Island Captive: A Dark Romance

by Jane Henry

  “Put your hands behind your back and present yourself to me,” I order, before I remember that she isn’t a submissive and doesn’t know what it means to present herself to me. “Shoulders back, stand straight, knees slightly apart.”

  She opens her mouth to speak, but I raise a brow at her, reminding her that she’s been instructed to be silent. If I need to punish her again, there will be no hesitation no matter how fucking tired I am. Gritting her teeth, she clasps her hands behind her back and pulls her shoulders back obediently, her breasts pert and full. I swallow hard. I’ll fuck her, but it’ll be on my terms. Right now, we’re tired, dehydrated, and we both need sleep. There’s more than training here that I need to do. We need to be able to see what our resources are, find water and food, and figure out how we’ll sustain ourselves here.

  I look her over in an almost utilitarian fashion, cataloging her injuries. There’s a bruise on her shoulder that will turn an ugly black and blue before morning. She’s scraped along both arms, but thankfully they’re only superficial cuts. She has no injuries of concern until I get to her leg. When I do, I whistle softly. Fuck, I way underestimated this injury.

  “That’s one hell of a gash,” I say. “Do you know what did it?”

  “Yes,” she grits out. “Metal like shrapnel.”

  “Oh?” I look at her curiously.

  “Yeah,” she states. “I pulled it out and tied my leg up to staunch the bleeding.”

  I nod and hope my face doesn’t give away that I’m impressed. It’s no small feat pulling metal from your own fucking leg. If I gave a shit about her, I’d feel bad about this injury. It must hurt like a motherfucker.

  “I’ll have to clean that,” I say. “Make sure it’s irrigated and disinfected.” The kit I found in the supplies should at least have enough for this. She nods as I continue my inspection and sits on the bed while I fetch the supplies. I come back in with what I need, then irrigate and treat her wound. She sighs with noticeable relief when it’s bandaged and cleaned. I don’t want her to grow too comfortable with me, though.

  I’ve looked her over for injuries.

  Now my gaze roams over her body to serve another purpose.

  I sit back on the bed and pull her onto one of my knees so she isn’t putting weight on her leg anymore. “Your breasts are little,” I say with disdain, though it’s really only to make her squirm. They’re actually perfect. “But they’ll do.” She lifts her chin as if being led to the executioner, the stoic set of her jaw making me smile.

  I’m a sick fucking bastard, but I make no apologies for being this way.

  I heft one full breast in my palm, then the other. She still doesn’t react. Slowly, my eyes meet hers in bold challenge, I lean in and let my tongue graze along the sweet, tender skin of her nipple. Though her eyes don’t betray her, her breathing pattern changes, becoming heavier and labored. My eyes boring into hers, I pull her nipple fully into my mouth and suckle. Her breathing stops altogether.

  Slowly, I draw my hand between her thighs, just letting the top of my hand glide against the soft, vulnerable skin of her inner thighs, still sucking on the tender bud in my mouth. I keep my teeth away from the sensitive skin. I want her to know that I could bite her if I wanted to. I could have her screaming if I wanted to.

  When the time is right.

  But right now, she can’t control her body’s response to arousal. Even tired and injured and hungry, her body knows my touch can bring her pleasure. When I lick her nipples, her breathing intensifies.

  I release her nipple and kiss the tender skin at the valley of her breasts. I want her to see I can be more than a brutal tormentor. I’ll manipulate her into obedience more efficiently if I use more than vicious force. I listen to her heavy breathing, evidence she’s turned the fuck on, and smile at her.

  I release her breasts and pull my hand out from between her legs.

  “You’re a fucking asshole,” she grinds out, likely embarrassed that she’s turned on.

  But I’m gonna train this girl, and her training won’t wait.

  Since I’m already conveniently sitting on the bed, it’s an easy matter to turn her bodily over my lap. She bucks, but I hold her down with my left hand, then smack her ass with my right. She’s tiny and frail in my grip, and even though I want to hurt her, even though I will hurt her, I’m aware of my strength over her.

