Chapter 231: Madeline
“Take me back to Northhaven,” I say, shaping the lie with a voice that barely sounds like mine. “I’ll go back to the city with you.”
His eyes cut to me, greedy. “Willingly?”
“Yes.” I keep my face soft, my throat open, even as bile climbs. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I made a mistake. We should get back together. You can… take care of me.”
He smiles without warmth and leans in, still clamping my jaw. His mouth crushes mine. It isn’t a kiss; it’s a seal, a stamp. All I can think about is Jake’s steady mouth and Reid’s rough hands and how much I love them, and how wrong this is—how wrong his skin feels. Tears push hot to my lashes and my body goes rigid before I can stop it.
He feels it. Something goes black in his gaze.
His fingers flick from my jaw to my ankles—yank—and I’m on my back so fast the world lurches. He pins me, forearm hard across my collarbones, hip crushing my unhurt wrist against the deck. “You thought you could bluff me?” he says, voice soft and high, like a nursery rhyme broken. He drives a fist into the floor an inch from my ear. The shock of it rings my skull. “You thought you could trick me.”
“I—” My voice comes out a scrape.
“With me or no one,” he says, each word a nail. “Sounds like you chose no one.” His head cocks. “So do I get rid of Reid? Or do I get rid of you?”
The air leaves my lungs. “What?” It’s a sound, not a question.
“I can’t have you falling for another man,” he says, almost thoughtful. “If you can’t be with me, you can’t be with Reid. So, how do I take care of that problem?” His gaze roams my face like a catalog. “Get rid of him… or get rid of you?”
Panic blows the hinges off the door inside my ribs. “Think about what you’re saying,” I gasp. “Listen to me—this is prison, Nick. You’re committing crimes. This isn’t stalking anymore, you’re talking about murder—” My voice climbs, ragged. “You stole a boat, you—this is—this is—” The words fray into a cry and keep spilling. Every plan I rehearsed dissolves under the flood.
“Stop talking.” His hands slide up my arms, clamp my shoulders, and he slams me into the deck. Once. Twice. Three times. The world flares white, then gray. Sound tunnels. My head floats up and away, light as a balloon on a fraying string.
He’s still speaking; his voice comes from far off, filtered through rain and engine and the hiss of the VHF. “See what you make me do,” I hear—crooning and cruel. “You never listen. You’re always so loud. I have to quiet you down, Maddie.” A laugh, thin and wrong. “It’s always me fixing your mess.”
Weight lifts. He peels off and staggers back to the helm, one hand on the wheel, one rubbing his mouth. I’m in and out, the boat pitching me toward the bulkhead and back again like I’m caught in a slow, mean tide.
I force my eyes shut. If he thinks I’m out, he won’t watch me. If he doesn’t watch me, I can think.
Where can I go.
Engine room—no. I don’t know that space well enough; wires, heat, moving belts. If we flood, I drown first. Crew bunk—too obvious; first place he’ll look. The head—small, one exit. Nowhere to hide.
Think, Madeline. Think.
Starboard lockers. The long storage bays built into the gunwale, the one that swung open and smacked me in the face my first week. Full of gear—storm lines, fenders, spare anchors, hooks, a coil of old tow rope. Metal and weight and edges I can throw. If I wedge into the back, bury myself under canvas and line, he might not clock it at a glance. If someone finds the Vigil, I can make noise. If no one does, I can… I can wait. I can survive.
I slit my lashes, a sliver. He isn’t looking at me. He has both hands on the wheel now, staring at the smear the wiper leaves, jaw flexing like he’s chewing glass.
The deck lifts and falls. The rain ticks hard enough to sound like sand. I breathe through the dizziness, count to ten, then twenty, wait for the spin to ease. When the world steadies enough that the floor stays where it belongs, I curl my broken wrist tighter to my chest, gather what’s left of my legs under me, and map the next three steps in my head.
When the pitching eases—when he looks away—
I run.
I move when the boat dips, using the pitch like a shove. One breath, two, then I’m up—palming the bulkhead with my good hand, keeping my broken wrist pinned to my chest—slipping past the helm and into the narrow side passage.
Behind me his voice rips through the wheelhouse. “Madeline.” A flat blade. Then louder, rawer: “Madeline. Come back here.”
The deck bucks under my feet. I grab a rail, slam my hip, keep going. The rain has found its way everywhere; the nonskid is slick. He’s shouting now, words that make my skin shrink. “You don’t listen. You never listen. Come back or I swear to God—”
No.
Starboard side. The lockers. I round the corner, breath tearing, shoulder to the cabin wall, counting latches with my eyes. First one—glossy life rings, too shallow. Second—tool bin, too short. Third—sticky with salt, a brand new latch.
I hook my fingers under it and yank.
It sticks. My vision blizzards. He’s closer—boots hammering, voice splitting with fury. “I will drag you out by your hair—do you understand me? I will—”
I wrench with everything I have left. The latch screams; the door jumps; the edge bites my palm. It pops. I heave it up, dive into the dark belly, and slam it down behind me, the hinge clanging so loud I flinch.
Black. Wet rubber and mildew and brine. Coils of line like sleeping snakes, a deflated fender slick against my knees, the cold slick back of a spare anchor biting my calf. Every breath smells like rope and diesel and fear. The lid thumps once as the boat hits a wave; gear slides, bumping my shin.
He’s on the deck above me. I can hear his footfalls—fast, confused, doubling back. “Madeline!” Closer now, right over my head. The locker lid shivers as his heel lands on it. “You think this is funny? You think you can hide from me?” The handle rattles. I slap my palm over my mouth before the sob can escape. My ribs are a drum. The wiper shrieks another arc somewhere forward and the rain ticks like gravel. The Vigil takes a hard slap; the hull booms; the lines around me shift and settle with soft, intimate squeaks.
“Come out,” he sings, a thin, off-key lullaby. Metal scrapes—he’s testing latches one by one, ripping them up, slamming them down. “You’re making it worse. You always make it worse.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop my teeth from chattering. My wrist is a sun of pain. I bite the heel of my hand to smother the sound and taste skin, salt, the iron tang of blood from my split lip. The locker is barely wider than my shoulders; every breath brushes canvas; a split in the rubber mat presses a dirty ridge into my knee. I can’t move. I can’t cough. I can’t be anything but air.
His footsteps pause. The locker lid above me dips a fraction under his weight. He leans down; I can hear his breath through the seam. “I know you,” he whispers. “You’re not brave. You don’t last. You’ll come out.”
The boat pitches. Somewhere aft, a hatch slams. He straightens; the weight lifts. Another string of lids—bang—bang—bang—shudders along the gunwale as he tests them, cursing when they give him nothing. The wind kicks; rain drills; the whole world is noise and motion and the hot animal thud of my heart.
I count in my head, not because it helps but because it’s something to hold: one-two-three-four, the way Jake would count a knot; five-six-seven-eight, the way Reid breathes before a hard docking. The names are a talisman I don’t let myself picture, because if I see their faces I’ll cry, and if I cry he’ll hear, and if he hears—
The lid above me creaks again, then stills. His voice moves away, then back, then away. He’s talking to himself now—a running thread of grievance and promise, of what he’ll do, of how I did this, how I always do this, how he fixes me.
I keep my hand over my mouth. I taste salt. I press myself as flat as a letter folded into a too-small envelope. My body wants to shake so hard the locker would rattle; I make it a slow, invisible tremor instead.
And I wait.