Redemption Island (Island Duet Book 1)

by L. B. Dunbar

  “I don’t care,” I barked. “Get out of here.” My chest rose and fell, and I trembled uncontrollably. I could only imagine the sight of me—a woman on the edge of unhinging. My hair hung in clumps against my forehead. My throat stung with the weight of my scream. The tips of my fingers dug into the hollow pits under my arms. I felt my heart racing under my skin.

  He continued to stare down at me, like a great mystery, a puzzle to be solved. I held my stance, glaring up at him despite the sun rays trickling through the leafy foliage behind him, haloing his head like he was some historical voyager, honored for staking out new land. He looked at me like unclaimed property, but he’d be wrong. I’d already been occupied. I’d been raped and pillaged, plundered and used. Unoccupied by permanence, like an abandoned homestead, I’d been depleted of anything considered a natural resource. He could not live off me. I’d kill him, choke him on the poison that surged through my body, feeding my hatred of all things male.

  “Get—” The word seethed from behind my teeth, hissing in a reptilian sound of pure displeasure, yet his abrupt twist cut short the rest of the venomous sound. Without a word, he spun toward the trees, and stepped upward, exuding an effortless stretch of his long legs as he climbed the rocky outcrop, pulling himself to the next level. He didn’t turn back—not even a slight glance over his shoulder to see if I watched his retreat.

  If I recognized sadness, I’d think my heart pinched as he ignored me. His broad back rose over the rocks, dragging his muscular legs with him, carrying him away from me. But sadness no longer resided in me. I only wanted peace. I’d passed through the levels of despair. Forgiveness was the only step left to take. Learning another person lived on this island stood in my way. Realizing it was him made it worse.

  3

  The Island Smells Your Fear

  How could she be here? Of all things evil in the universe, her presence was the ultimate in betrayal. He’d been told—no, warned—there would not be another soul in existence on the island. Banished, alone, one year. That was the sentence. He’d accepted the terms in hopes to find inner harmony. His mind wrestled nightly with her face under his. His ears echoed with her silent pleas. His heart ached with what he’d done.

  She couldn’t be here. Not her, of all people.

  Anger welled inside him to the point of detonation by the time he reached his waterside camp. He’d hacked at the low brush and pounded fists into small trees. He kicked at thick trunks and slapped his thighs as he hiked back to his temporary home. Once there, he swept sand over his fire pit and threw the coffee pot still set within the morning coals. Black liquid flew through the air, raining down in a gentle stream. How prophetic, he laughed. Laughter, deep and rich and bitter, like the campfire coffee. The sky mocked him with black raindrops, he thought, just like the dark liquid in his soul, just like the heavy tears he once shed for all he’d done to her.

  And all she’d done to him.

  He hated her while his heart once broke for her.

  Stripping off his shirt, he raced for the waters’ edge. He stumbled as he pulled up his foot, attempting to remove a hiking boot, tugging at it while he hopped forward. He fell to his knees, the impact hard and jolting. It was then that he noticed how hard he was, the length of him stiff and struggling beyond the zipper of his shorts. Like a child’s tantrum, his legs kicked outward, flinging a boot away from him. His other knee bent and he used the same aggressive effort to remove the second boot before throwing it to his left. He peeled off his socks, leaving them lying haphazardly around him. A flattened palm pressed the length of him, rubbing up and down the hardened rod, both cursing at the excitement and relishing the throbbing heat.

  Without a care for his nakedness, he loosened his shorts and stepped out of them as he ran for the ocean bay. He sprinted as far as his feet would take him before he dove deep into the refreshing water. The warmth did nothing to dissipate the heavy feel of his erection and his thick hand wrapped around himself, tugging tightly at the length. His wrist moved in rapid motion, both adrenaline and hatred pumping through his veins.

  Her.

  His eyes closed and he restored the memory. She was under him, whimpering. Violet eyes, filled with liquid and pleading. Her mouth had been gagged after Rick took his turn. He wanted to do baser things to her, but the initiates were too hungry for their turn.

