Page 41 of Wild Thing

Sending Kat away is the last attempt to force her out of my system. I’m failing miserably, and she still doesn’t say what I want to hear—that she wants to be here for me. Not Marlow. Not the job. Not the tropical paradise. Not the fucking suspense.

Me.

I’m a selfish prick. Yeah, the wild thing was right, what are you gonna do?

My reinforcement comes in the form of two drinks shot back to back. Then, for the first time in a month, I open the tracking app.

Kat’s home. And that’s where I’m heading, on foot, hands in my pockets, skirting the dark buildings like a fucking vampire, because I don’t want to see anyone else or talk to anyone. I dread every step closer as my heart flutters with some stupid-ass hope. It always does. Kat is an invisible trigger that has a control over it.

There’s no logic in me sending her away. But I want her to talk, and not in that careful, “How are you, Archer? Are you feeling okay, Archer? How is it going, Archer?” Like I’m a fucking child.

Right now, I’m stepping into a fire. It’ll scorch me. It might ruin me because I’m ready to step over my pride and put my feelings out on a platter in front of her. But she might not feel the same. Yet, the fire—her—is hypnotic, and I can’t stop.

I don’t knock when I walk up to her bungalow, but open the door and step inside quietly.

It’s dark outside, and the only lights in her place are the dim lamp by the bed and the solar light on the terrace. There’s a small dark shadow on the otherwise light floor—a broken phone.

It’s quiet. I haven’t been here in two months, and the scent assaults me with all that used to be so familiar—her smooth skin, her wild hair, her beautiful smile.

Her…

There’s a soft sound coming from the open doors to the terrace—Kat’s in the wicker chair, her head tilted back, eyes closed, her arm hanging off one side, a bottle of booze between her fingers.

“Are you done with nasty texts?” I ask, stepping out onto the terrace right behind her.

She jolts to her feet with shock in her eyes, staring at me—it’s the first time I’ve caught her off-guard like that.

I lean with my shoulder onto the door frame, hands in my pockets as I study her head to toe.

She’s wearing booty shorts and a tank. Her eyes are puffy and sparkly with tears, her face wet. The scent of coconut oil with a tang of cannabis is stronger here.

“Is there more to come?” I smirk, though my entire body is on edge at being so close to her, always is. “You could write a novel,Hating Archer Crone.”

“Maybe I will,” she says almost in a whisper, setting the bottle on the wicker table. It’s almost empty. I wonder how much she drank.

“I don’t see you packing,” I say, trying to put as much indifference into the words as I can.

“I came here with nothing. I have nothing to pack. Save this for the next assistant.”

That’s the thing about Kat—she never asks for anything, doesn’t cling to material things. It’s unusual and surprising, considering she’s been surrounded by luxury during the last several months.

We stare at each other in silence, then her lips curl in a smirk. “What do you want, Archer? One last fuck? For old times’ sake?”

I fake a smile. “I’ll miss that.”

Then I take a step closer. If she’s actually leaving, yes, I want to trap her here and fuck the living hell out of her, take every last drop I can.

There’s slight surprise in her eyes, or hope—I can’t tell. Her haughtiness flickers on and off—yeah, she’s tipsy. So am I. Her closeness shoots down all the stop signs in my head. I’ll fuck her my way too, rough and quick. As a payback for showing up on my island, starting a storm in my life, and messing me up worse than I’ve ever been.

“On all fours, wild thing. Now,” I order in a low voice, my heart beating in anticipation of seeing what she’ll do.

“Fuck you,” she whispers.

There she is again, that pendulum.Fuck me, Archer. Fuck off, Archer. Answer the phone, Archer. Leave me alone, Archer.

“Excuse me?”

She takes a step toward me, hate and spite in her eyes just like that dark night, and my insides turn cold—no, she’s not in the mood to play. That’s it, I fucked up for good.

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