Several times, I tried to extricate myself from his grasp, but his arms always tightened in warning. At some point, I’d fallen into a restless sleep where images of Rafe and the island tormented me. Still haunted by the echoes of convoluted dreams, I hugged my knees from my spot on the four poster bed as Zach raided the closet. “Who’s cabin is this?” I asked, glancing at the window, where bright light had filtered through the curtains before we fell asleep. Now a strip of black peeked through where the material hung open, indicating the sun had set long ago. “A friend’s. He comes up here in the fall to hunt.” As Zach sifted through flannel shirts, sweatshirts, and jackets, I wondered if the owner stored his rifles somewhere in the house. My gaze zoomed in on the closet, hoping to catch a glimpse of a gun. “You’re so transparent,” Zach said. “You won’t find a gun in this place. He doesn’t keep them here.” He removed a black wife-beater from the dresser and pulled it over his defined pecs and abs.