  Her hands had been tied, but he could no longer remember if it was over her head or behind her back. His original plan had been to enter her from behind. He didn’t want to see her face. He didn’t want to commit her to memory. He wanted his turn so he could be a member.

  But then he saw her. Really saw her face, horrified, and bruising from where Rick slapped her. Without thought, his hand caressed her cheek, and she whimpered, flinching to get away from his touch, but she had nowhere to go. He remembered cooing at her, shushing her strangled cry.

  I’m not going to hurt you.

  The words rang in his head, drowning out the water rushing around him, lapping at his waist as he stood in the ocean. He rubbed harder, faster, jerking at his erection with the memory of those eyes under his. That flickering moment where she believed he wouldn’t hurt her or hoped he wouldn’t. That thin sliver of trust that he might have missed had he not been so intently drawn to her eyes.

  He remembered his mouth coming down to her lips. Lips that trembled under his. She tried to twist her head, but his fingers gripped her chin.

  Just one.

  He asked her, although he was firmly in a position to take what he wanted. He’d always taken what he wanted, but for some reason, he waited. Hesitated. Hopeful. One time, he wished to receive something not asked for, not stolen, not assumed. Entitled. The word roared through his head. He’d been entitled to have what he wanted and just once he wanted to be caught off guard. He wanted to be given permission, instead of expecting it.

  He looked at the top of the mountain island, a shadow in a presently clouding sky. The weight of his sin pressed down on him, like the knowing-eye of that peak, like the heaviness of his dick in his palm. He drew in a deep breath, nearly shaking with the need for release. A tropical breeze lashed out at him, forcing the water to swirl around him. He inhaled the thick fragrance, committing it to memory, just like his transgression. He’d forever equate that scent with the image of her springing upward from the water.

  With that thought, milky substance burst forth, mixing with the salty liquid surrounding him, washing him internally clean of desire and externally of his sweaty memory. He had to have imagined her, he reasoned. His head hung forward, relief at the release. His legs quivered under the water, toes digging into the sandy bottom to reinforce his balance.

  If fear was an emotion he recognized, he’d worry. He’d never worried about being caught. There was no repercussion, until recent events. He didn’t acknowledge fear, not in the face of this island. The only thing that frightened him was the displeasure of his father, and even that was no longer a concern. He’d never live up to Terror Corbin, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to any longer. The sensation he felt standing in the waist-deep ocean was slightly different. Like one drop of blood within five miles of a hungry shark, he sensed something out there drawn to him. Something dangerous. His body hummed, his dick growing hard again. He looked up at the range, the tip disappearing into the clouds. The jagged cap penetrated the downy mist, blending them as one. Sensing a storm coming, he felt the ominous weight of eyes watching him, and he jerked off again.

  4

  Day 7 - Juliet

  How could he be here? I screamed in my head, as I hastily raced for my clothing. I didn’t bother dressing. Clutching my shorts and T-shirt to my chest, I hustled through the thick brush, as if escaping Eden. I turned back occasionally, confident he hadn’t followed me, but concerned enough to question my sanity. Did I imagine him? Please let that be the case, I prayed.

  But my fear held strongly to the belief that he had not been a mirage. He was very much real and stood solidly in the flesh. And
he was on this island. I clambered up the rope rungs of my tree house ladder, tripping once or twice in my naked haste. I reached the landing and roughly pulled the collapsible ladder upward. On more than one occasion, I was grateful for the solid structure that would be my home for a year.

  One stipulation of my confinement was a stable edifice to live in, not a flimsy tent. The tree house was roughly one story off the ground and built like a small fortress. A porch circled the structure, centered by a bulky tree trunk. Built like the marital bed of Penelope and Odysseus, my housing surrounded the hefty trunk, allowing me a solid roof over my head and firm flooring under my feet. Not to mention, protection by its height in the trees.

  With the ladder raised, I fell to the porch, wincing as I collapsed on my naked butt. My heart raced faster than the winds of a hurricane. My breaths came ragged and hurried.

