Does It Hurt?: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

The boat groans and the wheel in my hand slips as a powerful wave rocks into us, salty water pouring over into the hull. The cage on the back swings, the heavy weight working against us as we sway dangerously side to side. Sweat gathers along my hairline as I fight to keep us from going under.

Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!

Seeing Sawyer on the beach fucked with my head more than I expected it to. I had a mouthful of shit I planned to say to her, but the only thing at the forefront of my mind was to teach her a lesson. Taking her out on the boat wasn’t planned. Fucking her again definitely wasn’t planned. And now, I regret all of it.

I know better than to go out on the water without checking the goddamn weather, but today… God fucking dammit.

It’s my own fault, yet I still want to kill the little blonde thief for it anyway.

It was never my intention to kill her, and my stomach is twisted with the knowledge that I might have anyway.

“Enzo!” she screams, snagging my attention. I turn to find a massive wave building up over the boat, like Poseidon himself is reaching up from the depths of the ocean and preparing to grab onto the vessel and pull it under.

Time slows, and my heart drops. And I know… I just know that this one is going to send us over.

“Sawyer! Get up here!” I shout, but she’s already clambering to the helm, eyes wide with panic.

Just as she slams into my chest, the wave breaks, and I grab her face, forcing her wild gaze to mine.

“Deep breath, baby.” 

Seconds later, the wave is crashing down upon us. A loud scream rings in my ears, but only the echo of it remains. My vision is snuffed out, and freezing water encapsulates me. I’m swept up in a powerful riptide, and the only thing I can do is succumb to nature’s will.

I feel myself spinning as I’m ripped away from Sawyer and dragged down into the deep ocean, nothing but blackness surrounding me.

Instinctively, I kick my legs, forcing my eyes open to find my bearings. The salt stings, but my adrenaline supersedes the pain. Above me, the Johanna is belly-up and quickly nose-diving toward me.

My chest burns with the need for oxygen, but I can only think of one thing.

Where is she?

Swimming with all my might, I search for Sawyer but see nothing except pieces of broken wood drifting by.

I breach the surface and immediately suck in a lungful of air, only to choke on it. Taking another deep breath, I bellow, “SAWYER!”

But the sea is unforgiving, and I’m swept up by another wave, sending me spiraling once more. I’m growing tired already, so I force myself to relax until the tide releases me. Only for me to kick toward the surface once more.

Her name is the first thing out of my mouth the second I break the surface, but it’s no use. My voice is only swallowed by the thunder, and I’m being dragged under again.

I can’t let this be it. I can’t let it end this way.

But then I’m slamming into something hard, and everything goes black.

Enzo. 

Wake up, please.

Please, please, wake up.

Even in death, her voice haunts me. It’s tragic that I can’t escape her—my own undoing. But then something is tugging me out of the bottomless pit of darkness I’ve settled into. I’m comfortable here. Content. Something I only feel when I’m swimming along with a great white.

“Enzo.”

Her voice sharpens, becoming louder and harsher to my ears.

Slowly, the feel of gritty sand digging into my cheek registers, and then the lapping of water periodically splashing against my face. 

It’s hard to breathe. My lungs produce a loud wheeze, and after a moment, a fist lands painfully on my back. Liquid rushes up my throat, forcing me fully awake and plunging me deep into a coughing fit, water pouring from my mouth.

Jesus, fuck, she should’ve just let me drown in it.

“Oh, thank God,” her sweet voice filters in, saturated with relief. 

Pushing myself to my hands and knees, I work to catch my breath while cracking open my eyes. Squinting against the burn in them, my vision filters in. I’m staring down at sand that’s clustered with gray rocks. It’s dark outside now, but the moonlight and stars are bright out here. 

Sawyer kneels before me, her hands resting on her knees as she stares at me. Lifting my gaze to her, I find her cutting a look over my form, likely checking for injury. Then, her blue irises meet mine again.

She doesn’t look much better off than I feel. Curly hair a tangled mess, jean shorts tattered, and her exposed skin is covered in dirt and scratches, dried blood crusting over them.

I’m almost angry at how relieved I am that she’s alive.

