Page 15 of Burn for Me

Death would be a blessing.

EIGHT

Laura

Bright light hitting my face pulled me from the depths of sleep. Confusion swarmed my mind as I tried to roll over, a deep ache tugging at my chest. Tightness held my wrists fast, something rough biting into my skin as I attempted to move.

With a groan, I forced my eyes open.

The gravity of my predicament hit me with a punch. Ropes bound my wrists, and through the small, round window, I could see the sun sinking low beyond the endless blue horizon. Not to mention how exposed I felt from the lack of clothing underneath the thin blanket covering me.

And then, there was him.

He sat silently on a chair by the bed, stalking me with his stare.

Eyes as dark as sin. That dreadful mask covering half of his face. Swallowing hard through the dry scrape of my parched throat, I contemplated my options.

Which were incredibly few.

Did I accept my fate and take whatever he intended on inflicting on me? Did I fight? Kill him and try to find my way to land? Did I play pretend until I could convince him to take me back to shore?

Rationally, the last option was the only viable one.

I had to make him trust me enough to bring me back to civilisation.

He shifted in the seat, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his thighs, his head tilting just a touch while his eyes roved over me.

Pin pricks crept across my stomach at his open stare, panic flooding my system. How could I play pretend in the face of a predator?

He leant forward, and I flinched, the rope digging further into my skin.

‘Please,’ I whispered, my words catching in my throat. ‘Please, untie me.’

Those dark eyes narrowed, moving from my face to my red, chafed wrists. My stomach knotted as he stood, towering over the bed, his head nearly scuffing the roof of the low cabin ceiling. Reaching behind him, he picked up a marker pen from a thin desk and began to write on the mirror.

The black ink pen squeaked against the reflective surface, making me wince as I watched words take form in large, black letters.

NO SCREAMING

NO RUNNING

NO FIGHTING

I nodded my head when his eyes met mine in the reflection. It wasn’t a promise if I didn’t say it aloud.

Within three steps he was by my side, I shifted slightly to make a little more space between us, the thin blanket falling away from my chest. His nostrils flared, and his gaze dropped to my exposed breasts. Lifting his hand, he grazed two fingers along my collarbone, making me want to sob. Swallowing hard, I forced the emotions down. I just had to hold it together long enough for him to untie me and get to a weapon.

I could do that.

I had to.

I expected him to squeeze my breasts, or graze my nipples, but he didn’t. With a gentleness that turned my stomach, he traced the edge of the stitching he’d performed the previous night.

With a seemingly satisfying nod, he withdrew his hand and thrust it into the pocket of his dark camo trousers. The knife he brought out glittered in the morning sun, the blade bursting out as he pressed a button. It took every ounce of my willpower not to cry out.

Just act good.

Just a little longer.

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