  Why? I cursed. Why would you do this to me?

  My first thought was my uncle—a man who despised the fact he inherited me and not financial compensation with the death of my parents. My parents were not rich by any means, and Uncle Forrest was the black sheep, a distant cousin, considered my only living relative when I was thirteen. He would have enjoyed the seclusion of me on this island. He’d tried to lose me often enough in the forests surrounding his trailer in the middle of Nowheresville, Alabama. The fact I went to him as a young teenager was a shock to both of us. I hadn’t known he existed until I set foot on his metal doorstep. Too sleek for a trailer park, his slicked-back, black hair, trim goatee, and jet-black eyes tortured me.

  “The Lord has punished me,” he cursed once the Department of Child Services left me. Years later, he swore that same statement as he looked at me with dangerous intentions in his alcohol-laden eyes. The lure of his seductive entreaties repulsed me, and I couldn’t wait to get as far from him as I could. When the trouble occurred, I needed a family member to agree to the conditions of my trial. He was all I had.

  This island was a social experiment. As an anthropology major, I wanted to study people. I’d been lonely as a child, in a trailer park, removed from my former home and formal society. The possibility of a solitary life didn’t interest me, but the psychological ramifications would make for an interesting Master’s thesis. Too bad I’d committed a crime to earn me this punishment.

  “The Lord has punished you,” he offered in a self-righteous slur. His pretend-belief in something almightier than a bottle of liquor choked me. He believed karma captured me, as I never gave into his lewd intentions. The Lord, as he professed, caused the sin I endured. If only I had given in to him, I’d better understand the ways of a man and could have prevented what happened to me. Or enjoyed it.

  I shivered in disgust, wishing to return to the pond, and wash clean all thoughts related to my uncle. But thoughts of the pond brought an even greater evil to my mind.

  Him.

  He was part of the collection of men who ruined my life. They took what didn’t belong to them. Thoughts of their crime caused me to tremble, my body visibly shaking. Naked or not, I curled into myself, the tips of my breasts brushing my bare knees, and I rolled to my side on the hardwood porch. I had no more tears for those men, not even him. Deep green eyes had stared down at me. I closed my own with the crash of memory.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he had whispered, his eyes glassy and bright from whatever drug they’d taken. He’d positioned himself in a manner that the thickness of his excitement fell between my thighs but hadn’t penetrated me yet. A hand came to my cheek but I flinched at his touch. His eyes sought mine, telling me something, asking possibly, but I couldn’t think. For one split second, I wanted to believe he wouldn’t hurt me. I silently pleaded with him to let me go, but the damage had already been done. Whatever he did to me next would be no worse than the first man. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t defend myself.

  And with those thoughts, I vomited at the recollection before allowing darkness to consume me. The world went black with my memory.

  5

  Day 13 - Tack

  The snap of a twig roused me from dozing. The storm outside howled and the rain beat on the heavy canvas over my head, but that crack of wood was more than the trees whipping in the wind. I sat up abruptly, wiping a hand through my unruly hair. The island didn’t offer barber services, I mocked, and my hair was growing out of control in the heat. I turned my head to the side, angled toward the tent opening and waited a beat. Listening for another sound of movement unrelated to the storm, it felt as if the wind had actually stopped, standing still and holding its breath just like me.

  Crack.

  The instant the noise echoed through my tent, I leaped for the entrance. Standing upright, I stared at the empty darkness, the low embers of my campfire still smoldering but drowned of color by the rainfall. Drops instantly soaked my hair. On the other side of the fire ring, the outline of a female body did not surprise me. It was as if she emerged from the darkness, sleek with curves, slick with the moisture of rain. Instantly, I went hard at the thought of her body. She’d been damp when I touched her, her body responding despite her struggle. The luscious bend to her hourglass form vibrated under my palm on that night. The memory was instantaneous and just as sharply retreated.

