After my mother and sister died, my father became obsessed with keeping the rest of his daughters safe, especially me as the youngest, and admittedly, the most rebellious. Plotting escapes from our large mansion, situated on an absurdly large swath of land, was one of my favorite pastimes when I was younger. The only reason I have a passport, which is currently sitting in a drawer in my room at the convent, was so Dad could send me to that island off the coast of Spain in the first place.
“Well, I suppose you’re in for quite the adventure.”
Chapter Nine Enrique
She’s being far more cooperative than I expected her to be, especially considering what a wildcat she was when I first kidnapped her.
I’m certainly not foolish enough to let my guard down. The photo sitting on my phone is probably enough leverage to keep her in line. I still plan on keeping a firm eye on her.
When I see what she looks like when she’s finally dressed, it completely fucks with my head.
“Hostia puta,” I mutter, aptly resorting to the blasphemous curse that loosely translates to “holy fuck,” though she doesn’t seem to pick up on it.
There’s something confusingly erotic about seeing her dressed like this after only having viewed her without clothing. It vaguely reminds me of my younger days, eyeing my fellow Catholic schoolmates in their skirts falling firmly below the knee. That only left me wondering about the mysteries hidden above those hemlines that the nuns were so intent on hiding from public view. It didn’t take me long to find out.
The bigger problem now is that, even without the headdress on, she looks too much like a nun in these simple, conservative clothes. Frankly, being as naked as she was before would stand out less in Ibiza than this outfit.
“We’ll have to get you a change of clothes,” I say, frowning at her and raking my fingers through my hair. “Leave the veil off.”
She stares down at it in her hands and nods, placing it down on the bed.
Such easy acceptance of that command only further proves my theory that she’s no nun, or whatever those nuns-in-training are called.
Which only begs the question even more, who is she?
Maybe this time spent in Ibiza will get me some answers. We can start at a bar. A few sangrias should loosen those vocal cords.
“We’re going to have to swim in.” I smirk at her before adding, “I don’t know how easy it will be for you wearing clothes.”
She just glares at me.
I laugh as I direct her out first. I’m not stupid enough to turn my back on her now that she’s free.
She squints her eyes against the afternoon sun, looking around to get a better idea of where she is. The beach is about a hundred meters away.
“Do you think you can make it?”
Her brow wrinkles enough for me to worry, but she turns to me with that stubborn chin of hers defiantly lifted. This one is too full of confidence for her own good. I know she can swim based on what I saw in the lagoon. But I wasn’t entirely joking about her being able to swim in these clothes of hers.
“After you,” I say, waving down toward the water.
She takes one deep breath, whether for courage or in preparation for swimming, I’m not sure. Then, she makes a perfect dive into the deep blue water.
I watch her for a moment, just to make sure she doesn’t sink. I follower her form as it glides just beneath the surface until she comes up for air.
Satisfied that she is probably okay, I dive in after her. I easily pass her since I’m in nothing but a pair of jeans, canvas sneakers, and a t-shirt. On Ibiza, the only things I need are my wallet, phone (waterproof), and my keys.
I’m about fifty meters out when I sense the problem. I stop swimming to turn around and watch her. She was swimming underwater, so I wait for her head to pop up for air. After a moment, with no sign of her, my heart seizes in panic.
Just as I’m about to sink under the surface to blindly seek her out, her head pops up as she desperately gasps for air, before sinking again too soon.
“Joder!” I curse and quickly swim back to her.
I nearly crash into her as she struggles to break the surface again. Lifting her up, I give her a chance to finish coughing up water and gulp some air down before I swim her to the shore, the same way I did earlier in the lagoon. We land in a pile on the edge of the beach where the water laps up against our legs, hers heavily draped in thick, soaking cloth.
“I should have let you drown. It would have saved me the trouble,” I mutter to myself in Spanish in between breaths.
She punches me in the arm. Hard.
I don’t know if I’m more surprised by the punch or that she has enough strength left to manage it.
Did she understand what I said? If she was from the convent, it would make sense, as most of the nuns there speak Spanish from what I remember. So why pick English when I gave her a choice?
Before I can let that brew in my head further, she musters up just enough energy to rise slightly and punch me in the chest. Hard.
Maybe she’s just pissed the hell off, which needs no translation.
Another punch follows quickly after that one. She’s obviously exhausted so this one is weaker, but her resolve keeps the momentum going, with punch after punch pummeling my chest.
I would laugh if I wasn’t so damn pissed off.
Yes, she has every right to give me this treatment considering what I’ve done so far.
