The Edge of the World

Chapter Nineteen

There was nothing she could remember about her death other than flashes of memories from being on the plane. The sound of the engine popping, a cold mist covering the inside, wrapping its long, lacy fingers around the seats, a flashing light and her eyes growing heavy.

Then a voice... an emotionless, hard tone, spoke so closely, as if directly into her ear.

You came back. As always...

And then a thick, fragrant night covering her eyes until she woke on the beach.

Only this time, when her eyes fluttered open, she was in the cabin and Ian was cooking something with his back to her. The wind outside whined and whistled as another arctic storm blew in, but the warmth from the cast-iron stove kept the frigid air at bay.

Her lungs hurt and muscles ached, but she found the strength to sit up, rubbing her eyes as she took in his long, lithe form, relief, and embarrassment, rushing through her. The decision to follow the woman, knowing this island was a death trap, had been her folly, and one she wouldn't soon forget.

"Getting damned tired of you always having to save me, doc," she said. Her voice sounded raspier than usual, almost gritty, either from inhaling quicksand or the screaming. He turned, surprised by her sudden speech breaking the silence, his dark eyes scanning her face, as if desperate to see she was really okay.

Once he was satisfied that she would live, he turned away to continue mixing the soup.

"Yeah, well, I'm tiring of having to. What were you thinking, anyway?"

He didn't sound mad, really. More frustrated and weary than anything.

"I don't know if I was really thinking. Guess I wasn't. I've only seen the birdman out there, never another person. I lost my shit in hopes she was part of a rescue squad or something. I just wanted to get you home."

He paused in mid-stir, glancing over his shoulder at her, his lips parted as if her words stunned him.

Or confused him.

"Me going home means your death," he reminded her.

She huffed, flashing a humorless smile before tugging the blanket up higher, shivering despite the warmth.

"Yeah well, I knew my fate long before I killed him. Besides, I gave it a good run. Sometimes I feel as if I've lived a thousand years already. All this drama and running is making lethal injection seem like a good idea."

His expression remained neutral as he poured her steaming hot soup into a tin cup so she might sip on it while recovering from her previous trauma. As he handed it to her, their fingers brushed, one of the few physical contacts they shared, and that one simple fleck of connection made her heart skip violently, the force of it almost making her drop the soup.

"Thanks," she said before looking at the cup, pretending to find its contents of broth and noodles fascinating while she waited to find normalcy once more.

"How did you end up married to him," he asked, turning from her to pour his own portion, and walking to his bed. Every movement he made captivated her. The way the sinew beneath his flesh worked, outlined from beneath the thin tee-shirt made her body break into a sweat. His loose-limbed walk was hypnotizing and as he sat on the edge of his cot, he shook his hair from his beautiful face, and she found the gesture sensual. The way her body was reacting to him reminded her of a cat in heat, but she couldn't look away from him even if someone held a gun to her head and demanded it.

He turned his dark eyes back to her, and she forgot how to speak. Swallowing, she forced her focus back to the cup, breathing hard, hating how she wanted him more and more every day.