13. Mila
MILA
I never pictured my prison being an island in the middle of the Pacific. I also didn’t think it would smell like a mothball’s asshole, either.
Christian is nowhere to be found when I wake, and I’m grateful. After last night, I woke up this morning thinking, surely, I must have dreamed it all.
One look around the dusty cottage told me that was, unfortunately, not the case.
I’m sore, my ankle hurts, and I feel like I could sleep for a week.
When the skies outside brighten, I force myself to climb out of bed, nearly tripping over Christian’s Gerald the Giant sweatpants that have to be sixteen sizes too big for me in my attempt to make it downstairs.
Once I finally reach the bottom, I can hear the sound of the shower running in the bathroom, and my stomach dips to my toes at the thought.
Last night really happened.
Then, I find toast on a plate on the table with a jar of homemade strawberry jam beside it. The note beside the plate has one simple word, but it’s enough to bring tears to my eyes.
Eat.
Looking at that stupid jar of strawberry jam, my throat tightens.
It’s just a jar of jam, but it’s also so much more. He remembered. One simple conversation years ago, but somehow he knew. He may have kidnapped me, he may be plotting to use me for revenge, but there’s part of him that still cares, even if he won’t say it.
That’s not exactly a good thing.
I eat my toast in silence, surveying the small cottage interior. In another life, it would be cozy. The rough oak walls and the timbered floors. The stone fireplace with bits of sparkling rock glinting under years of soot.
Cobwebs hang from the corners, a fine layer of dust covering every surface. The décor is old and functional, but it holds a certain charm. Someone lived a life here. Maybe they built a life here.
I’m just finishing when a knock sounds at the door. My stomach drops, my hand paused with the last bite halfway to my mouth.
My first thought is that we’re on a deserted island and that whoever’s at the door must be a ghost coming to play a cruel joke on the strange new woman hiding out in its house.
My second thought is one of slight relief.
Christian said we would have visitors.
Maybe it’s the devil, come to drag me away from this island. Surely, hell would seem like a tropical vacation compared to spending eternity in Christian’s frosty presence.
I blow out a deep breath, rising from my chair, albeit shakily, because my ankle is still sore from biting it in the mud last night. A fact I refuse to tell Christian, no matter how painful it is, because fuck him.
Hobbling my way to the door, I pull it open, finding an older gentleman I don’t recognize and June standing on the cobbled front steps.
So, I didn’t dream it . . . June was helping Christian.
Traitor.
“Oh, hello,” the man greets, an underlying Irish accent cloaking his voice. “You must be Mila.”
I clear my throat, glancing nervously between them.
“Um . . . hello.”
“Oh, Rudy, she’s obviously terrified. Poor thing looks sickly.”
Okay, now that was rude.
June steps up in front of Rudy, her smile gentle despite her crude assessment.
“Hi, dear. I know I said my name was June, but I’m Paulina. I’m happy to see you made it okay.”
As if I had a choice.
“This is Rudy, the caretaker of this island and a good friend of mine.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Rudy says, holding out his hand. I don’t take it. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Paulina elbows him, and he drops it back to his side. It’s then I notice the cloth sacks behind them filled with groceries and toiletries.
“It’s okay,” Paulina says. “You don’t need to be afraid of us. We’re here to help.”
As the kidnappee in this situation, I’ve got to say, it’s pretty hard to believe her.
“’Bout time someone fixed this old heap up,” Rudy grumbles, looking up at the awning above him. “I’ve been waiting for the Pacific to wash this place away for years, but it refuses to die.”
“Stop it, you’ll scare her,” Paulina scolds, reaching out to pat my hand. Instinctively, I jump back.
“Careful,” a voice sounds behind me, and prickling awareness slips up the back of my neck. “That one bites.”
Oh, great. His royal asshole has arrived.
“Christian,” Paulina smiles.
I back up to move out of the way, unfortunately running right into the very naked, very wet chest of Christian.
I jump when I collide with him, my gaze latching onto the tattoo on his chest and the single water droplet that slips overtop the ink, all the way down to the towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips.
What do they call those lines in men’s hips? The ones that make women go feral?
When my gaze rakes over the hard lines of his abs, slipping up his chest and finally meeting his piercing stare trained on mine, my mouth runs dry.
