Page 57 of Their Cruel Love

“Well, you still came here. Thank you. I guess I should talk about my nightmares.” Marcus’ fingers have ended up curled over my thigh and in my lap. I slap them, lightly. “No. Not now. Down, boy.”

He leaves them there, and I try to pry them away. No luck moving them either.

“Jesus. You do ask for it, girl. Keep going. Nightmares, remember?”

Razor is politely staying out of this. Or he’s voyeuring, considering the raising of one eyebrow.

I sigh and give in. “They come almost every night. The room it happens in seems below ground? The manacles and the stone table are there, same as in the photo we recovered. The number of men watching varies. I see them from the back. I think they’re men, but who knows.” I stare past Razor, trying to gather all the info from my memory. “They don’t always wear hoods, but the woman always has purple hair.”

Razor nods toward mine. “So why did you dye yours to match? That’s tempting fate.”

Like I might be the next person sacrificed? “It felt right. Iwas honoring whoever it was died. Keeping them alive in here.” I tap my finger on my temple.

“Okay. Let’s assume I believe, for now. Were they using any weapons? Knives. Guns?” Marcus pauses then continues, “Any tattoos on anyone? Marks on the wall?”

“Nothing.” I shrug. “It’s a dream. Even I think it weird that I’m obsessing over it… Rough stone walls though?” That detail seems new. I might be extrapolating, mixing up details I saw in the photo.

“Uh-huh. So is that it? Have we covered everything?” Marcus swivels at the waist, shoves his hand under me, then lifts me fully onto his lap and looks as if he wants to kiss me. His lips brush my temple, my hair, warming me, and I shiver.

I study him, narrow-eyed. Arousal is impossible to suppress when we’re like this. “I knew I shouldn’t have gotten naked.”

“But you still did it.”

Razor stands. “Are we at the bending-her-over-something stage?” He looks around, perhaps checking for suitable benches. I place my finger across Marcus’ mouth as if shushing him.

“You pair are going to lose your kink card if you keep being this vanilla.” I’ve never used that term aloud, only typed it, and I’m hoping humor will distract them.

Hell freezing over is statistically more likely.

He snaps at my finger, bites it, then releases it. “Razor, I do believe our Phoebe is complaining about not being tied up and used as a cum dump while wrapped in plastic, or needled.”

“That can be fixed.”

Thank god I haven’t mentioned what that Domme is doing.

“Wait!” I wriggle as Marcus stands, and he growls at me to be still, or he’ll drop me. “There was something I wanted tosay.” I glance about. The commotion has attracted the attention of everyone else here, so I speak softly. “Next event, while everyone is thinking about other stuff, we should explore the places that are not guest rooms. Kitchens and offices? Storage rooms too.”

“Maybe. That is a good idea, but it could get us thrown off the island, same as forcing that padlock. Let’s shelve it for the moment.” Marcus starts to walk.

I frown. What else can we do that qualifies as investigating?

If we find anything here, it won’t be laid out in full view. And I think we all understand that murderers don’t hand you the clues and take selfies with you. Well, Simon might?

“Hey, Razor. I meant to ask you where you got to earlier this year?” Marcus half-turns, swinging me. “You vanished for half the year.”

Razor is often the becalmed ship in the middle of emotional storms, but now I detect a hint of regret or sorrow in the downturn of his mouth.

“I almost married a woman. It fell through.”

Fell through? That must be a condensed description of what must have been traumatic?

Marcus stops walking. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Me too.” Though really, I feel left out of this conversation. The men have known each other for a long time. I am, by comparison, a bug splattered on the windshield of their travels.

Marcus hefts me, rearranging me in his arms, then briefly kisses me on the mouth. He has sex on his mind, and I’m mired in maudlin thoughts. I blame the list that was handed to Razor. It must mean something and, like they say, when you hear hoofbeats think horses not zebras.

Murdering horses, in this case. Fuck, I’m definitely over-reacting. It was only two letters.

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