AN HOUR INTO the cruise from Southampton to Calais and my temper had burned through most of the painkillers Michaels had given me.

The only saving grace of being enroute to France was the waking water beneath the hull. The stagnancy of the harbour had gone; my fast-paced mind happier with the quick speed and hum of engines. They pacified me enough to wince my way through a shower and dress in something that wasn’t bullet-torn or blood stained.

It’d taken five times as long to do something so simple, but I’d obnoxiously refused help, telling Selix to piss off and somehow managing to unwrap the many bandages and hiss my way into the shower. Balancing on one leg with an elbow and shoulder unable to function was a lot harder than I thought.

I probably shouldn’t submerge fresh wounds and stitches and definitely shouldn’t remove slings and splints, but I had to get clean.

Not once.

Not twice.

But three times.

I had to wash away the shit I’d done so I could focus with a fresh mind to bring Pim home.

By the time I’d wrangled my way back into the brace and bandages and fought one-armed into a dark grey shirt and fumbled with the buttons, my forehead shone with agony-sweat. My elbow bellowed from contorting and being used against its will while my bones ached, deciding the effort to be human and wear clothing wasn’t enough to justify the nausea and fever decorating my skin.

But then I had to do it all over again, hoisting on a pair of trousers to complete my wardrobe and prevent giving people an eyeful of my crotch. The bottom half gave double the trouble—pulling on linen slacks instead of my first attempted jeans after being too tight to maneuverer around my fractured ankle. I used every curse word imaginable before the zipper was up and the dreaded things secured.

Dressed but out of breath, I scowled at the array of walking sticks and crutches Michaels had left by my bed. The brace on my ankle was as far as I was prepared to go.

I refused to hop around like a broken rabbit.

Selix had given me a quick rundown of what’d happened.

Obviously, I was aware how idiotic I’d been not to notice how silent the Phantom was or the missing staff. But the rest, I wasn’t savvy on.

Two deck hands had been killed when the Chinmoku first climbed on board. Their bodies were found by the emergency siren in the back of the yacht. Luckily, they’d had enough time to pull the cord and alert everyone to evacuate into the safe room.

Everyone, including Jolfer and high-ranking crew officials, managed to get in before they’d sealed the space and settled in to wait out the Chinmoku.

Unfortunately, in their rush to hide, cell phones had been left behind, but even those who had them weren’t able to warn us due to the thick armoured plating blocking mobile signals.

Another staff member, a female who worked in housekeeping, had been found in a corridor with her throat slashed, her hands crisscrossed from a blade as she’d defended her life.

We’d already dealt with the bodies, called their families, and arranged a substantial grievance package and flights home for their deceased. It wouldn’t take away the loss but at least the ones left behind needn’t worry about financials.

Death was such a major event, yet the cleaning up of blood and signing of paperwork felt inconsequential. The ending of a human existence, and it only took a few hours.

The Chinmoku had taken three more lives of people under my care.

I swore on my godforsaken soul that that was the last of it.

No more.

The moment I found Pim and killed the two men who had no business messing in my world, I’d hunt down the Chinmoku and fight.

I was done waiting for them to come to me. I didn’t care if the battle happened on their turf or mine. All that mattered was it happened and I won.

Rage glossed my vision as I looked at the bronze genie bottle I’d bought Pim in Morocco. It sat on my desk as if she’d placed it there when I wasn’t looking, ready to grant me any wish I desired.

My heart folded in on itself in gruesome origami.

I had a wish I desired. No, I had more than one. I had multiple: repair my body so I wasn’t so useless, track down the men who’d taken Pim and slaughter them, kill every last Chinmoku so I could keep Pim safe, then work a miracle and earn her trust all over again.

All of them centred around the woman I’d fallen in love with.

A common theme for her.

Funny that I didn’t think of forgiveness from my family, only forgiveness for my latest transgressions. Pim had successfully filled every emptiness and longing inside me until all I needed was her.

