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Authors: Virginia Kantra
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working in the garden after school, a sharp, green smell like summer
grass. “What are you, sick or something?”
“I could be sick.”
Inadequacy rose like bile in his throat.
He had never known what to do with her, this youngest child, his only daughter. If Alice had stuck
around, it would have been different, maybe. Better. Bitterness coated his tongue. A lot of things would
have been better.
He rubbed the side of his nose. “Well, did you eat?”
“No.”
He waited for her to move, to get off the couch, to jump up and offer to fix them both something like she
usually did.
He wanted her to go to bed, out of his way, out of his sight. He wanted a drink, damn it.
But she continued to watch him with wide, unblinking eyes like a doll’s. Rooted to his spot on the couch.
Shit.
Bart stomped into the kitchen, burning his hand on the lid of the Crock-Pot as he spooned whatever
mess she’d made that morning—chili, he guessed—into two bowls.
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He thrust one at her. “Go on. Eat.”
She waited until he dipped his spoon and brought it to his mouth before she did the same.
They ate in silence. He didn’t know what to say to her. Never had.
She laid her empty bowl in her lap. Nothing wrong with her appetite, at least.
“Well.” Bart stood. “I’m turning in.”
His daughter regarded him blankly.
“Got an early morning,” he explained.
She should know that. Wasn’t he out the door before she woke up every morning?
He was relieved when she nodded.
“I should be in bed,” she said. “I could be sick.”
Something was wrong.
The realization seeped through the fog in Lucy’s brain. Blearily, she raised her head, struggling to focus in
the dark. She blinked. Her bed was in the wrong place.
Her bed . . . Her room . . . Her stomach lurched. Everything was wrong.
Everything had been wrong for a long, long time.
But her mind jerked from the thought, the way a child learns to jerk his hand from a candle or the stove.
If you didn’t linger, you couldn’t get burned.
Her body felt stiff and weak, as if she’d been lying in one position for too long or had the flu. She’d been
sleeping. Dreaming, the way she did when she was a little girl, of her mother’s voice. Her mother’s voice
and the sea. Her head felt stuffed with straw.
What had happened? Was she sick? Where was she?
Where was Conn?
Her mouth tasted foul. She worked a little moisture onto her tongue, trying to swallow. To think. The air
was close and smelled like the inside of a locker or the closet under the stairs. Moldy. Still. She felt like
she was underwater. As if she couldn’t breathe. The ceiling pressed down like the lid of a coffin.
The mattress tilted. Water slapped the wall beside her bed. The lurching of her stomach made sudden,
horrible sense.
She was on a boat.
Fear writhed inside her like a big, fat snake. A boat . Moving at the whim of the wind and the water. At
the mercy of her fears.
Her heart raced. Her teeth chattered.
Creak. Creak. From overhead.
She pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She hated the water. She was going to be sick. She struggled to
hold it in, to hold herself together, to force everything back into its proper place, but her body wasn’t
hers to control anymore. As if the orgasm that had ripped through her—how long ago? hours?
days?—had torn something vital from her.
Scrape scrape. From the direction of the hatch.
Panic swelled her chest, robbing her of air. A whimper escaped her. Oh, God.
A shadow loomed at the base of the stairs, broad and black against the dimness of the room. Coming
closer. Coming for her.
The tangle inside her rippled and coiled like a snake about to strike. She bolted upright.
No.
Power erupted from her gut, tore from her throat like a scream as the thing inside her launched at the
approaching threat. Her control snapped like a thread. Force exploded from
grass. “What are you, sick or something?”
“I could be sick.”
Inadequacy rose like bile in his throat.
He had never known what to do with her, this youngest child, his only daughter. If Alice had stuck
around, it would have been different, maybe. Better. Bitterness coated his tongue. A lot of things would
have been better.
He rubbed the side of his nose. “Well, did you eat?”
“No.”
He waited for her to move, to get off the couch, to jump up and offer to fix them both something like she
usually did.
He wanted her to go to bed, out of his way, out of his sight. He wanted a drink, damn it.
But she continued to watch him with wide, unblinking eyes like a doll’s. Rooted to his spot on the couch.
Shit.
Bart stomped into the kitchen, burning his hand on the lid of the Crock-Pot as he spooned whatever
mess she’d made that morning—chili, he guessed—into two bowls.
Page 29
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
He thrust one at her. “Go on. Eat.”
She waited until he dipped his spoon and brought it to his mouth before she did the same.
They ate in silence. He didn’t know what to say to her. Never had.
She laid her empty bowl in her lap. Nothing wrong with her appetite, at least.
“Well.” Bart stood. “I’m turning in.”
His daughter regarded him blankly.
“Got an early morning,” he explained.
She should know that. Wasn’t he out the door before she woke up every morning?
He was relieved when she nodded.
“I should be in bed,” she said. “I could be sick.”
Something was wrong.
The realization seeped through the fog in Lucy’s brain. Blearily, she raised her head, struggling to focus in
the dark. She blinked. Her bed was in the wrong place.
Her bed . . . Her room . . . Her stomach lurched. Everything was wrong.
Everything had been wrong for a long, long time.
But her mind jerked from the thought, the way a child learns to jerk his hand from a candle or the stove.
If you didn’t linger, you couldn’t get burned.
Her body felt stiff and weak, as if she’d been lying in one position for too long or had the flu. She’d been
sleeping. Dreaming, the way she did when she was a little girl, of her mother’s voice. Her mother’s voice
and the sea. Her head felt stuffed with straw.
What had happened? Was she sick? Where was she?
Where was Conn?
Her mouth tasted foul. She worked a little moisture onto her tongue, trying to swallow. To think. The air
was close and smelled like the inside of a locker or the closet under the stairs. Moldy. Still. She felt like
she was underwater. As if she couldn’t breathe. The ceiling pressed down like the lid of a coffin.
The mattress tilted. Water slapped the wall beside her bed. The lurching of her stomach made sudden,
horrible sense.
She was on a boat.
Fear writhed inside her like a big, fat snake. A boat . Moving at the whim of the wind and the water. At
the mercy of her fears.
Her heart raced. Her teeth chattered.
Creak. Creak. From overhead.
She pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She hated the water. She was going to be sick. She struggled to
hold it in, to hold herself together, to force everything back into its proper place, but her body wasn’t
hers to control anymore. As if the orgasm that had ripped through her—how long ago? hours?
days?—had torn something vital from her.
Scrape scrape. From the direction of the hatch.
Panic swelled her chest, robbing her of air. A whimper escaped her. Oh, God.
A shadow loomed at the base of the stairs, broad and black against the dimness of the room. Coming
closer. Coming for her.
The tangle inside her rippled and coiled like a snake about to strike. She bolted upright.
No.
Power erupted from her gut, tore from her throat like a scream as the thing inside her launched at the
approaching threat. Her control snapped like a thread. Force exploded from
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