by Monica James
His heart pounds against me, rivaling mine. But I soon don’t know if my racing heart is from the adrenaline coursing through me or the fact I’m pressed against Saint so intimately. He smells incredible, and on instinct, I inhale deeply. I’ve wanted to do this since I first smelled his unique scent.
A groan escapes me, and everything tightens. I want him so badly, and even though I can pretend it’s because I almost died, it’s not. I’ve wanted him since the first moment he touched me. And I want him to touch me again.
“You’re letting me touch you,” I whisper. He usually steers clear of being touched.
“I like…you touching me,” he confesses, which rips a gasp from my lungs. “You will not go into these waters again, okay?”
“Okay. But neither will you,” I add. I won’t have him risking his life so I can eat. We will find somewhere else to fish.
The moment settles, and my heart rate eventually returns to normal.
When I realize I’m still clinging to him, I regrettably peel my arms from him. When he releases me, I bite my lip to mute the saddened cry. “You called me ahгел.”
He pulls back, surprised.
“You haven’t called me that for days.”
He clears his throat, shuffling back a fraction, but I’m still perched on his lap. “You told me not to call you that.”
“What does it mean?”
A wall suddenly erects between us, and anything beautiful we just shared fades to the wind. “Come on, let’s go.” He gently shifts me off his lap and stands.
I, however, stay seated, unbelieving that after everything, this bullshit still exists between us. “No, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what it means.”
“Why does it matter?” he questions, running a hand through his wet hair.
“I need to know because maybe it’ll give me a clue into how you feel about me!”
Saint takes a step back, clearly stunned.
But I’m done. My close call with death has obliterated the filter on my mouth.
Launching up, I cry, “Am I just collateral to you? Do you even care what happens to me when we arrive in Russia?”
He turns his cheek, his jaw clenched. “You know what this is,” he grits out. But I don’t believe him.
“You lie,” I spit, but he is fierce as he springs forward, gripping my bicep, yanking me toward him.
“I am not your knight in shining armor. Stop trying to see something that isn’t there!” He is furious, which just encourages me to poke the bear.
“I know you don’t want to hurt me.” Contrary to his death grip on my arm. “You’ve always shown me kindness. Even when you’ve punished me…you’ve ensured not to hurt me too bad.”
His nostrils flare. He’s angered I’m privy to his secret.
“I saw what you did to Drew.” I swallow past the lump in my throat as I can barely speak his name without wanting to be sick. “It looked personal because it was, wasn’t it? You were there when he made the deal. I was dragged into this just like you were. Why? Tell me why you’re doing this!”
“Stop talking,” he snarls, shaking me like a rag doll. But I will not. This is the first emotion I’ve elicited from him, and I’m not about to stop now.
“Help me understand. You’re the only person who can fix this. Please.”
“This can’t be fixed! Don’t you understand? We’re both dead if I don’t do this. And I can’t fail he—”
“You can’t fail who?” I press, begging him to tell me what’s going on. “I don’t want to believe you’re the villain. I know that you’re not.”
“You know nothing about me!” he screams, his wrath propelling the hair from my face. “You have no idea what I’ve done!”
“Tell me! I want to understand you.”
“No, ahгел, you don’t,” he counters sadly, releasing me. His touch has left bruises, but I don’t care. They are not reflective of who he is. I refuse to believe they are.
“No one is perfect. My mother made me believe I was nothing but a whore, and that I deserved her boyfriend pinning me to the floor and telling me how hard he was going to fuck me.”
Saint closes his eyes for a split second, appearing pained.
“And for a long time, I believed her. She told me my looks were used for nothing but evil, but I proved her wrong. You can do the same. Show Popov you’re not the man he believes you to be.”
“I can’t,” he exclaims, eyes wild. “No matter how badly I want to.”
“What has he got over you?” I inquire, shaking my head in confusion.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” I rebuke, standing my ground.
