Island Captive: A Dark Romance

by Jane Henry

  I hurt. My whole fucking body aches.

  I look down at my legs and realize my skin is an unnatural shade of red. The realization hits me at once, and I sit up.

  Oh, God. I fell asleep under the full sun. For how long? I’m burnt. Jesus, I’m totally sunburnt with no remedies here except the man who’s gonna spank my ass for being so fucking careless. I groan out loud and try to assess the damage, but everything hurts. I try to turn my head, but my neck is tight and angrily hot, my shoulders on fire.

  My mouth is as dry as a desert. I push myself to standing, but it hurts so badly. My skin is so hot, so dry, aching. When I get to my feet, the ground pitches up and I wobble, suddenly dizzy. Something bangs against my skull. I try to reach a hand out, but my arm hurts when I move, and I can’t stop the banging. What’s happening to me? I’m thirsty. I’m so fucking thirsty.

  Nausea rolls through me and bile rises in my throat. I’m afraid I’m going to vomit, but the thought of holding my body in any other position is torture.

  Fuck.

  Something’s terribly wrong.

  Water. I need water.

  I need to drink it though, so even in my semi-lucid state I know the water can’t be the tantalizing waves in front of me. And anyway, that water’s under the heat of the sun, and I need to get away from the sun because it’s hurting my skin.

  My breaths are shallow when I stumble back toward the forest. Where am I? If I’m on the beach, I should almost see our shelter after the little walk in this direction. But no. No, I’m at the other beach, I remind myself. I can’t seem to get a grasp on my mind, can’t seem to really understand what’s going on or where I am. I just need something to drink.

  I try to remember where I am and walk deeper and deeper into the forest. I’m convinced if I keep walking I’ll see something familiar. Or maybe I’ll hear his voice.

  He’s your captor, not your savior, I remind myself, but I can’t think of that now. He would know what to do so I have to find him.

  But first, water. I need a drink.

  I fall onto one knee and the world whirls around me. I close my eyes to still the dizziness and open them moments later. Did I lose consciousness? Am I still awake?

  A flash of vibrant red catches my attention.

  Berries.

  Oh thank the fucking gods. Berries. I need them now. They’ll make me better.

  I push myself to my feet though it hurts to move. I’ve dealt with worse than this. I can ignore the way my body’s on fire and my muscles ache just for a taste of those berries. Fucking hell, I need them.

  I get to the clearing and pause for a moment of blissful gratitude when I see them in front of me, full and plump and ripe, just begging for a taste. I pluck a few from the nearest bush. One explodes in my hand, sticky juice coating my fingers. Hell, they look so damn good I want to gorge on them. I pop the plumpest one in my mouth and bite down.

  Sweet, tart juice bursts against my tongue. I sigh, welcoming the blessed relief of cool liquid, and take another bite, then another, until I’ve eaten a full handful. My fingers are stained with the juice and in my semi-lucid state I think for a moment it looks like blood. So much blood. I shake my head and my vision blurs.

  Where am I? Sandy beaches and sunny days but pain and blood and death. Is this heaven or hell?

  My limbs grow heavy, and my mouth suddenly feels funny. I frown at the pretty red berries in my hand. Did I accidentally eat a bad one? Or something mixed into the berries? I pull at my tongue. It’s too big in my mouth, and it feels weird and prickly. My whole body aches. Despite feeling so hot I might die, a weird chill skates down my skin. I fall to my knees. I’m dying. This is what death must feel like. The others died quickly. Me, I’ve lived for revenge and hatred. So my death will be torturous and slow. My stomach contracts in pain and my lips feel swollen and bruised. I drop my head to my hands. I’m going to die, alone on a deserted island, and no one will even remember my name.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Adrian

  I look up hours later and plant my axe in a tree stump. My whole body’s covered in sweat and my muscles ache like I’m some sort of fucking lumberjack. Jesus.

  I wipe my arm across my brow to mop the sweat and wrinkle my nose. God, I smell. I need a shower. I roll my shoulders and neck, joints creaking and popping. I need something to eat.

