Chapter 9
His hand was already on my elbow before I could answer.
"Mahal, wake up, you need some air," Adrian said again, closer this time. His voice had that soft, practiced concern he used when other people were listening. His fingers curled around my arm, not asking.
I let my eyes flutter open slow, like I was fighting through something thick. My breath stayed shallow. The bathrobe was still tied at my waist, the pocket weighted with the one tablet I'd kept. The other tablet and the torn backing were folded deeper into the suitcase compartment, under his shirts, where he'd expect them to stay hidden. My phone was tucked under the pillow behind me, screen dark, voice memo running. I had hit record before he came back in and left it exactly where a groggy woman would leave a phone.
"I don't feel good," I whispered. I made my words slur just enough at the edges.
"I know," he said. "That's why you need air. Come on. Just to the deck for a minute. You'll feel better."
He pulled. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but firm, his palm sliding to the small of my back to steer me upright. I let my weight sag against him, testing how much of me he intended to carry. If I went limp, would he drag me? If I resisted, would he force me? I needed to know what his grip felt like before we were near the rail.
The cabin was dim and warm, but the hallway outside was cooler. The wood paneling creaked softly under our feet. He kept his hand locked on my arm the whole way, his thumb pressed into the inside of my elbow like an anchor.
"You've been so pale since dinner," he said as we moved toward the sliding door that led to the aft deck. "You didn't even touch the wine."
I let my head tip toward his shoulder. "Dizzy," I murmured.
"Sea sickness," he said quickly. "Those tablets should have helped by now. Did you let them dissolve?"
I didn't answer. I let a small, confused pause hang there, the way someone would if they couldn't quite remember swallowing something. His hand tightened fractionally.
Outside, the night air hit me. It was cooler than the cabin by ten degrees, salt and diesel on the wind. The yacht's deck lights were low, amber running lights along the floor and a soft white wash from the cabin above. Not bright. Just enough to see outlines without killing your night vision. Someone had planned for dark.
I blinked and pretended it took me a second to focus, while I catalogued everything.
The rail was to my left, brushed stainless, about waist high on me, maybe forty-two inches. No gate. Two horizontal cables below the top rail, wide enough that a body could slip through if lifted. The deck was still damp from earlier spray, slightly slick under my bare feet. I was still in the bathrobe, feet bare, no shoes to grip with.
Near the stern, a crew member stood with his back to us, coiling a line. I recognized him from dinner — the deckhand, mid-twenties, quiet, who hadn't made eye contact when Adrian spoke to him in Tagalog near the galley. He didn't turn when we came out. He didn't need to. He was positioned exactly where someone would need to be to keep watch and keep quiet.
"See?" Adrian said, his voice a little louder now, carrying over the wind for the deckhand to hear. "Fresh air. Breathe with me."
He guided me three more steps. His hand never left my back. He was steering me not to the center of the deck where the built-in seating was, but along the edge, parallel to the rail, toward the darkest corner near the swim platform. The place where the engine noise was loudest, where a splash wouldn't be heard inside.
I made my knees buckle.
It wasn't dramatic. I just let my left foot catch on nothing and pitched forward hard toward the rail, throwing my arm out like I was trying to catch myself. It was a test disguised as a stumble.
His grip caught me instantly, both hands now, one on my arm and one hard around my ribs, yanking me back and upright before I touched the steel.
"Whoa, whoa, I've got you," he said, laughing a little, too quickly. He held me against his chest for a second, and I could feel his heart hammering against my cheek, fast and uneven. Not calm. Not caring. Excited.
"You have to hold on to me, Mahal," he whispered against my hair. "You can't stand by yourself like this."
I let my forehead rest against his collarbone and breathed like I was embarrassed. "Sorry. I'm so tired. My legs feel weird."
"That's the medicine," he said. "Just lean on me."
Over his shoulder, I saw the deckhand glance our way for half a second, then look away. That glance told me everything. He knew what was supposed to happen. He knew the time. It was 1:47 now. Thirteen minutes.
Adrian walked me the last two feet to the rail and positioned me there, his arm still banded around my waist. The sea moved black and endless below us, chopping against the hull. No other lights on the water. We were between Coron and El Nido, alone.
He rested his hands on the rail on either side of me, caging me in lightly, like a husband showing his wife the view.
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"Breathe," he said softly. "Just breathe."
I placed my hands on the cool steel and let my knees stay soft, my eyes half-closed, every muscle pretending to be drugged and loose while my mind measured the distance to the cabin door behind us, the position of the recording phone inside, and the weight of the single tablet in my pocket that proved I had never swallowed what he gave me.