“We are not having this conversation.” A fire thrums through his veins. I can see it. He is about to explode.
With a match in hand, I declare, “It’s Zoey, isn’t it?”
I have snatched the air from his lungs.
“Don’t,” he warns, pointing his finger in caution.
It falls on deaf ears. “Why not? She’s the only person who can stir any sort of human response from you. Is she—” The words are trapped forever when his arm shoots out, and he cups my throat.
I gasp, struggling to breathe, but I don’t fight him. “She is the most important person to me, and I will do anything, anything to protect her. And if that means handing you over to Popov, I will gladly do so because you mean nothing to me!”
My lower lip begins to quiver.
I wasn’t expecting him to recite a love poem in my honor, but I thought we were at least friends.
“You are insignificant to me, and quite frankly, the only reason you’re still alive is because I need you.” And he doesn’t mean that in the warm and fuzzy sense.
“I will deliver you to Popov. So get used to that idea. There is nothing between us! Nothing! You’re just a pretty face to jerk off to.” He tightens the hold around my neck while I arch back. “Understood?”
I nod slowly, a tear scoring my cheek. I am defeated as this is the first time in fifteen days he’s shown me true cruelness. My momma’s words come back to haunt me.
He releases me, and I sag forward, gasping for air as I rub my neck.
“Good. Now get out of my sight. I have work to do.”
He brushes past me, anger rolling off his broad shoulders, while I gather my pride from the ground, get dressed, and turn back to return to the hut. The entire walk back, I weep, never feeling cheaper than I do right now. Saint has just proven me to be a fool. I thought he felt something for me, no matter how small, but I was right all along—he’s a monster.
The pocketknife sits heavily in my pocket, hinting what I need to do.
I pace the hut like a caged animal. Harriet Pot Pie sits in the corner, leaving me to my madness.
I am furious. Actually, now, I am fucking murderous.
The entire day, I’ve kept my distance from Saint because I don’t trust myself in his presence. Once I got over the fact I was nearly eaten alive by a shark, I returned to the hut, but my fear was soon replaced by this blistering rage.
His hot and cold behavior leaves me beyond confused. I would prefer he be the cruel bastard he is because that would make hating him a lot easier. The small snippets of kindness, like today when I felt protected in his arms, mess with my head, and I can’t take it anymore.
It’s dark out, and even though I don’t know what time it is, I know it’s late. I haven’t bothered to go down for dinner because I cannot sit around the fire and break bread like nothing happened. Saint made his feelings for me very clear, and I would be an even bigger idiot if I just forgot everything he said.
He hurt me today, and a small part of me reasons that he was able to do this because I care. If I didn’t, his words wouldn’t have affected me the way they have.
Groaning, I lace my hands behind my neck and continue to pace.
I need a plan. All options are bleak, but I need to get off this island, and I will have to divulge to my rescuers wha
t Saint did to save myself. He isn’t my safety net. He never was. The thought of ratting him out turns my stomach, but I quash down this nonsense because I need to remember what he is.
The wind howls around me, hinting a storm may be headed our way. The tense and restless atmosphere forewarns of something life changing lingering around the corner. And when I see the rope swinging wildly, like someone is climbing it, I know I’m moments away from uncovering what that is.
Instantly, I back up, feeling adrenaline course through me. My knife is burning a hole straight through my pocket, but Saint appears before I have a chance to reach for it. When our eyes lock, I know things are about to explode.
He swings his leg over the wooden ledge and steps into the hut. His chest heaves, but that has nothing to do with the climb. The air is thick with static. My skin prickles with goose bumps.
How dare he come here. This is my sanctuary, my haven, and him being here has just shit all over that safety. “Get out,” I spit, folding my arms, but Saint does the total opposite when he steps forward. He comes to a stop a few feet away, his winded exhalations brushing the hair from my face.
I don’t waver.
