3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
London
D ay unknown
Sometime in December
This is my first entry since Maison died. I haven’t been able to write about it because that makes it real. Nigel killed him in cold blood, and now Micah has lost his twin. And I’ve lost a piece of Micah.
Micah took me away to an abandoned hunting cabin a few days ago. It’s small, quaint, and it’s been here for a long time. It’s half-broken, weather-beaten, and weary… kind of like us. The front door creaks and shutters in the wind, almost as if the place is alive and telling us to go away. Like we are disturbing its peace. I still don’t know exactly where we are, only that it’s a frozen wooded landscape and we are hidden within a denser part of it.
Almost like I’m a prisoner within it…
I understand why we left the others, why he can’t take care of them like he did before. I can see his guilt, shame, and grief, and it consumes him, even if he won’t admit it. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him than it is for me. He’s turning off his emotions. He’s so cold and distant about Maison dying, even if he’s warm with me. He will never understand how much I love him, yet it’s Maison who still brings me to the calmer part of my mind.
I’m scared… I’m scared to be alone out here—of who else is lurking out there, still alive, waiting in the shadows. And most of all, I’m terrified of who Micah is transforming into. I have to do everything I can to keep him with me, even if that means giving in to him entirely.
Life is a collection of moments, many of which are so mundane that you forget them. Like daily commuting, walking the dog, or in our case, fishing. It’s funny to me, looking back on my life, how little I actually remember. It’s the extreme moments that really etch themselves into my brain—my parents divorcing, fucking my teacher, and the plane crashing.
None of them I care to remember.
Now it’s the tiny moments I cling to because they are simply easier.
“London, focus on what I’m telling you. Quit gazing at the sky.”
My head whips up, and I wrap my arms around Micah’s waist. Leaning my head against his muscular back, I shove my hands into his pockets to warm myself as he stands near the edge of the water, over the tiny hole he dug through the ice with the knife.
There is only a minute during a sunset when you can catch a glimpse of the true beauty of the sky. The clouds are the pinkest, the sky is still a shade of blue, and the trees are silky black against it. I learned to take in these moments from Maison, so when I see the sunset at the peak of its beauty, I stop to take it in, no matter what I’m doing.
Sunrises and sunsets will always belong to Maison.
“I’m watching.” I stare at my icy breath, mesmerized by the sky and the memories the sunsets bring. I repeat his instructions back to him, “Loop the wire twice, hook the bait, and jig the wire while in the water to attract the fish.”
His body stills as if not believing me and knowing I was just repeating his words back to him like a parrot. I was listening, just not paying attention. And I am focusing… just not on what he wants me to.
He drops the wire and turns to face me. He frowns as he cups my cheeks in his hands. “We’re done; you’re freezing. Let’s go back. ”
I blow out a breath and stare at his amazing dark eyes blazing into me. “Micah, why? I’m listening.”
“No, you’re not, London. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to figure out where we are. And I told you; I’m not telling you. It’s better if you don’t know.”
Better for who?
North. He brought me north. I can tell by the position of the sun as it seems to sit farther away when I stare at the sunset. I want to ask him why he won’t tell me, but I don’t dare. His temperament is so fragile—just as fragile as my physical state. Earlier, we walked for about five minutes till we hit the stream… I suspect that if I follow the stream south, I will find our camp. From there, it’s twenty minutes to the lake site where Maison died, a place I never want to set foot in again.
It warmed up today. And by warming up, I mean it went from unbearable to slightly bearable, almost balmy, and Micah wanted to teach me how to ice fish. The sun came out after days of dreary gray, and now the frozen landscape is blinding white. So I bundled up with four layers and followed him outside. It’s the first time I’ve left the hunting cabin in the eight days we’ve been here, but if he hadn’t allowed it, I was going to go crazy.
I’ve been keeping track of the number of days—even in my state. I’ve etched a mark on the wall by our bed every day. This morning, I carved my eighth line. Micah got sick of my huffing and moaning, and I kept reading my book out loud, forcing him to listen. He busied himself with his wood carving, but he was listening, even if he was pretending that he wasn’t.
The line pulls, which distracts him, and my body relaxes as he jumps into action. I love watching him work, watching him move, watching him exist.
