I detest this scam of a man.
But I’m inexplicably drawn to him.
Bastard.
He knows how to seduce. That’s his game. I’d never lower my standards to fuck a man so forbidden as el Fantasma. And I certainly wouldn’t beg.
He’s not my hero. I was sorely mistaken. “You’re not serious?” My fingers span my throbbing cheek. That light touch makes me flinch. The wound smarts.
His hand fists. “I’m deadly serious. You go, you strip first.”
“Wait!” I gasp. “How about I work here for a few weeks, to pay off the debt I owe and then—”
“Enough.” His voice booms like I’ve used up the last drop of his patience. “You’ve made your decision to go. Take off the fucking clothes and stop wasting my time.”
The casual flick of his wrist is a dismissive afterthought.
“Fuck you,” I snarl, grabbing the hem and whipping the top off in one sweep. “I’ll die the same way I was born.” The shorts are next, dropping to my ankles. “And you know what, I’ll come back here as a ghost and haunt you forever. Every time you hear a cry or a broken twig or a fucking heartbeat, you’ll remember Iris Kitson.”
He steps into me, blocking the warming glow of a neighboring lamp, darkening the world to deadly. My heart skitters, yet I hold my ground, pushing my chest out with defiance.
Lowering his chin, bristles tease my earlobe. “Don’t threaten me,” he says with malevolent calmness. “You mean nothing to me. Other than a minor irritant who’s taking up my time. You haven’t earned a place in my memories. Don’t mistake my tolerance as humility. Just because you’re bewitching, doesn’t mean I won’t punish you for pissing me the fuck off.” His statement is sharp, and yet his lips linger as he stills, inhaling slowly like he’s savoring the salty sheen coating my neck. Carbon dioxide caresses in puffs, skittering bubbles of fear and desire over my scalp. For the longest moment, he’s motionless. “I think it’s better for both of us if you take the easy option.”
The hoarseness to his voice tells me he’s not quite in control. That I’ve tested his last nerve. Dazed and without thought, I dip into him, only to hear an unrestrained rasp bubble from his throat. I quickly accept the level of danger I’m in and scoot back. We stare at one another, letting the sands of time suffocate each second.
A breeze carrying zingy citrus and fragrant floral blooms heightens my awareness. It reminds me that his offer of freedom is a fraud. That I won’t survive twenty-four hours beyond the façade of an oasis. Or how his cruelty has left me undignified and unprepared yet again. I wear my disgust with a hardened glare and an obvious quake of violence. I have nothing left to lose.
He, on the other hand, waves his hand outward as if granting me permission to face my fate. I hate everything about his grand gesture. His soul is varnished with a slick of bitterness. An invisible poison coats his flesh. He could very well be the most stunning man I’ve ever met, but that streak of evil both repulses and terrifies me.
My one true wish is to find a village just so I can purchase a rifle and return. To shove it to his temple and pull the trigger. My face being the last image he sees.
That surge of hope, the focus of revenge gives me a reason to run. And that’s what I do. I scamper along the pathway and leap over the rope guidelines.
6
Dante
They call me the ghost for a reason.
Covert and illusive.
Proficient in the art of flipping lives.
A master at patience, gliding under the radar until the perfect time to strike.
Right now, I’m mocking my best skill. Where I should have rigid disinterest, I’m following Iris like it’s my job to track and hunt. She has no idea the man who cast her out into the jungle is lurking in the fern. It’s not a game, more a necessity.
I don’t care that she’s prancing barefoot through the forest or how she glows in the dim light like a wood nymph. Nor do I give a fuck that a waterfall of fiery curls shield curves and flesh that were created for fucking. What I can’t seem to grasp is the striking kick of ownership. She belongs to me.
The woman herself is now a ghost. We’re matched in our own unique way. Granted, it was my doing, but she’s one less statistic to add to the world's official population count. Her old life was canceled, yet her soul still walks the planet on my untouched patch of the world.
This side of the border is relatively free from prowling beasts. A venomous snake or ant bite poses the main threat to her health. That, and exposure. Taking her clothes was a last-minute challenge for her self-sufficient pride. Any normal woman would break at the suggestion of stripping, let alone run into the mouth of a natural habitat heaving with life.
She caught me off guard with unassuming stubbornness, feminine boldness, and a valiant temper that just had to excite me. I should’ve locked the cabin doors. Forced her to kneel in subservience to her new king. Laid down the law with limited restraint.
I didn’t expect her to be royal in virtue or overflowing in a belief of survival. If I'm honest, I never thought she’d actually run. Perhaps I wanted her to beg. To plead for a kinder outcome. Or offer herself as a bargaining chip.
I’ve been isolated in the wild for so long, focused and driven. Adding lust to the equation wasn’t part of the plan. As the months ticked by, I quashed the inclination and gave my soul over to settling a score.
Before consequences swallowed me up and spat me out on the remote edge of the country, my typical type was athletic build and tanned skin—flirty brunettes with more bite than innocence.
In my thirty years of life, I’ve never encountered such silken pale skin brought to life with spirals of wayward flames. I’m in fucking in awe.
She flits from tree to tree. Tiny in stature but fierce in fortitude, she mumbles and chants, cursing the bastard who took her clothes, stole her freedom, and left her to die alone. I’m honored. Only I haven’t quite gifted her the luxury of solace. She is mine, after all.
Fuck!
This is mindless.
I want her. And what scares me the most is that I want to fucking destroy her. If she’d let me. I’ve spent too long in my own company, cradling a broken heart and designing death. Years of isolation have turned me into an animalistic savage with a thirst to fuck the frantic little bird, desperately seeking a place to rest out of harm's way.
What she needs to do is return to her quarters and stay there.
Purposefully crunching over sprigs and shoots, the snapping noise cracks like a ping pong ball through the upper tier, signifying a predator is closing in. It just so happens that beast is me.
Her palms fly to her temples. She rotates on the spot. More than adequate breasts framed by twisted tendrils heave with every sharp intake of air. Fear vibrates and shakes over her elegant posture.
A night owl hoots on cue. I almost chuckle when she grits out, “Insufferable man,” and stamps her foot in the mud. I’m camouflaged and well hidden. She hasn’t a clue I’m chasing her back to where she belongs.
I know this section of the forest like the back of my hand. Herding her in a circle is easier than I expected. When she catches sight of the welcoming lights of the oasis, she sighs in defeat. Her shoulders slump, yet her pace gathers momentum.