Trapped on His Ship: The Mafia King's Slave

Maeve Thorne

Silas spun me around so fast my whipped back slammed against the cold mirror. The sting tore a scream from my throat, but Silas didn't let me look away.

He gripped my jaw hard, forcing my face toward the glass. "Watch," he ordered, voice rough. "Watch what a desperate slut you are."

I didn't want to. I hated seeing my tear-streaked face, my body bent and broken, but he held me there as he freed his cock and drove into me in one savage thrust.

The stretch burned. I tried to turn my head, but he slammed deeper, hips snapping punishingly while my raw back scraped the mirror.

"You won't even lie?" he growled against my ear, forcing me to keep watching. "You'd rather take the whip than pretend you love me? You were eager enough when you were seducing my friend."

Tears poured down my face. I was soaked despite myself, clenching around every brutal inch.

"Tell me," he snarled, pounding harder, eyes wild. "Did you ever love me? Even for one fucking second?"

That question destroyed me. I came with a shattered scream, walls spasming around him as the orgasm ripped through me.

He followed with a guttural groan, burying himself deep and filling me while moaning my name like it physically hurt.

One month ago, I never could have imagined this. Back then, I was just Dr. Maeve Thorne, trying to do my job and keep my head down.

That was before the murder, before Silas, before I became his slave, before everything went to shit.

It all began that night one month ago—the night that destroyed everything I thought I knew about my life.

The pounding on my door came at 3:17 a.m., dragging my attention from the neurological imaging report I’d been reviewing for the past two hours.

"Dr. Thorne! Please, you have to come now!"

The steward looked barely old enough to drink, his face sheet-white. "It's Mr.Clark, the guest you saw earlier. His wife is saying he's—she thinks he's—"

"He is Dead!"The words hit me like a slap. For a second, everything froze.

Damian Clark? The man I had treated just hours ago for a simple migraine? My stomach dropped, a cold wave of shock and confusion crashing over me.

No. That couldn’t be right. I had been careful. I had checked everything twice. How could he be dead?

I pushed past the gathering crowd and stepped into chaos. The room reeked of sex—that unmistakable combination of sweat, bodily fluids, and stale musk.

The sheets were tangled, pillows scattered everywhere. Elena, Damian’s wife, was on her knees beside the bed, her silk robe hanging open over a negligee that was on inside-out.

Damian lay on top of the covers. His arms rested neatly at his sides. Even from the doorway, I could see he wasn’t breathing.

I pulled back his collar, noting the fresh purple love bites trailing down his neck and collarbone.

"From the preliminary signs, death appears to have occurred several hours ago," I said, straightening up. "Why wasn’t I called immediately?"

Elena’s head snapped toward me. The grief on her face vanished instantly, replaced by cold fury.

"You!" she shrieked, lurching to her feet. "You did this! You killed him!"

What?

I really wanted to point my finger in her face and scream it.

Are you serious right now? You wait a few hours to call a doctor, your husband is covered in fresh hickeys, the bed looks like a battlefield, and you’re pointing the finger at me? The audacity!

But I didn’t say any of that. Adding fuel to the fire right now would do me no good. Staying professional was the smarter move. I forced the rage down, keeping my face calm and my voice steady as I spoke.

"Mrs. Elena, your husband has been deceased for several hours. The timeline doesn’t support—"

"Liar!" She lunged at me. Two security guards caught her arms. "You poisoned him! You are the murderer!"

"I administered a standard neural sedative at 11:30 p.m.," I said calmly, addressing the entire room.

"Based on the state of this room and the body, your husband was clearly engaged in strenuous physical activity well after I treated him. If there was a medical emergency, I should have been notified immediately."

"How dare you!" Elena’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch. "My husband is dead and you’re talking about—about—"

"About establishing facts," I cut in. "Mrs. Clark. These are facts any proper investigation will need to address."

"Absolutely not!" Elena shrieked. "You’re not touching him! You’re not touching anything! This is your fault and you’re trying to destroy evidence!"

The words hit me like a slap across the face. White-hot anger surged through my chest, so fierce it nearly burned away the last of my professional composure.

How fucking dare she?

