heeled shoes; he had brought a companion.

My muscles tensed as I heard footsteps outside the door. I was soaked in a pool of sweat, and my finger was starting to throb. I jumped at the loud thud on the door, expecting it to burst open, but it remained locked. There was a muffled gasp and then more thudding.

For a moment I thought he had dragged in another victim, that she was struggling to get away, but the thudding turned rhythmic and the sounds coming out of her alternated between pleasure and pain.

Damian was f*cking her against the door. Hard. Fast. The sick bastard wanted to make sure I knew exactly what he was doing—he was choosing her over me, working out the sexual frustration I’d stirred up in him. He’d rather pay a local hooker than acknowledge lust, desire, or weakness for any part of me. I was a non-entity, an empty vessel for vengeance. All the time that I’d spent imagining him forcing himself on me had been cruel, deliberate punishment. He’d set it loose in my head—passed on the baton and I’d run with it. I had let him defile me and violate me in the most unspeakable ways and I had done it all by myself, in my head.

I didn’t like the emotions surging through me. I should’ve been grateful it was her and not me, but I felt humiliated. Dejected. Rejected. I should’ve been disgusted by the sounds of their sex, steadfast in my hatred of Damian, but I was wobbly and confused.

The woman cried out when she climaxed—a sharp, shuddering sigh. Everything went still, except for the sound of heavy breathing. It didn’t last long though. The pounding resumed. I could hear her begging, pleading, but I didn’t know whether it was for him to stop or not stop.

They moved away from the door. There was a crash. Something cluttered to the floor. I closed my eyes, hoping to shut out the guttural sounds coming from the galley. It’s a silly thing we do—shutting our eyes to stop ourselves from hearing something. And it made it worse. I could picture them in the room now, her bent over the chair as he took her like an animal, because that’s what sex with Damian sounded like—wild and primal and ferocious.

It went on forever. The man was a beast. When he let go, it was in a series of short, breathless grunts. I unclenched my teeth, realizing I’d been coiled up through the whole thing, as if I’d been there with him.

The woman said something, but it was too soft for me to catch. I thought I heard Damian laugh, but I couldn’t picture him doing that—ever—so I must have imagined it. They conversed in low tones for a while. Then I heard their footsteps up on deck.

Damian was paying the men, or the woman, or both. Fuel and water for the boat, a good f*ck for its owner. We were all set. I didn’t stand a chance—there would be no opportunity to escape. I listened to the drone of the pangas fading into the distance.

Damian entered the room when they were gone. He was still wearing his baseball cap. I doubted he’d let the woman see his full face, or if he’d even completely disrobed. Probably just dropped his pants and taken her against the door.

He surveyed me as I lay on the bed, my legs splayed, with nothing on but my shorts and my bra. “Dinner,” he said, as he removed the gag from my mouth.

“I’m not hungry.”

He took his time undoing the straps around my legs and wrists.

“I think you’re forgetting how this works,” he said quietly, deliberately examining my bandaged finger.

He didn’t have to say anything else. I loathed him, loathed myself for letting him break me. I followed him out to the galley, rubbing my sore wrists. He unfolded a greasy paper bag and placed some hot dogs on a plate. I should have been all over them after days of fish and rice, but all I could smell was Scent of Whore. The dish rack was on the floor and things looked liked they’d been swept right off the counter.