“Put some clothes on,” Paulina orders, hauling her bags into the house and passing Christian like she sees well-defined six packs rippling with tattoos and water daily. “You’ll catch a cold.”
“It’s fifty degrees out,” Christian retorts, shutting the door behind Rudy when he enters and follows Paulina to the kitchen table. I keep my distance and try not to stare at his butt underneath the towel when he steps over to join them.
“All the more reason to get that roof fixed,” Rudy grunts, removing things from the bags. At least the cottage is outfitted with a fridge, even if it does look like it stepped right out of the nineteenth century. “Winter will be here before you know it.”
“The boy just got here, Rudy,” Paulina says, handing off items to Rudy to put away. “And judging by the state of that one, he’s been busy.”
Standing in a pair of Christian’s giant sweats and one of his T-shirts, cuts and bruises on my face, and a sprained ankle, I’m sure she’s right. I blush at her measurement of me, wrapping my arms around my chest as if I can shield myself from her meticulous gaze.
—And maybe hide the fact that my nipples are hard as diamonds.
Clearly, it doesn’t do much to help my case when all three people in the room lock eyes with me in my newfound rooted spot in the corner by the door.
“Oh, sweet thing, I’m sorry.” Paulina drops whatever she was holding and makes her way across the room, but I back up, stumbling into the wall on pure instinct. My heart ricochets in my chest, my throat threatening to close with her outstretched hands reaching for me.
I don’t know these people. In the last week, I’ve been stalked secretly, stalked openly, chased by a group of dangerous men, watched someone get run over by a killer Challenger, drugged and kidnapped.
Oh, and I fell in the mud and probably sprained my ankle because my psychopathic ex-boyfriend was chasing me.
How willing would you be to let some random woman— who , by the way, sold you out—pull you in for a hug?
“Look, I picked something out especially for you,” she says, reaching for a separate bag. She holds it out to me, but I can’t bring myself to take it. Not because I’m not grateful but because a sickening heaviness slips through my stomach that threatens to bring my toast back up.
Paulina must sense my unease because she concedes and pulls it out of the bag for me.
“Christian said you like books, so I picked up a couple I found at the store.”
Warmth pools behind my eyes at the cover of the book on top. The name scribbled in elegant writing at the bottom one I know all too well.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Paulina says softly, but I can’t take my eyes off my sister’s name on the front cover of a new book I hadn’t even realized she’d written. We used to sit and talk about her writing for hours, coming up with stories together, naming characters.
“Mila’s had a rough couple of days. Let’s give her some space,” Christian murmurs, his voice rising above the ones in my head telling me that I’m a worthless sister who missed the birth of her first nephew, book releases, my other sister’s new store opening, and countless other milestones.
Milestones I’ll never be able to get back.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice sounding small even to my own ears. I hate it. I force myself to unwrap my arms from around myself and take the books, which puts a smile on Paulina’s face. “I love reading,” I add, just because she brought me a nice gift, and here I am crying all over it.
“Of course, dear,” she says quietly, and there’s a heaviness in the room now that I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. “You just let me know when you’re done with those, and I’ll bring more.”
I give her a gentle nod, trying to inconspicuously clear my throat of the lump that’s formed there. Thankfully, Rudy saves me by launching into a list of things that need to be fixed around the island.
“And that boat. Get rid of it.”
“Oh, what’s he going to do with it, Rudy? It’s not like he can haul it off the island,” Paulina chimes, walking back over to the table.
“Sink the fucker.”
“Language,” she chides, and the two continue to remove items from their bags and place them on the table.
In the meantime, Christian meets my gaze, noticing me still attempting to become one with the oak paneling behind me.
He holds out his hand with a bottle of my favorite shampoo, and my stomach tightens.
Carefully and as silently as possible, as if I can avoid drawing attention to myself, I cross the small space between us, placing my books on the table and taking the shampoo.
I haven’t had good shampoo in ages.
And cue another thing I’m crying about because this psychopathic Mila-napper remembers things about me that even I can’t.
Christian and I stare at each other, and the air hums with electricity. Warmth settles deep in my stomach and makes my toes tingle.
Warmth that will undoubtedly only break my heart in the end.
Even so, it’s one small truce on a long list of the many fucked up problems between us.
—But it’s a start.
Christian retreats to the bedroom upstairs for a moment to put on some clothes while I hang back and put things in the fridge for Paulina when she hands them to me.