With his fists bunched by his sides, he looks to be barely holding on. I have no idea why he’s angry as I was the one he insulted. “Can I help you?” I sarcastically quip when he remains mute. “For someone who had a hell of a lot to say, you sure are quiet.”
His jaw clenches, which just spurs me on.
“You need to leave. Now. I may be stranded with you, but that doesn’t mean I have to look at you. And besides, you made your feelings perfectly clear. I mean, I’m just a pretty face to jerk off to, right? Are you here for some bedtime material?” I jab, eyes narrowed.
Saint still doesn’t speak, which pisses me off further. This morning was just a starter.
Closing the distance between us, I storm forward, craning my neck to peer up at him. “I hate you. I would rather die on this island than be a slave. So you get used to that idea,” I snarl in reference to his comment about my fate of being Popov’s plaything set in stone. “I belong to no one.”
He shows no emotion, but the twitch beneath his eye is my victory dance. My bravado soars, and I run with it. “You are a gutless bastard, and whoever Zoey is”—his nostrils flare—“I feel sorry for her.”
I am baiting him because I know Zoey is his weakness. She is the only collateral I have against him.
“She’s probably sick of you. I know I am. You think you’re protecting her?” I challenge, standing on tippy toes to deadpan him. “Odds are, she needs protecting from you.”
His eyes are alight, and he’s barely holding it together, revealing I’m onto something.
Drawing my face to his, I smirk, sinisterly. “Looks like Zoey and I have a lot in common.”
Saint’s resolve finally snaps as he latches onto my bicep, pressing over the bruises he left earlier. I attempt to jerk from his hold, but he only tightens his grip. “Kneel,” he commands in a low, menacing voice.
My heart begins to pound as in a sick, twisted way, it’s exactly the response I was hoping to provoke from him. But I’ll be damned if I allow him to see that.
“Fuck you.” I rip free from his hold and make a run for the rope, but he lunges forward and wraps an arm around my waist, drawing me backward.
He presses my back to his chest, trapping me, his panting shooting a current straight through my center. He is shaking in rage. “Get off me!” I wriggle madly, kicking and flailing, but I’m not going anywhere.
“I said kneel…ahгел.”
“You tell me what that means, and I will,” I counter, ignoring the way my skin tingles with his touch. Being faced away from him makes it easier for me to fight him. But when he presses his warm, supple lips to the side of my neck, my fight soon dies with a low moan.
I grow limp, not because his kiss feels so good, but because I’m astounded by his actions. “Kneel,” he repeats, hovering over my racing pulse. When he bites over it, I whimper and buckle, which allows Saint to force me to my knees with ease.
My body is hypersensitive. I await his next move.
With a slow pace, he stands in front of me. My breathless pants are indicative of how I’m feeling, and when Saint sweeps a strand of hair from my cheek, his fingers lingering, they only grow more profound.
“I should punish you,” he declares, dangerously low.
“You being here is punishment enough.” My words may seem big and strong, but I’m trembling.
A hoarse laugh escapes him.
He stands still while I concentrate on not squirming. I feel like a bug under a microscope. My eyes focus on the floor as I’m afraid to see what his gaze reflects. He cups my chin, coaxing me to look at him.
I do.
I arch my head back, locking eyes with him. He is feral, the chartreuse fire burning me alive. “You like when I punish you, don’t you?”
My flushed cheeks speak volumes.
“What about when I slapped that perfect ass of yours? Did you like that?” He drags his thumb over my lower lip, focusing on our connection. “Or how about when your needy pussy gripped me so tight, I thought I was going to explode? I know you liked that. Your breathless moans still haunt my dreams.”
The line between pleasure and pain once again begins to fade.
He gently parts my mouth with his thumb and strokes just inside my bottom lip, fixated on what he’s doing to me. I try to remain impassive, but my efforts are laughable. He sighs before he removes his thumb and slides his palm down my chest. When he splays it over my pounding heart, I gasp.
The gesture is almost tender.
