Page 37 of You Were Warned: Part One

“I don’t want you to buy me more.”

He sighs. “Fine, I’ll steal them,” he murmurs as his hand slips inside the hole he made, and he pushes my thong aside.

My brain short-circuits—I’m supposed to hate him. Hating him is easy and doesn’t leave me vulnerable. It doesn’t make me curl my fingers into his shoulders and pull him closer, or make my breath hitch when he kisses me. It definitely doesn’t make me wonder why the fuck I waited so long to let this happen.

“You’re perfect,” he says, and I grab his jaw, forcing his mouth open with my thumb before kissing him hard enough to shut him up.

He moans, his eyes open and locked on me as I pull back.

“Vesper,” he whispers.

I slide my hand around to the back of his neck and dig my nails in. “No more talking. Shut up and fuck me.”

For once in his life, he does what he’s told, slipping his cock from his pants and positioning himself between my legs. Then he notches the head against my entrance and thrusts inside me, smashing his lips to mine and muffling the sounds that tumble out.

This doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself—it can’t. It’s pent-up anger and frustration, months of him driving me fucking crazy. That is all it is. Except every time I pull him closer, his cock pushing in deeper, he makes a pleased little sound against my mouth. Whenever I bite him, he laughs, and with each glare, he looks at me as if I have given him what he’s always wanted. I make the mistake of opening my eyes to find him watching me, and the first thought that pops into my head is that I don’t hate him.

Now I hate the traitorous part of me that is enjoying this. The way he looks at me, how his body fits around mine, his blood on my skin, and that someone loves me so much they carved my initial into their flesh.

“Come for me, my vicious beauty. I want that vision in my mind every time I fist my cock at night.” He uses one hand to secure my wrists and pin them above my head, and he thrusts into me as hard as he can with long, measured strokes.

I stop thinking. That’s the only way I’ll survive without admitting something I’m not ready to concede even to myself. Instead, I kiss him, swallowing every smug word he’ll say, letting myself have this moment. The heat of his body against mine, his blood drying on my skin.

And when everything finally breaks, his name is the one that leaves my mouth.

Fuck.

His forehead drops against mine, both of us fighting to catch our breath, and thankfully he says nothing. I’m not sure I could handle it if he spoke. I should move, but I don’t. His grip loosens around my wrists, but my arms stay above my head, my legs still wrapped tightly around him. His nose brushes mine, and there is something dangerously close to tenderness in the way he looks at me. That scares me more than anything else, because I know what hate feels like, and whatever the fuck this is, it isn’t hate. His mouth curves.

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I was only going to tell you that I love you.”

“See? You ruined it.”

His grin widens. “You screamed my name.”

“It’s not too late to kill you.”

“You had your chance.”

I shove his shoulder. “Put me down.”

He does, though he keeps his hands on my waist until my feet are steady beneath me. I drag my skirt back into place, glancing up at him once I have the nerve, and he’s smiling down at the stupid V he had me carve into his skin.

This was supposed to get him out of my system, but I have a horrible feeling I’ve only let him in further.

Jensen

Being on the island really does change you. I haven’t been here long, and the thought of leaving doesn’t even register as an option. My future if I leave here is bleak—almost certain death—whereas if I stay here I’m at the mercy of the Jester. Statistically, I would say it’s a seventy-five percent chance of death, unless I can get him on my side.

He doesn’t seem like a bad person. Unhinged, yes. Certifiably crazy? Well, he would have to be institutionalized for that diagnosis, but even then, I think it’s possible he could talk his way out of there squeaky clean.

I’ve been awake for hours, waiting to meet Rue to let Vesper and the Jester out. Honestly, I don’t think she is going to be happy about being locked up all night, and I am slightly curious to see the state of the Jester. I can’t even fathom someone being happy about possibly getting killed by someone else—just the thought alone sends me into a spiral. It’s how I ended up here, but from what I can gather, it wasn’t because the Jester felt sorry for me. It’s because he wanted to do it himself.

A week ago, my biggest concern was staying alive long enough to figure out what to do about my situation. Now I’m apparently waiting to deliver coffee to the man who kidnapped me, tied me to a post, and spent part of last night firing paintballs at my bare skin, which fucking sucked. My body now looks the part, and I’m a delightful shade of purple beneath my clothes.

I shift the cardboard drink tray into my other hand and immediately regret it when the movement pulls at the bruises on my stomach. “Fuck.”