Page 3 of Fire Island (Fire Island #2)

Three

EVIE

T he Fresnel’s light sweeps over my curled-up, shivering body as the day’s first rays of warmth splinter through the sky. I hold my eyes shut tight.

Thank god.

The cuffs around my wrists rattle against the wooden floor with every shiver. A rhythmic, endless tune of captivity. I hope T rotted in the bed he laid in last night. Hope his deranged mind snapped and he?—

The locks on the opposite side of the lantern room door clunk against the timber.

No such luck, apparently.

I push once to sit up, then again to move up against the far wall. As if that will save me. The door opens, and the gangly, pale man gripping a tray of food creeps closer, rounding the lamp’s base as he bends, sliding the tray toward me.

“Good morning, Butte—Eve.”

I don’t take my eyes off him. I’m not stupid enough to be distracted by the food my aching stomach is desperate for.

He squats. “Eat something, then... Did you want to come downstairs? You look cold. We could snuggle in the bed for a while. Til the sun warms up the day.”

My heart ratchets up speed as he sweeps a bony hand ending in long nails through his oily hair.

“No thank you,” I grind out.

“Eve.” He shuffles forward. I inch away. “You’re cold. This doesn’t have to be hard, precious girl.”

“Don’t you dare call me that!” Rage flies through my veins, searing every inch.

His jaw clenches. Hurt flickers through his pale-blue eyes before he snatches up the tray. He places a cup of water from it onto the lamp base and stalks for the door. “Hard way it is, Eve.”

The door slams.

The locks snap shut.

Thirst finds me the second my body calms down. I stagger to my feet and grab the cup, draining it in a heartbeat. It runs down my chin and neck. I sink back to the floor and pull my knees to my chest.

“Fuck you, T. Or whatever your name is.”

As the sun starts to warm the room and my weary bones thaw, I feel the buzzing. The heaviness of a wet blanket draped over my entire body claims me, pulling me down.

What on earth?

I slide down the wall and lie on the floor. The buzz turns to fuzziness, dragging my eyelids down.

He—

He drugged me.

Panic explodes throughout my insides, flying up and hitting the wet blanket still descending over me. I claw at the floor as a strangled noise escapes my lips. I jerk, fighting the pull.

As the sunlight finds the base of the lamp and fractures the light around the round room, a whimper tumbles from my throat and the brilliance succumbs to darkness.

Everything bobs. Something digs into my stomach.

My hair hangs around my face . . .

The floor moves in my line of sight.

It swells and dips.

The thing digging into my stomach groans as hands—not mine—tighten around the back of my thighs.

Blood rushes to my head.

Upside dow?—

Steps tread, one after the other.

Downward.

Gasping for air, I slip back into the darkness.

The pillow under my head is soft. A luxury that’s like a dream. I roll over, and Cal’s scent folds in around me. I snuggle closer to his warmth. For a moment, I wonder about the nightmare I’d been having. T had found me. I was in the lantern room. I was cold. Scared. And Cal was?—

I jerk from sleep, and a scream rips through me.

Large, bony hands push me back into the mattress, holding me down. “Shhh. It’s only a dream. Go back to sleep.”

I shake my head, my eyes focusing in the dim light.

I turn my head to find stars outside through a round opening. Then, the small desk that sits under the window in the room where I’ve sat for the last nine months.

I’m in Cal’s room.

With T.

With . . .

I struggle against his hold. “Get off me!”

“No, no. Eve, this is how it’s meant to be. Calm down.”

“What did you do!? Where is he?” I spit at him.

He clenches his jaw. “He. Is. Gone. Forget him.”

“No! No...” I wail. I struggle against his bruising grip. He moves over top of me, and I freeze.

“Calm. Down. You’ll see, soon enough, I’m who you are meant to be with.”

I search his face, tampering back the sobs that slam into the stone blocking my airway. And it hits me—if I cooperate, I might have a chance to escape. Or run. At least.

So, I nod. It’s a shallow, indecisive gesture.

He smiles.

And I hate it.

Bile rises, burning my insides.

“I’m going to let you go now. Okay?”

I nod again with more certainty.

“I love you, Eve. You make me feel everything with your stories and your words, and I know that’s what I want in my life. Always. I want you always.”

A tear slips down my temple as I force myself to not react. To not scream, not fight back. He runs a hand down my arm. Goosebumps trail down it, sending a sickening heat down my spine.

“See, your body understands who I am.”

It most certainly does not.

“Trust me Eve, I will only take what is mine.”

What is his . . .

A bullet, perhaps?

The long blade of a broadsword . . . ?

Not me. Never me.

“It will be better with me. You will see.”

“What will be better?” I manage to utter.

His gaze drops to my breasts, then lower, trailing over my stomach. I tamp down the need to cry out. Instead, I whimper and force a nod. I need him to think I’m bending. That I’m coming around.

But he will never have me.

Will not.

One thin finger touches down on my stomach, over the shirt I’m wearing—the shirt I left New York in days ago. It is filthy. “We should get you cleaned up, before.”

Before?

Oh god.

I need to play this smart. Or he will win.

And that is absolutely not happening.

I shiver in the warm shower. The man standing inches away from the shower curtain is breathing heavily. I scrub my skin relentlessly, as if by peeling away the layers of my skin I can erase the devil inside this bathroom.

It’s late.