And now, I no longer had her and felt ten times fucking worse than I ever had before.

Loneliness and wretchedness were tormenting sons of bitches.

Glancing at my watch, I counted the minutes to go before yet another battle. France was only thirty minutes away, but when we got there…what then? How did I go about hunting down two French men in a city full of Frenchies?

My mind spiralled, latching onto every method I could use to hunt: stalking the streets, marching into police stations with their descriptions, doing a similar web search on them that they’d done on the QMB, putting out a ransom for any mercenary who brought me their heads.

So many scenarios and I doubted any of them would yield results in time.

What are they doing to her?

Is she alive?

Is she cursing me? Crying for me? Begging for help?

My heart double pounded and my head swam from temper and agony. Sweat trickled down my back from the sick concoction. I had every intention of teaching those bastards a lesson—broken or whole.

One thing was for sure, I wouldn’t hold back next time.

I wouldn’t struggle to forget decency before embracing the animal inside. The moment I set eyes on the man who’d shot me…he’d be in pieces.

Needing to distract myself, I half-stalked, half-hobbled to the cupboard where my cello lived.

Up close, I noticed what distance had hidden.

Christ, no…

My hobbles turned to staggering hops.

My fingers reached out, tracing the pockmarks of bullets, running over splinters missing in the wood.

Goddammit, they didn’t—

I wrenched open the cupboard and howled.

My cello.

The one remaining link to my father. The one thing reminding me that I’d been worthy of love once upon a time and the only thing with the power to keep me in check when my tendencies overpowered me, lay victimised and shot.

My father had borrowed money from the Chinmoku to buy me this beaten-up, second-hand cello. He’d put his own life on the line to do something nice, and I’d repaid him by selling my life into their debt.

My cello was more than just an instrument; it was every mistake I’d caused and every happiness I’d enjoyed.

And now, it’s ruined.

Unstrapping the large stringed device from its protective harness, I clutched the weight and dragged it into the light. The smooth spruce top and well-stroked maple sides and neck were shattered where bullets had pierced it. The fingerboard flopped sideways, snapped with its strings dangling like ghastly garrottes.

The scratches from its previous owners and patina stains from my fingers playing it over the years weren’t enough to hold it together.

Grief wrapped cold and savage around my chest.

How could an innate object butcher me so completely?

My hands turned to claws where I held it.

First, Pim had been stolen—the one person I loved above all others. Now, my cello had been murdered—never to play again.

Its music silenced. My sanity destroyed.

Christ, I would make them pay.

Over and over.

I won’t stop until they feel a tenth of the pain I do.

Running my fingers through the holes and splinters of my beloved belonging, my teeth wedged together and another level of pain filled me. An emotional pain. A soul-deep agony.

I couldn’t bring my father back to life and I couldn’t fix my cello.

It was as dead as my family and loneliness slammed into me with a vicious, vicious fist.

I doubled over, grabbing the fingerboard and throttling it. How dare it be in the crossfires? How dare it cease to play my melodies?

My rage overflowed, and I couldn’t stop it anymore.

I didn’t have the men responsible for this mess.

I couldn’t kill them…yet.

I didn’t have Pim to take care of.

I didn’t have a way to reincarnate the dead.

I only had my wounds, my agony, my temper, and my bullet-broken cello.

Holding the spoils of war, I no longer saw my cherished instrument that’d saved me from so much emotional shit. I only saw everything I hated and everyone I would destroy.

Buggered shoulder be damned. Ruined elbow be fucked. Broken finger and fractured ankle be screwed. I swung the cello up over my head and smashed it against the ground.

Ricocheting wood and pegs pinged and cracked. Fingerboard pieces flew and end pins harpooned into the floor.

My body begged to rest.

My ankle couldn’t hold my weight. My ribs screamed. My head throbbed.

But I didn’t stop.

I destroyed my cello until it was nothing but dust.

I gave it the memorial and burial of a lifetime.

And I promised I’d do the same to the bastards who took Pim.