He’s been waiting patiently for an hour, pulling on the line in various ways, trying to attract the fish with the bit of bait we have hooked on the end of it. “Come on, London. We’re doing this so you can learn, then we can go warm up. We need food, baby. And you need to learn to do these things in case I’m not with you one day. ”
I break into a cold sweat and close my eyes, refusing to respond. He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him, raising his eyebrows and jerking his head toward the line in his hand. “Grab this and tug like I showed you.”
“Okay,” I whisper, resigning myself to following his instructions. My fingers are frozen, so he wraps his hands around them to keep them warm.
He looms over me, pressing himself against me as my gaze keeps darting toward the sunset and the forest beyond. “Focus on me, baby. Don’t worry about what’s out there. Turn off what’s going on in that little head of yours and do what I say,” he whispers, and I lean my head into his chest, exposing my neck to him.
He’s controlling, and I’m starting to like it. He enjoys telling me what to do, and I enjoy listening to him. The praise he gives me makes my heart swell, as it has from the beginning—even when I was in denial about it. And right now, that’s much easier for me because his happiness keeps me alive and losing myself in him is effortless. Just by existing, he makes me feel safe, so I’m willing to do anything for him. This island terrifies me now more than it ever has.
“Take this line; do it quick before the fish gets away,” he says as I pull my hands from his warmth and grab the line. He rests one hand on my hip and the other over my bandaged hand to make sure I don’t use it.
Not that I would, considering I can barely move it—it’s hideous, deformed, and bruised. The bones are cracked and in pieces beneath the skin, and the throbbing pain is relentless.
“Pull it up slowly.” His breath tickles the hairs on my neck as I yank the line up too quickly for his liking. “It takes finesse; don’t be such a brute,” he teases. I smile and let him pull on my hand, following his lead, moving slowly and keeping my focus steady, and enjoying this softer side of him.
My breath stalls as he presses himself against me in the way I love, making me feel small and insignificant beneath him as if he can protect me from this island by merely covering me. His lips tease my neck, giving me what my body has been craving from him all day.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers. I nearly crumble at those words as I twist to face him, pressing my lips to his before he can stop me.
I woke up crying today, as I have every morning since we arrived—the mornings are always the hardest for me. I was shaking from the cold that had seeped into my bones, as if my blood itself was freezing despite Micah making the lodge as comfortable as he could while preserving our limited fuel supply. He didn’t speak as he held me and let me grieve. He didn’t tell me it would be okay or kiss me like he usually does because he sensed I wasn’t crying over him.
The line pulls easily enough, and a small gray fish is tethered on the other end when I finally get it through the hole in the ice. He leans down and grabs the slimy, wiggly fish, severing its neck with his bone weapon and killing it. He then leans into the water and washes his hands.
With his attention entirely focused elsewhere, I place my hands on his back, turn him to face me, and bite my bottom lip. I might have been crying over Maison earlier, but Micah has all my attention now.
He holds my gaze for a moment, his eyes flashing, looking… haunted. The pain is so evident in them. He wants this. He wants to give in to me, but after our first night here—when he bruised me—he hasn’t touched me again. He keeps saying I’m too weak, too helpless, and that I need my strength back before we do anything again. So all that sucking for what? Giving me that dark bruise just to treat me like glass for three days.
He gives me a weak smile and merely shakes his head. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not happening,” he says as he grabs the fish, rejecting me once again. Sometimes, I believe he’s punishing me for something.
I lock myself in place, refusing to move a single step as he calls over his shoulder, “Come on, London.”
I reach down and grab a handful of snow, much softer than the rock I once hurled at him. It forms in my fist, and I throw the ice at him, snickering when it explodes on his back.
He turns to face me and tilts his head. A silent, icy pause as he looks at my guilty hand, still dripping wet with ice crystals on it. He cocks a brow, and my heart jolts at the dark gaze he gives me, knowing I’m fucked.
He drops the fish into the snow. “Oh, you did not just do that.”
I drop to my knees, curling on the ground, giggling, as he closes the distance between us. Leaning down and cupping snow in his hands, he’s on me in a second, his face full of smiles.
“You think you’re so tough, sweetheart?” He reaches down and pulls me into his arms. I grab more snow and press it into his face, taking him by surprise.
“Yeah, you are tough, aren’t you?” He coughs and wipes the snow from his eyes, then tickles my sides as he grabs some snow and rubs it up my back before stuffing some into the waistband of my pants.
“Micah, stop.” I laugh as his fingers tease me relentlessly. I’m so ticklish that I’m quickly out of breath, but mainly, I’m happy I was able to get a rise out of him. I haven’t giggled like this since being on the island… or ever, really. It’s been a week of sitting in near silence, grieving—even if we’re not admitting that’s what we were doing. It’s nice to laugh, even for a moment.
