Page 77 of The Darkest Hour

An Opportunity

Onyx

In the light pitter patter of rain, Havoc moved with swift, almost inhuman precision, putting together some form of structure for us to sleep in. He gathered our tattered raft, the old boat, and large scattered branches that had fallen from the surrounding palm trees. His hands worked in a blur, repairing and repurposing those items into our makeshift shelter.

And as much as I wanted to hate him, to dismiss everything about him as monstrous, I couldn’t ignore the way his muscles bulged and flexed with each movement.

He used my knife to hack away at the boat, tearing it into massive pieces.

Sweat glistened on his skin, but he showed no signs of slowing or faltering.

His biceps tightened as he lifted the boat’s pieces and set them into place. The way his body moved, all power and purpose, was a sight I couldn't tear my eyes away from.

Stop looking at him and think of a way out of this rope.

He was my enemy, not some eye candy to ogle.

And yet, there was something undeniably captivating about seeing a man at work, especially one as built and capable as Havoc.

I gritted my teeth.

It was infuriating, how my body responded to the sight of him, how I couldn’t stop myself from admiring the way his back muscles rippled under his skin as he bent down to secure the shelter’s base.

Fucking psychopath pervert.

It was as if his body was honed and perfected for survival in the wild.

Stop it.

As my mind raged, Havoc began to work on the raft, his hands moving swiftly over the frame. He was skillful with knots, twining them tight in a way that seemed effortless.

I watched as he somehow incorporated the fallen branches, creating a solid roof for our shelter.

Moonlight glowed along his body, revealing the contour of every muscle on his torso.

But his potential for deadly violence was never far from my mind, lurking in the set of his jaw and the grim lines on his face.

It made the little hairs on my neck rise.

Still, in the same breath, I caught myself biting my lower lip as I studied him, and quickly released it.

This was not some romantic deserted island novel scenario.

This was real life, and in real life, there were no easy answers, no knights in shining armor—just men like Havoc—dangerous and powerful.

I had to come up with a plan to escape.

I couldn't afford any distractions.

And yet, despite myself, my eyes kept returning to him—to the curve of his back as he hunched over our makeshift shelter, the raw power rippling through his forearms as he worked tirelessly into the night.

Fucking psychopath pervert indeed. . .but also a goddamn sexy one.

What was it about a man’s body that made it so hard to look away, especially when that body was doing something manly, something that spoke to the very essence of strength and capability?

Was it some deep-seated instinct inside women, this unwilling attraction to a man who could protect, provide, and, if necessary, destroy?

I didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to acknowledge the intense pull of attraction I felt for him.