Page 3 of Vow To The Devil

How could he possibly know?

"What?" I stammer. “That’s crazy.”

Even to my own ears, my protests sound flimsy and forced.

Burn erupts with a chilling laugh. "For a deceptive whore, you're terrible at lying. You might as well not even pretend. My memory of our night together might be hazy. But I have proof."

He pulls a folded piece of stock paper out of his pocket. He flings the paper at me haphazardly; it catches on the breeze and flutters up, tumbling across the back of the boat.

Out of sheer luck, I'm able to stick my hand out and catch it before it flies off the back. I glare at Burn's back as I unfold it, thinking that the paper could easily have been lost forever.

When I look down at the paper, my breath screeches to a halt inside my lungs. It's a photo booth reel of four quick images that feature two drunk girls stacked on the laps of two brawny guys. Everyone is dressed to the nines and laughing hysterically; from the flush in their faces and the slightly disjointed gazes, I can see that they are extremely drunk.

Olivia and I are the two women, without question. In half of the pictures, Burn and his friend are obscured by Olivia and I grinning at the camera. But in the bottom two photos, we have sat back... and I am clearly sitting on Burn's lap, laughing and having the night of my life.

A sense memory leaps forward in my mind. Burn teased me and tickled me to get me to lean back and let him be in the photo. I remember the cool swish of his suit pants against the bare skin of my back thighs. A cacophony of raucous laughter. The feeling of Burn's fingers tightening around my waist. The almost imperceptible sound of my fingernails scrabbling at Burn’s clothed thighs.

"Oh," I say. The word is so small it's almost lost in the wind that whips around my head.

Burn snorts. "Yeah,oh. I can't believe my brother is such a fucking idiot. He's going to kill you when he finds out that he's not the father. I hope you're ready for the approaching storm."

I open my mouth to fire back a retort. But he just holds up a hand to silence me.

"We're almost to where we're going. Sit back and keep your mouth shut or I'll dump you overboard and let you drown."

ChapterThree

TALIA

When Burn finally helps me down onto a creaky dock, dusk is falling over the landscape. The rocks that jut out around the spot where he moors the boat throw creepy shadows. My mouth is pinched and my eyes rove constantly as I try to figure out where Burn has brought me.

The tip of the island is gray and rocky. As I follow Burn down the well-worn footpath, we are quickly engulfed in tall, fragrant evergreen trees. I suck in a breath of briny air. Burn could be leading me anywhere along the north Atlantic coast. Tears press at my eyes.

Where the fuck am I? I press my hands to my pregnant stomach, feeling my child moving restlessly inside. Thinking that the baby knows when I’m stressed, I try to calm the thrum of my pounding heart.

Burn doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder when he speaks. He knows I’m still following his footsteps. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

I slow my steps, grimacing at Burn’s back. All around us, the wind rustles the evergreen trees. Birds chirp. I can see the blue sky above and the endless dusty brown trail that we seem to be walking. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out where we are.

Then the tree line thins as dramatically as it began. I step out from under the shelter of the last few trees and see a ramshackle cabin tucked in between two gentle hills. It’s beside a peaceful, placid lake, hidden away from sight. The lake is surrounded on three sides by rolling green hills and looks like something out of a movie.

I scrunch my face up, a strange sense of recognition rolling through me. I’m almost certain that I’ve been here. “Where are we?”

Burn snorts. “You don’t get to ask questions, Talia.”

He keeps walking, making a beeline for the little cabin. The structure is the same color as the dusty ground around it and the roof looks like it might fall in at any moment.

The cabin is small, a single story, built in the early 1800s. Though the outside is rotting and it’s in serious need of a paint job, it still manages to look quaint, albeit run down.

There is a rusted tin roof in desperate need of repair, thick discolored glass for the windows, heavy, threadbare curtains, and paint peeling from the logs and rotting wood siding.

Once you get past the summer weeds, you see the pine logs that make up the cabin. They’re weathered and worn, but it's clear this was once a place of beauty.

I follow Burn, anxiety beginning to build inside my chest as I close in.

Burn swings the cabin’s door open, waving a hand at the plume of dust that rises in the air.

“After you, Mrs. Morgan.”

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