Does It Hurt? (28)

Straight ahead is a doorway that leads into a large kitchen and dining room area, my stomach twisting as I walk farther in. The white cabinetry is sagging and rotting, and one of the doors is slightly ajar. A big wooden table is off to the left, a ratty, dirty rug beneath it. To the right is a spiral staircase, rust corroding the black metal.

“Is that a dirty dish in the sink?” Sawyer asks in a hushed tone.

Obviously, it’s a dish.

But how could someone possibly survive out here by themselves?

Just as I’m ready to turn toward the staircase, a hand is gripping my arm, fear imprinting into my skin beneath her sharp nails.

There’s an obnoxious noise as someone comes down the steps, but I’m quickly distracted when I realize I’m staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Behind it is a short, old man with a beard down to his waistline and a stormy expression beneath his worn red hat.

“Wanna tell me why you’re in my home?” he asks slowly, his voice creaking worse than the wooden floors.

Slowly, I lift my hands, and Sawyer presses into my side, tucking herself behind me. I’m tempted to push her the fuck away, but her clinging to me is the least of my worries right now.

“We got caught in that storm and shipwrecked. We knocked, but no one answered,” I explain evenly.

“We’re sorry to intrude, sir,” Sawyer rushes out. “We don’t really have anywhere else to go right now.”

The old man looks at Sawyer, and I can visibly see his eyes softening. Gun or not, I’m seconds away from shoving her farther behind me and telling the fucker to find something else to moon over. She may be a siren, but she’s mine to hurt just as much as she’s mine to protect.

After several long seconds, he lowers his gun, casting a suspicious look my way.

“The storm could be seen from a mile away,” he grumbles.

I grind my teeth, the muscle in my jaw pulsing, but I abstain from snapping at him. He’s right, anyway.

“But ah’ight,” he continues. “I’ll let ya stay here. The more, the merrier, I s’pose.”

He waddles over toward the kitchen, and it’s then that I notice that his right leg is a wooden peg. His gait is uneven, the ancient prosthetic too short, even for his stunted stature.

I furrow my brow. How long has this man been here for?

“Name’s Sylvester,” he introduces, shooting a glance over his shoulder.

“Do you have a radio here?” I ask. Don’t care to know who he is, just how the fuck we can get off this forgotten island.

He grunts, opens a cabinet to pull out two mugs, and then slams it shut, seemingly bothered by my manners.

I just stare, waiting for an answer.

“’Fraid not,” he finally responds, cutting me another unimpressed look before turning to slide out a pot of coffee from the machine.

“Coffee is from this mornin’, so it’s cold,” he warns. ”But I’ll warm it up for ya first.”

Sawyer nudges my arm from behind and whispers, “See, the bean gods did bless us. With coffee beans.”

My eye twitches.

“Would like to know yer names, if ya don’t mind,” he says, turning to stick the two mugs in the microwave.

I mind.

“Sawyer,” the little thief supplies hurriedly.

I grind my teeth harder. Apparently, she doesn’t feel the need to lie to him about her name, and something about that annoys the fuck out of me. Then again, there are very few things in this world that don’t.

“His name is Enzo. Sorry for his manners. He got bullied in school and hasn’t seen a therapist yet. We really appreciate your kindness.”

Anger spikes in my chest, and slowly, I turn to glower at her. The microwave beeps loudly, and the old man turns to grab the cups, unaware of how close I am to wrapping my hands around her throat. She spares me a glance before turning her attention back to Sylvester, who is now carrying over two steaming cups of coffee toward us.

Here, she’s not so scared of me. She thinks an old man with a wooden leg will save her.

Ignoring my glare, she smiles wide at Sylvester, accepting the mug with a warmth in her entirely fabricated expression. Just like everything else about her.

It’s not hard to see she’s as broken as they come—the only thing warm about her is her pussy.

Still, she radiates sunshine, and all it makes me want to do is wipe it clean from her face. She’s the light that blinds you right before lightning strikes.

Silently, I accept the mug from Sylvester, dipping my chin an increment. Sawyer’s right—I don’t have manners. But I also know better than to bite the hand that feeds you.

“You both go on over to the couch and relax. I’ll start a fire and get ya warmed up,” he directs, grunting as he hobbles to the kitchen sink.

“Thank you, Syl,” Sawyer says warmly. She pivots and heads toward the couch while I stand firm.

Syl? She's nicknaming the fucker already?

I snarl at her as she passes by, and she puts an extra pep in her step to get away.

My mood souring by the second, I turn to the caretaker, his back to me as he rinses off the dish in the sink.

“So, how do you get all these supplies?” I question. Sylvester stills. “If you have no radios and such,” I tack on, my tone dripping with doubt.

I don’t like liars.