I nod anyway.
Because nodding is safer than asking why. Because nodding keeps his hands off me for a few more minutes.
The drive takes us away from the water.
That’s how I know this isn’t for pleasure. This is a funeral procession.
The road narrows as we leave the manicured resort behind, the scenery changing almost immediately—less glass, less white stone, more green. Dense. Uncontrolled. The jungle presses closer here, branches leaning over the road like they’re listening, roots cracking through old concrete, vines strangling rusted signs written in a language I don’t understand.
The air changes too.
Heavier. Damp. Alive.
I roll the window down despite the heat, needing to feel something real against my skin, even if it burns. The scent hits me instantly—earth, decay, sweetness gone sour. Rot hidden beneath growth.
Kai would love this, a traitorous, filthy voice in my head whispers. He’d thrive in this rot. He’d hide in this dark and wait for the blood to spill.
The thought makes my fingers curl in my lap. I can almost feel his breath on my neck, hot and ruined.
Noah glances at me, his eyes cold.
“Close the window,” he says. “You’ll ruin your hair.”
I obey. I always fucking obey.
The car keeps moving, deeper into the throat of the island.
“This island wasn’t always a playground,” he continues, tone conversational, as if we’re discussing wine instead of the theft of a world. “Before investors. Before resorts. Before people like us decided it had potential.”
People like us. Predators.
“There were villages here,” he says. “Families. Traditions. Superstitions.” A faint, ugly smile curves his mouth. “Most of them were relocated. Progress is never painless.”
My throat tightens.
“What happened to them?” I ask.
He shrugs, the indifference of it more violent than a slap. “Some adapted. Some didn’t.” His eyes flick to mine, sharp as a razor. “That’s how the world works, Scarlett. You either bend until you’re broken, or you just… break.”
The jungle thickens, a wall of emerald madness.
The road dips.
And something cold slides down my spine—a physical chill in the humid heat—because I know this isn’t a lesson about the island.
It’s a warning about what he’s going to do to me if I don’t submit.
The market sits in a hollow between hills, half-swallowed by trees.
It’s nothing like the curated stalls near the resort. This place hums with noise and heat and bodies packed too close together, voices overlapping, music blaring from battered speakers, the air thick with smoke, spice, and the heavy, metallic scent of sweat. Bright fabrics hang from wooden frames like flayed skin, jewellery glinting dully in the shade, carved masks staring out with hollow, mocking eyes.
I step out of the car and the ground feels uneven beneath my sandals.
Unstable. Like a grave that hasn’t settled.
Noah’s hand finds the small of my back instantly.
Possessive. Guiding. Claiming. His fingers dig into my spine, a silent reminder that I am an object he bought and paid for.
