Serving: Curvy Submissive & Older Dom (Submission Island Book 4)

by Q. Zayne

  Racking my brains resulted in no memory of my attacker. All I had was the bruise below my jaw. In another context, it would be sexy, a plum rose. I didn’t believe Marcus would hurt me, Chuck either, but if one of them thought it was for my own good, maybe. My sense that there was something sinister on the island intensified.

  As someone who often cringed at movies and while reading, mentally and at times verbally shouting, ‘Don’t go there alone! Are you an idiot?’ I recognized the irony of my decision. Common sense said the last thing I should do after being knocked out on my way to the ruins was to go there again. Common sense could ignore the life and death of the girl I sensed on the altar. I couldn’t.

  I wondered if I shared my mother’s imbalance, her mental illness. I’d wondered that most of my life. Reading Victorian literature in college was painful. They were clear that madness was hereditary. If it was my lot to be the madwoman in the attic, denying my urges wouldn’t change that. Okay, that was circuitous logic, but damn it, I was going.

  I’d nabbed a big, heavy metal flashlight from the utility room I found near the back door. I hefted it. I was prepared to use it. The street-fighting-based self-defense course I took my first term of college taught me the value of a blunt object. If the attacker hadn’t caught me off-guard, I would have fought back. But I would have been at a disadvantage, empty-handed in light shoes.

  I put on slacks, a shirt and hiking boots, the one pair of utilitarian footwear I owned. Anyone messed with me, the hard soles on these babies would cause serious shin pain. Good thing the island’s packing list called for them. I would never have brought them on my own.

  Digging deep in a suitcase pocket, I withdrew a camouflage scarf like a magic trick. Bandannas had so many uses. You never knew when you might want to do a military scene, or need a blindfold or gag. I tied it around my neck with a quick-release knot, envisioning whipping it across his eyes to confuse him, knocking him down, and tying his hands behind his back. Implausible, but I was excited. I’d never envisioned myself as an action heroine before. They were always so thin.

  What I really needed was one of those high, stiff leather bondage collars to keep the culprit from getting his thumb in my blackout nexus of nerves. I visualized the contents of my bags, but despite packing loads of blush-worthy kinky items, from my favorite butt plug to my corset, I didn’t have a thing to use for neck armor. I’d have to make sure I didn’t let anyone get close enough for that move. Not even someone I thought I trusted. Damn them all, they were all suspects now. My eyes burned. Had to be something in the air.

  I grabbed my pack. I had two bottles of water, trail mix, rope, a lighter and another flashlight. I adored adventure novels. One thing I learned, people who ran off on adventures without any supplies often regretted it. I mentally added flares and shriek alarms to my list of supplies for future destinations with no phone service. If I fell into a pit or something, it would be great to have a way to signal for help. The ruins were out of shouting distance from the inhabited areas of the island. Was I an idiot? I despised Too Stupid to Live heroines. This was not a bright move. Yet I felt more alive than I had in ages. This wasn’t a book, this was my life.

  I’d escaped my crushing job, and if I didn’t make the most of this opportunity, I’d regret it forever. Nothing short of a personality transplant could keep me from going back to the ruins and seeking answers to Submission Island’s mysteries.

  I wound my hair up and anchored it on top of my head. I imagined the warrior queens of Mom’s side of the family. It seemed unlikely they wore wigs or any hairdo easy to grab into battle. Now I wanted to know what they did wear into battle. I’d search Isabella’s library. Days without Internet access for research put me into withdrawal.

  I positioned the pack on my back and made my stealthy way out of the room. I shut the door and paused. No one stirred. I cat footed it down the hall and took the back stairs. Anyone watching would probably expect me to take the same route—unless he anticipated me.

  Opening the old door with care, I slipped out the back. I hated having to close the heavy thing, but leaving it open would be a worse giveaway than risking a noise. I closed it as softly as I could. The sound seemed horribly loud. I rushed through the garden to get out of sight. Colonial houses didn’t have the ongoing sounds of creaking that old wooden houses made. They were quiet as tombs. I hoped the door closing hadn’t alerted anyone.