He seems hypnotized by my rising breasts, and when he cups my right one, he hums low. “You tell me you don’t belong to anyone, but you’re wrong, ahгел. You belong to me,” he whispers, an arrogant grin tugging at his lips. “And you hate yourself for it.”
I refuse to allow my tears to fall because this is just another torture technique. He wants to break me emotionally. Psychologically. Physically. And when he rubs his thumb over my erect nipple, he knows he’s slowly worming his way into my soul.
“But don’t,” he continues, kneading my breast as he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. “Because I hate myself, too.” When he lets me go, I cry out in desperation or relief. I don’t know. “I hate that you’re able to stir this…this hunger in me. You defy me, and I allow it because I like it. I like the control I have over you because I know how”—he pauses, inhaling deeply—“wet it makes you. How your body begs for a release…because of me.”
I bite my lip, needing to stifle my moan as my arousal coats my underwear.
Maybe I am a whore. Just like my mom said I was because what Saint says is…true.
He gently places his hand on the front of my shoulder and pushes, hinting he wants me to lie down. God strike me down—I do.
I look up at him, my winded breaths leaving me lightheaded. He remains poised and in total control. “These hands”—he holds up both palms—“have done some unspeakable things. But when I touch you…I forget about all the horrible things I’ve done. You should fear me, but you don’t. I want you to,” he says, lowering himself onto me slowly.
He places his hands on either side of me and crawls up my body. My arms are rigid by my side because I don’t know what to do. His heavy weight crushes me, yet we’re still not close enough. He nuzzles under my ear before inhaling deeply along my throat. When he comes to the dip between my collarbones, he gazes up at me, savage and unrestrained.
“Fear always tastes sweeter,” he reveals, closing his eyes as if savoring a sweetness. “But I bet your taste is unlike”—the tip of his pink tongue darts out to wet his lips—“anything else.” When he reopens his eyes, I ignite in a way I never have before. “Do you taste as sweet as you look?”
I whimper, afraid…afraid of my response to him. My body tightens, and my sex clenches. I can’t believe I am yielding to him yet again. His scent, his w
armth, and the touch of his skin leave me with a heady, sinking feeling, and I am helpless to fight it.
He hovers over me, the moment charged, but my good sense shines when I remember him making me feel like nothing at all. His attention shifts to my swelling breasts, which are mere inches from his face. It’s a rookie move on his behalf.
With lightning-quick speed, I lunge for my knife, and in one smooth motion, I flick it open and jab the pointed blade against the skin on the side of Saint’s neck. His eyes widen as I’ve caught him off guard.
Kudos to me.
My hand trembles, but I pin him with a glower. “I belong to no one,” I repeat even though it’s a lie because right now, I want to let go and surrender to him.
“I’m proud of you, ahгел. Not many can say they’ve caught me unaware and lived to tell the tale. It’s my fault for not being more careful. So the question is, what are you going to do now?” He doesn’t seem frightened that he has a blade pressed to his throat.
“Don’t test me. I’ll use it. I swear I will,” I cry, digging in a fraction. The pliability of his flesh exposes how easily I could press a little deeper and draw blood.
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” he says, suspended over me calmly. “After what I’ve done to you, I deserve it. So, come on. Do it.”
“What?” I gasp, the shake to my hand escalating.
“Do it,” he repeats. When I freeze, he leans into the knife, causing a trickle of blood to seep from the small cut I’ve made. I attempt to pull back, horrified, but his hand shoots out and clutches tightly over mine. He forces my hand forward, cutting deeper into his flesh.
“No!” I cry, recoiling, but his grip is firm.
“Do me a favor and end my miserable life. At least I’ll die by the hand of someone I respect.”
“Saint, no!” I exclaim, my stomach turning when he forces me to sink the tip of the knife deeper into his neck. But it falls on deaf ears. It cuts his skin like a hot knife through butter. I scream, bile rising because the blood begins to trickle faster.
