Read Online Forgotten Sea by Virginia Kantra - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Virginia Kantra
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She held the kiss as long as she dared, willing her breath into him. Her right hand slid from her pocket and thrust under his mattress. He never moved.
She sighed. “All right. I’m ready.”
She pushed to her feet. Simon was waiting. Head bowed, eyes lowered, she walked past him, leaving her small defiance behind.
Along with Justin’s dive knife, a lump under his mattress.
6
He was shaken. Changed. She had changed him. Lara’s kiss— soft lips, warm breath, her life, her strength, in him —had ripped through him with the force of a tornado, churning him to the depths. He floundered in a sea of memory and desire, at the mercy of his dreams, a plaything of the waves, a prisoner of his own mind.
He wanted . . .
He needed . . .
His world was ended, everything lost, drowned, submerged beneath the waves. He had to find . . .
“Find what?” A man’s voice, deep and penetrating, dragged him back to his body, to his splitting head and the flat, hard cot. “What are you looking for?”
He disliked the voice instinctively. An impression surfaced, too fleeting to be called a memory, of a large hard man wearing black and a sneer. No name.
“Who are you?” the voice asked.
The question pried at his brain like an oyster knife, slipping through his weakened defenses, threatening to rip him open, to plunder the soft gray flesh inside. Pain speared his head. His throat burned. He recoiled in self-defense, retreating deeper, down, down, through levels of pain.
But the voice pursued him. “Where are you from?”
The sea.
All his memories began with the sea, warm and sunlit, gray and storm cast, the clear cold salt dark.
A sense of loss swept over him, leaving him parched and alone with his pain. Too much pain. He couldn’t find his way through it, he could not think, he could not remember . . .
Why couldn’t he remember?
God, he was thirsty.
“Would you like some water?” A woman.
For a moment his heart leaped, buoyed by her memory.
Her arm around his shoulders. Her breath, mingling with his. Her mouth, warm, moist, sweet . . .
But she wasn’t the one. He knew it before she touched him, before he surfaced to see the dark, worried face bending over him. She smelled wrong, like rubbing alcohol instead of like dawn, fresh and full of possibilities.
“I’ll be back , ” she had promised.
But she did not come again.
“Where . . .” he croaked.
Is she?
“Ssh. Drink this.” A straw poked his lips.
He closed his mouth gratefully on the plastic, holding the water carefully in his mouth before letting it trickle down to soothe his throat. Only as the flat taste lingered on his tongue did he realize it was drugged.
Time stretched, passed, hours—days?—measured by the rasp of his breathing and the sound of footsteps and the coming and going of the silver light.
And the questions, always the questions, pursuing him into the dark.
“Who are you?”
“What do you want?”
“Where do you come from?”
He closed his mind, closed his mouth stubbornly on the answers, but in the dark between times, visions leaked and flooded his brain. A tumbled shore of sand and shale. Green hills cradling the water like a cup. A broken castle on the cliffs, its ancient towers glazed with light.
Danger.
His heart hammered. His head pounded with impending doom. The wave was coming. He had to save them. He had to save . . .
“Who?”
A man with eyes like rain, a girl with hair like straw, a dog . . .
Their images spun away, snatched by the rising and falling sea. He couldn’t save them. He could no longer save himself. His strength was gone, everything was gone, smashed, drowned, vanished beneath the waves.
He did not answer.
“Of course he doesn’t answer. I’d be surprised if he can even hear you.”
That voice. He recognized that voice. Fucking Axton.
His lips drew back in a snarl, but he did not speak. Didn’t open his eyes. Let them think he was asleep or drugged or dead.
“It’s his
She sighed. “All right. I’m ready.”
She pushed to her feet. Simon was waiting. Head bowed, eyes lowered, she walked past him, leaving her small defiance behind.
Along with Justin’s dive knife, a lump under his mattress.
6
He was shaken. Changed. She had changed him. Lara’s kiss— soft lips, warm breath, her life, her strength, in him —had ripped through him with the force of a tornado, churning him to the depths. He floundered in a sea of memory and desire, at the mercy of his dreams, a plaything of the waves, a prisoner of his own mind.
He wanted . . .
He needed . . .
His world was ended, everything lost, drowned, submerged beneath the waves. He had to find . . .
“Find what?” A man’s voice, deep and penetrating, dragged him back to his body, to his splitting head and the flat, hard cot. “What are you looking for?”
He disliked the voice instinctively. An impression surfaced, too fleeting to be called a memory, of a large hard man wearing black and a sneer. No name.
“Who are you?” the voice asked.
The question pried at his brain like an oyster knife, slipping through his weakened defenses, threatening to rip him open, to plunder the soft gray flesh inside. Pain speared his head. His throat burned. He recoiled in self-defense, retreating deeper, down, down, through levels of pain.
But the voice pursued him. “Where are you from?”
The sea.
All his memories began with the sea, warm and sunlit, gray and storm cast, the clear cold salt dark.
A sense of loss swept over him, leaving him parched and alone with his pain. Too much pain. He couldn’t find his way through it, he could not think, he could not remember . . .
Why couldn’t he remember?
God, he was thirsty.
“Would you like some water?” A woman.
For a moment his heart leaped, buoyed by her memory.
Her arm around his shoulders. Her breath, mingling with his. Her mouth, warm, moist, sweet . . .
But she wasn’t the one. He knew it before she touched him, before he surfaced to see the dark, worried face bending over him. She smelled wrong, like rubbing alcohol instead of like dawn, fresh and full of possibilities.
“I’ll be back , ” she had promised.
But she did not come again.
“Where . . .” he croaked.
Is she?
“Ssh. Drink this.” A straw poked his lips.
He closed his mouth gratefully on the plastic, holding the water carefully in his mouth before letting it trickle down to soothe his throat. Only as the flat taste lingered on his tongue did he realize it was drugged.
Time stretched, passed, hours—days?—measured by the rasp of his breathing and the sound of footsteps and the coming and going of the silver light.
And the questions, always the questions, pursuing him into the dark.
“Who are you?”
“What do you want?”
“Where do you come from?”
He closed his mind, closed his mouth stubbornly on the answers, but in the dark between times, visions leaked and flooded his brain. A tumbled shore of sand and shale. Green hills cradling the water like a cup. A broken castle on the cliffs, its ancient towers glazed with light.
Danger.
His heart hammered. His head pounded with impending doom. The wave was coming. He had to save them. He had to save . . .
“Who?”
A man with eyes like rain, a girl with hair like straw, a dog . . .
Their images spun away, snatched by the rising and falling sea. He couldn’t save them. He could no longer save himself. His strength was gone, everything was gone, smashed, drowned, vanished beneath the waves.
He did not answer.
“Of course he doesn’t answer. I’d be surprised if he can even hear you.”
That voice. He recognized that voice. Fucking Axton.
His lips drew back in a snarl, but he did not speak. Didn’t open his eyes. Let them think he was asleep or drugged or dead.
“It’s his
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