Fever by Autumn Archer
15
Iris Kitson really is dead.
This morning I woke up in a king-sized bed with a thin sheet neatly draping relaxed limbs. I was alone with a spine-tingling nightmare playing on repeat.
Sunlight twinkled on the pool, fracturing the surface with thousands of royal jewels. The early morning wildlife chatter announced the dawn of a new day. The day after my jailor drugged me and all I could recall were eyes masked with a deceitful sheen of virtue. There’s no honor among thieves or within a manipulator using masculine supremacy over a defenseless hostage.
Squeezing my thighs together, I wasn’t sure if we had sex––if he penetrated me with an angry cock while I lay unconscious, solely at his mercy. If he stole the final shred of my existence. Yet when I sat up, I was dressed in a clean nightdress and wore a skim of slimy healing balm on my cheek.
When I rose from the bed and studied the room, there were no visible signs of a struggle or a whisker of proof that I shamefully wanted to dance with his darkness. That I welcomed a warped notion of romance. Or was subjected to an unforgivable invasion of the mind and body. There wasn’t a bedsheet out of place or an empty cocktail glass with the telltale evidence of drugs.
The inconclusive smart down below could have been a consequence of something more than the memorable orgasm met with his primal grunts of approval.
“Eat up,” Sal cajoles. “We have a busy day ahead of us.” He smiles before sipping syrupy black coffee. “Are you always this quiet? From my experience with women, they like to talk. A lot. All the time, in fact.” His tone switches to playful.
“I didn’t sleep very well.” I fork a wedge of ripe mango. I’m guessing my chaperone doesn’t know about my uninvited guest or what we did together.
“The jungle can do that to you. Have you tried meditation? I can help you with that.” Sal’s breezy solution tells me he believes I merely had a restless night. Minus possible unprotected sex. I grip the fork to stop myself from throwing it across the cabana.
Why didn’t I claw his eyes out or fight for my dignity? I swallow the lump of disgust. My shoulders sag under the strain of bitter shame.
Sal’s handsome face ducks down to my eye level. Feigning a smile, I return his gaze. There’s a kindness to his eyes that breathes with his stare. Friendliness spills from his jolly demeanor, and I wonder if he could be a true ally amidst the uncultivated land. It’s hard to believe he agrees with my unorthodox situation. That scary truth sinks to the bottom of my gut. He’s the only other person I know, aside from the king himself.
“I was thinking strong medication was the way to go.” I smirk intentionally, not wanting to alienate him. “Knock me out for a few weeks.”
He ignores my snarky comment and flicks a scrunched up empty sugar wrapper at me. “It’s all about focus. Drawing your thoughts inward and concentrating. You could start by bringing your awareness to the sound of your heartbeat or the sensation of your clothes.”
I giggle quietly. “These clothes? This unattractive shirt and these ghastly long trousers. I had to roll them up at the ankles.”
“Cute.” He laughs with me. “You are very short.”
“Petite,” I correct.
“I’ll order you a pair of shorts. How about that?”
“And a razor.” I point out.
He smirks. “Yeah, I’ve got you.”
My mouth forms a tight smile, hiding all the arguments I could unleash and cruel accusations that have no place in this conversation—my black fury clouds el Fantasma, not Salvador.
“Were you in my room this morning? Or did you ask anyone to check in on me?” I ask, wondering if someone had found me on the bed, used and abused, then tucked me up and tended to me with pity and secrecy.
Bushy brows snap together. “No? Why?”
Because the last thing I recall in my vivid nightmare is the intensity of earnest eyes with obsidian pupils circled by hues of forest green. They transformed from malignant to benign. Tousled waves framed an unkempt beard, and bared teeth held back the demon from breaking his shackles. After that, darkness. Then sunshine and birdsong.
“No reason. It looked tidier than before I went to sleep.”
Sal chuckles. “Try bunking up with a bunch of men.”
I pop the moon-shaped mango slice into my mouth and chew. “At least you have the option to leave.”
His mug thuds onto the coaster. “Not an option, so to speak. I have a moral obligation to stay.”
“Obligation?”
He scratches his jaw and sighs. “Yeah. I owe him. Plus, I like it here. Without him, I’d be brushing a shop floor by day and running errands by night.”
My back straightens with intrigue. “So, you’re working off a debt?”
He nods. “Sort of. In my mind, I’m repaying a favor, even though I was already working for him at the time. In his mind, I was an employee, and he wanted to help my family. I’m more than happy to work as his head of staff.”