I don’t want her death on my conscience, I tell myself. But that sounds hollow even in my own goddamn head.

Fuck.

How long has it been? How long have we been here? Wherever here is.

“Your head is bleeding,” she informs me. “Doesn’t look too terrible, though.”

I sit back on my heels and brush my hands over my temple, hissing when it stings. The wound is clotted, and I can feel the blood crusted down the side of my face, though infection is still a possibility. 

“How long have you been awake?” I ask, pulling my stare away from her and looking up to find a massive, imposing lighthouse. 

It’s decrepit, the red and white stripes ringed around the building chipped and blackening. It sits upon a treacherous rock cliff, and the sight of it has dread’s sharp claws sinking into my skin. It appears like it came out of a horror movie. Of course, this is our only option for refuge. 

It’s too dark to see exactly how big the island is, but it doesn’t seem to span more than a few miles. From what I can tell, the land is mostly barren, save for what looks like more rock cliffs. 

Cazzo.

“A few minutes,” she answers, turning to look at the lighthouse over her shoulder.

We’re stranded out here but not out of luck yet.

Hopefully, we can find an old radio inside that might have some juice left or turn on the beacon until someone notices us. If it still even fucking works. This place looks ancient, but there has to be something we can use.

I sigh and drop my head low between my shoulders, angry and frustrated that I’m here. With her.

“Glad to see you’re alive,” I rasp out. It wasn’t intended to sound sarcastic, yet it did anyway. And I don’t bother correcting it. 

I may not want her dead, but that doesn’t make her any less dead to me.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Me too.”

When I raise my head, she looks forlorn, her brow pinched as she chews on her swollen, bruised lip. I did that, and I’m having a hard time feeling an ounce of guilt. 

With the rise of the moon comes a deep chill in the air. My damp clothes are freezing, the cold settling deep in my bones.

“Andiamo,” I say simply, nodding toward the lighthouse. “We need to get warm and see if there are any radios in there.”

She sniffs and nods. Aches come alive the moment I stand, screaming at me as I trudge behind Sawyer. 

As we make our way toward the cliff, I notice the sand is littered with sharp rocks. Somehow, my shoes managed to survive the storm, and I’m glad for it.

Within minutes, though, I notice Sawyer’s stride grows choppy. The rocks are beginning to cut into her feet. She wore flip-flops onto the boat, so those are long gone.

Good.

Her body is bowed with exhaustion, and truthfully, it’s a miracle she’s alive. I still have no idea how we both managed to get here, but I’m quickly distracted from asking when I see a flash from one of the windows above. It happened too quickly to see what it was. 

Probably just my mind playing tricks on me, but I stay on guard anyway.

We come up to a set of stone steps, and as we climb toward the crumbling structure, the dreaded feeling in the pit of my stomach grows.

“Someone still lives here,” she tells me. “I think I saw the beacon earlier.”

I pause, prompting her to stop and face me while I stare up at the top of the lighthouse. It doesn’t look like it’s been used in years, but for probably the first time, I believe she’s telling the truth. If that’s the case, then we have a good chance of getting out of here.

“We’ll stay cautious,” I assure her, motioning for her to keep going.

“Or do you think it’s haunted?” Sawyer bursts out, as if physically incapable of keeping the question in any longer. “Maybe I hallucinated it. Or a ghost turned it on.”

“I think ghosts are the least of our worries,” I answer. “Starvation and dehydration are a little more fucking concerning.”

“Well, which is worse? Dying of hunger or dying of scary ghosts?” she volleys back.

“Which is quicker?”

She nods. “Okay, you got me there. May the bean gods bless us then.”

“The what?” I snap, my annoyance deepening. Even shipwrecked, she can’t stop fucking talking.

“The bean gods,” she repeats, reaching the last step and coming up to a cement pathway. “Canned beans survive the apocalypse. They’re always the number one thing left in cabinets after the world ends. So, I imagine they’ll be in this abandoned lighthouse that potentially hasn’t seen life since the dinosaurs.”

“There is so much wrong with what you just said.”

Ignoring me, she shoots me a look over her shoulder.