Thank God because my body was starting to get confused. For a moment, I was worried that I was actually enjoying the vision of Christian in nothing but a towel.
Then, he comes downstairs fully clothed in a pair of jeans that should be illegal on a butt as nice as his and a black T-shirt under a flannel, and I realize, with despair, that it wasn’t the towel at all. It’s just him.
Someone save me from myself.
“I’m having some things delivered within the next couple days,” Christian says, completely oblivious to the little X-rated film my mind is conjuring against my will staring him. “I’ll pick them up once we’re settled here.”
“Of course,” Paulina winks at me. “Just gives us another excuse to come out here.”
“One thing you don’t need is excuses,” Rudy grunts, but Paulina ignores him.
“It’s no trouble.”
“I’ll come in and get it. I don’t want you running back and forth for us. We’re just trying to get set up here.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Paulina says. “Rudy just wants to come out here and muck about. You know how old men get.”
“I’m not old. I’m age-challenged,” Rudy smirks, wagging his brows at me where I stand behind Christian’s shoulder. I don’t know why. Right now, he’s just the lesser of two evils.
Crazy person I know versus potentially crazy people I don’t .
“Well, why don’t we stay behind and help you get this place in order?”
“No, you’ve done enough,” Christian says, shaking his head. “I’ll clean the place up.”
“I can help.” My voice must be startling because everyone turns to stare at me at once. I hang back against the fridge, awareness slipping through me like an electric current.
Christian is the first to speak up, breaking the silence.
“Mila and I will clean up,” he corrects, nodding to the dry goods laid out on the table in front of him. “You two have done enough.”
On day one of my captivity, Christian and I barely speak, save for dinner when he pushes another bowl of beef stew in front of me and tells me to . . . “ eat ”.
On day two, I spend the day limping around while he’s off doing whatever it is he does when he’s avoiding me and cleaning what I can with my ankle still sore.
By day three, I’m in full cleaning mode and halfway through Bailey’s book, so I’m actually glad when he leaves.
The moments he’s here are tense, filled with silences my brain tells me to fill with useless words that my mouth won’t allow me to speak.
Neither of us has addressed the elephant in the room. The fact that he still hasn’t told me why I’m here, and I still haven’t told him why I shot him.
It’s a conversation I would rather not have, even though a part of me always knew it was inevitable.
How do you explain to someone that you didn’t want to hurt them? That doing so was the only way to save their life?
That watching the blood ooze out of the wound in his shoulder still haunts my nightmares?
That night weighs heavily on my mind while I scrub every nook and cranny of the cottage, down to the dead mouse under the bathroom sink and what I think was once a sac of potatoes that’s evolved into a self-sustained bundle of rotted roots.
I clean the cabinets and the fridge. I even take apart all the drawers and wash every dish. I scrub the rough floors on my hands and knees, and I manage to finagle two broomsticks taped together with ancient duct tape I find in the closet off the kitchen to get the ceiling.
By the time I’m finished, the place sparkles, and I’ve finished Bailey’s book.
Life would be great . . .
Except it’s not.
I clean because I have nothing else to do, so when I run out of cleaning, I start walking. I’m a walking conundrum, a fact that’s not lost on me in my stewing as I walk the entire island . . . twice.
Today is like any other day. Christian left early this morning, and he’s been hammering away at the roof since, replacing busted tiles on not only the cottage but the old lighthouse that stands proudly overlooking the jagged rocks below.
I’ll admit, a tiny sliver of me wishes him to fall, but then the instant guilt washing through me quickly dismisses the idea. As much as I want to, I can’t hate him. At least, not all of him.
He may have left me. He may have promised me the world and then broke my heart the moment I gave it to him. He may have even kidnapped me with the intent to exact revenge on a man who tried to buy me like a prized breeder pig at an auction.
He’s also the same man who remembered I would only eat toast with strawberry jam from a single conversation we’d had years ago and my favorite shampoo. The one who looked at my scars and didn’t let me see how disgusted they made him. Who washed me with as much care as you would a baby and then force-fed me his godawful beef stew.
“It’s not magic,” Christian calls from his spot, leaning against the broken-down fence post in the front of the cottage. I see he must be taking a break from being Bob the Builder . “No matter how many times you walk it, shit never changes.”
I throw him a finger over my shoulder, and even though my feet are tired, I start the trek again, just because he’s pissed me off.