  Taking a long breath of the warm night air, I made myself slow down. The foliage blocked what little light there was, and I couldn’t see my footing. All I knew was I’d head for the ruins the way Chuck led me back to the house. I was not climbing that freaking volcano in the middle of the night, even though that would be the less-expected route. No way to know for sure if anyone was paying attention. Whoever it was probably considered the previous night’s attack sufficient to deter me. If I’d had an opportunity, I would have lied my ass off and said I planned to go to bed early.

  Rationing the flashlight until I reached the deep jungle and had to use it, I felt confident I was on the path to reach the ruins. I might also be lost.

  Stubborn as always, I kept on. I envisioned the island’s layout all day, embedding its landmarks in my brain. I’d find the ruins.

  My confidence took a dive during the interminable trek through the jungle. The stalking sounds unnerved me. So many creatures hunted at night. House cats, jaguars, men.

  I stubbed my toe. Damn. Good thing I wore hiking boots. I flashed the light on for a second with the signal switch. A big, worked stone. Yes! I gave another flash, sweeping the beam in a low arc so it wouldn’t be visible through the jungle. Relief made me sag. I made it. The ruins flared at me in their ancient wonder in that brief glimpse. The pale stones stood out from the dark foliage beyond the clearing. They formed platforms and square pillars. Ancient people once walked where I was walking now. I’d found my way. Pride warmed me.

  I closed my eyes and waited, imprinting the image of the ruins so that I wouldn’t walk into more of it. With my hands out like the star of a mummy movie, I headed toward the altar, counting my steps. After a few paces I slowed and dared another flash.

  The platform stood a few steps before me, the large, well-fitted stones as impressive as my first view of them. I pictured the sweating men in nothing but breech cloths that covered the genitals and bared the ass. The sun made their muscles gleam. They had the wonderful, placid, broad-planed faces that lived on through ancient Maya art and the contemporary Maya people. It stunned me they created such fine buildings with only limited tools.

  The altar vied with my vision of the workmen for my attention. The stone platform that received so much blood, so many lives. I mounted the steps and went to it. A breath’s hesitation, and I placed my hands on it.

  My one concession to not being an idiot heroine, I promised myself I wouldn’t lie down on it. It would be stupid to risk losing awareness of my surroundings when someone might be out to do me harm. I preferred to think the previous night’s incident was a warning. I’d already reclassified it from attack to incident.

  If anyone meant to harm me, he could have done so after I passed out. He could have killed me. As it was, my clothes weren’t disarrayed, I wasn’t molested, and barring the possibility that there was a guy on the island who got his jollies making women unconscious, it seemed most likely the only point of it was to stop me from exploring. No matter how obsessed I was in finding out more about these ruins and the rites that took place here, I wasn’t going to make myself a victim. Whoever tried to stop me made a mistake. He made me determined to learn this place’s secrets. Before, all I wanted to do was return to the ruins to see if they had more to tell me. Now I needed to know why someone thought it was so important to stop me that he put me out cold. The fear had passed. Mr. Thumb in the Neck made me angry. I didn’t share Mom’s hope that I descended from Cleopatra; nonetheless, my nature ran more to revenge than cowardice.

  I tested the weight and balance of the flashlight, giv
ing it an experimental swing.

  “Oof!”

  “What the fuck!?” I flashed the light, coiled to hit him again.

  Chuck rubbed his shoulder, raising his elbow to shield his eyes.

  “Cleo. I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry.”

  “Be sorry for yourself. If I’d aimed, I would have given you a concussion. What the hell are you doing knocking yourself into my flashlight, damn it?”

  “You didn’t hear me?”

  “No, I didn’t.” That pissed me off even more. I’d been on alert, and he sneaked up on me.

  He smiled. “I go out with local hunters on the mainland, well, the nearest mainland, a long ways from here. They teach me to walk soft. I don’t kill animals, I just like to learn how other people live. The skills for living close to the land intrigue me. Always have. I think I lived that way many times.”