  I will not break her.

  Not yet.

  My palm slams against her ass so hard she arches, but I hold her in place and punish her with ten more biting smacks of my palm. Even though I only use my hand, I know how to wield it, know how to cup my hand so she gets the maximum impact. She needs a good round with my belt, and whatever other tools I can fashion for her training, but we’ll get there.

  Her real training begins tomorrow.

  “Now,” I say, as she wriggles over my knee. “Will you cooperate, or do we need to take this further?”

  “For Christ’s sake, let me go!” she hisses.

  “Answer the question.”

  “Fine! Fine, I’ll behave.”

  I smirk to myself.

  I never said anything about behaving. I asked her to cooperate. It seems my little captive responds well to humiliating punishment.

  Perfect.

  With a nod, I stand her up. She glares at me and rubs her scorched ass and honest to God it’s the first cute thing I’ve ever seen her do. I want to pull her onto my lap and tell her she’s a good girl.

  Fuck no.

  She isn’t my submissive. She’s my fucking captive, and she will damn well learn her place. Any softness from me and I might as well bare my jugular for the kill.

  It isn’t going to happen.

  “I’m going to clean you up and get you in bed,” I say, ignoring my raging hard on and the scent of her feminine arousal wafting in the air. “Sit.”

  I show her where to sit, and without meeting her eyes, cuff her wrists in front of her. She doesn’t respond.

  “Get in bed,” I order. Without a word, she obeys, lying on her side. “You’ll wear those cuffs until I remove them,” I say. I strip out of all but my boxers, then pad noiselessly to the entry room. I lock the door and check the windows. I have no idea what creatures, if any, live on this island, and if there are any human inhabitants I sure as fuck don’t want to meet them half asleep.

  I shut off the lights, plunging us into darkness. It’s warm in here, and suddenly, I’m exhausted. I climb into bed beside her, reach down, and lift the blanket that lies at the foot of the bed, covered in plastic. I yank open the bag, remove the blanket, and snap it open before tossing it over us. She pulls away from me, her body tight, but I’m having none of that shit. I rope an arm around her and draw her into me, letting her feel my hard cock against her ass.

  She doesn’t respond, though, and it takes me a minute before I realize that she’s already asleep.

  Chapter Five

  Nadine

  I woke sometime in the middle of the night. Jerked awake by dreams of the plane crashing, screaming, and pain. Exhaustion pulled me back down into a restless slumber. I slowly come awake, noticing the sun peeking through the window. For a moment, I think that maybe it was all just a bad dream, but then I feel him behind me and I know this isn’t a dream, though it’s still very much a nightmare.

  I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing, hoping that he won't realize that I'm awake. If I wasn't his captive, if he wasn't the man who fully intends on tormenting me, this would almost feel nice. Last night, with the lights still on, he stripped down to his boxers. It was the first time I truly allowed myself to look at him. My body had begun to respond without my permission, and in my sleep-deprived, traumatized brain I reasoned that if I was going to be stuck with this guy, I might as well enjoy what I could.

  He's much taller than I am, muscular and strong. I know he must have spent some time lifting weights when he was imprisoned and then on the island, because the definition in his shoulders, arms, and in the d
efined planes of his abs is not accidental. This is a man who trains, and trains hard, not an ounce of fat on his muscled, chiseled form. He has a thick, dark beard that matches the color of his near-obsidian eyes arched with heavy brows. When he walked to shut off the light, I could see the way his back rippled, the full back tattoo. He’s strength personified. I’m fully trained, but easily one hundred pounds lighter than he is, and at a very clear disadvantage.

  So when his arm flexes around my waist, I'm not immune to the masculine feel. And I have to admit, in a moment of weakness, I almost like it. But then I remember who I'm with, and I need to get out of this bed. I've never slept with handcuffs on before, and it’s really fucking uncomfortable. Despite the fact that I’ve had nothing to eat or drink for far longer than twenty-four hours, I need to use the facilities.

  Oh, right. There are no facilities. There’s a makeshift bathroom that’ll do when we have running water, but until then I’m screwed.

