Island Captive: A Dark Romance Read online

  Island Captive: A Dark Romance

  Jane Henry

  Contents

  Author’s note

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter one preview (Deliverance, NYC Doms)

  A note from the author

  About the Author

  Author’s note

  Please note:

  This book is a book of fiction with adult themes. Readers 18+ only.

  Copyright 2018 by Jane Henry

  Cover designer: Simply Defined Art

  Synopsis

  I was hired to apprehend a monster - a Dom who’d been sentenced to life for murdering his submissive. I’ve seen what he’s capable of, and the images will haunt me forever. I swore I’d stop at nothing to put him behind bars.

  But then our plane back to the States crashes.

  We are the only two survivors.

  And the monster will make me wish I’d died along with the rest of them.

  Chapter One

  Nadine

  Heat rises from the sunbaked earth as I pretend to be a normal civilian who isn’t seeking the blood of an escaped convict. I lift a pile of limp green vegetables in my hand at the market and raise a brow to the man standing on the other side of the table. His beady-little eyes watch me touch his wares. He’s charging twice what they’re worth because I’m a white woman, so fuck that. My mission’s left me edgy and irritable and I don’t have patience for this bullshit.

  There’s no way he’s going to negotiate with me. And I don’t need this anyway, so I’m out of here. I place the greens back down on the pile and turn on my heel. “Have a good fucking day,” I mutter under my breath, ignoring the way he pleads for me to come back and negotiate, loud enough we catch the attention of a few women and children nearby who watch me with wide eyes.

  I catch the eye of my partner four tables out. With his dark complexion and eyes, he blends in better than I do with my pasty white skin. I could pass for a tourist. He, however, melds with the locals perfectly. Convenient when we need to ask questions, and hell do we have questions. Carlos shoots me a chin lift, a sign that we proceed as usual and meet in our rented apartment above the marketplace. He’s gotten no more information than I have. I smirk. At least he’s got an armful of vegetables.

  If I hadn’t trained myself to never let my guard down, to never truly relax even in my sleep, I might have missed him. But I know him as soon as he comes into my peripheral vision, because I’ve studied him with careful, mesmerizing precision.

  I’ve spent countless, sleepless hours memorizing every inch of this man’s physical appearance before I got on a plane to hunt him down. I’ve tracked him now for months, putting him back behind bars my primary life focus until all I could do was hone in on finding him.

  I know that silvery scar that runs along his neck better than the back of my hand. I know that that black tribal tattoo peeking out from beneath his shirt is actually a full tat that covers every inch of his broad, muscled back and wraps around the front to his torso.

  I know his name is Adrian Barone, though he’ll be going by another name here. I know he grew up on the wrong side of the Bronx thirty-seven years ago, the oldest of six children raised in abject poverty until his father solidified mafia connections. I know he served three years of his life sentence before he escaped. I know his eyes are so dark they’re nearly black, he has scarring on his neck, back, and legs, and that he has perfect vision. His blood type is A negative, and he still has all his wisdom teeth.

  Before I’m done with him, I’ll know the pitch of his voice, the way he smells, and the sounds he makes when he screams.

  But first I have to capture him.

  I don’t let on that I’ve seen him. There’s no way he expects me here, but it’s best I keep my cool until Carlos is here for back-up. If I fuck this up, I’ll never forgive myself.

  I try to catch Carlos’ eye, but Carlos is chatting it up with a beautiful, scantily-clad native sitting on a nearby bench. I’ll fucking kick his ass. He makes a move, steps closer to her and nods, encouraging for her to continue her story. His back’s to me. He might be making plans to meet her tonight for all I know, since the signal a minute ago meant he effectively dismissed me. I should be up in the apartment by now.

  I pull out my phone to shoot him a text, walking as quickly as I can so I don’t lose our man, but not fast enough that I arouse suspicion. I have to play this safe. He’s walking in the opposite direction of Carlos, so there’s no way I can grab my partner and get his attention.

  I glance at my phone and watch the text stay suspended. Of course. Just when I actually need the damn thing to work, it’s uncooperative. I shove my phone in my pocket and pick up my pace. Beyond the marketplace lies a cluster of buildings strewn with women and children, and soon when the men return from work, finding one person will become impossible.

  I shoot one final glance in Carlos’ direction. He’s completely oblivious to me, the lovely little native practically sitting on his lap. Son of a bitch. I’ll kick his balls when I get my hands on him.

  I’m going in alone.

  A small passel of children skips rope to my left. I skirt around them, but as I quicken my pace, one of them trips and goes sprawling. I yank the kid up by his armpits and steady him on his feet. “You okay?” I ask in English, nodding my head. Yes, yes, you’re okay, now get out of my fucking way.

  I practically shove the kid aside, and when I look up I see no trace of him.

  Shit.