I had dedicated my entire life to saving people. I was a damn good doctor, one of the best in my field, and this hysterical woman had the nerve to question my integrity?

What possible motive could I have to kill her husband? I didn’t even know the man beyond a four-minute consultation. Use her fucking brain for once in her life.

"I’m not accusing anyone," I said, my voice steady despite the fury raging inside me. "I’m stating medical facts."

I turned to address the security guards. "The body needs to be moved to cold storage immediately. I’ll need to perform a full examination and document these injuries. Someone should also collect samples from the bedding for—"

A man in an expensive suit stepped forward—one of the ship’s senior managers.

"Dr. Thorne," he said, voice dripping with false sympathy, "perhaps we should discuss this privately. You’re making some very serious implications."

"I’m making medical observations," I corrected. "Which is my job. This is a straightforward case that requires proper documentation and investigation."

"Of course." He moved closer, lowering his voice. "But you understand the delicacy of the situation. Mr. Clark was an important figure in certain international circles. His death aboard this ship could create significant complications. Especially given the… circumstances you’ve described."

The threat was barely veiled.

"What exactly are you suggesting?" I asked.

"Simply that you help us avoid an international incident. If you were to demonstrate—right here, in front of everyone—that the same dose you gave him is harmless, it would put concerns to rest. Then we can handle the rest of this matter… discreetly."

My stomach dropped. "You want me to inject myself."

"Unless you have some reason to doubt your own medication?"

I thought of Lira, eight years old and waiting for the money to buy her next round of medication. If I lost this job, she would die.

But more than that—I knew my medication. I had prepared that neural sedative myself. I had used the same formulation hundreds of times. It was safe.

Injecting myself would prove my innocence faster than any argument. It was the most efficient way to end this circus and get to the truth.

And I trusted my work absolutely.

"Fine," I heard myself say. "I’ll do it."

I knelt beside my medical kit, drew up the syringe. I pushed the plunger home.

The effect was immediate and completely wrong.

Neural sedatives didn’t burn like this. They didn’t make your heart race or send your skin flushing hot and cold in violent waves.

Someone had switched the medication.

The realization slammed into me like a freight train. My heart stuttered violently as pure shock ripped through my body.

What the fuck?

When? How? I had prepared that vial myself only hours earlier. I had kept my medical kit in sight the entire time I was in the suite.

The only moment it had been out of my direct control was when I set it down by the door while I examined Damian. That was barely thirty seconds. Who the hell could have swapped it that fast? And why?

My mind raced, panic flooding every corner of my thoughts. This wasn’t just a mistake. This was deliberate.

My stomach twisted with a sick combination of disbelief and terror. I had walked straight into their trap.

The drug was already burning through my veins, and I had no idea what the hell they had replaced it with.

I forced a calm smile at the watching crowd and nodded like everything was fine, even as my vision began to blur.

I needed to get out of here. Now.

I turned toward the door, but my legs already felt like they belonged to someone else. Each step took ridiculous effort. I slammed into the wall, using it to hold myself up as I dragged one foot in front of the other.

Footsteps thundered behind me.

"Dr. Thorne, let us help you."

Hands gripped my arms—too tight, too professional. They began dragging me toward an unmarked door.

I opened my mouth and screamed, raw and desperate.

"Help! Someone—"

A hand clamped brutally over my mouth, cutting the cry short. I thrashed wildly, trying to bite the palm, but my muscles were failing me.

Then a voice sliced through the chaos like a blade.

"Stop."

The single word carried absolute authority. Everyone froze. The hands on me loosened. I sagged against the wall, gasping, my vision swimming with tears of rage and fear.

Measured footsteps approached. Through my blurring sight, I saw a man in a pristine white three-piece suit walking toward us.

The men released me instantly and dropped to their knees in perfect synchronization.

"The Sovereign," someone whispered.

The title sent a violent jolt through my fogged brain. For the first time since this nightmare began, a desperate spark of hope flared in my chest.

Oh. It's him.

I'd heard the name in hushed tones during my three weeks aboard The Elysium.

Silas Voss — the man who owned this floating kingdom. They said his word was law here, that no authority in the world would dare question it.

In that moment, drugged, terrified, and barely able to stand, Silas Voss felt like the only real hope I had left in this godforsaken place.