moment. It was insanity. They were tearing through the streets, barreling toward even more danger. Damara was about as far from safe as she could be.
Only she was almost out of Abele’s reach, and that felt amazing, too. It made her giddy, a false sense of freedom. She knew she’d never be truly free—she had a duty—but it would be a gift to be able to serve without being under his cruel thumb.
When she tried to stop thinking about the strong man who held her, she couldn’t help but focus on how fast they hurtled through the air. She’d swear that the bike wasn’t even touching the road. It was either the bike or him.
She breathed deeply, centering herself and pushing down her fear. Damara could smell the salt and the sea, something that never failed to ground her. Strangely enough, it seemed to be coming from him more than the air around them.
Their bodies swayed and twisted with the bike as it shot through the streets and alleyways, and for a moment, Damara could swear she was riding the wind. That thought somehow made it better. The wind was her friend, or so she’d thought as a child. It reminded her of the time she’d launched herself off the small cliff at the summerhouse, leaping into the wind so it could carry her safely to the lagoon with the bright blue fish below. Her nanny had almost had a stroke, but Damara had been so confident that her friend the wind would cradle her gently until she slipped into the clear waters. And she supposed she was lucky that it sort of had.
The colors and scenery slowly untangled into recognizable things as Hawkins decelerated the machine. They emerged on a small hidden beach that stank of fish guts and gasoline. Damara had been to Tunis and La Goulette numerous times, but she’d never known anything like this was here.
Well, what had she expected? To leave a secured international port from a monitored dock?
She saw the boat that would be their mode of transport. He wasn’t kidding—it was going to be a tight fit. She bit her lip. It was true that she’d trained hard for the skills that she had, but she wasn’t used to hardship or discomfort.
You can do this.
She would do anything she had to do to stop Abele and save Castallegna, she reminded herself.
“Get in and lie down. I’ll cover you with the tarp until we’re clear.”
Damara did as she was told. The boat stank like old fish and must, and she pulled her shirt up over her nose. The roar of a small motor soon rattled the hull, and Damara didn’t know how long she lay there under the tarp as still and quiet as she knew how to be until he pulled it back from her face.
The first thing she noticed was the sky. The stars were big and bright, like glittering holes burned out of the pitch—breathtakingly beautiful. She could smell the salt in the air again, and the ocean around them seemed so black and fathomless, except for the pale ribbon of moonlight the shone down like a winding road over the inky waves.
“There’s no way we can make it together to Marsala in this. There’s a cargo ship anchored just over there that’s headed to Marseille. It’ll be close quarters, dirty and dank for about twenty hours, but I think it’ll do the job.”
Twenty hours? She could do this. Damara was used to sitting in on political dinners, parties and other things where she had to be still and quiet. This was just more princess training. She turned her attention from the sky to where he gestured. “How are we going to get aboard?”
“Captain is a friend. I got in touch with him before I dumped my cell. You’re not carrying any electronics, are you? Phone, iPod...”
She shook her head. “No, I knew they’d be able to track me.”
“Smart girl.”
Pride swelled and bloomed at his praise. She didn’t even know him, and after this she’d never see him again. It didn’t matter what he thought of her as long as he got her to the States.
“He’s going to linger there for the next twenty minutes, and we have to get aboard and down in the cargo hold before any of his crew sees us. So I need you to do exactly as I say when I say it. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes,” she agreed easily.
He maneuvered the boat up next to the cargo ship, and the sound of the small motor was drowned out by the idling growl of the giant engines of the ship. A rope ladder had been left hanging down the side for them.
She grabbed hold of the ladder, the rope abrasive on her palms. For all of her training, she still had the hands of a princess. Damara wouldn’t complain; instead she would just do as he instructed. She tried to be as quiet as she could, remembering her ballet lessons and balancing her weight so she didn’t flail and clang against the side like some alarm alerting everyone to their presence.
When she pulled herself to the top, she heard voices and she ducked her head, still clinging to the rope ladder. She looked down at Hawkins.
What’s wrong? he mouthed.
She made a talking motion with her hand, and then held up three fingers to indicate the number of voices she’d heard.
He put his head down for a moment, and then he began to climb. She would have shimmied back down the ladder and into the boat, but she saw it had already been set adrift. They were well and truly stuck.
Damara made herself as narrow as possible while still holding herself steady, and he started moving up the ladder behind her, his feet and hands on the outside of hers.
Even though Damara was used to warm temperatures and to heat, she wasn’t used to his heat. His body was so hard and hot—even with the layers of clothes between them, his skin seemed to burn her.
She tried not to think about it—the way she fit against him, the way the hard planes of muscle pressed against her, how small and safe she felt, even dangling off a rope ladder hanging over dangerous waters.
As he moved higher, she became very aware of another part of his body that was just as hot, hard and insistent as the rest of him. Her cheeks ignited, and she knew that even in the dark, her face would be scarlet.
He didn’t stop to apologize or make excuses or even acknowledge all the intimacies that were now between them. This was just a job to him and his arousal was just another bodily function.
Damara didn’t know him, but she knew his kind. He may be there to help her, but he was still a mercenary. Still a man paid to kill. She rather imagined a man like him would have to be cut off from attachment to anything. Even himself.
She exhaled heavily and pushed all of those thoughts out of her head. She didn’t have the time or the luxury to think about anything but escape, if the muffled sounds of a struggle were any indication.
Damara bit her lip to keep from calling out to him.
Every second dragged on for what felt like hours as doubt and fear filled her until he reached over the side and grabbed her arm to help her up. His knuckles were bloody, but he was otherwise unharmed.
The image of his hands, though—it burned itself into her brain like a brand. They were broad and strong, scarred, purposeful. They were the hands of a man who’d had to fight for everything he had. The way he moved, helping her, still using those hands even though he’d split his knuckles open, it was as if he didn’t even notice