He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath and returns to his hammering while I make my way back towards the trees.
Shipwreck Island is fully equipped with everything you’d ever need. Well . . . except for a way out. A barn sits overtop the cliffs, the center taken up by a massive boat that I’m betting is the one Rudy spent twenty minutes talking about how to sink the other day. The lighthouse is fully operational, but it’s no longer in commission. Why, I don’t know.
There’s another, smaller shop with every ancient tool you can think of and a cellar that looks like it stepped right out of The Shining off the house.
My favorite place, though, is the greenhouse.
It’s made of stained glass, green and shining in the sun. A few panes are missing, but otherwise, it’s in remarkably good shape for the rough weather of the island. Inside is filled with weeds, and though I’ve never been able to grow a single thing and have killed every plant I’ve ever come into contact with, I’d love to plant a garden of wildflowers inside and watch it grow.
I pass by it, though, because what’s the point in cleaning it out? It’s not like I’ll be staying here. Not permanently, anyway. Whatever Christian has in store for me, I doubt it lies in the greenhouse.
So, I walk.
And then I walk some more.
By the time I reach the other side of the island, I’m ready for a break, so I drop my ass on the rocks, looking out over the sea. If you squint really hard and cock your head at a forty-five-degree angle, you can just make out land.
If I grew a mermaid tail and bulked up the muscles of an Olympic diver, I might just be able to cross a quarter of the straight.
Something tells me that’s precisely why Christian picked this island. Close enough to get supplies out here.
Too far for me to be stupid enough to swim it.
Did I mention I hate him?
I blow out a breath, watching a leaf fall to the ground from above. It’s August, but fall will be approaching soon, so the leaves will start to fall.
Something tells me, if I were a leaf, I’d be the first to go.
Listening to the wind rustle, the leaves kick up around me, drifting out over the ledge. It’s the same ledge I almost tumbled over the other night, complete with jagged rocks and certain death below.
It takes me a solid few seconds to realize the leaves don’t stop rustling when the wind does, though.
I pause, ice slipping down my spine, and my first thought is to scream. Something tells me Christian wouldn’t let me get far enough away that he couldn’t hear me if I were in danger—collateral and all—but the moment I open my mouth to try, the sound gets caught in my throat.
I stumble back, catching myself before I make a grave mistake and plunge to my—well, grave.
“You’re not funny,” I snap, looking all around me for the source of the sound.
Who am I kidding? Unless a rogue seal made it up here, it has to be Christian. There’s no one else around.
But . . . seals are a lot louder than that, and whatever it is, it doesn’t stop.
“You don’t scare me, Christian.”
Okay, he actually is scaring me right now, but I’ll be damned if I let him know that.
“Damnit, asshole, get out here or leave me alone,” I bark, annoyance flaring in my chest.
Imagine my surprise when Christian barks back.
I pause, feeling both relief and despair when a thin, injured wolf hops out of the brush, holding his paw up and surveying me for danger.
He’s soaking wet, his wiry black fur matted and clumped with dead leaves. There’s white around his face, making him look like a ghost. He hunkers down as if he’s afraid I might hit him, his big brown eyes staring up at mine in fear.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, sinking to the moss-covered ground. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He gives a subtle wag of his tail and backs up when I inch closer. I stay low, holding out my palm for him to sniff.
“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”
His eyes tell me he doesn’t believe me, and I understand. I wouldn’t trust a random human, either.
“How did you get out here? Surely you didn’t swim all this way?”
I close the short distance between us, my knees wet through the material of Christian’s sweatpants, but I pay it no mind. Gently as I can, I reach out and stroke the top of his head, and though he jerks under my palm, he doesn’t run.
“You must be starving,” I whisper, petting his crusted fur. “And cold. “
I could take him back to the cabin, but there’s no guarantee Christian will let me keep him. If he finds a wild wolf, he’ll probably lay an egg. He’ll shoot him if he tries to bite either one of us, no matter how scared or hurt the poor dog is.
Sometimes, fear makes us do irrational things. I’m a living testament to that.
“Guess what Christian doesn’t know won’t hurt him . . .” I murmur, stroking the top of the dog’s head. “At least, I think.”
Standing, I dust off the front of the flannel coat Christian had made me wear before I left the house.
“Come on. I know somewhere you can be warm.”