She only smiles in response. Her chin ticks up. “I chose to come to this island. And unlike other people,” she pauses but doesn’t look at me, “I want to be on the right side.”
Good try.
“But I don’t like people’s fucking hands on me,” she adds with a hiss that makes the corner of Archer’s lips curl in what might be a tiny smile.
He nods toward her hands, and one of his minions lets her go.
Another one turns away and pisses right there, only feet away.
Gross.
Next, Archer shines the flashlight into my face, blinding me. I turn away and blink hard until the flashlight points to my feet and my vision adjusts.
The trees whisper in the wind as I take a quick look at the guys. Thy are fearless and know the way. Most of them are in their late twenties and thirties. Guns and bulletproof vests—they are trained fighters.
They shine the flashlights into the center of the circle where we stand and study me and Katura.
It’s surreal. Like some bizarre night ritual. Archer’s face is so familiar yet not, his eyes narrowed at me as he smokes.
“Well, well,” he says slowly. “Our closer acquaintance didn’t happen years ago, sweetie. But it’s so much more symbolic now, isn’t it?”
His smile is more of a scowl. His manner is too relaxed, considering the circumstances.
“It’s not,” I interject softly, trying to keep his spiteful gaze.
“Oh, I would beg different. With all that happened. You running away. Your Kai boy and the fire accident. Getting to know you closer will be even more ironic.”
Closerdoesn’t register in my mind as much as the mention of the accident.
“What does the fire have to do with us?”
Archer’s expression changes slowly. It’s mostly in his eyes that narrow as if in confusion and his furrowed eyebrows.
“He didn’t tell you?” he asks.
“Tell me what?”
His smile gets wider.
“My, oh, my.” His chuckle is sinister. “The fucker is secretive, isn’t he?”
“Tell me what, Archer?” I press on, saying his name for the first time. And the memory of how we used to be flickers for a brief moment in the back of my mind.
His grin turns into a smirk.
“That after the night that Droga took what was supposed to be mine—you—I taught him a lesson.” He chuckles. “His sorry ass deserved the second-degree burns.”
An icy cold feeling starts in my gut, twisting my insides. Blood rushes to my ears. But I need to hear it again. Just to make sure. Because that can’t be.
“Taught him a lesson?” I murmur, frowning.
“Yeah, sweetie. Your pussy cost him his skin. And a wrestling career. I hope he thinks it was worth it.”
He chuckles, and the sound of it makes my body shake. In disbelief and realization and hurt and guilt that rise in me like a powerful tide.
No-no-no-no-no.
What is he talking about?