ISLAND ILLUSIONS (#2 PARADISE ISLAND duology)

--one--

No matter the urge scratching at his back, the invisible hand grabbing the back of his neck and trying to twist it, he wouldn't turn around. Not to see her face crumbling, nor to see her big, bold, beautiful eyes swarming with tears she'd never let fall. Not to listen to her plea with him, promise she didn't mean what she'd said, to fall to her already bruised knees and apologize profusely for ever thinking the things she did.

Most of all, Miles wouldn't let her witness the emotions on his own face. His squinting up towards the blanket of leaves overhead, catching a few faint glimpses of sunlight pouring through, thawing the ice that grew around his heart. The corners of his lips drawing down, too painful to try to maintain in a straight, neutral line, especially when his feelings were far from neutral. And how his nostrils were still flaring as he recalled all the cruel things she'd uttered when she hadn't thought he'd been listening.

How hadn't Kera heard him coming? How had she not presumed that he'd feel her leaving their cabin—and definitely hear her—and that he'd follow her, to protect her? They were a team—at least, they were supposed to be—and that alone obligated to go after her. But he didn't have to hear what she'd been harboring inside that intricate mind of hers, and he wished he hadn't.

The growls dissipated—those that followed Kera into the depths of the woods, and that multiplied the closer she got to the exit. Miles sensed they were there for her, and yet he'd refused to acknowledge it, refused to turn away until he was sure what Kera was doing. The problem? He still didn't know what she'd planned, what she'd thought to do. Going up to the barrier and screaming for help? Did she think that'd get them anywhere?

That was the thing—them? She wasn't thinking of them. She was thinking of herself. Of her fears, her disbeliefs, her inability to accept that there was no way out of this. Certainly not by being rash and taking matters into her own quite inexperienced hands.

Scattering branches that fell into his way, Miles continued his trek away from the sparkly pink barrier and the negativity it radiated, the horrific visions it provoked. Memories of a young man—the same age as him, if he remembered correctly—getting pierced by a sharpened log, then smashed by another, his entire body flattened and fucked up, no trace of him left to even give him a proper burial. Nothing but blood that Miles knew still stained the forest floor, and some rotting guts that had shot into the bushes from the impact. And a stench that would never, never leave his nose.

And then that poor girl—an idiot, for sure, but still—who'd opted to test the barrier, who'd thought to get out when the other dude proved there was no way. Her arm cleanly sliced, then her upper body grossly separated from her lower, and she was dead on the spot. That fucked-up Mr. Reynolds barely batted an eyelash when transporting her away. That should have been the signal to all that he wasn't one to mess with. The death of others, of those he'd brought to this island under his care, wasn't an issue for him. As long as he racked up his count and completed his numbers—Miles snickered at the memory of what he'd said to Kera—a few decaying corpses weren't his concern.

And then Ms. Moreno. Milla. The only one who might have had the right idea, who was gathering the evidence to put an end to this shit-show—and Kera's prodding killed her. Nailed her to a tree by some sickened twist of fate. A dagger-like vine had torn through her, plucked her from the ground, and stuck her on the trunk, high enough for everyone to see. Like a message for any others who'd seek to get out: this is what happens when you push.

A shudder shocked through him and he picked up his pace, wanting to get as far from that area as possible. As far from Kera as possible.

She was bad news. She attracted trouble. All her questions were understandable, but she was going about things the wrong way, and now those forest monsters were on her ass. Miles had to look out for Miles—because if he wasn't around to figure out what in the hell was going on in this place, who would? Vick? Miles snorted—Vick didn't give two shits about anything but booze and his cock, and on this fucked up island, he could take care of both of those without issue.