Page 34 of Nightmare Island

“Or what?” she challenges, then winces as Awa begins stitching. But the rum’s done its work; the pain seems distant to her now.

“You’re good at that,” Hel says, her words slightly slurred. “Like a… a needle artist. A stabby seamstress.”

“Years of practice, honey,” Awa responds, her needle moving swiftly. “Though most of my patients aren’t quite so entertaining.”

Hel beams at the compliment, then turns that radiant smile on me. It hits me like a physical blow.

“You’re still here,” she says, sounding surprised and pleased.

“I promised, didn’t I?”

“Mm-hmm.” Her eyes are getting heavy. “You smell good. Like forest, cocoa, and danger and… something else. Can’t put my finger on it.” She tries literally putting her finger on it, poking my chest again.

I catch her hand again, holding it still. Her skin is soft against my callused palm.

“All done,” Awa announces, tying off the last stitch.

Hel barely notices, too busy studying our joined hands with fascination.

“Thank you,” I tell Awa quietly as she packs up her supplies. She gives me a knowing look that I choose to ignore.

“Keep her still for the next day or two at least,” she instructs. “I’ll come and change the bandages tomorrow.”

Then, as Awa slips out the door, Hel’s face lights up.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “We’re all alone now! Just the big bad Alpha and little ol’ me.” She attempts to waggle her eyebrows suggestively, but the effect is somewhat ruined by her increasingly unfocused gaze.

“Sleep, little flame,” I tell her, trying to sound stern despite the warmth spreading through my chest.

“Don’t wanna,” she murmurs, even as her eyes drift shut. “Might wake up and you’ll be gone.”

“I’ll be here,” I promise.

She smiles faintly, already mostly asleep. “Liar,” she whispers. “But you’re a pretty liar. With pretty muscles.”

I watch her fighting sleep, her eyes fluttering like butterfly wings. Each time they open, she looks at me anew, a soft smile touching her lips as if discovering me all over again. Something about that smile makes my chest tighten.

Her hand keeps reaching for me in the dim light, fingers grasping weakly at the air between us.

The torchlight in my room plays across her skin, and that’s when I notice it—or rather, the absence of it. Her inner arms are bare, unmarked by the prisoner’s mark that brands every exile on this island. I frown, scanning what I can see of her skin. I hadn’t seen it anywhere else when I helped her, unless it’s on her back, which I haven’t seen, but everyone else’s is on the arm.

The truth hits me.

She’s not supposed to be here.

“Who are you, sweetheart?” I ask.

“I’m Hel,” she answers, her voice dreamy and distant. “Just Hel. Nobody special.”

The lie in those words makes my wolf growl. I push hair from her forehead, letting my hand linger longer than necessary. Her skin burns under my touch.

“Tell me why you’re really on this island.”

It takes her several moments to focus on my mask, her pupils dilated from the rum milk.

“Told you,” she slurs, then giggles. “I fell out of the sky. Like a shooting star. Except less graceful. And with more screaming.” Her eyes suddenly go wide with alarm. “Oh! You shouldn’t know that.” She tries to press a finger to my mask where my lips would be, missing completely and poking my chest instead. “Shhhhh. The damaged plane I escaped from is a secret.”

I can’t help but laugh. “And why’s that?”

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