El Fantasma helped his family?
Before I get the chance to dig deeper, a radio crackles from his pocket. “Sal,” he answers immediately, holding it to his mouth.
“Everything is set up. Bring the girl.”
I sway at the sound of my tormentor's voice. My heartbeat slams into my ribs, and I inhale a thin breath of air.
“On our way,” Sal confirms, shoving his chair out behind him. His eyes find my worried gaze. “Let’s go. We have somewhere important to be.”
As if attuned to an unspoken order, the rest of the men in the dining hall all stand in unison. I stiffen at the odd display.
“What’s going on, Sal?” I’m like a corpse in the chair, rigid and cold, too terrified to move.
Sal steps around the table and sets a hand on my shoulder. I lean forward and scan the loitering men, paused and primed for the next command. “Don’t be scared. I promise you, it’s okay. He’s waiting for us.”
“Us, as in you and me? I won’t be alone with him?”
His hand slides to my clenched palm on the table and wraps over the top of it. “All the staff are in attendance this morning. We’ll finish by midday. Come on, he’ll get impatient if we keep him waiting.” I can’t help the tremor as Sal pulls me to my feet and rubs my biceps affectionately. “Take a deep breath before you faint.”
I remind myself of the woman I was before a stranger trapped me in paradise. My backbone and sheer determination are my only defense. El Fantasma took the knowledge he wanted, no doubt as leverage, but in the end, drugged or not, I gave permission. I’m to blame for admitting the attraction brewing within me, and he’s one to loathe for using sneaky underhanded tactics to try and break my spirit.
The men follow behind us as we tread the raised walkway. Tropical heat sticks to my skin, trickling down my spine with cold apprehension. Sal mutters into his radio in his native language, and I keep the pace, gulping down short nervous breaths. My lungs won’t expand to full capacity, and my face tingles. I’m not ready to see him again.
A cluster of helicopters hovers overhead in the azure expanse. Sal looks back over his shoulder to the growing crowd. “Wait for the next one to land.” He nods to the men.
As we round the bend, revolving blades cut into the stifling heat and whisk up a cooling gust. Sweet and earthy wafts of purple striped passionflowers tease of heaven where only anguish exists.
Standing in front of the glossy black chopper is my nemesis, wearing his guise of a sports cap and shielding aviators. Arms fold over a cotton shirt that glues to his dominant form. Ebony cargo pants have replaced the usual camo shorts. He almost looks approachable. If it weren’t for the lordly posture and my unanswered question. My belly roils at the prospect of being fucked after I blacked out. It twists and tightens at the unrighteousness of such a vile act.
I falter as we near his hidden features. Sal presses a hand to my lower back as if sensing my unruly nerves. El Fantasma lowers his chin in recognition of the thoughtful act and shifts in his boots.
“Sal.” I study how his teeth are exposed as he mouths the name like he hates the simple gesture of comfort an employee has offered me. He nods sharply and Sal’s contact disappears. “She’ll ride with me. You can organize the men,” his voice sounds over the mechanical rotation.
“We’ll be right behind you, sir,” Sal replies, and then I’m alone with the one man I’d rather slap than sit next to in a confined space.
Without uttering a word, he holds out a gloved hand to guide me into the helicopter. My hair whips in the wind, and I duck a little lower, afraid to lose my head to a powerful blade. Perhaps that destiny would be the better option rather than willingly welcoming his touch again. “Where are we going?” I shout over the engine roar. “Are you letting me go?”
He shakes his head, and he snatches my wrist. Jerking me into him, he buries his nose into the twisted mound of hair below my ear. “Don’t test my patience. You’re so eager to leave, even when you know you can’t.” His native cadence thickens like a vine, ready to strangle me with sin.
My temple slants into his sunglasses. Lime zest and coconut scents, enhanced with passion, electrify my wits. Leather fists scrunch. With my heart hammering against my ribcage, I struggle to pull away from him. Harsh fingertips bite into the clammy skin covering my pulsating veins.
“Don’t fight me. You won’t win.” The air frosts. “Get on board. I guarantee your safety on this trip.”
And with that, he stands tall, opens his palm, and releases me. I rub the tingly patch of reddened skin, narrowing my eyes when he motions to the aircraft door. When I peer over my shoulder to the army of men, all I find are diverted eyes. Even Sal has his back to us. A dart of futility punctures my heart. There’s no point retaliating. I’m a hapless female in a crocodile infested river.
