Page 37 of Dare

Fuck. Something damp and brittle snared my wrists. When I tried to shift, an object harnessed my elbows in place, the constraint locking my wrists behind my back.

Rope. Knots.

My disoriented eyes whipped open. The metamorphosis from oblivion to consciousness stunted my vision, impairing my ability to focus during the first few seconds. Opaque blots of color oscillated before me, then solidified into a cove. Beyond a crescent of fern trees and gnarled hedges, chalk-white sand bordered a jewel-toned sea, waves smashing into the shore.

The bonds shackled my form as I lay slumped against the trunk of a tree, which extended its low, spindly neck over the beach. Predictably, my knees and ankles were bound as well.

Sunset descended, shades of orange crowding the sky. The little beast had disappeared.

To my left, a hoard of supplies had been dumped atop a sail cloth. The stockpile consisted of a canteen, that ostentatious dagger previously owned by the jester, a water net plus a strange hoop-shaped net with a chewed handle, lines of more rope, one mangled spear, another sail cloth, skeletal fragments of wood, and the figs that had been growing near the whirlpool.

The whirlpool. The place where I had swallowed freshwater in exchange for a brush with death.

Considering the setting sun’s position, I must have been comatose for hours. My skull no longer pounded, but my thighs burned, and the laceration across my mandible throbbed. I assessed the damage by flexing my muscles as best I could and rolling my jaw. The gash seemed to have crusted over. No leakage. No sensation of heat. The wound might not be as bad as my dehydrated cranium had suspected. But for Winter’s sake, I ached.

Slanting my head toward the waves, I stiffened. A drenched figure rose from the water like a sea witch, her dripping web of hair appearing murkier at the day’s end.

She crossed the sand on bare feet. The more distance she ate up, the more of her I saw. The little beast had taken a beating from the wreck, with lacerations covering her arms and one running across her knee. Her chemise was soaked and had lost a strap, and the garment was plastered to the naked body underneath. Hollowed waist, prominent ribcage, shrunken breasts. Dusky nipples and a dark spot at the apex of her thighs. Nothing I hadn’t seen before as a physician. Even so, my gaze caused the mad woman to halt, an angry flush staining her cheeks.

What? Did she think I was fond of the view? How repulsive.

Yet. A second glance at her wet breasts and pussy caused my retinas to sizzle. Some atrocious form of lightheadedness fogged my brain, to say nothing of the brief twitch in my cock.

Rage. Malice.

They had to be the culprits. For weak souls, hatred and stress manifested itself in depraved ways, including involuntary sexual frustration.

My stare progressed to her hands. Thin fingers that tied indestructible knots, steered boats through tidal waves, and pried victims from whirlpools. Hands that reached out and grabbed life by the throat. Resilient hands cast in a deep olive complexion, with a beauty mark imprinted on her thumb. Hands that fought back and survived.

Examining them for longer than necessary felt dangerous. I wrenched my gaze from the visual, only to behold another offensive sight. My scalpel knife and its sheath rested in a cord tied around her waist.

A snarl rolled up my throat. I had been so distracted by the graphic sight of this beast, I’d neglected to search for my weapon. Evidently, she’d confiscated it and then decided to make a fashion statement.

The beast noticed my reaction, her expression transforming from flushed to elated, her mouth tipping into a victorious grin. She flashed straight teeth and the site of an extracted molar, the gap visible as her lips peeled back.

Point taken. She could have used her own weapon, but in claiming mine she might as well have laid siege to my kingdom.

Slitting my eyes, I watched her flaunt the knife. Vindicated, she strode past me, her toes knocking a lump of sand across my pants.

So be it. My move would come, so long as I remained patient.

A trench cutting through the sand from the rainforest’s edge hinted she must have dragged me from the whirlpool. How long had it taken her paltry muscles to accomplish that?

Depositing a net between us—this one replete with mollusks—the female dumped herself atop the sail like a makeshift blanket. While parsing through the haul, she gloated, “Your Royal Dickless isn’t so Royal anymore, are you?”

“No, but Your Royal Dickless still expects you to untie him,” I replied.

Her gaze snapped to mine. With her head bent, I shouldn’t have been able to read her lips. That’s what she was thinking.

Which meant she wasn’t used to people ascertaining her audibly. Which meant my capability was rare, if not impossible.

I accepted this. I was too pissed off, too fatigued, and too shipwrecked to analyze.

She’d been taunting me, presuming I wouldn’t understand her if we weren’t speaking face to face. In short, she’d been trying to make me feel inadequate. But if the beast insisted on baiting a predator, she shouldn’t complain if she got bitten. I would dispel any and all of her assumptions.

Right. Fucking. Now.

“Indeed, I’m proficient at reading lips,” I ridiculed. “But for some confounding reason, I have the ability to detect your voice, so turning away while speaking won’t help you.”

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