Trap Me or Free Me

Half a month passed before York Langston set foot on the island again.

I tugged the shawl tighter around my shoulders but didn't bother to move.

He limped his way over, his tone unusually soft. "What happened back then? That was on me. I'm sorry."

As he spoke, he opened a sandalwood box. The vintage design of the item was his clear attempt at buying himself into my good graces as inside lay a necklace. The jewelry was violet and glistened like glass.

"I know you'll love this birthday gift, Nicole."

My gaze drifted past the necklace, settling on his chiseled face.

Those deep eyes were brimming with affection for me. It might have been a flattering touch on the handsome man, if not for the agonized cries outside my cage.

"I didn't feel like eating. It has nothing to do with them."

The fruit on the table had been sitting out for hours, its skin just starting to turn.

To him, that was reason enough to order their hands and feet chopped off. They would eventually be thrown into the sea to feed whatever fauna lurking in its waters.

He ignored me and slipped the necklace around my neck.

The cold touch of it sent a shiver through my whole body.

"You were back in the country?"

"Yeah."

I let out a sneer. "You sure ran fast."

He smirked, his tone casual. "Not really. Almost didn't make it back alive."

My knuckles, hidden beneath my shawl, turned white. I didn't bother hiding the disappointment in my eyes.

He scoffed and lazily toyed with a lock of my hair. "You're heartless. You actually wished me dead? And to think that I even picked out this birthday gift for you."

I stayed silent.

He held me calmly, which was rare. Yet, the words he spoke made my heart stop cold.

"It's a shame, no? If I die, you'll never find out where Clint Zander's buried."

He kept smiling at me, but there was an unmistakable chill behind his eyes.

The tension in my lips eased, and I let out a silent laugh.

Now that? That was the real York Langston I know.

People said he was ruthless and unpredictable, but that barely scratched the surface. What he excelled at—what made him truly unbearable—was the way he knew your weak spot and casually poked at it every now and then. It wouldn't be enough to kill you, but it would definitely be enough to make you wish you were dead.

Six months ago—the third month since Clint went missing—I found York bleeding out behind a club Clint used to frequent.

He was in bad shape. Half his leg had been hacked clean off, blood pooling around him faster than it could be stopped.

I was frantic, crying so hard I couldn't think straight.

He couldn't die yet, at least not before he told me where Clint was!

Before I could even dial for help, he pressed a knife to my throat and growled, "To the docks. Now."

His right-hand man, Quinn Wesley, recognized me instantly. "She's Clint's girlfriend. We can't let her live!"

York shot me a cold glance but ignored the warning.