“YouLordsof Chaossaid that anyone who could get to the dock was home free, right? That you let them go?”
He smiles unpleasantly. “No one ever has.”
“My friend - not those bitches who set me up - but my real friend got away,” I persist. “What happens to her?”
“You’re talking about that sweet little thing from Wales?”
Am I making this worse for her? “Yes. And she did get to the dock. You have to let her go.”
Checking his watch, he shrugs. “I suspect she’s still crouched in the boathouse, hoping you’ll come save her again. However, yes. She’ll be getting off the island in one piece.”
Part of me is calling bullshit. Are they really going to let her go now that she knows about this hellscape? He’s studying me again.
“You haven’t asked about yourself, little fox.”
Awkwardly climbing over the footboard to get some distance, I stretch with a groan. “Okay. What happens to me, monster?”
“Hmmm… monster. I like it.”
“If the claws fit…”
“You’re coming back to the main house with me. You will not speak unless I speak to you or give you permission. You will not eat or drink anything unless I give it to you. You will not talk about what happened last night if you want to live long enough to get off this island.”
Any illusion of humor or softness left in his expression is crushed by the polar chill now radiating from him.
“Do you understand, little fox? The only person here who would be punished for Deacon’s death is you.” His enormous hands clench into fists, and I wonder if he’s picturing snapping my neck like a glow stick. Suddenly, I’m hot and cold and there’s sweat making my sports bra stick to my skin.
“I can keep my mouth shut,” I say, proud that my voice isn’t shaking. “But when are you going to let me go?”
“The correct question isifI’ll let you go,” he says, apparently enjoying the sight of my wide eyes and pale face. “Be a good girl, and you’ll improve your odds. The others - the Lords and the hangers-on - will fuck with you. They’ll pretend to be your friend and offer to help. Theylovethe moment when all hope dies in their victim’s eyes.” His hand curls around the back of my neck and pulls me closer. “I’m the only one interested in keeping you safe.”
“Why isn’t that even remotely comforting?” I ask.
“I’m not here to soothe your fears, lass. Do what I say, and you’ll live.”
He doesn’t bother to put on a shirt, nor does he give me one for the walk back to the mansion. The moist morning air wraps around my bare arms, giving me goosebumps, while he strolls along as if he doesn’t feel such plebeian things as heat or cold. I notice that he’s not favoring his wounded leg at all. Either he heals abnormally quickly, or he doesn’t want the rest of the Lords to know he got hurt.
Smart man. An evil son of a bitch, but smart.
When the mansion looms into view, my steps slow. I can’t go back in there. The flat, feral shine in Brittany and Canary’s eyes, those sick fucks with their weapons and masks, it’s too much. I’m torn between wanting to set fire to this pretentious shit pile or run screaming from it.
“Move it,” he says impatiently, taking my arm and pulling me along.
“Wait.” I dig in my heels. “What’s your name? I have to call you something.”
Spinning his baseball bat with one hand, he glances at the house, then at me. “Call me Sir.”
Asshole.
Tightening his grip on my arm, he pulls me through the backyard, where several workers are trying to clean up the debris from last night. There’s a collection of bras floating in the pool, a couple of puddles of vomit, broken bottles, and four people snoring away on the lawn furniture in various states of undress.
When we step through the French doors, three of ‘Sir’s’ fellow psychopaths are there, lounging by the bar, day drinking.
“Another one bites the dust!” One of them cheers, offering ‘Sir’ the bottle of ouzo he’d been drinking from.
“No thanks, Enzo.” He pushes it back. “I’ve seen where your mouth has been.”
This Enzo creep doesn’t seem offended, sucking down a fourth of the bottle in one huge gulp. My throat burns just from watching it. “You caught one of the lost lambs,” he says, nodding in my direction. He’s got a heavy Italian accent and seems just as allergic to clothing as ‘Sir’ is, since he’s wearing nothing but a loose pair of basketball shorts, unless you count his tattoos.