And he smiled. I saw it. It’s something I so rarely get to see from him.
He gives me no choice now; he picks me up and carries me home. “Now we’re both frozen,” he mutters. His face is growing hard again, but I can tell by the way he’s carrying me that he’s loosened up a bit. The sticky snow is stuck to my clothes, wetness dripping down my skin. I’m so frozen that I have no sensation in my fingers. There is still a hint of a small smile on his lips as I wrap my hands around his neck to warm myself up and let him carry me, keeping a big smirk on my face.
“Yeah, keep laughing,” he teases, trudging through a thicker part of the snowbank, and I decide now is a good time to nibble on his earlobe as he tries to keep us balanced. I still marvel at how strong he is.
Once inside, we shake off the snow from our shoes and clothing, and Micah immediately plops me onto the bed, signaling for me to stay put. He then fires up the wood heater and gets to work, popping in and out of the cabin and tending to the fish. I shed my wet clothes, throw on one of his oversized T-shirts, and pull the wolf blanket over me to warm up. Lying curled up in my spot, I watch him as he heads outside to gut the fish.
I’m strictly forbidden from leaving the cabin without his permission… He’s made it perfectly clear I am not to cross that boundary under any circumstances.
I don’t dare disobey him…
He comes back in and cleans his hands, then works in the kitchen area in his sexy sweatpants, his arm muscles rippling even when he isn’t trying to flex. I admire the long, smooth lines of his body.
Tired, I rest my head, unravel the bandage on my hand, and try to wiggle my fingers. I wince at the burning sensation shooting up my wrist and into my arm.
Nigel really did a number on me. Micah promises he will get my hand back to normal, but I don’t see how that’s possible. The bones were shattered, and I will probably never have proper use of my hand again.
Micah steps to the side of the bed and crouches, giving me a few bites of fish. It’s very unlike him to spoon-feed me, but then again, he hasn’t been himself since Maison died. Subtle things, but some big ones, like how much he dotes on me now. Almost as if he’s emulating his brother… giving me what he thinks I want in this moment. But in actuality, I need him more than anything—the version he gave me the first night we were at this cabin. Right now, I want more of that version.
But I’ll take the sweet side of Micah if that’s the side he wants to show me right now. I’ll let him do whatever he wants, as long as he heals and I don’t lose him to the darkness that lingers so close to the surface.
He runs his fingers along my shattered hand. “Ball your fist for me, London. ”
I can move my fingers, but squeezing my hand is excruciating. “I can’t…”
“Do it, baby, please. You’ll lose the ability to use your hand if you don’t try.”
My hand shakes as I try my best to squeeze it, but it’s literally impossible. Tears threaten to fall from my eyes as he takes me in, watching my wincing face rather than the hand he’s trying to rehabilitate.
His eyes are etched in concern as he shakes his head. “It needs more time. You have to rest it. Which means you have to rest more.”
Another reason why he won’t touch me.
I bite my lip to shake off the tears, both from the pain and the overwhelming sense of longing for someone so close. He checks the wound on my hip while I run my good hand through his hair, playing with it and tugging it. “I’m healing, Micah. I promise you that I’m not going anywhere.” My lungs tighten, which happens anytime I think about him leaving, or me leaving, or about either of us dying.
But I’m better, almost back to whatever normal is these days, and I want his hands on me. I daydream about it when I’m not shaking during my nightmares.
I shift beneath him, pulling my shirt up, and bare everything to him.
“London,” he warns, but he can’t take his eyes off me. I’m tired of waiting for him; I reject the notion that I should feel guilty for desiring happiness amidst my sorrow. I need to take in the pain I see in his eyes and absorb it into me. I shift my hips, spreading my legs for him, splaying myself out like a platter.
The bruise he gave me the other night is now yellow. He’s staring at it and furrowing his brows, as if regretting giving it to me to begin with and fighting some internal battle while I run my finger over it.
“Is this what you need?” I ask curiously, intertwining his fingers with mine over the sensitive spot. The pressure on it hurts. It hurt a lot while he was giving it to me, but I didn’t hate it .
I forgot everything else—my hurt, anger, suffering—my mind occupied with how hard he was sucking. I didn’t realize at first that he was punishing me as I enjoyed the sensation of his soft lips on my body since he’s held back so much with me.