I woke up an hour ago. And the memory of that one second where I thought things had gone back to the way I wish they were, with Cal and me tangled in the sheets, burns.

Holding myself together—barely—I manage to clean my body.

Every part of me is purified, set for him to defile. Hot tears run down my cheeks.

If I am going to do this, I’m going to have at least a scrap of dignity.

I set my shoulders back and sniff the sobs down.

“Almost done?” T says.

“Yes,” I utter.

The curtain shifts to one side. I cover myself the best I can.

“Out, Eve.”

I step out of the tub, still holding one arm over my chest and the other hand over my groin. He hands me a towel and waits, eyes wild. Anticipating the split second I will have to remove my hands and expose myself to grab the towel.

I grind my molars shut and reach for the towel, sacrificing my breasts.

His mouth falls open, his breaths coming in quick, short pants.

My chin wobbles, but I stand tall. If I can affect some sort of control over him, I’m going to use it to my advantage.

No matter the cost, I am going to get off this island.

“On the bed. Let me look at you.”

“No.” The word leaves my mouth before my strategic mind can intercept.

“Now, Butterfly.”

The front of his black sweatpants is tented.

The thought of what the material hides makes me ill, but I manage to say, “Fine, where do you want me?”

He nods to the bed, and I drop the towel. I swear he groans behind me.

This is going to be easier than I thought.

If only I can find the line between his need and protecting myself.

I lie. T moves in, pulling the cuffs from his pocket.

“No—” I shoot my hands up, and he catches my wrist.

No, stop.

The cuff strangles my wrists before he attaches the other end to the cast-iron bedpost. He pushes me onto the mattress.

Fuck.

“Now.” He traces his knuckles across my jawline before dragging his gaze to mine. “This is progress.”

“If you call chaining up a woman progress, you have a few things to assess, T,” I hiss.

“Timothy.”

“What?”

“My name is Timothy. And you are going to open those gorgeous thighs for me while I show you what you do to me.” He tracks a finger over my temple, pushing a stray, damp strand of hair behind my ear.

With a sickening touch gliding over my skin, he walks down the side of the bed and widens my legs.

I gasp for a useful lungful as tears burn behind my eyes.

He sits on the chair at the desk, facing me.

As his gaze drifts over my bare body, goosebumps flood my skin, and he moans, closing his eyes.

With an erratic shake of his head, he stands, pulling the chair further back before sitting at the end of the bed.

His focus is solely on my wide-open legs, my pussy now bare for him.

I tug on the cuff above my head.

Metal bites my wrists, burning the skin.

My legs tremble.

He rises, his palms against the soles of my feet as he shoves my legs open even further.

My chest tightens, sending my head spinning. I pant out strangled sobs before schooling my composure.

“You want to see what you do to me, looking like this?” Timothy hisses.

Frozen in the position he put me in, I stare as his hand dives into his sweats, and he pulls out his cock.

It’s red and veiny. Bent to one side, the tip smaller than the base.

It’s revolting.

He studies my reaction, as if looking for some sort of affirmation. He starts to stroke it with one hand, and I look away.

“Hey! Eyes on me.”

Closing my eyes, I force my head to turn back before letting them open again.

“Good. Now, say my name.”

I turn my head.

I. Will. Not.

“Say my name, or it goes in that pretty mouth of yours.”

My mouth gapes in horror.

“Fi—fine. Timothy,” I choke out.

He hums, closing his eyes, his hand tightening around his cock. “Keep saying it,” he rasps.

“Timothy,” I breathe.

I hate myself. Over three fucking syllables.

But I need him to think I’m coming around to his delusional fantasy, so I keep going.

“Tim-o-thy,” I mewl this time, and his eyes fall shut.

“Fuck, Butterfly.”

“Open your eyes and look at me,” I whisper.

His eyelids snap open, his pale, insidious eyes burning into mine.

“Lower,” I say, moving on the bed, setting my breasts bouncing. Cal would tell me to take what I wanted, to ask—no, demand—what I want. So, I’ll use the skill he taught me.

But no memories of Callum McCreary will puncture this sordid space. This scene will be one I lock away in the deepest depths of my mind, never to be seen again.

For now, I need to seduce the man.

The oldest trick in the book. The oldest because it’s too easy. And that’s powerful. In this moment, I am in control.

I have what he wants, and I’ll be using that fact to my advantage.

His face pulls into something painful, his hand pumping faster. It’s not that I want to give this man any kind of pleasure. That’s not what this is. This is my ticket to a long enough leash so I can break free.

Widening my legs just a little further as my heart thunders in its empty cavity and my limbs shake, I say, “Lower, Timothy. Look how wet you’ve made me.”

Almost choking on the stone forming in my airway, I force myself to stay the course, to stay still long enough to reel him in.

The ache of my pussy runs indignant heat through every inch of me, flushing my face.

Arousal non-concordance. That’s what they call it when your body responds to sexual situations, regardless of where your mind is at.

I’ve used it in my books, and now I’m living the horrendous moment my main characters have suffered through.

I am, in fact, wet. But not for the man in front of me.

I’m living for each hour now. That pivotal moment where I come into my own. When life’s training wheels come off. I get to own this. I’m living for...

My freedom.

That sends blood thundering through my body.

I’m high on that control.

He jerks forward, collapsing over the end of the bed as he comes in his own hand.

I’m done being scared of this pathetic excuse of a man.

Checkmate.