  Then I remember I never saw Nadine come back. I frown and stomp toward our shelter. Maybe she returned and I just missed it. But the door swings open and she’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Nadine?” I ask. No response.

  I turn and face the forest. “Nadine!”

  My voice echoes back to me like a slap in the face.

  She isn’t here.

  She should have been back fucking hours ago. I grab some water and swig it down, then head to the beach. If she’s still there after all this time, I’ll have to make it clear I’m not okay with that. I told her to not to be gone for too long. I can’t exactly give her a time to be back, but “not too long” does not mean five fucking hours. By the time I’m at the beach, I’m about to give the little brat a piece of my mind.

  But when I get there, the beach is bare. She isn’t here.

  I turn and peer through the forest, shading my eyes with my hand. “Nadine!” I call, but no answer comes.

  Jesus.

  I jog back to the shelter, ignoring the rising panic that’s threatening to surface.

  “Nadine!”

  Nothing.

  For fuck’s sake. She’ll get more than a piece of my mind when I get my hands on her. I’ll spank her ass and cuff her back to the bed if I need to.

  I head back to the larger beach. Would she really be so foolish to go that far alone? But all that matters now is finding her. What could have happened to her? Where is she?

  Now I really am beginning to worry.

  I crash through the brush and overgrown tree limbs, calling her name. Anger fades to real concern when she doesn’t respond. What if she hurt herself? What if there are predators on this island we simply haven’t seen yet? What if she went deeper than I told her to and got caught in the undertow?

  I shake my head. I’ll find her. I have to.

  Ahead of me I see the vibrant bushes with the berries. I’m just about to pass them when I notice some of the branches of a bush are pushed to the side, and there’s a broken branch. I slow and come near the bushes. A low, pained moan makes my pulse spike.

  And that’s when I see her. She’s prone on the ground, half covered under full swaths of leaves.

  “Nadine!”

  She doesn’t move. She’s hurt. She’s goddamned fucking hurt.

  I fall to my knees next to her and roll her over to her back. She’s completely burnt to a motherfucking crisp, the tops of her arms, face, and legs lobster-red, little blisters already erupting over her shoulders, but she doesn’t even flinch when I touch her. Her lips are stained red, and for a moment I think she sunburnt her lips as well, but then I realize it’s berries.

  I look at her hand. Her fingers are stained red.

  Fuck.

  Holding her against my chest, I place my fingers at her neck and feel for a pulse. I hear her moan and expect one, but need to see if it’s slowed dangerous or rapid. Her pulse beats hard against my fingers, and my heart soars. Her eyes are closed. I pry one open with the pad of my thumb and forefinger, but the pupils are dilated, and she doesn’t respond. Her breathing is shallow, her entire body limp against mine.

  For one nightmarish moment, a flashback impairs my ability to focus or even breathe. I’m not holding Nadine but the lifeless body of Lori.

  “No,” I mumble to myself. “Fucking no.”

  I’ll never forget how she felt, limp and lifeless just like this, but colder, more still. There was no breathing. There was no pulse. Only her broken body.

  But this isn’t Lori. This is Nadine, and she still has blood pumping through her veins.

  With effort, I push the memory back into the
deep recesses of my mind. I won’t focus on that today. Not today.

  If she ate the berries, I need to get them out of her system.

  Quickly, I turn her over my lap face down, and pry her mouth open. It’s dry. So fucking dry. I can’t pump her stomach, so I have to do the best I can with what I’ve got. I shove my fingers to the back of her throat and hope it works, that she’s conscious enough for a gag reflex. My fingers hit the mark and her body convulses. I take my fingers out just in time as she heaves the contents of her stomach on the ground in front of me.

  “Good girl,” I say, even though she can’t hear me. “That’s a very good girl. Get it all out of there.” I smack her back with the heel of my hand. She gags on bile and saliva, and heaves again until there’s nothing left to come up. I turn her back around on my lap and cradle her against me. Her head lolls to the side, her face weirdly pale beneath the vibrant, angry red of her skin. I get to my feet and sling her over my shoulder, my mind racing with what I need to do.

