Buried in Crimson Tides

My husband buried me in the sand, shaping me into a mermaid.

Then he turned his back and walked away-off to comfort his stepsister, who had stubbed her foot.

I watched his figure retreating, helpless, as the tide crept higher. Despair swallowed me whole.

In the very last second before I lost consciousness, a single thought flashed through my mind.

1

I thought I was going to die.

When the icy ocean finally closed over my head and crushed the last breath from my lungs, the darkness felt almost like relief.

Death was better than lying there, half-buried, feeling sand crabs gnaw at my skin.

I don't know how long it lasted. A violent spasm of coughing wrenched me back. Brine burned my throat.

I survived.

Someone had dug me out.

Through half-opened eyes I saw a man in a black tactical jacket, his back broad and silent, methodically working to perform CPR on me.

Around him stood a dozen other men in the same gear, big and silent, forming a wall between me and the world.

"Mr. Fletcher," one of them said respectfully, "Miss Rowe is awake."

The man, Rowell Fletcher, stopped, then slowly turned.

It was a face weathered by wind and frost, with eyes sharp as a hawk's.

"Mila, I told you long ago, that Josh from the Morrison family isn't the man for you," he said.

I stared at him-the man who had once ruled the underworld, the man I had saved from a massacre. My lips trembled, but no sound came out.

Too much screaming, too much seawater-my voice was gone.

The salt had seared the crab bites on my face and neck until they burned like fire.

Rowell shrugged off his jacket, wrapped it around me, and lifted me into his arms.

"I promised your father I'd keep you safe for life. You clipped your own wings for that man, hid your edge. I let you. But now he's trying to kill you. I won't stand by anymore."

Step by step he carried me toward a black helicopter waiting on the sand.

"From today on, Mila, you're no longer Josh Morrison's wife. You're my heir-the name that will make all of the Eastern Realm tremble."

I leaned against his chest as the helicopter lifted off, the island that had nearly swallowed me whole shrinking beneath us.

I closed my eyes.

Josh, we would meet again.

I lay in Rowell's private hospital for seven days straight.

The doctors said the scars on my face and neck would never fade.

My vocal cords would take a long time to heal before I could speak normally again.

During those seven days, Josh called me dozens of times.

I didn't answer once.

On the eighth day, his patience finally ran out. He sent a text, "Mila, have you had enough? It was just a game. You really had to run away from home over this? Get your ass back here. Now."

I stared at the message and laughed.

I asked a nurse to bring me my phone and dialed his number.

The second the line connected, his voice exploded through the speaker, "Mila! Where the hell have you been? Do you know how hard I've been looking for you?! You think you can just disappear on me?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I switched on the recorder app and held the phone up to the TV.

On screen, an old horror flick was playing.

A woman who had been buried alive turned into a ghost, and as she clawed her way out of the grave, she let out that terrifying sound, forced up from the depths of her throat.

On the other end of the line, Josh went dead silent.

A few seconds later, his fury returned.

"What kind of sick joke is this? Stop playing ghost, Mila! I'm warning you-don't test me! You've got half an hour. Be in front of me, or else!"

I hung up and tossed the phone aside.

Then I slipped into a long black dress, covering most of the wounds on my body.

The jagged scars across my face-I left those bare.

I wanted the Morrison family to see exactly what they had done.

Rowell's car was already waiting at the hospital entrance.

"Miss Rowe, where to?" the driver asked.

I looked out the window. My voice came out raw, rasping, but steady, "To Morrison estate."

When I arrived at the Morrison estate, the living room was performing a show of sibling devotion.

Norene Morrison, Josh's stepsister, was draped prettily on the sofa, her foot-with a tiny chip missing from one nail-propped up on a stack of Harmesse silk cushions.

Around her stood three of Glenport's most famous orthopedic and dermatology specialists, peering through magnifying glasses as if inspecting some ghastly specimen.

My so-called husband, Josh, was half-kneeling at her side, painstakingly peeling a lychee and wearing a face of agonized concern.

"Norene, don't be scared. I already sent my assistant to Florencea to get the best manicurist. Your toenail will be exactly the same as before," he cooed.

Norene puckered her lips and spoke in that syrupy, saccharine voice that made my skin crawl.

"Josh, it's my fault-sorry for making you worry. Where's Mila? Didn't she come back with you from the island? Did you have fun?"

Her innocent, perpetually-caring "good sister" act made me nauseous.

I cleared my throat, my voice a rough rasp, and spoke slowly.

"I'm back."

Every head snapped to me.

The room fell silent at the sight of the jagged scars crawling across my face.

Norene covered her mouth and screamed.

"Ah! Mila! Your face... what happened to your face?!"

Josh froze, then stepped toward me, frowning.

It was not with concern, but with disgust.

"What did you do to yourself?!" he barked.

I looked at him, pulling a twisted smile.

"Thanks to you, I spent all night in the sand. Nearly didn't wake up."

His face didn't twitch with pity, only anger.

"Wasn't I supposed to be waiting for you? Couldn't you get out of the sand yourself? Why'd you do this? For who? Do you know how embarrassing you are to the family?"

Ha. Wait.

I would be waiting until my corpse rotted.

I didn't argue. I walked past the theatrically-stunned Norene and toward her.

Josh lunged to block me.

"What do you think you're doing?!" he demanded.

I ignored him and took a small jewelry box from my bag, presenting it to Norene.

"Norene, I heard you hurt your foot. As your sister-in-law, I brought a little gift. Hope you like it."

There were no jewels inside. No diamonds either.

Only ten blood-darkened human toenails, each carefully preserved in formalin.

Each nail looked far more mangled than the tiny chip she had suffered.

"Ah-!!!"

Norene's scream was a high, ear-splitting shriek as she tumbled off the sofa.

The so-called experts went pale and staggered back.

In a rasped, deliberate voice I explained, "These ten nails came from ten different people. I hear transplanting healthy nails from donors is the latest, most advanced repair technique. I figured, one of them might suit you."

Josh finally registered what he was looking at, and his eyes turned ravenous.

"Mila! You're insane!" he spat.

He raised his hand and slapped me hard across the face.

I didn't flinch.

The slap burned.

But I smiled anyway, lifting my chin to meet his furious gaze.

"Josh," I said, "from the moment you left me in the sea to die, I went mad. And a madwoman can do anything. For example, send you, and your precious Norene, both straight down to hell."