He tilts his head as if considering. His lips part, and his dark eyes are back to their regular brooding expression. I bite my tongue before saying what I want to say, bringing up Maison again. That’s what will make him snap and let out all his pent-up emotions. Otherwise, he seems too content, nothing like a person who just lost his twin should appear.
I swallow a lump in my throat. How do I ask for this? How do I articulate that I want him to bruise me? To hurt me?
I’m fucked up even thinking about it.
He licks his lips like a dog about to devour a bone. He pulls off his shirt, his muscles rippling, and he looks as sexy as ever. The long strands of his hair are tousled and fall over his eyes, the shadows dancing behind him making him glow. He’s always been ethereal to me, but right now, he looks like a god. Deadly.
I run my hand down his cheek. “Please, Micah. You want to do this to me, don’t you? You want to hurt me?”
Still, he does nothing, just stares at my skin. The vein in his neck pulses, his pupils dilating, the demons fighting within him.
Suddenly ashamed of begging, I pull my wolf blanket over me, dragging my eyes away from him, blocking any further view of my body as a draft blows through the door. I purse my lips, my body shaking as he sits in silence.
I flinch away from him. “Why won’t you? Is it because you think I’m going to die or something? Or do you believe I still love him more than you?”
He scoffs, flexing his jaw.
“What the fuck is it?” I snap at him.
His dark eyes flicker dangerously, all signs of playfulness gone, replaced by the dark, cold stare I’m used to. He flexes his jaw as he beholds me in the way he used to when he hated me—or when he wanted to tear my clothes off .
His voice comes out dark and dangerous, the intensity making my insides weep. “I told you. When I start, I won’t stop. I’ll hurt you, London, and I’ll fucking enjoy it. Trust me, sweetheart, it’s not what you want.”
I hold his heavy stare, my heart a pitter-pattering mess. Gathering every ounce of courage, I finally ask, “Why won’t you talk about him?”
This garners a reaction. He can’t hide the pain in his face as he rips the blanket off me and leans over me menacingly. “I don’t want to talk about him, London.”
Maison said those same words to me once…
My legs instinctively wrap around him. I can tell how hard he is; I can feel him. Apparently, Maison is the only topic that will get him into the headspace I need him to be in so I can have the physical side of him I want so desperately.
“Please,” I whisper, so hungry for him that my skin is burning.
He pulls up, looking at me as his dark pupils flare. “Do that again.”
My eyebrows draw together. “Do what?”
“Beg.”
My stomach swirls, and I can’t help but smile. “Please,” I whisper, running my fingers through his hair again. “Please. Please. Please.”
For someone so strong, his ego really is so fragile.
He presses his lips to my belly this time. “Are you sure?” he whispers. “It’s going to hurt.”
My breath hitches, and I give him a nod of consent, although I’m not sure exactly what I’m consenting to.
He starts sucking right near my belly button. I let out a moan as he scrapes his teeth down my stomach. I’m so thin that I barely have any fat for him to suck, but that doesn’t seem to stop him.
His lips tickle me at first, and I flinch when he bites me, puncturing my skin only slightly. He hesitates, looking up at me, so I buck into his torso, his contact making me desperate for more attention to release the deep pressure between my legs .
“Keep going,” I breathe.
He intensifies the pressure, then eases off. And during that moment of respite, I grab his fingers and place them on the sensitive part of my clit. He sucks harder, and I moan as the pressure mounts and an orgasm rolls through me. I can’t help but dig my fingers into his back. Instead of stopping, he just moves to another spot, and I let him, knowing he’ll give me another awful bruise, but that’s what he needs.
By the time he’s done, I have bruises on my belly, each hip bone, and one on my inner thigh. Each time, it gets progressively more painful, but my orgasms more intense. His fingers are deep inside me, pleasuring me during the worst part of it, blurring the line between pleasure and pain.
He’s so focused on me while he’s doing it. It’s just us, the deafening silence of the woods that besieges us, and the creaking door of the cabin reminding me that I am, indeed, still on earth.
I am breathless and glistening with sweat when he finally gives me relief. I have no idea how long he was doing that, but the sun is now setting. I guess it doesn’t matter because time as I understand it doesn’t exist.
Our eyes connect, and I smile at him. He didn’t speak the entire time, but he seems lighter now, even if I can’t properly breathe. The fact that I’m the reason for it makes my heart burst. “Do that again, too,” he says, cupping his skilled hands over each breast. His hands feel like silk as he rubs them over me.
