Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance by Savannah Rose (e book reader pc TXT) 📕

to his head, and that meant the mother fucking, sister killing, perverted piece of corporate shit was still very much alive.

I don't know if you could call it a watershed moment, but whatever it was, there was one familiar feeling that came with the idea suddenly crossing my mind.

It felt right.

I unzipped the bag, and shoveled Maddox's private collection into it. There was a shaving kit, too, which I thought may come in handy. Snagging a pair of pincers from the survival pack, I crawled over to the cabinet where the GPS system flashed its S.O.S. Which, despite popular belief, does not actually stand for Save Our Ship. That's just a backronym.

The wires cut easily.

Smashing it was a heck of a lot harder. It took a couple of rocks and a boulder to get the job done. The more I thought about what I was planning to do, however, the more the adrenaline rushed in my veins.

Within a couple of minutes, the Insatiable would be written off as 'lost at sea'. Sort of like Amelia Earhart. Disappeared. Vanished, without a trace.

With any luck.

Depending on luck wasn't something with which I was comfortable, though. There's 'faith' and then there's 'luck' and the line between them is far too fine.

The duffel bag and I made our way down to the breakwater, well away from the bastard laying on the sand. I kept my eye out for any sort of movement, a twitch of a finger, a turn of his head, anything. He appeared to be down for the count. Not dead, but out of it enough.

The water was freezing. My entire body recoiled as the surf crashed against my knees, my hips and finally my waist.

Hypothermia, meet Ramona. Ramona, this is hypothermia. I know you guys will get along great. Seriously, I couldn't feel my feet. My legs were going numb. My teeth were chattering as I said; “Bon voyage,” and tossed the tracking system into the Atlantic.

Actually, were we still in the Atlantic? No idea.

I looked back over my shoulder. Petersen was still there, still unmoved. I could make out my footprints leading from the boat to the water, and I thought that if I could manage to stay in the surf, make my way down the shore until I was a safer distance away, he may think I went ahead and drowned myself. Since I'd just tried to kill us, it would be a logical conclusion to draw.

It was a hell of an effort, but it would be worth it.

I waded through the icy water, battling the force of the tide and the weight of the bag. I tried to think of happy places, warm places, and couldn't come up with a damn thing. It’s hard to shake how cold you are when you’re soaking wet and getting even wetter in ice-cold water.

How far I actually got, I wasn't sure. I was beginning to black out, the bag was getting heavier as it took on water, and since I really did not want to wind up drowning my foolish self, I turned toward the shore.

I could not longer see the Insatiable.

That was good.

Even better, I'd reached an impasse between the shore and rising cliff side of the island. There was an alcove, a perfect little niche nestled away from the elements. There was also mass of old trees, so that meant plenty of firewood close by. It was a perfect little Eden, tailor made just for me.

And if I could pull this off, I’d have a very special guest join me.

The first rule of survival is finding shelter. A place to hunker down. Take inventory of what is available to you, and if humanly possible, make a fire. Water, then food. In my case, I'd have to rearrange a few of those basic rules.

Hauling the duffel bag to the alcove was a feat in itself. My adrenaline rush had long since faded, and I was crashing. Hard.

“Hunker down,” I said. “That I can do.”

The bag and I plopped down like two sacks of wet potatoes.

I could have fallen asleep right then and there. Under the stars, with the cool breeze of the ocean rushing over me and the cold, wet shirt plastered to my body. A shirt which would have either kill me, or make me sick as a dog. Neither scenario would do.

I had a job to do.

I was on a mission.

Death wasn't an option anymore.

I pulled off the shirt and then the skirt, undressing myself like a regular Eve waiting for her Adam. My fingers were icicles. Shaking, blue icicles, and I could barely get them to undo the duffel bag’s thick, metal zipper. When trying to maneuver my fingers got too tough, I bore down on it with my teeth, and yanked.

It tasted like salt. Metallic salt. It was sandy, too. I swear to God, that's what happens at the beach. Sand gets into everything.

I spit out a mouthful, and pulled the bag open. I had to dig through Maddox's stuff, before I found the survival blanket – the kind that will heat up for a while after you crack the coil – and tore open the package.

I broke the seal, pulled it around my bare shoulders, and felt the instant relief of fabricated warmth radiating through my skin.

There. There, that was a lot better. The plan was to make a fire soon enough, and I wouldn't even need the benefit of waterproof matches to do so. I hadn't been awarded the top tier Survival Badge for nothing. Becca was jealous when I got that one. I had more patches on my sash than she did.

Once, I tried to show her how sparking a fire was possible, but she'd lost interest after the first hour. I couldn't blame her. But it's amazing what you can do with dryer lint.

I smiled, remembering the day dryer lint and I saved Dad's birthday barbeque. Becca and I were about twelve at