“Be careful, though. The beans will give you flatulence.”

“Sawyer, stop fucking talking.”

“It’s helping with my anxiety.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not helping with my headache. Now get behind me. I want to make sure it’s safe first,” I snap, grabbing her arm and physically dragging her back when she nearly steps on a piece of glass.

“Chill,” she huffs, ripping herself out of my grip.

“You were about to step on glass. You almost hurt yourself. Walk where I walk.”

“My hero,” she grumbles, venom in her tone. But I ignore her, approaching a dirty and splintering wooden door. That ominous feeling deepens, and I’m starting to wonder if I should just take my chances with the ocean.

Stopping before the door, I knock on it a few times, waiting for several long moments. Silence.

Slowly, I turn the rusty knob, finding it unlocked. The door creaks open, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the smell of mildew and stale air.

We come directly into a small living area. There’s a blue couch to the right with a little end table next to it, and a lamp on top with junk scattered around it. A crease forms between my brows when I spot bullets and what looks like an antique key. The crease deepens when I note a portable fireplace in front of the couch, sitting next to a tiny box television on a stand. There’s ash piled inside the fireplace. Placing a hand to the black metal, my chest clenches when I feel how warm it is.

My eyes skip around the room, my muscles tensing with wariness. The far left wall is covered in bookcases, filled with cracked spines and what looks like children’s books. There is a thin layer of dust on the end table and only a few cobwebs draping along the peeling floral wallpaper. This place should be covered in grime, and though it’s no five-star hotel, it certainly looks lived in.

Straight ahead is a doorway that leads into a large kitchen and dining room area, my stomach twisting as I walk farther in. The white cabinetry is sagging and rotting, and one of the doors is slightly ajar. A big wooden table is off to the left, a ratty, dirty rug beneath it. To the right is a spiral staircase, rust corroding the black metal.

“Is that a dirty dish in the sink?” Sawyer asks in a hushed tone. 

Obviously, it’s a dish. 

But how could someone possibly survive out here by themselves?

Just as I’m ready to turn toward the staircase, a hand is gripping my arm, fear imprinting into my skin beneath her sharp nails. 

There’s an obnoxious noise as someone comes down the steps, but I’m quickly distracted when I realize I’m staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Behind it is a short, old man with a beard down to his waistline and a stormy expression beneath his worn red hat.

“Wanna tell me why you’re in my home?” he asks slowly, his voice creaking worse than the wooden floors.

Slowly, I lift my hands, and Sawyer presses into my side, tucking herself behind me. I’m tempted to push her the fuck away, but her clinging to me is the least of my worries right now.

“We got caught in that storm and shipwrecked. We knocked, but no one answered,” I explain evenly.

“We’re sorry to intrude, sir,” Sawyer rushes out. “We don’t really have anywhere else to go right now.”

The old man looks at Sawyer, and I can visibly see his eyes softening. Gun or not, I’m seconds away from shoving her farther behind me and telling the fucker to find something else to moon over. She may be a siren, but she’s mine to hurt just as much as she’s mine to protect.

After several long seconds, he lowers his gun, casting a suspicious look my way.

“The storm could be seen from a mile away,” he grumbles. 

I grind my teeth, the muscle in my jaw pulsing, but I abstain from snapping at him. He’s right, anyway.

“But ah’ight,” he continues. “I’ll let ya stay here. The more, the merrier, I s’pose.” 

He waddles over toward the kitchen, and it’s then that I notice that his right leg is a wooden peg. His gait is uneven, the ancient prosthetic too short, even for his stunted stature.

I furrow my brow. How long has this man been here for?

“Name’s Sylvester,” he introduces, shooting a glance over his shoulder.

“Do you have a radio here?” I ask. Don’t care to know who he is, just how the fuck we can get off this forgotten island.

He grunts, opens a cabinet to pull out two mugs, and then slams it shut, seemingly bothered by my manners.

I just stare, waiting for an answer.

“’Fraid not,” he finally responds, cutting me another unimpressed look before turning to slide out a pot of coffee from the machine. 