El Fantasma pivots and climbs inside. Facing forward, he clips in a harness, then directs his sole attention to me as I join him. Even with spacious passenger seats, I still manage to knock my knee into his leg. A buzz catapults up my thigh and charges straight for my core.
Flashbacks consume me. The thrill of illicit pleasure. The risk of letting go. Bare hands entwined in messy curls. Vibrations sparking millions of haunting fireworks. Nothing else. No forced entry. No biting stretch of steely length.
“Where are we going?” I ask. My hands quake when the catch clicks securely in place.
“We’re paying our respects to the dead,” he shouts back, sliding the sunglasses down his nose. Folding the legs, he pockets them in his shirt, then tugs the peak of his cap lower to shield his eyes from the pilot. Fixing a headset over his ears, he positions the microphone to his mouth. I mirror him, unhooking a headset attached to a curly cord that muffles the noise with padded ear cushions.
My stomach levitates as we take to the sky. Tipping left, I stare out the window to find several other helicopters following our flight path. A swarm of soldiers chasing their ruler.
Our unspoken silence settles heavily in the passenger compartment. I study the landscape of never-ending proud trees as we soar in the heavens, gliding over hell. From up in the vast blue sky, wooden walkways stretch out like octopi’s arms, and secluded cabins hideaway in the jungle vegetation, covertly secluded from above. The oasis sprawls for miles, weaving through nature and flanking the bowed riverbank. Muddy-green water bends like a serpent, substantial and falsely serene.
It’s only when I see the expansive constructed village for myself that its vastness strikes a blow. He’s not an accident survivor, or just any guy holding me prisoner in a fancy hut. The formidable man beside me owns a facility more exclusive and grander than any resort I’ve ever read about. His unassuming casual attire hides obscene wealth. El Fantasma is impressive, wealthy, and cruelly handsome. A villainous combination framing the worst antagonist of all.
The bold sun dazzles, catching my eyes as the helicopter swoops. My fingers clench as the dropping sensation makes my heart plunge with it. Daring a sideways glance, I discover virescent eyes that were pinned to my profile. Sunlight flickers in the green terrain of his gaze as he studies me. Wide shoulders draw back as our assessment collides. Disguised hands spread his thighs, and his lips part ever so slightly as if he’s forcing calmness. A mindless wish to believe he’s reliving the exact moment those lips of his landed on my sensitive, moist flesh goads me. Until he raises his voice.
“We’re landing now. Once we step out of here, you’re not allowed to leave my side without permission,” he affirms with a hoarse boom through the microphone.
We defy gravity as the helicopter descends. Without replying, I rein back the festering desire rousing in my groin. This is not a life.
The pilot turns the engine off and exits the cockpit. I unfasten my belt, remove the headset, and sigh softly, not in defeat but in recognition that my time here won't end well. I’d rather die than be a soulless slave in captivity.
He rips off his headset and snatches my arm, rolling me around to face him in a standoff of wills. “Don’t leave my side.” His mouth says one thing, but the tone he uses is harsh and bitter. Icicle’s crack and shatter. Snowflakes powder his eloquence. The deluge of scorching blood racing in my veins coagulates to frozen crystals. “Understand, beija flor?”
Pinching my cap, he yanks it off my head and pings the elastic bunching my curls. His tongue dallies over his bottom lip as the lengths jumble free with disarray.
My teeth lock together, refusing to answer. The palm cuffing my forearm uncurls, but instead of letting go altogether, it travels to my nape. Electrical currents sparkle between us as he cradles me close enough to threaten a kiss. The color of his eyes matches the forest beyond, darkening to a shade of violence. My chest heaves. I’m held in an authority that lights my future up in flames.
An air of tranquility blankets the inside of the helicopter when his forehead presses into mine. Eyes. Breathing. Heartbeats.
“Did we have sex?” I ask.
“What?” His head snaps back.
“You poisoned me with a voodoo cocktail and trampled through my private thoughts. Didn’t you?”
“I asked about your intentions. It was purely a fact-finding mission to determine if you were a spy. You offered the extra information.” His mouth quirks, and the light contact dissipates. El Fantasma leans back in his seat and returns his sunglasses to his face. “I don’t fuck unconscious women. And I certainly don’t need to.”
My eyes roll in defiance of his misshapen morals. “But you hold them hostage and drug them.”
