Elena’s POV

The ropes had started to feel like part of me.

Not the sharp, biting kind from the warehouse. These were cleaner, tighter, chosen by someone who understood exactly how long a person could stay conscious while fighting them. My wrists burned where the fibers had already worn the skin raw. Every time the yacht rolled with the swell, the chair creaked and the pressure shifted, sending fresh sparks up my arms into the half-healed wound in my shoulder. I stopped testing them after the third attempt. Pain was a language I already spoke fluently.

Lillian paced.

Three steps toward the wide windows that looked out over gray water,...