The Devil's CrownPart Two - Monica James Page 0,58

them into the hemline of my underwear. Someone dressed me because the last thing I remember was I wasn’t wearing any underwear, thanks to Frank ripping them off.

I clench my teeth at the thought, ignoring the searing pain running up to my temple.

Ready for battle, I tiptoe through the bedroom, deciding to take a peek out the window to familiarize myself with my surroundings before I strike. However, when I draw back the curtain and see blue seas, my plan falls flat on its face.

I’m on a boat?

As I look around at my plush surroundings, it’s evident I’m on more than just a boat—I’m on a yacht.

Honestly, I could be walking into anything, but I don’t let that deter me as I continue sneaking through the bedroom toward the glass door that I presume leads to the upper deck. I brace my hand on the handle and open the door quietly. The sunlight blinds me, and I hiss, shielding my eyes to adjust to the harsh light.

Taking a moment to look over the railing, I take a deep breath of the fresh air, filling my starved lungs. I’m surrounded by nothing but water. With careful steps, I climb the stairwell, seeing another level of the yacht.

But I can investigate that later because now, I need to find out who’s steering this yacht.

With heart in my throat, I grip the handrail, and when I get to the top step, I take a steadying breath. I crane my neck, hoping to see who’s on board, and when I see the broad back of a man, I curse the day he walked into my world.

Undoubtedly, this is Alek, looking the part of captain in khaki chinos and a light blue shirt. His hair whips in the wind as he stands by the large wheel. The computerized panel to his left indicates this yacht can steer itself, but the control freak that he is won’t allow it.

His feet are bare, and out here, under different circumstances, one could be forgiven for thinking he looked laidback, but nothing is relaxed about this scenario because I need to know why I’m here…wherever the fuck here is.

With slow, silent feet, I tiptoe toward him, hoping the crashing of waves will mute my footsteps. He doesn’t turn around. He hums to Bach, which plays over the radio. When I’m within a few steps of him, I dig out the scissors, and I exhale in relief…which is my downfall.

I should have known the smallest change in the environment is enough for Alek to catch me out.

“You’re awake,” he calmly says, which infuriates me further.

Without a flicker of remorse, I lunge forward, intent on stabbing the asshole for…being such an asshole. Alek spins around, catching my wrist, and disarms me instantly.

“Let me go!” I screech, fighting him off, no matter that every muscle in my body protests angrily. His hold isn’t firm, but I’m fighting injured, which puts me at an even bigger disadvantage.

I glare at him, hating how my heart skips a beat when we lock eyes. Him being here comes a little too late. Where was he when he had the opportunity to save me before I killed Frank?

Realization passes over me, and I freeze, sickened.

I killed Frank.

His blood coats my hands. Oh, god.

I can feel his dead weight on me. His hot, sticky blood coating my skin.

I’m going to be sick.

“красавица, are you all—”

Alek doesn’t have a chance to finish his sentence because I push him off before running over to the railing and dry heaving into the sea. My body shudders as I force myself to expel anything, but I simply dry retch.

Maybe I can purge the sickness within. But nothing will ever cleanse me of my sins.

“You haven’t eaten,” Alek says from behind me. “You’ve got nothing to throw up.”

“Thank you, captain obvious,” I snarkily reply, wiping my lips with the sleeve of Alek’s shirt.

Alek gently places his hand on my shoulder, but with his touch, all I’m reminded of is Santo and his hands, his unwanted strokes all over me. “Don’t touch me!”

Instantly, I spin around, intent on breaking every finger on Santo’s hands for touching me when I didn’t want him to. But Santo isn’t here.

Alek stands before me, hands raised in surrender with nothing but confusion etched on his face. “It’s me,” he coos as though that’s supposed to make me feel better.

“And that’s the problem!” I cry, clenching my fists by my side. My anger is directed at the world, and