  I break into a trot. I drop the fruit I bought at the stand, the sounds of the children squealing as they pick it up quickly fading. My pulse quickens, my lungs contracting as I inhale the humid air and try to run faster. I take a left at a building, then come to a screeching halt when I realize I’m at the top of a long, winding, spiral staircase that’s dimly lit with one bare bulb. I catch a glimpse of him below, the light catching the silver of the scar on his neck and reflecting. He’s below me now, still oblivious that he’s being followed, but three staircases below the main marketplace, descending into the darkness of a staircase that leads underground.

  No fucking way.

  The spiral staircase ends in a courtyard ten feet or so below. Once he disappears down the cave-like stairs that lead to countless dank rooms and doorways, I’ll never find him.

  It takes me a split second to make my decision. With a surge of adrenaline that nearly makes me nauseous, I grasp the rail, heave myself over the edge, and jump, the screams of those who saw me drowning in the rush of air that surrounds me as I fall. I hold my arms and legs tight as I plummet, landing on my feet like a cat. Pain shoots through my heels and calves, but my mark was accurate: I’m within arm’s reach of Adrian.

  I use the momentary shock that registers in his eyes to my advantage and grab my taser. Just as he turns to run, I line up my target and pull the trigger. He freezes, jerks, and drops to the ground. I’ve trained for a full decade, and even though he outweighs me by a hundred pounds or more, I’m thin and lithe and vicious, petite belette my mama called me, little weasel. Even though he’s on the ground and paralyzed, I kneel above h
im, not really caring that his head cracks on the stone hard enough to hurt but not injure.

  The pictures I received in my file on Adrian arrived with the pictures of Lori Arsenault, the woman he murdered. They were vivid reminders of her mutilated, brutalized body that suffered torment before her life was taken from her. Those pictures haunted me in my sleep and followed me into the waking hours. Day and night, there was no escape from those images. The rope burns where he tied her wrists and ankles. Bruises along her thighs, back, and ass where he beat her. This is the son of a bitch who hurt her.

  This man violated a woman who trusted him, brutalized her and then ended her life.

  I don’t always take jobs so personally, but the image of Lori Arsenault’s brutalized body affected me harder than I anticipated. She came to America as a foreign exchange student. Like my mother. She hailed from Saint Paul de Vence, a little town south of Paris. My mother’s hometown.

  She isn’t your mother, I tell myself. I mean, the girl was younger than I am. But I can’t reason with the anger that fuels my need to hurt him.

  This is not just a job to me.

  I want to hurt him like he hurt her.

  But I’m no bounty hunter. I work for the American government.

  That isn’t what makes me let him go, though. I could get away with murdering him and still, even now, be lauded as a hero. But no.

  Death like that would be far too merciful. He needs to suffer before he dies.

  So with a twist of my arm, I let him live, but take pleasure in watching him pass out, limp on the ground beneath me. Once I’m confident he’s out, I reach for the pair of cuffs I keep on me, and quickly snap them on his wrists. Heaving with the effort of the takedown, I get my phone and squint at it, needing a signal. One bar flashes, then disappears. Fuck it. I hit dial and breathe a sigh of relief when the crackle of a ringer sounds.

  “Nadine?”

  “Meet me in the courtyard, ground floor,” I breathe into the phone. “I’ve got him cuffed and unconscious.” Stunned silence. Did I lose the connection?

  “Carlos?”

  “I’m here. Say that again?”

  I repeat my command, but this time don’t bother with formalities. “Fucking move.”

  Our prisoner hasn’t said a word to me since Carlos found us and helped me haul his huge body up. It was no easy task, but between the two of us, we managed to get him to the holding cell we’d prepared. The local police have several they’ve given us for our disposal. If we’d come to arrest a native, they’d have other things to say, but apprehending an American criminal is another story. They give us everything we need and send us on our way with reporters asking questions we wouldn’t answer.

  Though Adrian hasn’t said anything, he doesn’t need to. Carlos ran his specs and confirmed I’d apprehended the correct man. I knew I had, but you play it safe when you work for the government. So now that our criminal is safe and secured, we bring him back to the states for prosecution.

  There are exactly five of us on this private jet: Me and Carlos, with Adrian between us, and the two pilots up front navigating us home.

  I hate that I have to follow protocol. He’s still subject to due process and shit like that, and I can’t beat his ass when I bring him back. I wish I’d hurt him more when I brought him down. The bruising along his chin and forehead do little to sate my need for blood.

  Here, while we’re airborne, however, I’m subject to no such laws. Things happen in transport.

  “We have five hours,” I say calmly to Carlos.

  Carlos blinks at me and raises a brow in silence.

  “Five hours before we’re responsible for the way we treat this piece of shit.” Our prisoner doesn’t react.

  “Oh?” Carlos asks.

  “We arrive in America and we can’t punish him.” When we get to Hawaii, there’s a cell and a court waiting for him.

  Carlos nods sagely. “True. But the pilots could know what we’ve done and report us.”

  “For doing what? Self-defense when in mid-air would hold up in court.”

  “I don’t know,” Carlos begins. “Jesus, no wonder your mom called—”“

  The jet plane lurches suddenly downward in a sharp descent that makes my stomach clench. I grip the armrests so hard my knuckles turn white. I blink, getting a grip, then breathe in through my nose.