  I try to wriggle out from under his arm, but my cuffed wrists prevent me from doing a very good job of it. There’s a crick in my neck since I slept all night without moving, and my body aches all over. My head pounds from where I hit it. But not all the pain is from the crash.

  My ass throbs from the spanking he gave me, and the place where he bit me feels bruised and tender. This man is an animal, and the worst part is that I know he’s only just begun.

  I know he's awake when I feel the length of his cock pressed up against my ass. "Are you awake, sweetheart?" he rumbles.

  The “sweetheart” is pure mockery and makes my skin crawl.

  “Yes,” I say. “And I need to pee, so I’d appreciate it if you’d unfasten these cuffs so I can do my duties.”

  “Not sure why I need to uncuff you to pee,” he says.

  He presses his cock up against my ass, likely just to remind me he can before he rolls away and gives my ass an almost affectionate spank on his way out of bed.

  Asshole.

  “We have a lot to do today, so up we go.”

  He shakes his head. “Morning wood, even when famished and sharing a bed with the likes of you,” he quips. “I need that shower working sooner than later.”

  Gross, my brain says. But another part of me is relieved. If he’s referring to jerking off, that means he isn’t thinking about raping me. After last night, I wasn’t so sure.

  He walks around to the side of the bed and tugs his pants on. I drag my eyes away from him, refusing to watch the way his abs ripple, and the way the dark line of hair trails down his chest all the way into his boxers.

  He might look hot as hell, but he’s a monster. A fucking monster.

  Walking around to my side of the bed, he takes me by the arm and marches me out to the main room. He doesn’t say much, just grunts and takes me outside, then points vaguely in the general direction of some bushes. “There are no thorns over there. Go.”

  I turn around and look at him, my mouth agape. “Go? Just go. Where you can see me?”

  He shakes his head with mock sadness, crossing his arms. “I don’t give a shit about your privacy. You might as well accept this now. But I’ll give you two choices. You stay cuffed and I turn my back, or I take your cuffs off and I don’t turn my back.”

  He doesn’t trust me. I don’t blame him. I have no intention of complying.

  “Fine,” I hiss out. “I’ll stay cuffed, but don’t look.”

  He smirks, and turns away ever so slightly, but he’s still fucking there. However, nature calls, and I can’t fuck around with this much longer. I turn away from him, trying to delude myself into believing that if I can’t see him, he can’t see me. I fumble with my panties and try to take them off, finally do what I need to, but it’s all a lot harder with the cuffs.

  “I hate these stupid cuffs,” I tell him. “They’re uncomfortable and not meant to be used long-term like this. They’re temporary.” Already the metal chafes against my skin, angry red marks visible when the cuffs shift a bit.

  “I’ll choose different restraints later, once we’re settled,” he says, which surprises me. No nasty comments or biting sarcasm.

  I do, however, wonder exactly what he has in mind.

  “We need to take care of the basics,” he says, when he leads me back to our shelter. “Food, water, safety. You paying me back for saving your life.” The corner of his lips quirks up. “Your training.”

  I choose not to respond.

  His focus is on survival. Mine is, too. I don’t know what this “training” is he refers to, but I’m not jazzed.

  He leads me back into the room and to my relief, takes the keys out and uncuffs me. I run my fingers along my wrists, trying to rub away the ache and burn, but I sit on the bed obediently. My stomach rolls with hunger, my mouth as dry as sandpaper. With such little sleep, I’m feeling weakened. I need sustenance.

  “Lay down,” he orders. I welcome the bed beneath me, feeling suddenly tired. “Hands in front of you.” I do what he says. I can’t fight him. Not now. I’ll wait until the time is right.

  He kneels in front of me and pulls a large folded blade out of his pocket. I wonder where he got it from, but my thoughts are beginning to grow hazy and confused from lack of food. He pushes a button on the side and the blade springs open. Lifting my tattered pants from the floor, he makes quick work of cutting the fabric into strips. I don’t fight it. The pants were useless at this point. They now lay in ribbons, which he inspects with a frown. Kneeling in front of me, he takes the strips and winds one over my wrists, not quite as tight as the cuffs, but tight enough that there’s little room to move. When I’m good and secured, he stands, inspects his work, and nods.