I suck in a breath, my body on fire. I lean up to see him, to understand the look in his eyes. “Do what? What do you want me to do?”
He licks his bottom lip. “Smile. I want you to smile, baby.”
A big grin spreads over my face. He really has no idea how happy he makes me. Even in this impossible situation, I’m exactly where I belong.
He continues kissing my stomach, moving his way to my breasts, taking his time kissing every inch of them with his skilled tongue. He’s soft now, only giving me pleasure as an icy breeze pushes in a draft that painfully hardens each nipple. I giggle as he captures one between his teeth.
A smile tugs at his lips. “Fuck, I love you,” he says, and I melt. If those words were the last I ever heard, I would die in peace.
I remember the moment I first saw him, the explosions in my belly in the lunchroom at school. Which, at this point, seems like a lifetime ago, even though it was only in August. The explosions I have now are from enjoying the pain—his pain—as I pull it into me.
My eyes roam over to the window as large snowflakes drift to the ground like on a holiday card.
“Micah?” I whisper as the evening settles, the sharp wind outside subsiding and the snow blanketing the world around us.
“London,” he murmurs, not really listening.
“Who was Olivia to you? Please tell me now. All of it.”
He pauses his kisses, and I wince, worrying he might stop entirely. He doesn’t; he continues worshiping me. “She was a fuck. I needed a release, so Maison let me screw her pretending I was him. She suspected what we were doing and blackmailed me to keep fucking her. So I did, until shit turned ugly, and well… you know the rest.”
There you have it: a pointed explanation after months of half-truths and lies and years of deceit. He just lays it all out like it’s no big deal. I suppress my jealousy, the stinging twinge in my belly, considering the possibility he enjoyed having sex with her more than he does with me. I’m sick of being jealous of a ghost.
She doesn’t matter anymore.
“What about Naomi? Who was she to you?”
A beat of silence this time, and his body goes rigid. A response I dislike but don’t show. “She was a mediocre fuck,” he says. “And I screwed her for the same reasons I did Olivia.”
I burst out laughing, even though I don’t want to laugh about Naomi and Micah, or any blonde for that matter. Watching them together for those few weeks on the island never sat right with me, even before I fell in love with him. Naomi always seemed like a cardboard cut-out, like she was just a shell of a person.
Micah manages a small smile as I meet his eyes, and I stop laughing. He pokes at my ribs, making me squirm. “Naomi was never anything to me,” he reassures me. “But I do feel bad for how I treated her. I was nothing but a bad habit for her, and I fed her addiction every time it suited me.”
This makes my stomach fill with acid.
“And what about me? Who am I to you?” I ask, pressing my lips together as heat rises to my face. I move his tousled dark hair out of his eyes so I can truly see them.
He says he loves me, but sometimes I wonder if it’s the forced proximity. Like, maybe, if we were never in this scenario, he would have continued ignoring me at school. I would have graduated, he would have gone off to do whatever it was he was meant to do, and I would have never seen him again. I hate having that vile thought when I feel like he is my soulmate. And there was a high likelihood we never would have found each other.
He lowers his lips to mine and kisses me, soft and sensual. “You are fucking precious to me, and you’re mine in a way they never were. You’re my cure, London. Is that what you want to hear?”
All the tension in my body releases, but I still dig my nails into his back. “It is what I want to hear,” I mutter, “but I want you to mean it.”
He keeps his laser-focused eyes on me. “Words are hollow, sweetheart.”
My breath becomes jagged, my eyes mischievous. I’m nowhere near done, and we have all the time in the world. “Well, show me, then, Micah,” I tease.
He pulls off me and nudges me up to my knees, pulling out his cock, which has been fully erect since he started sucking on my stomach. He wraps his hand around the back of my head, sliding his fingers through my hair, and gently pulls me to his muscled body.
“No, baby,” he grips me harder, “you are going to show me. Are you sure you’re ready for me, London? ”
I open my eyes wide and give him a nod as heat pools in the innermost parts of me. This is what I live for now, making Micah happy. I’m blindly in love with him, even though he isn’t stable. He’s been through too much to ever be normal. And it excites me to experience him this way. My body, heart, and soul are completely at his mercy.
It helps me forget, too.
He arches both eyebrows and gazes down at me, and the predatory expression sends shivers down my spine. “Now, open your mouth, sweetheart, and suck.”