Chapter 1 - The Anatomy of a Threat
...and drove the heel of my right hand fiercely upward into the base of his chin.
The impact resonated through my arm like striking a sandbag. Cartilage crunched beneath the force of the strike, and David’s head snapped back violently. His eyes rolled into the top of his head as his center of gravity was completely disrupted. Before he could even register the agonizing shockwave traveling up his jawbone, my left hand slid down his forearm, pinching the ulnar nerve behind his wrist with surgical precision.
His fingers involuntarily splayed open. The aluminum bat slipped from his grip, but it never hit the carpeted floor.
I caught the rubberized handle in mid-air with my right hand, reversed my pivot, and drove the blunt end of the bat squarely into his solar plexus.
David let out a choked, wet wheeze as the air was violently expelled from his lungs. He crumpled to his knees on the plush stateroom carpet, clutching his abdomen, his face turning a dark, mottled shade of purple as he struggled to draw breath.
I stood over him, holding the aluminum bat lightly in my right hand, balanced perfectly on the balls of my feet. My heart rate was steady, locked into the cool, tactical zone that four years as a Marine Corps Martial Arts Program (MCMAP) instructor had burned into my nervous system.
"Form was terrible, David," I said, my voice deadpan, completely devoid of the sweet, gentle inflection I’d used during our eight months of courtship. "You loaded your shoulder too early, telegraphed the swing, and left your entire front centerline completely wide open. If you’re going to threaten a veteran, at least learn how to generate leverage from your hips."
David coughed, a spray of saliva hitting the floorboards. He looked up at me through tear-filled eyes, his expression a chaotic mixture of sheer disbelief, agony, and rising panic. The handsome, polished millionaire who had swept me off my feet at a charity gala in West Palm Beach was gone. In his place was a pitiful, cornered bully who had just realized he had brought a butter knife to a tank battle.
"Sarah..." he gasped, clutching his bruised jaw, his voice raspy and trembling. "You... you broke my jaw! What the hell is wrong with you?!"
"What's wrong with me?" I let out a low, humorless laugh, stepping closer until the steel toe of my designer leather boot was resting inches from his nose. "You locked the cabin door of an ocean liner three miles off the coast of Florida, pulled a weapon out of a suitcase, and quoted your abuser father like it was a marital philosophy. And you're asking me what's wrong with me?"
"It... it was a lesson!" David stammered, backing away on his hands and knees until his spine hit the mahogany paneling of the suite's private bar. "My dad said... he said women like you need to be broken early! I paid for everything! The ring! The wedding! This suite! You belong to me now!"
The word belong struck a nerve deep within my chest, but it didn't trigger anger. It triggered a cold, terrifying clarity.
I leaned down, resting the flat metallic edge of the baseball bat against his neck, applying just enough pressure against his carotid artery to let him feel his own racing pulse.
"Listen to me very carefully, David Davis," I whispered, leaning in until my eyes were inches from his flushed face. "I gave four years of my life to the United States Marine Corps. I’ve sparred with two-hundred-pound infantrymen who wanted nothing more than to put me in the hospital. I’ve broken bones, dislocated shoulders, and survived hand-to-hand combat drills in the mud at Quantico. You are not a master of the house. You are a weak, pathetic coward with a trust fund and a bruised ego."
David swallowed hard against the cold metal pressing into his throat. Tears of terror spilled down his cheeks, ruining the picture-perfect image he had spent months cultivating.
"What... what are you going to do?" he whimpered. "You can't leave. We're on a ship. In the middle of the ocean."
"I know where we are," I said, pulling the bat back and tapping it lightly against my palm. "Which means no one can hear us, no one can intervene, and no one is coming to save you. Now, take off your belt."
"What?"
"Take off your belt. Now!" I barked, using my drill instructor tone—the voice that had made eighteen-year-old recruits freeze in their tracks.
David’s hands shook wildly as he unbuckled his handmade Italian leather belt and pulled it from his trousers. I snatched it from his hands, pulled his arms behind his back before he could resist, and bound his wrists together with a tight, professional tactical knot. He groaned in pain as the leather bit into his skin, but he didn't dare fight back. He had seen the look in my eyes. He knew that any resistance would result in immediate physical neutralization.
Once he was secured, I dragged him by the collar of his designer shirt across the carpet and hauled him into the suite’s walk-in closet. I threw him onto the floor among my hanging evening gowns and silk blouses.
"You stay here," I said coldly. "If you make a sound, if you pound on the door, or if you try to roll out, I will come back in here and show you what a MCMAP black belt can actually do to a knee joint."
David squeezed his eyes shut, nodding frantically, completely broken.
I closed the heavy closet door, turned the brass lock from the outside, and let out a long, slow breath.
I walked over to the suite's floor-to-ceiling glass balcony doors. Outside, the sun was setting over the Atlantic Ocean, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple. The Miami skyline was gone, replaced by endless, churning blue water.
I looked at my hands. My knuckles were slightly red, but uninjured. The manicured polish was still intact.
I walked over to the marble wet bar, poured myself a glass of expensive champagne, and took a slow sip. The cold liquid burned pleasantly down my throat.
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My fairytale marriage had lasted precisely forty-five minutes. But as I looked at the locked closet door and then out at the dark ocean, I realized one fundamental truth: David Davis thought he had trapped me on a floating fortress.
He didn't realize that I was the most dangerous thing on this ship.
