Chapter 406
Chapter 406:
The impact drove the air from her lungs.
She plunged into the churning darkness, tumbled and tossed by the current like a rag doll.
Salt stung her eyes. Pressure crushed her chest.
She kicked, fighting the instinct to inhale.
Up. Go up.
She broke the surface, gasping—only to be slapped by a wave.
She coughed, choking on seawater.
Through the spray, she saw lights.
Not from the cliff above, but from the water.
A sleek black speedboat cut through the waves toward her.
They hadn’t found her by chance.
A red laser grid from a bow-mounted scanner swept over her face.
“Thermal acquired,” a mechanical voice boomed from the boat’s loudspeaker. “Target located p>
Strong hands grabbed her jacket.
She was hauled out of the water, shivering violently, coughing up brine, and thrown onto the deck.
As darkness crept in at the edges of her vision, Skye saw a logo embossed on the crew’s jackets.
A stylized trident.
Graves.
She hadn’t escaped.
She had jumped straight into the net.
High above, on the cliff’s edge, Liam Kensington dragged himself to the precipice.
He looked down into the abyss, rain mixing with the tears on his face.
“Skye…” he whispered into the void.
And then he screamed, a sound that broke the night into pieces.
Consciousness returned to Skye in fragments, sharp and disjointed.
𝘖рt𝘪𝗺𝗮𝗹 𝘳𝖾𝗮𝗱і𝗻𝗀 еx𝗽e𝗋𝗶е𝗻𝗰е on 𝗯𝗲𝗅𝘯ovеls.𝖼𝗈m
First, the smell. Not the metallic tang of blood or the salty rot of the ocean, but something rich and cloying: sandalwood, expensive tobacco, old leather.
Then, the warmth. The bone-deep chill of the sea had been replaced by the heavy weight of a velvet duvet.
Skye opened her eyes.
The room swam into focus. It was dim, lit only by amber sconces on mahogany walls. The ceiling was low, paneled in dark wood. The gentle, rhythmic sway beneath her told her she was still at sea.
She tried to sit up, but dizziness slammed her back down. Her throat felt like she had swallowed broken glass. She coughed—a wet, hacking sound that rattled her ribs.
“Easy, darling. You took in quite a bit of water p>
The voice was smooth, cultured, and terrifyingly familiar.
Skye stiffened and turned her head.
Lucian Graves sat in a wingback chair in the corner, legs crossed, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He wore a silk dressing gown that looked like it cost more than most people’s houses. He watched her with the detached curiosity of a biologist studying a specimen in a jar.
“You,” Skye rasped. She tried to swing her legs out of bed.
Something cold and heavy cinched around her left ankle.
She froze and pulled the duvet back.
A thin platinum chain was cuffed around her ankle, the other end secured to the heavy bedframe. It was elegant—delicate, even—but undeniable.