He hasn’t hurt me.
Lust.
It’s just lust talking.
He kidnapped . . .
His finger touches me again, and this time, my head lolls back. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him. But I bask in his touch, regardless.
Because with a touch of his hand, I forget why I’m supposed to hate him. I forget why I’m fighting this.
I forget everything but the here and now and the feeling inside me.
He’s like the storm that batters the island outside. Like a hurricane, growing, gathering strength until it strikes. I’m the eye, and he is the storm.
His lip tips up.
I wait for him to kiss me, to do something. Anything.
I want to beg him to finish what he’s started. To soothe the burn that has been building inside me. But I don’t say anything and neither does he.
He just stands in front of me.
Not speaking. Just staring. A look passes through his gaze. I can’t put my finger on it, but if it was anyone else, I’d say it was regret.
Silence looms between us like a heavy mist as I wait for something to happen. Finally, it does as he inclines his head down and shakes it. “Nope.” He looks back at me. “You don’t hate me . . .” He trails off before he turns and walks away. “Not at all.”
I need to get out of here. My desperation is getting to me. My need for attention making me feel things I shouldn’t.
The next time he comes back, I’ll leave. I will escape. No matter what.
20
Ivy
He has to leave this damn island. After our little run-in earlier in the library, I need to be alone. I’m a mess. Not only am I confused, but I’m so turned on, I’m afraid at any moment I might hump his leg. Which I can’t do for obvious reasons.
My options are limited in places to go. I’m afraid I’ll see him, and I can’t be held responsible for my actions if I do.
Truth is, it feels like I’m suffocating with him here. I know what he’s doing; he’s trying to torture me. Well, it’s worked.
He is.
A million conflicting thoughts are spiraling in my brain, and that doesn’t even touch upon my body. My treacherous body that refuses to take the memo: You are not allowed to be turned on by your kidnapper.
I can pretend that I’m not, but then I would be lying.
No point. I know the truth. Hell, he felt the truth.
My cheeks become warm as I think over the things that he said to me.
The bastard.
He ate that shit up. Probably still is.
I wonder if I can hide from him.
Well, I’m already doing that. I’m hiding in my bedroom, but eventually, I’ll have to go downstairs, and with my luck, he will speak to me.
Little damn butterflies start to fly in my stomach. Great. Even my stomach knows I’m lying. I want to speak to him.
I hate myself for it, but it doesn’t make it any less true. My stomach hasn’t gotten the memo that we are avoiding Cyrus and his meals because it starts to growl in protest.
There’s no fighting this. I have to go down and eat.
Without a second thought, I head straight for the kitchen. What I’m met with has my breath hitching.
What is going on?
I look around the room, but no one is there. It’s the table that has me blinking. The room in general that unnerves me.
The lights are dimmed, and there are candles set in the center of the table. A table that has food placement for two.
“What is this?” Cyrus says as he steps up from behind.
I turn over my shoulder. “If you didn’t do this . . .”
“Mariana.”
I shake my head, not knowing who that is.
“She brings the food. Cooks it.”
Aww. It all makes sense. “She was here today?” he nods. I wonder why I didn’t see her. Probably because you were too busy panting after Cyrus. “But why would she set it for two?”
“That was my doing. I told her I would be eating dinner. The rest”—he gestures to the table—“that’s all her.”
The room is the perfect romantic date, if we were going on a romantic date. We aren’t, so instead of setting the mood, a heavy tension hovers in the air.
“Sit. Stop thinking. Just sit and eat.”
“Always a gentleman,” I say under my breath.
“Sun . . .” he warns, and I shut my mouth and sit.
Now that we are both at the table, we both reach for our silverware to eat.
The food, as always, is delicious, but the silence is deafening. I look down to the floor and notice that Cerberus is curled up against my leg.
Cyrus follows my line of sight. “You really have him wrapped around your little finger.”
That makes me smile.
“What did you do to win him over?”
“As if I would tell you.” I smirk. Intense pleasure over that fact that he was wrong about his own dog has a laugh bubbling up inside me. I bask in knowing that I have bested him. Take that. A taste of his own medicine.