The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 500

The ocean wind ripped through the tiny porthole, carrying a heavy, pungent stench of salt and dampness that clung to the skin like a wet film.

Sloane's consciousness clawed its way back inch by inch. The back of her head throbbed with a dull, vicious ache, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to her skull.

She tried to reach up to touch it, but the chilling clink of metal echoed instead. Her wrists were shackled, the cold steel biting deep into her flesh.

Her eyes flew open.

Above her, a dim, yellow bulkhead light flickered and swayed, turning the entire room into a disorienting blur of shifting shadows.

Sloane forced her head up, realizing both her hands were chained to the metal frame of the bed. Her ankles were bound the same way. She was spread-eagled, entirely immobilized on the narrow cot.

The bedsheets were white, but stiff from too many washes, scratching aggressively against her bare arms. She thrashed violently, the chains rattling in a chaotic cacophony. The iron cuffs dug into her skin, forcing a sharp gasp of pain from her lips, but she couldn't move an inch.

The room was claustrophobic, barely large enough to fit the bed and a sliver of a walkway.

The walls were solid metal, the paint peeling away to reveal dark, rusted water stains near the floorboards. The only window, positioned diagonally above the bed, was circular and no larger than a washbasin. Outside, there was nothing but impenetrable darkness, with only the faint, churning whitecaps of the ocean visible.

The hull groaned and tilted slightly. Sloane's stomach lurched. The briny stench of the sea grew stronger, seeping straight into her bones.

A ship.

She was on a ship.

Memories shattered and pierced her mind like jagged glass.

Last night. Arguing with Garrison at the coffee shop. Walking home alone... In that pitch-black alley, a hand clapping over her mouth from behind. The suffocating, chemical burn in her nose. And then, absolutely nothing.

Sloane's heart crashed into her stomach.

His grip sent a spike of pain through her jaw, feeling as though he might crush the bone. Forced to stare upward, tears of physiological pain welled in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to blink.

Grant tilted his head, as if studying a flawless, priceless antique.

His eyes tracked from her brow ridge, down her jawline, and finally settled on those tear-filled, defiant eyes. After a long moment, a ghost of a smirk curled his lips.

"Garrison's woman," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "An absolute stunner, just as they say."

Sloane's heart seized.

"I also heard,"

He released her jaw, but his fingers didn't leave her face. Instead, they traced lazily down her jawline, his fingertips brushing dangerously close to the pulse pounding in her neck. "You're the one who found The White Microbe in that frozen lake down in the Antarctic."