The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 506

Grant leaned over, pinning her thrashing legs down with one knee, effectively bolting her entirely to the mattress.

His face hovered directly above hers, so close his nose almost brushed against hers. She could see her own terrified reflection trapped in his pupils. The fresh metallic tang of the blood pooling in his palm filled her lungs.

"Scream," he whispered. His tone was so sickeningly gentle it made her skin crawl, and a ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—though it never reached his eyes.

"Scream as loud as you want. This is international waters. There isn't a single ship for twenty miles. Even if that bastard planted a tracker in you, his reach doesn't extend this far!"

His thumb traced the delicate curve of her collarbone, inch by agonizing inch, dripping with a twisted, possessive greed.

Sloane's body shook violently beneath his touch. A thick layer of goosebumps erupted across her skin, and wave after wave of nausea violently twisted her stomach.

But in the very next second, the ship lurched violently.

The impact came completely without warning, as if a massive hand had reached up from the ocean floor and violently shoved the hull.

The entire vessel banked sharply to the left. The wall lamp swung frantically, casting warped, grotesque shadows across the cabin. A glass of water slid off the metal table, shattering into pieces across the floor.

Grant was half-kneeling on the edge of the bed with his weight poorly distributed. The sudden jolt threw him backward. He stumbled, his shoulder slamming heavily against the metal bulkhead with a dull thud.

Instinctively, he threw his hand out to catch himself. His bleeding palm smacked against the freezing steel, sending a sharp spike of pain up his arm. He hissed, his brow furrowing into a dark, murderous scowl.

Before he could fully steady himself, the phone in his pocket began to ring shrilly.

His chest was still heaving slightly, his breathing yet to level out. But the moment he answered the call, his voice reverted to its usual, deadpan flatline.

"Speak."

His voice dragged with a lazy drawl. "But it doesn't matter."

He stepped back to the bed, leaning over her once more. He planted one hand firmly beside her head, while his other hand gripped her jaw, forcing her face toward him.

His thumb ruthlessly smeared the dried streak of blood at the corner of her mouth. Then, he lowered his head, pressing his lips against her collarbone.

"Let him come," Grant murmured, his lips moving against her skin, his voice vibrating against the hollow of her throat with a terrifying, unhinged calm. "He's right on time to watch the show."

*

At that exact moment, on the deck above, bullets were tearing through the air.

The second Cassandra set the helicopter down on the aft deck, the ship's guards swarmed out from every direction like kicked hornets.