  “Huh.” I lowered the light to stop blinding him. He got past my guard. His respect for and interest in other cultures, his choice not to kill animals and to say so, and his offhand reference to having former lives. All those things made me want to talk to him more, not brain him, nor suspect him of being a danger to me. I weighed the flashlight. I didn’t want to have to hit him again, but it wasn’t out of the question.

  “Look, I’m responsible for you. I get it that you don’t need a guide and don’t want to spend all your time here with me. But if anything happens to you, Isabella will have my balls for garters.” He laughed. “Okay, maybe not that, but I’d be fired. I love it here. I want to spend the rest of my life living on this island. Can we have a truce?”

  He understood, alright. It struck me that I hurt his feelings as well as putting his job in jeopardy. It wasn’t his fault he’d been assigned to watch out for me.

  “Truce.” I didn’t put out my hand, though. The facts that we had unusual things in common and he looked so unassuming didn’t mean I could trust him. Women were so often betrayed by men they trusted. Josh slid through my mind, though I wanted to keep my thoughts impersonal. Easier to think about men in general than the stabbing blow from one man in particular, the rat sac.

  “What’s the matter?” Chuck squinted at me.

  “What to do you mean? Do you mean aside from you sneaking up on me in the middle of the night?” Okay, I was still mad. And now I was in an isolated place with someone who might be a problem, not to mention he’d kissed me before.

  “I’m sorry. I mean it. I want to help. I feel responsible for bringing you to the altar in the first place. Come on, Cleo, you’re looking at me like I might be an ax murderer or something.” His brow furrowed, making him look older than Marcus.

  “I guess I have to trust somebody sometime, and you’ve been an ally from the beginning.”

  “Ally, yeah, that’s my role in life. The sidekick, that’s the guy version of always a bridesmaid.”

  “I meant to say, I don’t want to lead you on—.”

  He put his hands up. “Please. Not the ‘I don’t feel that way about you’ speech. Trust me, a guy can tell. You didn’t want that kiss. I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, no offense.” I wanted to break the tension, but I didn’t know how.

  “What are you doing?”

  I relaxed my flashlight arm and thought about that. If he was here to overpower me, he’d had plenty of time to make a move. Instead, he looked sincerely puzzled as to what the hell I was doing at the ruins in the middle of the night, and he was downcast I rejected him. You don’t get much more non-threatening than that. Unless I misjudged, and he was a total psycho.

  “Let’s sit down.” I led the way to a bare rock free of crevasses. I avoided sitting anyplace that might be a venomous creature’s home.

  I wouldn’t tell him everything. That would be stupid. No matter how nice he was, his allegiance was to the island.

  “Okay, tell me what’s going on, Cleo.” He sat next to me, but not too close.

  “That experience I had on the altar with the sacrificed virgin—I’ve wanted to come back and explore some more.”

  “Okay. No problem. I’ll stay here out of the way, so you can do your thing without being bothered. That way, I’m doing my job, and I can walk you back. It’s safer for you that way.”

  I sensed he knew something. We both knew he was here to guard me. Whether from a natural danger such as wildlife, from an ultra-wealthy maniac, or from Submission Island’s possible Gothic secret, I didn’t know. Maybe Isabella had a secret son locked away due to homicidal mania. Maybe Chuck’s purpose was to guard me from whatever or whoever attacked me. I had no way of knowing. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to ask. Right now, I’d accept the truce. It was the only way to explore the ruins tonight, and that was the whole point of this excursion.

  “Alright.” I took a breath and realized how ungracious I sounded. Servant to my upbringing, I added, “Thank you.”

  He stayed put and I went back to the altar. I supposed I did trust him. The icy feeling of waiting for someone’s hand at the back of my neck fled. I focused on feeling what stories the altar had to tell. Touching the rough stone, I changed my mind about not lying down. Chuck didn’t strike me as the ravisher type. I had a guard, I might as well take advantage of the fact. It might be my last chance. I’d keep my hand on my flashlight, though.

  I ran my hand along the edge of the altar, marveling at the workmanship and its intense, lethal purpose.