  Angry energy vibrated off her. A snap of lightning illuminated the sky and the glint of metal at her side caught my attention. A long, serrated knife rested at her thigh, grasped in her tight, tiny fist as if an extension of her arm. My eyes shot up to her face, pinched and focused on me. She hadn’t spoken, and seconds beat, slowing down my heart rate to a crab’s crawl over sand. Her chest heaved but other than that, she did not move.

  A thousand questions filled my head as I stared at her narrowed eyes. Rain plastered her hair to her forehead. Her damp clothes clung to her, accentuating an outline I’d experienced too hastily. The thought made my dick leap, standing erect at attention, but I doubted she was here for another pass with me. She’d made her intentions clear after that night—she killed my best friend.

  “Have you come to kill me?” I muttered, uncertain if she could hear me over the patter of rain hitting the tent canvas behind me. I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. My heart rate accelerated with the thrill of her anger. She remained fierce in her stance, despite her smaller frame, her intentions clearly etched in her wet face.

  I stepped toward her. Lightning crackled, again brightening the sky, and she flinched. The hesitancy cost her, and I rounded the fire ring. Her head rose. Her shoulders straightened, but I noticed her shiver.

  “Come inside,” I offered, hoping to lure her into my tent. The rain was cold, and she was soaked. She stood like a caged animal, ready to leap, and I used my softest tone to tempt her. “You’re all wet.” The innuendo was clear. The thought rose the hairs on my skin, and I smiled slowly in hopes to calm her. This smirk had worked a million times to earn women in my bed. My body hummed with the desire to have her. I didn’t even give a thought to the knife at her side until she raised it level with her head.

  Her chest rose with calculated breaths, but I held out my hand, offering to take the weapon from her. She didn’t accept my offering, and we stood in a match of wills while the rain continued pelting our faces with sharp stings, like repeated slaps for attention.

  Look at me, she seemed to say with the negative energy rolling off her skin.

  I want you to see me, I responded with bitterness in my mouth.

  Neither words were spoken aloud, but that slapping rain forced our intentions to speak.

  I turned my back to her. A mistake when presented with a woman who held a weapon, but I expected her to follow me. If my death was what she wanted, she’d have to work for it. Curiosity got the best of me, and I spun to face her. To my surprise, she stood immediately behind me. She hadn’t made a sound as if she floated over the ground. Her breath mixed with mine in the cool mist rain. Half a step and her breasts would drag over my chest. The solid length in my shorts stood erect and ramrod ready, hanging on a thre
ad of desire to pull her into the tent and enter the warmth of a feminine body. The ends of my fingers curled with the need to grab her and tug her close to me.

  She still had not uttered a word.

  I risked that half pace and drew up against her. My lids closed with the nearness of her. My body vibrated as it craved a female instead of the large palm of my fist. Her warm breath came out harsh against my neck, her exaggerated exhale only increasing the tremors of my body.

  “Why are you here?” The deepness to her voice was nearly a growl, guttural and irritated. It snapped me out of my fantasy. Was it possible she didn’t recognize me? Could she have forgotten what happened? The thought was ludicrous. Even I knew the answer—no woman would forget what we’d done. That was Rick’s purpose.

  Make her never forget you’re in charge and make her demand to be taken again.

  I wanted admission into the club. Submission was the trend, and my dominant nature fed off the thrill. I needed to learn more. She was my first victim. I ignored her questioning tone. I would never forget her face. I’d already seen all of her, but not in a way a man should see a woman. The proof was on the tape. The one mentally engraved in my brain.

  As if she read my thoughts, I sensed the slow rise of metal to my left. She dragged the long dagger dangerously close to my arm, slowly lifting it as if she were skinning an animal and taking care not to damage the carcass. Level with my neck, she paused. Her violet eyes alit with hunger, desiring revenge.

  “Kill me,” I hissed. Our hearts beat in rapid tandem. “Will that make it better for you?” My sharp words exhaled outward, brushing over her too close face. “You’ll have one more death to live with.” The final comment answered an unasked question. She knew me. She knew damn well who I was, and I knew her.