5. Sawyer
SAWYER
Iwish I’d seen her eyes before she woke up.
A slice of surveillance footage, a secondhand description, a picture—even taken from afar, even in black and white—anything to prepare me for the lightest shade of blue I’ve ever seen.
So pale that when she stood in the bright sunlight on the hilltop overlooking this unicorn fart of a ‘communal living center,’ they appeared red.
Every time I look at her now, I’m caught off guard.
It’s unsettling.
And her hair… I knew it was blonde bordering on white, but I assumed it was dyed. It isn’t. The only color this woman has is in her rosy cheeks, and even those are hard earned from the run.
I wanted to know why they picked this girl. Now, I understand. Her home life, her career, and her past are irrelevant. She’s an angel that crossed the path of a demon. They want her.
I can’t blame them.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, raising my cheeks with what she’ll interpret as concern. I think. Any other woman, I’d be sure, but this one… I don’t know. Maybe it’s the eyes that are throwing me, making me paranoid, every glance a look inside my mind—fuck maybe my soul.
It’s the eyes. Just the eyes.
The girl peeks over at Thorne raging in the doorway.
He’s pissed to be helping me, but he’ll be glad to know I won’t ask him to again.
He’s supposed to appear sick and twisted, a stark contrast to the kind stranger trying to help the new girl.
But he can’t get over his annoyance enough to do his job.
Every time he speaks, I try not to cringe at how scripted he sounds.
Startling eyes move back to me, but she doesn’t ask why I’m sorry or what’s about to happen to her. I wonder if she already knows.
“I need you to lie down, Luna.”
Her jaw loosens as she sucks in a breath, and it takes everything not to zero in on her bottom lip, soft pink with a strip of red splitting the left side. Like someone hit her—Thorne, I assume.
This is not my island, and she is not mine, but my acting must have bled inward because I feel a twinge of jealousy, a possessiveness seeping from my chest. Inappropriate, uncalled for, but present.
“What?” she asks in the sweetest voice. So scared. So uncertain.
“On the bed.” I nod toward the mattress while frowning so deeply I’m pretty sure I’m overdoing it. I let the corner of my mouth lift a few degrees and wait for her to move.
Predictably, she looks at the doorway that Thorne is blocking. She seeks out the window next, but we’re on the third floor. Too high to jump.
“S-Sawyer.” Her voice is just a soft plea. I’m not even sure Thorne can hear it, but I hope he does. He’s supposed to be pushing this.
I turn to stare at him, arranging my face into something sad while my eyes sharpen with frustration. If I could snap my fingers at him, I would.
He clears his throat like this is harder for him than it is for her. Fucking pussy.
“I don’t have all day, Sawyer. Let’s go.”
“Just give her a little time. A day. Hell, an hour… Please.”
“Now.” His lip curls as his fists clench. “Unless you want me to do it.” He grinds the words out. Like he’d be angry to get to fuck the angel in front of me.
Goddamn it, Thorne, at least try to look like a pervert.
I turn back to the girl with my mouth open like there are so many words I want to say, but I just can’t bring myself to. I don’t apologize again. She needs to believe we’re in this together, that I’m just as much of a victim as she is. Shared trauma is such a powerful bonding agent.
“Fine,” Thorne says, stepping toward the bed.
“No,” the girl squeaks, her wide eyes flying to him, then to me, like she wants me to step in and save her. Not even if I were playing Hercules could I take on The Huge Engine That Couldn’t over there.
She scrambles beneath the comforter, rustling the fluffed material. When her eyes are clenched shut, I shoo Thorne back with a few flicks of my wrist. Jaw clenched, he resumes his position by the door.
The girl’s hands clutching the bedspread pry free when I lift the material to crawl underneath. She scoots over to make room for me—or to run from me—but freezes when I cup her shoulder, muscles winding beneath my palm as her chest stops mid-rise.
I settle on top of her and try to ignore the vanilla that rises to my nose, the bitter edge of pine, dirt, and brush somehow complementing her natural scent. Filthy. Pulse spiking. Alluring in the most primal way.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, my fingers gliding up flushed skin to cup her cheek. Her frightened eyes open to peer at me like a doe staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
It’s normal to be afraid. Women I spent months cultivating trust with were afraid the first few days after being brought to the island. I’ve mastered the art of a gentle touch, but for the very first time, my reluctance is real.
I don’t know why I find her eyes so unsettling, but as they peer into mine, it’s like the girl sees through all of this.
“Close your eyes,” I whisper, pushing what’s left of my conscience to the side.