“Coffee is from this mornin’, so it’s cold,” he warns. ”But I’ll warm it up for ya first.”

Sawyer nudges my arm from behind and whispers, “See, the bean gods did bless us. With coffee beans.”

My eye twitches.

“Would like to know yer names, if ya don’t mind,” he says, turning to stick the two mugs in the microwave.

I mind.

“Sawyer,” the little thief supplies hurriedly. 

I grind my teeth harder. Apparently, she doesn’t feel the need to lie to him about her name, and something about that annoys the fuck out of me. Then again, there are very few things in this world that don’t.

“His name is Enzo. Sorry for his manners. He got bullied in school and hasn’t seen a therapist yet. We really appreciate your kindness.”

Anger spikes in my chest, and slowly, I turn to glower at her. The microwave beeps loudly, and the old man turns to grab the cups, unaware of how close I am to wrapping my hands around her throat. She spares me a glance before turning her attention back to Sylvester, who is now carrying over two steaming cups of coffee toward us.

Here, she’s not so scared of me. She thinks an old man with a wooden leg will save her.

Ignoring my glare, she smiles wide at Sylvester, accepting the mug with a warmth in her entirely fabricated expression. Just like everything else about her.

It’s not hard to see she’s as broken as they come—the only thing warm about her is her pussy.

Still, she radiates sunshine, and all it makes me want to do is wipe it clean from her face. She’s the light that blinds you right before lightning strikes.

Silently, I accept the mug from Sylvester, dipping my chin an increment. Sawyer’s right—I don’t have manners. But I also know better than to bite the hand that feeds you.

“You both go on over to the couch and relax. I’ll start a fire and get ya warmed up,” he directs, grunting as he hobbles to the kitchen sink.

“Thank you, Syl,” Sawyer says warmly. She pivots and heads toward the couch while I stand firm.

Syl? She’s nicknaming the fucker already?

I snarl at her as she passes by, and she puts an extra pep in her step to get away.

My mood souring by the second, I turn to the caretaker, his back to me as he rinses off the dish in the sink.

“So, how do you get all these supplies?” I question. Sylvester stills. “If you have no radios and such,” I tack on, my tone dripping with doubt. 

I don’t like liars. 

“My radio stopped working a week ago. Dead batteries and got no replacements. A cargo ship comes ’round here about once a month, and I buy everything I need from ’em.”

“Buy? You’re still working?”

He shoots me a glare. “I’m retired. And being retired pays well. My money ain’t no concern of yours.”

It isn’t, but his story adding up is.

Finishing at the sink, he hobbles toward a woodpile stacked against the far left wall, and I narrow my eyes.

“When did the last cargo ship come by?” 

Another grunt as he starts piling wood into his arms. 

“Three days ago,” he answers. “I told ’em about it, and they didn’t have any with them, so they promised to bring me replacements next month.”

I just barely manage to suppress a scowl as he turns around and hobbles toward me. Fury is bubbling in my chest, threatening to spew out of my mouth.

What he’s not saying is, we’re stuck here for a fucking month. A month with an old, strange man and a girl who nearly stole my entire fucking life from me.

“I’m sure we can shine the beacon and wait for someone to come by.”

He scoffs. “Ain’t no ships come around here if they can help it. These waters are dangerous, as you’ve come to learn yerself. That’s why my supplier only comes by once a month.”

I grind my teeth. Sawyer may have made a fool out of me, but I know deep in my bones that he’s hiding something.

“I’d like to see the radio.”

“Be my guest, boy,” he chortles condescendingly, digging in his pocket, pulling it out, and then tossing it at me. I catch it in my hand, shooting him a glare. 

“You carry dead radios in your pocket often?” I challenge, quirking a brow.

He grunts. “Habit.”

It’s a black compact device and completely dead. The switch is already in the ON position. Unconvinced, I slide off the back cover. The batteries are hot to the touch, which immediately invokes suspicion, but I can’t prove he did anything yet. So, I stay silent as he makes his way into the little living room and starts piling the wood inside of the fireplace.

“Coffee okay?” Sylvester asks Sawyer. “Go ’head and put your feet up.”

