Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
As soon as I break the zip ties off my legs, I steal some of Wyatt’s clothes and his mask and dart from the room. I make it to some sort of storage closet where there are no security cameras and crouch there for…I’m not sure how long. I think it’s the middle of the night, maybe early morning.
I need to leave.
I know I need to leave this villa, but I’m so entirely unprepared. I need food. And water. And a weapon. And a phone. And a million other things that I have no idea how to get.
So instead, I stare at the wall in the dark closet, frozen.
There’s a nagging tugging in my chest.
Wyatt has Oakley, too. Did he starve him like me? Or did he kill him?
My heart starts to race like I’m one of those foxes they used to hunt for sport. Which is probably partly because my nervous system will never recover, and partly because I haven’t eaten in…I’m not actually sure how long.
My hands shake in front of my face in the dark, and I clench them into fists, reminding myself over and over that they’re my hands and that they are no longer tied.
Wyatt’s clothes smell like something warm and spicy, and for some reason, that makes me irrationally angry. How dare a killer smell good?
To help me feel real, I keep clenching my fists. I run my fingers down the buttons on Wyatt’s shirt. Up, down, up, down.
Still alive. Still alive.
I shouldn’t be. Somehow, I’ve cheated death so many times.
Feeling the mask on my knee, I snort. The skull mask that has cheated death.
As I breathe, I feel an odd…focus sweep over me.
It’s like warm water from a bath, surrounding me and holding me weightless.
It’s the same focus that filled me when I fought Wyatt.
When I fought Oakley. It’s like a new, older version of me that has only come out under severe stress.
That version grabs my hand and smiles at me with sad eyes, reminding me that it’ll be all right.
That right now, we know exactly what’s going to happen, and it’s pretty simple. Either I fight, or I die.
Either I stay in this closet forever, or I face what I’m afraid of.
What am I afraid of?
I run my fingers up and down and up and down.
Am I afraid of the hunters? Of what they’ll do to me?
Wyatt?
I straighten. I’ve faced Wyatt down. Faced my own death down. I can leave this closet.
So, slowly, I don Wyatt’s skull mask. Even the mask smells good, instantly flooding me with that warm scent. As the mask slips on, I feel the braver version of me slip into control.
Food. I need that before I do anything else.
I take a deep breath and stand. As I do, I feel something heavy in the pocket of the shirt. Feeling around, I find a…lighter? A big lighter of some sort, and a rectangular card.
I squint in the dim light.
A room key. Wyatt’s room key.
At first, I get excited. Then, that excitement dulls. I don’t want to get back into his room. In fact, it’s the last thing I want.
Slowly, my brain kicks on. Wyatt runs this place. What if this is a universal key?
I try to squash the hope that fills my chest. Mixed with that hope is a new, brutal sort of excitement. I could do a lot of damage if this is what I hope it is.
So, with newfound confidence, I step out of the fucking closet.
Finding food is easier than it should be. After I pass the first person with Wyatt’s mask on and they ignore me, I find myself walking straighter. Walking with the gait of a woman who has faced down death and survived.
I follow the sounds of clinking plates, stepping up to a large room.
When I see what it is, my vision narrows.
A dining hall. There aren’t many people here; it must be early morning, but the ones who are here are clearly hunters, huge men huddled around tables in little groups.
Most don’t have masks on, although one or two do.
I find myself scanning for a tall man with big sorrowful eyes.
I don’t see him, and that makes my stomach clench in an odd twist. Something like worry slithers through my body.
Where is Oakley?
There are a few people here wearing masks. Maybe he’s one of them.
As I’m scanning, I spot something that shakes me a bit and makes my vision go fuzzy around the edges.
A bear mask. It’s on the thigh of the huge man sitting by a window, at the head of a large group of men. They’re all laughing like they’re at a golfing retreat.
For a second, I’m frozen there. Elijah’s killer is right there, and I’m about to get food? Getting a plate of eggs like his death means nothing?
A ripping current of emotions tears at my chest. Fear and anger burn in my veins, making my knees weak.
Then, just as quickly, that new version of me whispers in my head: kill him. With that whisper comes a calming steadiness.
I want to kill him. I want to fucking kill him.