  “Good,” he says. “That’ll work better long-term than the cuffs.”

  My stomach drops. Long-term? God. The thought of endless days tied up as his captive makes my throat clench and tears water my eyes, but I blink them back quickly.

  I’m no victim. I’ll escape from him. And when I do, he’ll pay for the way he’s treating me.

  He kneels down in front of me. “I’m going to gather up what we have for food and water,” he says. “You’re going to lie here like a good little girl. Understood?”

  “Where the fuck am I gonna go?” I snap.

  He reaches for my hair, but doesn’t pull, just winds his fingers through it so the warmth of his hand is against my scalp before he brings his mouth close to my ear. “I said your training begins today, Nadine.”

  It’s the first time he’s used my name, reminding me there is nowhere to hide here.

  “And the first thing you need to understand,” he begins patiently, like a teacher instructing a small child, “is that you’re no longer allowed to mouth off to me. You’ll speak to me with respect or be punished.” His breath is warm and tickles my skin, but it’s the latent threat in his words that makes me shiver. “This is your only warning,” he continues. “For now, I’ll allow you to get away with that comment if you say, ‘I’m sorry, sir.’”

  I shudder, then his hand tightens in my hair, warning me.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Good girl.” He releases me and stands, crossing his arms on his chest and looking me over. “Roll over to your back so I can inspect your leg.”

  I felt hidden on my side. On my back, I feel more exposed, dressed in nothing but my underwear. But he doesn’t look me over or touch me this time, just kneels and lifts my leg to inspect the injury. “Very good,” he says. “No sign of infection or swelling, miraculously.” He runs one hand from my calf up my thigh, his eyes on mine. Reminding me I can’t stop him. He turns away from me and walks to the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

  The door creaks open and closes. Bound like this, I have little choice but to rest and listen to the noises around me. A breeze rustles leaves through the window, and somewhere nearby I hear the murmur of running water. Is that fresh water? God, I hope we have a water source. Without one, death from dehydration is inevitable. Even if we
found the resources from the plane, there’s only enough for a few days. It’s almost tranquil, lying in the bed like this, the early morning sounds around me lulling me to sleep. I’ve heard tell of people stranded on islands who were dying from dehydration try to use the saltwater to quench their thirst. It won’t work, though. It will kill us.

  At home, I’ve had two cups of espresso by now. What I wouldn’t give for a cup right now. My mama made the best coffee I’ve ever had. Une noisette, espresso with a dash of frothy milk, ruined me on American coffee. She made it sweet and strong, and I grew up on it.

  The memory of my mama is vivid and brilliant, stunning me with the sudden pang of grief at her loss. I can still see her sandy brown hair tinged in gray tucked into a loose bun at the nape of her neck as she rolled the dough for her homemade galette, singing softly in her pretty voice. We lived in a rented room, but the older man who owned the house let her use the kitchen if she’d bake for him. As a child I could sit and watch her in the kitchen for hours, stirring the pot of bouillabaisse then checking on her bread rising.

  “You’ll go somewhere, some day, Nadie,” she’d say. “You are fierce and determined.”

  And I did. I watched as illness stripped the fire from her eyes. At twelve years old, I took to picking up odd jobs whenever I could to pay our meager bills so she wouldn’t have to worry about them.

  And now, when I close my eyes and wait for Adrian, I wonder.

  Is this what she felt? Hopeless and weak, waiting for certain death, with no hope left in front of her? I hate the thought.

  She couldn’t defeat the illness, and death claimed her too soon.

  I won’t go down without a fight.

  I lose track of time. Maybe hours pass, I don’t know. I wonder if I’m on the verge of delirium when the door to our shelter opens, and I hear him step inside. A hard thump sounds right outside the door, then the light in the doorway dims when his large body fills the frame.