He observes me for a hushed second. Long lashes blink deliberately. An unapologetic smirk plays on his lips. “I’ve gathered all the information I require. I don’t need anything else from you now.”
I hate him.
“Except one thing,” I suggest, holding my forefinger in the air.
His fingers splay and close. “And that is?”
“My loyalty.”
He stiffens. “I don’t need that from you. I demand it. Otherwise, you won’t be afforded a farewell ceremony because you’ll vanish without a trace.”
Frustrated air escapes my lungs. The door shunts open. Oppressive heat strikes, chasing chilly beads of sweat plunging to the base of my spine. There’s not a hint of remorse in his collected poise or a wobble of regret in his smooth accent.
Wearing a tightlipped smile, I face the forest and add one last comment. “By the way, el Fantasma. Because you drugged me, I barely remember our time together. However, I know for certain it wasn't ecstasy or a real-life fantasy. Whatever you slipped into my drink altered my awareness and heightened my libido, that’s all. The vague, insignificant memory is easily forgotten. I’m also fully aware I can’t trust you either. If you think I crave your dick, you’re sadly mistaken. And any reckless decision to pull that stunt again or fuck me without protection will end up with an unfortunate outcome. You should know I haven't taken a contraception pill since I ended things with my ex.”
After unloading part truths, I clamber out into the open with adrenaline hiking up my heart rate. Not being on birth control—that’s one hundred percent accurate. Easily forgetting—that’s a hard to accept fib.
I shade my eyes with a crooked palm and take in the clearing I once called base. Storm-damaged tree trunks have been chopped and stacked high. All the technical equipment and camping gear have vanished, making me doubt I ever stayed here to begin with. It's only when I notice a crowd of men lined up, side by side, that I see a gaping hole in the spot where Bruce took his last breath.
Sorrow punches my chest. My arms swing by my sides as hesitant steps carry me closer. In a hollow deep enough to knock on the devil's door, lies a wooden casket. It’s rounded at the corners and beautifully hand-carved. A mountain of mud piles up at one side, and unknown faces assemble at the graveside. My scalp needles. I sense his approach before I hear his seductive timbre.
“While you were lost in a fever, I instructed my men to create a coffin from the tree your mentor lay beneath. Your friend is at one with the jungle now.” El Fantasma’s presence licks around my heartache. “I’ve brought you here to say goodbye to him.”
I spin around, staring up at guarded eyes. Confused by a man so calm before a thunderstorm, so moonless in a black sky. The thoughtful gesture catches me by surprise. I suck in my lips to stave a tremble and swallow hard. “Thank you,” I mutter, numb with shock.
He leaves my side, allowing me to breathe again. I detest myself for eyeing the sinewy arch of his back as he bends to scoop a wad of earth. An imperfect man with a creed. Shirking off the misleading reverie, I round my shoulders and rethink this grand show of thoughtfulness.
A man like him isn’t capable of such a selfless deed. It’s a farce. A distorted game. He’s giving an ill-fated girl the opportunity to bury a mentor while symbolizing a slave parting ways with her past.
I’m not lucky or grateful. This is a master flexing authority. A jailer justifying a life sentence. A man stripping a woman of her character.
With a toss, sodden earth pelts the intricately carved wooden lid. Rows of men lower their eyes in respect. The unified sight showers my skin with rampant goose bumps. No matter the hidden agenda, this is Bruce’s only send-off. The opening for his soul to finally rest in peace.
“Would you like to say a few words?” His tone thickens as he rotates into me with a fluid posture. I’m unwise to assume the sentiment will touch his soul. “Or we can cover him over now if you prefer.”
I nod once. “I’ll speak.” Hunkering to the earth, I copy el Fantasma and grab a handful of topsoil. My heart bucks. I wonder if simple words will suffice. Bruce’s wife deserves this moment, and right now, I’m all he’s got.
Rising, I hold my head high and clear my throat. When dirt thuds onto his casket, I project my speech to the jungle. “I’ll see you again, my friend. That is a must. We’ll meet someday soon. In that promise, I trust. Rest in peace.” Then I dust off my palms and swivel into el Fantasma. His muscles brace when I lift to my toes and whisper, “There's no difference between that coffin and this jungle. Except Bruce is finally at peace, and I’m a miserable prisoner starved of a soul. I’d rather die than stay in this godforsaken place with a man like you. So, if you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”