“Excuse me.” Someone passes me, cutting past me in line. It breaks me out of my haze enough to realize where I am.
My vision wobbles a bit, and I’m reminded with horrifying clarity that, as much as I may want to kill him, I’m starving to death, and I’m reminded of my mission. I need food.
So, shaking, I go up to the line and grab a to-go box. As I reach for the serving spoons, I realize just how small my hands are. How much I look like a woman, even in a mask.
How much I look like a target.
And that makes me mad.
Getting food is a blur, and as soon as I blink again, I’m out of the dining hall, going back to my closet, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me.
No one is. As soon as I close myself back in to what I’ve determined is a cleaning closet, I sit on an overturned bucket and eat my first meal in days.
And it’s the best food I’ve ever tasted.
As I eat, I feel the energy flooding back into my body.
And with that energy, an overwhelming desire to run.
To get the fuck out of here. To go back to my apartment and my life.
To go back to the girl who helped others so much that it numbed her own pain.
The girl who sat at home and ate ice cream and scrolled on her phone until the late night hours.
But as I think about it, a terrifying thought fills my head.
Will I be safe? Will the people from the island hunt me down even at home?
I stare at the line of light coming from under the door.
Surely not?
Even as I think it, I know it’s not true. They absolutely will.
Will I lose my friends if I’m not safe? Will anyone be willing to talk to the person who has to…what will I have to do? Live in hiding? Change apartments? Change names?
Fuck!
Overwhelming emotions grip me, and I drop my head into my hands, gripping my hair at the roots and pulling. It’s not enough to yank me out of the spiral. So I drop my hand to the spot on my leg where I got bit and a burst of sore pain shoots up my leg. I groan, leaning into it harder.
The wound is better. A lot better. Because Oakley helped me.
Oakley.
What if he wasn’t lying? What if he’s also a victim here? Bound and starving, also doomed to never be the same?
I have to help him.
As soon as I think that, I shoot it down. I can’t worry about someone else. Worrying about another human on this island is a suicide mission. Worrying about Oakley makes me like Seven. It’ll get me killed.
I’ll leave without him.
As I think that, a sickening feeling grips my stomach, and the old version of me screams in my head. You’ll just leave someone who’s in danger? Your job is to help the people who need it most!
“No,” I growl. My ‘job’ is to survive. Whatever the cost.
As that familiar calmness drops over me, I feel the old version of me wrestling in my head. You’re no better than them.
That thought fills me with such a gross feeling, I shift.
I just want to go home. I have to fight for myself. For once, I need to not fight for anyone other than me. I need to let the therapist side in me die. Need to bury her on the island.
I stand, resolved. But as I do, self-hatred overwhelms me.
They’ve made you like them. The new skull mask. The one who cheats death.
Shaking my head, I put the rest of the toast in Wyatt’s pocket.
No one will know how he died.
I shake my head, trying to get rid of the guilt.
He’ll never get a blue ICEE again. You could have changed that, but you didn’t. Because you’re a coward.
My feet cement to the ground.
I am not a coward.
You’ll be Fourteen for the rest of your life. Holli will die.
“Holli isn’t dead,” I hiss into the darkness. Of course, it doesn’t answer back. My chest feels tight, like I need to scream or fight. I don’t want to save Oakley. I want to save myself.
Yanking the mask over my face, I rip the closet door open. I march down the hall, moving to the front of the hotel where the dining hall is. Where the elevator is. The elevator to Oakley’s room.
I’ll just check his room, and then I’ll go. It’s the only place I know he could be. If he’s anywhere else, I can’t help him.
Moving upstairs is a blur, and then I’m standing in front of his room.
That new voice in me is screaming to run. And yet, I fish Wyatt’s key out of his pocket and hold it up, but not close enough to engage the lock.
What if Oakley is in here, but so is Wyatt? I’d be so dead. Both of us would be.
On the flip side, what if I’m wrong about Oakley and he’s just as bad as the others, and he keeps me for himself? I’d also be dead.
Ears humming, I realize I’m halfway between the room and outside. Forced to make a choice, I slip inside, shutting the door behind me. For a second, everything looks the same. The pillow is still on the floor, and the bed is messed up.
But Oakley isn’t in it.