  What happened? Definitely food poisoning from the berries, and a serious case. Hopefully she didn’t absorb much of the berries before I evacuated her belly. The sunburn, though? Does she have sunstroke? Was she dehydrated and delirious?

  Her skin is flaming hot to the touch, so hot it’s painful. I place her cheek against mine, my heart tightening at the soft, silky feel of her vulnerable skin against mine. She’s spiking a fever. Whether it’s from the poison or sunstroke, I don’t know, but it’s essential I bring that fever down or she could have a seizure. Untreated, she could die.

  It’s a miracle we’ve made it this long without an emergency like this but hell what I wouldn’t give for some proper first aid supplies at this point.

  I have to bring her to the waterfall. It’s the coolest source of water we have here. Just before I hit the water’s edge, I remember. Back in the first aid kit is an ice pack, one of those chemical ones made to be activated with a hard smack that mixes the chemicals. I need to get that. It’ll help bring down her fever.

  But first, the water.

  I hold her mouth to my ear, listening for her soft breaths. I exhale in relief. Thank God she’s still breathing. I kneel at the edge of the water and strip her bikini off quickly. She doesn’t even flinch when the fabric scrapes against her scorched skin. I lift her again, turn to the water, and slowly lower her body in, submerging her all the way to her neck. It’s got to help.

  I hold her in the cool water, then lift her up and place my cheek against hers once more. The cool water seems to be helping. I leave her suit on the shore, get out of the water, and quickly head back to our shelter. I lay her weak, unconscious body on the bed, then run to fetch the ice pack.

  I smack it in my hands. The endothermic reaction of the chemicals works so quickly, the pack is freezing to the touch. I bring it to our room and kneel beside the bed, smoothing the cool pack over her flaming skin quickly, so the cold doesn’t harm her.

  I move it over every inch of her, over her shoulders and chest, then down her belly to her ruby red thighs. I wonder how long the cold will last when it’s tested like this, flat up against the heat of her body. I don’t have a thermometer but can tell she’s got a dangerously high temperature.

  Between the cool water and ice pack, her symptoms have seemed to subside some. I need to feed her. Then I remember the store of coconuts we’ve got. If I need to rehydrate her, coconut water will help. After I’ve felt her forehead and convinced myself she’s significantly cooler than she was previously, I fetch half a dozen coconuts. I split one open with the first stroke of the axe. It works beautifully. Most of the coconut water spills, though. I need to find a way to prevent the water from spilling.

  With the next swing of my axe, I bring it down just enough so that it leaves a crack, but not enough to actually split the coconut open. I stick a knife in and gently pry the two halves apart, then go to Nadine and hold the water to her mouth. I wonder if she’ll be able to swallow while being unconscious. Gently, I nestle her head against the crook of my arm and lift the coconut shell to her lips. It dribbles down her lips and chin.

  “Shit,” I mutter. I try again, but it still skates down her chin and lips. A few drops hit her lips, but not enough. I move her down further and let her head fall back so that her mouth parts. Slowly, so I don’t spill any, I pour more in.

  Desperate, I growl at her, “Nadine, you drink this. Now. You need it. Drink it.”

  I don’t know if it’s her position that helps, or she truly hears my command, but she swallows, and coconut water courses down her throat. She sputters, so I sit her up until she’s breathing steadily again, then lay her back and tip some more down her throat. This goes on for an hour, splitting coconuts and tipping the coconut water gently into her mouth, commanding her to swallow when it dribbles. I hold her until my arms ache.

  The smaller, young coconuts have the most water in them. When they grow, the coconut meat takes up more space and there’s less water. But this variety is small, and there can’t be more than three or four ounces of water in each. At home, in sanitized cartons at the grocery, people drink coconut milk, a blended, pasteurized drink I couldn’t give two shits about before I got here. But here, the pure, unadulterated water in the heart of the coconut is good for her. The electrolytes and minerals in the water will help nourish her.