Her throat contracts as she swallows. She doesn’t obey the command, instead moving her gaze to Thorne. It’s a little disappointing but good to get a grasp on the difficulty she’ll bring.
“He won’t hurt you,” I whisper. “He just needs to see that you’re going to let me train you. If you don’t submit, I can’t help you.”
Her breath stutters. “What are you talking about?”
“Trust me, Luna,” I say—plead. I can see the reluctance in her eyes, reluctance that’s going to be such a pain in the ass.
I really wish I could’ve picked the girl.
When I go to lift her sweater, she snatches my wrist. I pause—Don’t push, Don’t force. Just wait. Let the situation play out in her mind.
Two men. One a WWE-looking barbarian and one a self-sacrificing guy risking his life just to protect her from cruelty. It should be an easy choice.
Her eyelids flutter closed as she releases my wrist, palms latching to the bedsheets. The first of many wins.
Her bottom lip trembles—a tremor so subtle, so vulnerable, it sweetens the bloodied slit like liquid taffy. I dip my head with a kiss that’s merely an excuse to taste her, my tongue slipping over the cut, copper candy spreading warmth through my mouth, my throat, my lungs.
She doesn’t kiss me back. Instead, her mouth pinches shut, plump lips shrinking as she rolls them in. But her hands never let go of the bedsheet—no slap comes to my cheek—so it’s still a win. A big one.
Pushing it another step, I mold my hand beside her breast and slide it down her side, fingertips digging more than trailing, my touch no longer quite as gentle.
I watch. Wait. Expect her to grab my wrist. But she doesn’t move even as my palm travels the curve of her hip.
I slip my hand beneath her sweater, drag my fuck-you finger along her waistline.
I’m not naive enough to believe it’s acceptance that holds her still.
It’s intelligence. Instincts sharpened like a blade, a calculating mind mapping out the path of least resistanc, and to be frank, if this were my island, I would throw her away immediately.
Instincts are dangerous. Intelligence is lethal.
But this isn’t my island. And a part of me, a small but meaningful part, is excited for the challenge.
As my lips move down her neck, I pop the button on her jeans. Blood surges into my cock at the sound of her zipper—the response automatic, uncontrollable, no better than Pavlov’s dogs salivating at the ring of a bell.
I shift so my erection isn’t so fucking obvious pressed against her thigh, but I seriously doubt she’s unaware. She’s too smart, too observant for that. She knows I’m enjoying this. She’s aware we aren’t ranking the same on the victim scale.
And I almost, almost let this be enough to yank down our pants, grip the back of her neck and get this initial interaction over with.
Rip off the bandaid so we can move on, release the sexual tension before it has a chance to fester.
Trauma today makes the struggles of tomorrow easier, as my old man always said (not really, but might as well have).
But that’s my dick talking. I’m not a Neanderthal.
Abandoning her pants for the time being, I pull the girl’s sweater up to her bra and run my hand over the hills on her stomach. Hills, not creases.
Breaking away from her neck, I look down at abs—as defined as a female boxer’s, as defined as a man’s.
Wow.
Gymnast?
I shift lower, kissing down her chest until my lips find the first lump, my tongue exploring the crease.
Unsure if I like it; unsure if it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever licked or an affront to my masculinity.
It’s weirdly hot and also distracting, my head flipping through possible scenarios to explain it—gymnast, dancer, boxer (fuck, I hope not), certainly an athlete.
When her hips shift with discomfort, I move down her stomach. Going slow—impossibly slow. I trail a path to her waistline, blow a breath onto her icy skin. She shivers.
Her obedience stops when I go to shimmy her pants down her rigid legs.
She grips both my hands and clambers from beneath me, working her way to sitting.
When I pull the blanket off, she shakes her head.
“No. No.” She shoves me away while yanking her legs up.
“This is crazy. You people are crazy!” she yells at Thorne. “I’m not doing this.”
“Luna…” I frown. Think. Work through the right, calming words to say. But she isn’t naive enough for a typical line, or for any line that comes to mind. There’s no lie that would soothe her. Truth would only deepen the ache.
You’re a sex slave. You’ve got three weeks to convince these lunatics that you’re going to play nice. Or you’ll die.
Your call. Survive or don’t.
The thing everyone learns but nobody admits is that honesty is often cruel.
Thorne finally, finally takes the cue to bring me the handcuffs I told him to tuck into his pocket. He tosses them on the bed next to me—no plans to take the initiative—while Luna shakes her head and crawls away.