I Thee Take: To Have and To Hold Duet Book Two by Knight, Natasha (ready to read books .txt) 📗

the waves of the ocean. I scrub my face, take a deep breath. It makes sense what he’s saying.

The tattoo I scribbled badly on my arm throbs. My uncle’s name. But if I look at him now, if I recall how he looked when he told me about last night, he was as surprised as I. And he’s my own blood. My father’s brother.

“Look, it’s been a stressful few days. Scarlett’s missing. I can guess who has her. You’re under a lot of pressure. And I haven’t helped when it comes to her. I know that. But believe me, Cristiano, I have no ulterior motive. You’re the closest thing I have to a son. I’d never betray you.”

I nod. It’s all I can do. Right now, I have to get Scarlett back. That’s my first priority. All this I’ll process later.

“Let’s go,” I say.

We walk in silence the rest of the way to the chopper and climb inside. The pilot lifts off the ground as soon as we’re inside and I think about the last time we were in the chopper heading to my wedding.

How things change in a matter of hours. Minutes. Seconds.

How life turns upside down and inside out, spitting out what’s left of us after it’s chewed up everything that matters.

2

Scarlett

Murmurs and quiet whimpers are the sounds I hear. The smell is dank, like sweat and something else, something rotten. When I’m jostled violently, those whimpers swell to a joint scream followed a few moments later by the sounds of someone retching.

I blink. Turn my head. My neck is sore, my shoulders, back and arms aching. I groan, try to bring my hand to my face but my wrists are bound behind my back. As my eyes open and the room comes into focus, I remember why.

I remember Marcus. Remember my uncle.

And Marcus killing my uncle.

I move backward through time and memory, remembering farther back to the room at that house. My bath. Cutting my foot on the shards of glass from the bottle Cristiano destroyed.

Our wedding night.

Cristiano accusing me of being a whore on our wedding night.

Something inside me twists but I don’t linger because there’s another one of those swells and panic grips me. I struggle to sit up just as we crash down and water sprays the windows, splashing through the one where the glass is missing. We’re on a boat. A stinking, old, decrepit boat.

The women around me scream as I take it all in.

The stench. It almost makes my nostrils burn. Dirty mattresses line the floor, two or three women taking up each one. I look at their faces. Some can’t be older than fifteen. Sixteen. I’m not sure who looks more terrified, though.

Some are quiet, staring ahead wide-eyed. Some are sobbing. Many have bruises on their faces, or on bits of exposed skin. Almost none of us are wearing shoes I realize.

“You okay?” the voice to my right croaks.

I look over at the girl. At twenty-two I must be one of the oldest ones in here. I nod to her, and she holds up a bottle of water. It’s almost empty.

I lick my lips, nod.

She stretches her arms out to me. She’s bound too, but her wrists are in front of her.

I drink a sip of the lukewarm, stale tasting water. “Thank you.”

She can’t be more than sixteen, I think, and beneath the dirt and bruises and fear, she’s beautiful.

“Are you okay?”

Tears spill down her cheeks. “I want to go home,” she says with a noticeable accent.

My eyes fill up looking at her. Looking at all of them. I feel responsible for them. Like this is my fault. Like this is something I need to somehow fix.

I shiver and she reaches behind me with her bound wrists, tugs at something. I look back at it. It’s a man’s jacket.

She pulls it over my shoulders, the lining cool against my skin as I lean back against the wall. “Thank you.” With my next breath, I smell the subtle scent of a familiar aftershave just beneath that of vomit and urine and fear.

“Where are they taking us?” I ask the girl sharing my mattress.

She shakes her head. “We’ve been on the boat for a while. And before that, the truck. I don’t know how long it’s been anymore.”

Is Cristiano looking for me? Does he know what’s happened? And who was the man with Marcus? The one who told him to cover me up. The man whose jacket I’m wearing.

“Where are you from?” I ask her.

“Croatia. Those two are from Croatia too. The others I don’t know.”

“How did they take you?”

“I was walking home from school. It was the middle of the afternoon. Bad things don’t happen in the light.” Her voice breaks and she starts to sob again.

“What’s your name?”

“Sonia,” she manages.

“Sonia. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

Neither of us believes this lie but I can’t not tell it.

A door slams against the wall of the room, metal clanging against metal. Startled, I gasp, my head snapping to the man standing in the doorway. It’s the one from the dock. The fat one who cut the restraints at my ankles.

The women cower away as if one entity.

The man enters and from behind him follow another three, all with leering eyes, reeking of alcohol and days-old sweat.

But the one who frightens me the most is the last one to appear at the door. The one who looks clean. The handsome one.

I know he’s the cruelest of the lot.

Marcus sneers as he looks in my direction and I remember how he shot my uncle. I wish I could wipe my face because I know I didn’t imagine the blood that splattered it, but I’m not sure if I really feel it or if it’s my mind playing tricks on me.

The men fan out, moving swiftly as they scan the room. They look at something on the wrist of each of the girls before taking their pick.

The screams start then but all it takes to