My stomach bottoms out. Whirling, I notice the bathroom door is slightly closed. And the humming in my ears blends with the sounds of the shower.
Someone’s showering.
A mix of emotions turns in my chest.
Showering. Like everything is normal. Almost like…Oakley isn’t a prisoner of Wyatt’s. Like he’s going about life as normal.
Like I wasn’t missing.
Like he didn’t care.
Whirling, I turn to leave, then a cold thought crosses my mind. What if someone turned the shower on to cover the sounds of a struggle? What if he’s dead on the floor, eyes vacant like Connor’s?
Suddenly, I can’t not know. I came all this way, I have to know. Shoving the door open, I scan the floor.
No blood. Relief rocks my system, and I glance up.
Oakley’s in the shower, naked, hand braced against the wall, other hand on his dick.
It shocks me so much that I freeze.
Oakley is jacking himself off, his muscular body braced in a powerful stance, water dripping off his tattoos. His thighs clench, and he lets out a little hiss as he pulls his dick. His long dick. I can’t help but notice that he’s hot. Like, super fucking hot.
An odd warmth creeps in and battles with the warning bells in the back of my mind that are screaming to leave.
But Oakley is picking up the pace, flexing his hips so the indentations on his ass deepen. He grunts, and I suck in a breath as I realize he’s about to come.
I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t leave.
With a stuttering, muffled moan, Oakley’s entire body stiffens. He leans against the wall, obscuring my view of what must be him spurting everywhere. When his shoulders loosen, I realize my hand is clutched to my chest.
Slowly, my brain registers what’s happening. Oakley is here. He’s fine. He’s not hurt. Not starving. Not kidnapped.
Not looking for me.
A line of rage flickers to life in my soul.
Not looking for me?
I take a step back, but then Oakley turns. He looks at me in the mirror, and his eyes widen.
“Holli?”
I dart.
“Wait!” The shower door slides open, and a fresh hit of adrenaline dumps in my system. I rip the hotel door open before a hand grabs mine and yanks me back. “Holli?”
Stumbling, I whirl to shove my free hand against Oakley’s chest. His bare chest.
“Are you okay? Where have you been? Are you hurt?”
The door clicks shut behind us.
“Fuck you,” I hiss, fighting his grip, all of the emotions I’ve been holding onto exploding out. Oakley wasn’t looking for me. I wasted my time.
“Please tell me you’re okay.” Oakley pulls me further into the room, then spins so he’s between me and the way out. Then, he lets me go, scanning me up and down.
“Get out of my way,” I spit.
“Are you…mad at me?” His forehead pulls into a frown.
“I’m leaving.” I move to get around him, and he holds up his hands.
“Please,” he pleads. “Just talk to me. What’s happening? Where were you?”
I sputter. “Wyatt took me.”
Oakley stares at me for a second, then his eyes widen. I try not to look at Oakley’s naked body. He’s cut in the kind of way that comes with cursed good genetics, and his dick is still hanging out. The one I watched him jerk off. Then he put that hand on me…
My face flames, and I snarl at him. “Get out of the way.”
“Holli…” Oakley holds up both hands like I’m a wild animal. “Ky and I have been looking for—Wyatt took you?” Those eyes widen in fear. “Where is he?”
The fear on Oakley’s face triggers that primal desire to run. I eye the space between Oakley and the wall.
He holds his hands up. “Okay, it’s okay. Just give me a second to get dressed. Please, Holli, I’ve been so worried. If I’d known Wyatt–fuck.” He runs his hands through his hair, looking distressed. “You’re mad at me.”
I hiss, “I thought he took you too! But you’re here—” I wave a hand at the shower, indicating what he was just doing. And then my face gets hot.
Oakley stares at me for a second before, horrifyingly, his gaze softens. His pupils widen, and he reaches out toward me. “You were worried about me?”
I jerk back like he’s holding a hot branding iron. “No!”
“You came back for me.” Oakley is looking at me like I’m a novelty.
Like I sprouted wings right in front of him.
He shakes his head like a dog, then looks at me again like he can’t believe I’m here.
The intensity of his gaze plus his nakedness makes me feel an odd…
something. Something that Fourteen hates and Holli loves.
Something I need to get away from. And quickly, before I let it get me killed.