Page 3 of Redemption Island

I’m not going to hurt you.

The words rang in his head, drowning out the water rushing around him, lapping at his waist as he stood in the ocean. He rubbed harder, faster, jerking at his erection with the memory of those eyes under his. That flickering moment where she believed he wouldn’t hurt her or hoped he wouldn’t. That thin sliver of trust that he might have missed had he not been so intently drawn to her eyes.

He remembered his mouth coming down to her lips. Lips that trembled under his. She tried to twist her head, but his fingers gripped her chin.

Just one.

He asked her, although he was firmly in a position to take what he wanted. He’d always taken what he wanted, but for some reason, he waited. Hesitated. Hopeful. One time, he wished to receive something not asked for, not stolen, not assumed. Entitled. The word roared through his head. He’d been entitled to have what he wanted and just once he wanted to be caught off guard. He wanted to be given permission, instead of expecting it.

He looked at the top of the mountain island, a shadow in a presently clouding sky. The weight of his sin pressed down on him, like the knowing-eye of that peak, like the heaviness of his dick in his palm. He drew in a deep breath, nearly shaking with the need for release. A tropical breeze lashed out at him, forcing the water to swirl around him. He inhaled the thick fragrance, committing it to memory, just like his transgression. He’d forever equate that scent with the image of her springing upward from the water.

With that thought, milky substance burst forth, mixing with the salty liquid surrounding him, washing him internally clean of desire and externally of his sweaty memory. He had to have imagined her, he reasoned. His head hung forward, relief at the release. His legs quivered under the water, toes digging into the sandy bottom to reinforce his balance.

If fear was an emotion he recognized, he’d worry. He’d never worried about being caught. There was no repercussion, until recent events. He didn’t acknowledge fear, not in the face of this island. The only thing that frightened him was the displeasure of his father, and even that was no longer a concern. He’d never live up to Terror Corbin, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to any longer. The sensation he felt standing in the waist-deep ocean was slightly different. Like one drop of blood within five miles of a hungry shark, he sensed something out there drawn to him. Something dangerous. His body hummed, his dick growing hard again. He looked up at the range, the tip disappearing into the clouds. The jagged cap penetrated the downy mist, blending them as one. Sensing a storm coming, he felt the ominous weight of eyes watching him, and he jerked off again.

4

Day 7 - Juliet

How could he be here? I screamed in my head, as I hastily raced for my clothing. I didn’t bother dressing. Clutching my shorts and T-shirt to my chest, I hustled through the thick brush, as if escaping Eden. I turned back occasionally, confident he hadn’t followed me, but concerned enough to question my sanity. Did I imagine him? Please let that be the case, I prayed.

But my fear held strongly to the belief that he had not been a mirage. He was very much real and stood solidly in the flesh. And he was on this island. I clambered up the rope rungs of my tree house ladder, tripping once or twice in my naked haste. I reached the landing and roughly pulled the collapsible ladder upward. On more than one occasion, I was grateful for the solid structure that would be my home for a year.

One stipulation of my confinement was a stable edifice to live in, not a flimsy tent. The tree house was roughly one story off the ground and built like a small fortress. A porch circled the structure, centered by a bulky tree trunk. Built like the marital bed of Penelope and Odysseus, my housing surrounded the hefty trunk, allowing me a solid roof over my head and firm flooring under my feet. Not to mention, protection by its height in the trees.

With the ladder raised, I fell to the porch, wincing as I collapsed on my naked butt. My heart raced faster than the winds of a hurricane. My breaths came ragged and hurried.

Why? I cursed. Why would you do this to me?

My first thought was my uncle—a man who despised the fact he inherited me and not financial compensation with the death of my parents. My parents were not rich by any means, and Uncle Forrest was the black sheep, a distant cousin, considered my only living relative when I was thirteen. He would have enjoyed the seclusion of me on this island. He’d tried to lose me often enough in the forests surrounding his trailer in the middle of Nowheresville, Alabama. The fact I went to him as a young teenager was a shock to both of us. I hadn’t known he existed until I set foot on his metal doorstep. Too sleek for a trailer park, his slicked-back, black hair, trim goatee, and jet-black eyes tortured me.

“The Lord has punished me,” he cursed once the Department of Child Services left me. Years later, he swore that same statement as he looked at me with dangerous intentions in his alcohol-laden eyes. The lure of his seductive entreaties repulsed me, and I couldn’t wait to get as far from him as I could. When the trouble occurred, I needed a family member to agree to the conditions of my trial. He was all I had.

This island was a social experiment. As an anthropology major, I wanted to study people. I’d been lonely as a child, in a trailer park, removed from my former home and formal society. The possibility of a solitary life didn’t interest me, but the psychological ramifications would make for an interesting Master’s thesis. Too bad I’d committed a crime to earn me this punishment.

“The Lord has punished you,” he offered in a self-righteous slur. His pretend-belief in something almightier than a bottle of liquor choked me. He believed karma captured me, as I never gave into his lewd intentions. The Lord, as he professed, caused the sin I endured. If only I had given in to him, I’d better understand the ways of a man and could have prevented what happened to me. Or enjoyed it.

I shivered in disgust, wishing to return to the pond, and wash clean all thoughts related to my uncle. But thoughts of the pond brought an even greater evil to my mind.

Him.

He was part of the collection of men who ruined my life. They took what didn’t belong to them. Thoughts of their crime caused me to tremble, my body visibly shaking. Naked or not, I curled into myself, the tips of my breasts brushing my bare knees, and I rolled to my side on the hardwood porch. I had no more tears for those men, not even him. Deep green eyes had stared down at me. I closed my own with the crash of memory.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he had whispered, his eyes glassy and bright from whatever drug they’d taken. He’d positioned himself in a manner that the thickness of his excitement fell between my thighs but hadn’t penetrated me yet. A hand came to my cheek but I flinched at his touch. His eyes sought mine, telling me something, asking possibly, but I couldn’t think. For one split second, I wanted to believe he wouldn’t hurt me. I silently pleaded with him to let me go, but the damage had already been done. Whatever he did to me next would be no worse than the first man. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t defend myself.

And with those thoughts, I vomited at the recollection before allowing darkness to consume me. The world went black with my memory.

5

Day 13 - Tack

The snap of a twig roused me from dozing. The storm outside howled and the rain beat on the heavy canvas over my head, but that crack of wood was more than the trees whipping in the wind. I sat up abruptly, wiping a hand through my unruly hair. The island didn’t offer barber services, I mocked, and my hair was growing out of control in the heat. I turned my head to the side, angled toward the tent opening and waited a beat. Listening for another sound of movement unrelated to the storm, it felt as if the wind had actually stopped, standing still and holding its breath just like me.

Crack.

The instant the noise echoed through my tent, I leaped for the entrance. Standing upright, I stared at the empty darkness, the low embers of my campfire still smoldering but drowned of color by the rainfall. Drops instantly soaked my hair. On the other side of the fire ring, the outline of a female body did not surprise me. It was as if she emerged from the darkness, sleek with curves, slick with the moisture of rain. Instantly, I went hard at the thought of her body. She’d been damp when I touched her, her body responding despite her struggle. The luscious bend to her hourglass form vibrated under my palm on that night. The memory was instantaneous and just as sharply retreated.

Angry energy vibrated off her. A snap of lightning illuminated the sky and the glint of metal at her side caught my attention. A long, serrated knife rested at her thigh, grasped in her tight, tiny fist as if an extension of her arm. My eyes shot up to her face, pinched and focused on me. She hadn’t spoken, and seconds beat, slowing down my heart rate to a crab’s crawl over sand. Her chest heaved but other than that, she did not move.