International Manwhore – Part 27 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

The silence after Father left was worse than the yelling.

Sebastian and I sat tied to our chairs, hands still clasped between us, listening to the steady thrum of the yacht’s engines. Every second stretched. I kept waiting for the first sign — a hiss of gas, a sudden jolt, the smell of fuel. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

Then it hit me. That fucking bottle of lube!

I still had the neon-green Slick Shot in the pocket of the linen trousers Adrien had left me. The stupid gadget I’d grabbed back on his yacht.

“Seb,” I whispered urgently. “Left pocket. There’s a small bottle. Can you reach it?”

Sebastian’s eyes widened, but he didn’t waste time asking questions. We both started shifting, awkward and desperate, shoulders bumping as we tried to maneuver with our wrists bound behind us. The zip ties cut into my skin. Sebastian’s fingers brushed the fabric once, twice, then finally hooked the edge of the bottle.

It took forever. My arms burned. His breathing grew ragged with effort. Finally, with a small grunt, he worked it free and dropped it into his lap.

“There’s barely any left,” he muttered, turning it over with his bound hands. “Just a few drops.”

“Doesn’t matter. Use it on the zip ties. Your hands are smaller — more delicate.”

Sebastian shot me a quick glare, but there was no real heat in it. “Delicate hands might actually save us. Brilliant.”

He squirted what little remained onto the plastic around his wrists, working it in with careful, precise movements. He twisted, pulled, winced as the ties dug deeper, then suddenly — with a sharp exhale — one hand slipped free.

“Yes!” I hissed.

Sebastian bolted for the door without hesitation.

I stared after him, stunned. “Sebastian?? Fuck you!!”

He disappeared into the corridor.

For three agonizing seconds I thought he’d actually left me. Then footsteps came racing back. Sebastian burst through the door again, holding a small pair of wire cutters he must have grabbed from a maintenance panel.

“Oh yeah,” he panted. “I knew you’d be back.”

I stood up fast, rubbing my wrists, and fetched my trusted bottle of lube. My fingers closed around the neon-green tube.

Sebastian glanced over as I shoved it back into my pocket. “You’re seriously keeping that thing?”

“Shut up,” I muttered, already moving. “It’s my lucky lube. Saved my ass more times than the rest of the CIA’s gadgets combined. Might need it again at some point. ”

As we got out on the deck. There was nothing, every storage locker was stripped clean. No inflatable dinghies. No emergency kits. Just bare deck and railings.

A low, ominous rumbling started somewhere deep below us — from the engine room. It grew steadily louder, more threatening. A fuel vapor leak. Father hadn’t been bluffing.

Sebastian and I locked eyes.

“No time,” I said.

We both knew what had to happen.

We ran to the railing. The dark sea churned far below, black and unforgiving.

Sebastian grabbed my hand one last time, squeezing hard.

“Together?” he asked, voice tight.

“Together.”

We climbed onto the rail, the wind whipping at our clothes.

Then we jumped.

The water hit me like a wall of ice.

I went under for a second, the cold punching the air out of my lungs. When I broke the surface, gasping, the yacht towered above us — massive, lit up, already moving away. Sebastian was nowhere in sight.

“Seb!” I shouted, spinning in the water, salt stinging my eyes. “Sebastian!”

The waves slapped against me, cold and relentless. My clothes dragged me down. I kicked hard, turning in frantic circles, scanning the dark surface. Nothing. Just the black water and the receding lights of The Legacy.

My heart hammered. “Seb! Where are you?!”

I swam a few desperate strokes one way, then the other, lungs burning from the cold. Every second felt longer. What if he’d gone under? What if the current had already pulled us apart?

Then — faint, but real — his voice cut through the night.

“Bryson! Swim! Bloody swim! It’s gonna blow!”

Relief crashed over me so hard I almost went under again. I spotted him maybe twenty yards away, arms cutting through the water, pale face flashing in the yacht’s distant lights.

I started swimming toward him as hard as I could, arms burning, legs kicking furiously. The cold seeped deeper with every stroke, making my muscles stiff and clumsy. Behind us, the rumbling from the engine room grew louder, more ominous.

We both pushed away from the yacht, swimming for our lives. The distance between us and the glowing hull slowly increased — ten yards, twenty, thirty. My arms felt like lead. My chest ached from the cold and the effort.

Then it happened.

A massive fireball erupted from the stern of The Legacy with a deafening roar. The explosion lit up the night sky in orange and white, sending debris flying in every direction. The shockwave hit us like a physical blow, pushing us forward in the water.

I ducked as something whistled past my head — a piece of railing or metal. Sebastian cried out sharply.

“Seb!”

I swam harder, fighting the churning waves. When I reached him, he was struggling, one hand pressed to the side of his head. Blood darkened the water around his fingers.

“I’m okay,” he gasped, but his voice was weak. “Just… hit.”

I hooked an arm under his shoulders, holding him up as best I could while treading water. “I’ve got you. Keep kicking.”

The yacht burned behind us, flames licking high into the sky. The heat reached us even at this distance. We kept swimming away, slow and desperate, my arm locked around Sebastian to keep his head above water.

Sebastian started slipping in and out of consciousness. His head lolled against my shoulder, eyes fluttering half-open then closing again. The water wasn’t freezing, but it was the kind of deep, bone-numbing cold you get off the coast of New York outside the summer— the kind that steals your strength slowly, relentlessly.

I kept talking to him, voice hoarse. “Stay with me, Seb. Just stay awake. Come on.”

He mumbled something I couldn’t make out. His body felt heavier with every passing minute.

I spotted a piece of floating debris — part of a deck chair or railing, large enough to hold some weight. I kicked toward it, dragging Sebastian with me, and managed to push him halfway up onto it. His upper body rested on the makeshift raft while his legs still trailed in the water. It looked painfully like something out of Titanic, and the thought made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

I clung to the edge beside him, one arm looped around his waist to keep him from sliding off. Time passed in a haze of cold and exhaustion. My teeth chattered. Sebastian’s breathing stayed shallow but steady. He was still unconscious, but he was breathing. That was enough for now.

Then I heard it — the low, heavy thump of rotor blades in the distance.

A helicopter.

My stomach dropped. For a terrifying second I thought it was Father’s, coming back to make sure the job was finished. I squinted into the dark, heart racing, trying to make out the shape.

This one was different. Bigger. Louder. The deep, powerful sound of a military-grade chopper, not the lighter one I’d heard earlier.

A bright searchlight suddenly cut through the night, sweeping across the water. It found us. The beam locked on, blindingly white.

I raised one freezing hand to shield my eyes, still holding Sebastian with the other.

From the open door of the chopper, a heavily built man in tactical gear leaned out, a large rifle slung across his chest. He stared down at us, face shadowed by his helmet.

The rotor wash whipped the water into choppy waves around us.

I held my breath, too cold and exhausted to do anything but stare back up at the armed figure silhouetted against the lights.

The chopper hovered there, loud and menacing, waiting.