  With a deep breath, I hefted myself onto it. I ignored Chuck’s presence. He was far enough away that I didn’t feel totally self-conscious, and after all, I was dressed

  In my mind, I was naked. Pure as I was in college, other than my dirty thoughts and creative masturbation. Yeah, for once, all those years of being a nervous virgin were a good thing. It fit with the sacrifice scene.

  Sounds of wind and small creatures in the underbrush and high canopy faded. I drifted, seeking the time stream, willing myself to go back and back. All the way back to when the original people lived here and used these structures when they were whole.

  Many heartbeats. I sluiced my common thoughts away, over and over, pulling myself back to the altar and buildings. The pillars and walls walls stood whole. I mounted the steps, supported by men. They put me on the altar with reverence. I didn’t struggle.

  My heart pounded. My mouth went dry.

  The priest loomed over me. He raised his dagger. Sunlight gleamed through the volcano stone. Muscles twitched in his arm. His sweat wafted over me as he tightened his grip on the ritual weapon. I fought to stay still, but I raised my hands, screaming. Strong men held me. The dagger stabbed me. Hot pain. The sky turned black.

  I held still, waiting. She was free. I sensed that. Tears ran down my face. I wasn’t sure it was the same girl. What could she tell me about her experience? Even if I could identify her culture, there’d be no way to understand her language. Even Mayan, a living language, had numerous dialects. Whatever her tongue, odds were it died with her people, and we’d never know how it was pronounced.

  I lay there, holding her to my heart, grieving her brief life. I could judge nothing. Being selected as a sacrifice may have been an honor. Scholars argued whether it was the winners or the losers of the ball games played in ceremonial courts who were sacrificed. There was merit to the argument that winners showed their worthiness to meet the gods. I think it was my contemporary sensibilities that argued they’d lose their best players that way. Our concepts of sports and competition weren’t relevant to sacred ball games that ended in life or death.

  I released a long breath, still feeling the unknown girl near me. Wasn’t the spirit supposed to feel acknowledged and depart? I waited, hoping for some kind of communication. I wanted a payoff, how 21st century of me. Still, I waited. I came out here in the middle of the night for something. Against all odds, I’d experienced a second vision here, another virgin sacrifice. That ought to be enough, but it wasn’t.

  I waited. A breeze cooled the sweat on my face. I felt like I had a puddle between my b
reasts. My impatient mind finally shut up and I drifted. Where was I? When was I? Shut up.

  There was only me. I felt a vast disappointment. I was never enough. I’d never been enough. If I was enough, Mom would still be alive. I’d have a man who loved me. I’d have a brilliant career. People all over the world would look forward to reading my articles, my transformed myths. I stifled a sob. This self-flagellation was getting me nowhere, and it wasn’t the fun kind.

  I sighed and let go. Go deeper. Go deeper.

  Something shifted. Earthquake? The sense of change was so intense I thought the air pressure changed. Maybe the volcano would blow.

  It did. That was it. Other-when, ash fell, smoke blocked the sun, shrieks ended in death gurgles. The volcano poured orange streams of lava to the village. The sky went dark. The sunlit sky inside me went sooty in the middle of the day. Everything turned dark gray, wings of ash floated around me. The plume of smoke and fire rose over the island, rising to the gods with the screams.

  Running, I ran so hard my chest hurt.

  I ran right into the sea. I’d rather it take me than the fire rivers running over my neighbors and brothers. The shrieks kept on. I covered my ears and bobbed, tasting salt water on my lips. Ash rained on us. Nothing showed in the dark but the running fire flowing through the village. It sizzled when it reached the sea. The water grew warmer, but I didn’t burn. I lived.

  The altar hard under my hips and shifted. How long had I been there, experiencing the eruption and the sad aftermath of survival? I smelled the burning, horrible with people’s flesh, my people.

  I held myself, shifting back to the present, tears running over my earlobes to join the blood on the altar.

  Why, why did I need to do this?

  Maybe because I could. Because the stories mattered, the events of people’s lives matters, even the ones from before known language. Because people lived and died and we have that in common, all of us, no matter where we’re from, what heritage we carry, knowing our blood lines or not. I longed to know who I was. The researcher in me wanted to jump up and find out if there’d been an eruption in antiquity. Did it wipe out the people?