  When her lips no longer look parched, I lay her back on the bed and touch my hand to her forehead. She isn’t as hot as she was before. Her fever seems to have subsided. I have no idea how many of her symptoms were from the berries, but I know that she’s breathing more steadily now, no longer in shallow, labored breaths.

  Night has long since fallen. I work with the overhead light on, but I know it’s time to rest now. She needs rest, too.

  I take a small paring knife, peel the hairy outer layer off each half shell, and eat the fresh coconut meat. Like Jack Sprat and his wife, I think. But I’ll take the fat and she’ll take the lean.

  I’m exhausted and will have to start her on the coconut water diet as soon as I wake. I cover her with the blanket, curl up next to her, and close my eyes for a quick sleep. The slow, steady sound of her breathing lulls me to sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night I hear the whirring of wind and rustling of leaves, but I quickly fall back to sleep.

  I wake early in the morning and nurse her on and off, lifting coconut water to her lips. She talks in delirious circles, mumbling about her mother and berries and sandy beaches. At first, I grow hopeful when she begins to talk, but her words quickly devolve into senseless chatter, no doubt brought on by hallucinations. She’s still hot to the touch and likely still dehydrated.

  When she finally falls to sleep, I nap beside her, and when she wakes talking gibberish, I soothe her.

  “Sleep, baby,” I say to her at one point when she wakes and cries out in her sleep in a voice so pitiful I can’t help but sympathize. I frown at myself when I do. I never meant to be tender with her. And yet… what would I do if she died?

  She doesn’t mean anything to me. I don’t even have the closeness of trust I had with the girls at the club with her, and she’s nothing like—no. I can’t let myself think like this.

  She has to live.

  I wake when the sun hasn’t yet risen and know it’s early. A squawk outside the window, like the calling of a rooster, has me sitting up in bed.

  Is that a rooster?

  Before I get out of bed I check on her. She’s either asleep or unconscious, and the sunburn looks fucking awful, but her breathing is steady. I go out and gather a few more coconuts, but before I come back in the house, I listen. I do hear the caw of a rooster-like bird. Placing the coconuts gently on the ground, I walk toward the sound of the caw. There, not too far from the ground, sits a bird on a nest. If there’s a nest… the wheels begin to spin.

  I pick up a small rock and toss it in the general direction of the bird. It flutters its feathers and leaves the nest. I grab a nearby branch, swing myself up the tree, then shimmy up th
e side until I’m level with the roughly-hewn nest. There, nestled in the twigs, lies half a dozen huge eggs.

  Those will be perfect when she’s conscious and can eat them.

  She’s still when I reach her. Too still. I run to her side. Is she still breathing? She is. She’s just in a dead sleep.

  I sit her up, roll her over, and open her mouth. She needs an IV, damnit. I tilt her head back and fill her mouth with the coconut water.

  “Drink,” I order.

  “Nadine?” I ask, but her eyes remain closed. She drinks, though, fully. My hands clench in fists, I feel so helpless. I have to rely on the coconut water.

  I eat the eggs myself in silence, then keep my vigil by her side, splitting the coconut water and dripping it into her mouth, then eating the coconut meat myself for sustenance. I don’t get up and leave unless I have to for the most basic of necessities.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nadine

  I blink in the bright sunlight that filters into the room. I don’t remember how I got here, or what happened, but I’m dimly aware that there’s been some passage of time, and I’ve been sick.

  I sit up in bed, then freeze when my hair tumbles over my shoulder. It’s in a braid. I never braid my hair. Did Adrian?

  I stare at the golden twist, then look about the room. There’s some banging and crashing near the kitchen area out back.

  “Adrian?”

  My words are met with silence for just a split second, before I hear the pounding of feet just right outside the window, so loud it startles me. When he yanks open the door, he stands in the doorframe, staring at me. He looks as if he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, and he’s lost weight. His cheeks are sunken, his eyes buried in dark sockets. His beard even looks longer. For one irrational moment I wonder if weeks or months have passed, like I’ve been some sort of Rip Van Winkle.

  “My God,” he breathes, his voice choked and tight. He comes into the room and sits beside me.