“Coffee is great,” she chirps, lifting her feet to the fireplace. The bottoms are cut up and bleeding, but she doesn’t complain.

“Got a first aid kit?” I ask.

Sylvester looks to me and then slides his gaze toward Sawyer’s feet when he notices where I’m staring.

“My golly, young lady!” he exclaims. “Yer gonna get yerself an infection. Let me grab the kit.”

As if I don’t have dried blood on the side of my face, but what-the-fuck-ever.

Sawyer opens her mouth, guilt etched into her face and gearing up to likely tell him not to worry, so I snap, “Let him.”

She glances at me, now clenching her jaw with irritation. Must’ve lost all my fucks to give in the ocean.

“He has trouble getting around,” she mutters once Sylvester leaves, making his way slowly up the spiral steps.

“They’ll get infected, and then you’ll have trouble getting around. You want wooden pegs just like him?”

She rolls her eyes. “I would never use wood. I’d be cursed with splinters for the rest of my life. I’d much prefer to be a cyborg.”

My frustration mounts. Everything is a fucking joke with her.

Right as I open my mouth, Sylvester is clanging loudly down the stairs and calling out, “I got plenty of stuff in here! Must admit, I don’t find much reason to hurt muh-self these days, so use whatever ya need.”

Grinding my teeth, I meet him halfway and grab the first aid kit, sweat gleaming along his red face.

“Thank you, son. Most days, I use my crutches to get around. This leg ain’t so agreeable with me. I don’t have much as far as clothing, but I got ya both some dry t-shirts and some sweats fer now.”

He hands over the clothing, the small pile smelling musty. Again, I keep silent as I sit next to Sawyer and hand her the kit after grabbing my own alcohol pad.

She can clean her own damn wounds. As long as they heal and can carry her happy ass onto a boat, then into a police station when we get back to Port Valen, I’m satisfied.

Muttering a thank you, she gets to work while I clean up the cut on my temple. My head feels like it’s splitting open, and it’s possible I may have a concussion, but I’m not anticipating sleeping much tonight anyway.

“How is it you still have electricity?” I question, glancing at Sawyer. Her tongue is sticking out as she swipes at the bottom of her foot.

“Got me some solar panels out back and a nice generator. Them things cost me a fortune, but suppose it was necessary.”

“How long have you been here?” Sawyer asks, finishing her sentence with a hiss. 

“Since 1978,” he declares proudly. “I’ve been takin’ care of Raven Isle since it was built. Been out of commission for about twelve years or so, but I couldn’t let ’er go.”

“Raven Isle,” Sawyer repeats, glancing at Sylvester. “That’s the name of the island?”

“Sure is. Named ’er myself.”

“It’s pretty,” she replies, though she’s distracted. She keeps trying to turn her foot at an angle that’s not physically possible so she can reach a cut.

“Your foot doesn’t bend that way,” I tell her, since apparently, she needs to be reminded.

“It would if I was a cyborg,” is her rebuttal.

I’m going to kill her.

Even still, she tries to twist it in a different direction, but that fails, too.

“Jesus Christ, let me see it. You’re going to fucking break it.”

Shooting me a glare, she sticks her foot right in my face. I angrily snatch her ankle and push it down to my lap, returning her glare tenfold.

“Lover’s quarrel. Been too long since I’ve had one of them,” Sylvester cuts in.

I turn my glare to him for a brief moment before focusing on her shredded skin. 

“He’s not my lover,” Sawyer says. “Just an asshole who got us in this situation in the first place.”

My hand flexes around her ankle until she squeaks. It takes effort to relent on my grip. I’d love nothing more than to crush it and watch her suffer.

“Ah,” the old man says, clearly uncomfortable with our arguing. Couldn’t give a shit less, so I keep quiet and start cleaning her cuts. 

As tempted as I was to leave her to her own devices, she was annoying the shit out of me, and I really didn’t need the extra trouble of her injuries.

She hisses when I wipe at a wound unkindly, dried blood crusted over it. 

Only then, do I feel a little better. It’s not the worst pain I’ll cause her, but it’ll suffice for now.