  Just a little turbulence, I tell myself, but the thought barely forms in my mind before we begin to plummet. It lasts just a few seconds but enough to terrify the fuck out of me. My skin is on fire, my breathing tormented like someone has a plastic bag over my head. I open my mouth to breathe but can’t. I’m dizzy, I’m going to pass out, but no, I’m way too pissed off to lose my shit like this. With a vicious swipe, I unfasten my buckle and lunge toward the cockpit.

  “Nadine. Get your ass back here,” Carlos growls. I shoot him a glare for daring to use my name in front of a prisoner. I don’t like prisoners to know my name. He ignores my anger, though. “Sit your ass down and buckle up,” he says. “We’ve hit turbulence.”

  “No shit, Einstein,” I retort. For fuck’s sake. Who does he think I am?

  I go to open the cockpit, forgetting for a moment that it’s always locked from the inside once we take off. I can’t get in there if I tried. I growl and turn back to the seats, my eyes momentarily meeting our prisoner’s. I’ve avoided eye contact with him until now but it’s as if I’m drawn to him by a some magnetic pull force I can’t control.

  His eyes are narrowed on me, and when I look at him, he allows his gaze to roam slowly down the length of my body. I try to ignore the way it makes me feel. I hate him. I fucking hate him. He undresses me with his eyes, a lewd twist of his lips making me feel suddenly naked and exposed. He meets my gaze once more, cocks his head the side and raises his brows as if to say, “What now?”

  Son of a bitch.

  I won’t let him fuck with me.

  I spin around at the sound of the door to the cockpit opening. The pilot’s eyes look at me, widened, and clears his throat. He’s a short, portly guy with balding blond hair and large, watery blue eyes. “We have a rapid fuel leak,” he says. “It seems the inspector missed something before we left. There’s no other explanation for why we’ve lost fuel so rapidly.”

  It seems for a minute we’re suspended in some sort of alternate reality. I can’t quite comprehend what he’s saying.

  Losing fuel? We’ve lost fuel. Fuck. That means we don’t get back to American soil at 3 a.m. as we’d planned.

  Jesus.

  “Do we have enough to get back?” I ask, knowing the answer already.

  “No, officer,” he says, shaking his head. “Nowhere near enough to get back to our take-off, and nowhere near enough to get to our destination. In fact, our only chances of survival are an emergency landing.”

  Carlos swears behind me. Our prisoner, however, begins to chuckle. He fucking laughs. I blink, trying to process this, and ignore his sadistic laughter, and for one ludicrous minute suspect he’s done this.

  I turn an accusatory glance at him, but he only laughs. There’s no way. There’s no fucking way he could have caused this.

  “Emergency landing where?” I ask.

  “We’re figuring it out now,” he says, turning back to the cockpit. I follow.

  “Christ,” I swear under my breath.

  “The nearest island is far too small and forested to land on, so our best option is to land as close to the shore as possible.”

  Fuck. That means we’re landing in the fucking water. Someone’s put a rubber band around my lungs, as they’re suddenly constricted, and I can’t get enough air. The pilots don’t even notice I’m there, as they begin emergency protocol. Gerry, or whatever the blond guy’s name is, grabs his remote and pushes a button.

  Gerry speaks into the radio, “Oakland Oceanic, Gulf Stream 563, Emergency.”

  A raspy response comes on the other end. For a brief moment I’m hopeful. He reached someone. Maybe they can reach
us? Then I remember we’re flying over endless blue in the Pacific, and nothing short of a miracle would get anyone to us now.

  A response comes in a crackly voice. “Gulf Stream 563, state nature of emergency, souls on board, fuel on board, location and intentions.”

  "Gulf Stream 563 is 06 33 decimal 01 north, 162 36 decimal 05 west. We have five souls on board, one hour of fuel remaining and a rapid fuel leak. We are proceeding direct 08 39 decimal 14 north, 162 32 decimal 30 west. We will attempt a water landing on the south side of the island.”

  I wait for the response. We all do. But nothing comes.

  Did they hear us? Has anyone heard our plea for help?

  “Sit back down, please, officer,” Gerry says.

  “Did they hear you?”

  His jaw tightens. “I have no idea.”

  For twenty minutes I sit and worry my fingers together, ignoring the stoic way our prisoner sits erect. Carlos mutters prayers in Spanish.

  We don’t talk. There’s nothing to say. This plane is going down, and whether or not we survive is out of our control.

  “Is there anything we can do to prevent injury on impact?” Carlos shouts to the cockpit but the door swings shut.

  I stare at the door, my hands on my hips.

  “Sit down,” Carlos growls. “For fuck’s sake.”

  “Sit down? Have you completely forgotten your head?” I ask him. I don’t wait for a response as I’m making sure we all have life vests. We won’t need oxygen masks unless the cabin pressure drops, but they’re supposed to deploy if that happens.