Isla POV
ugh, this place is a circus, and I bought the best seat in the house. I only came because some influencer flaked and the retreat begged me to fill the slot (free villa, unlimited cocktails, and endless content? Yes, please. Lila and Mara are glued to me like designer purses, eyes wide, phones half-hidden, dying for scraps. Lila whispers, "Did you see how Milo looked at Ravenna at breakfast?" I did. And I screenshotted it with my brain. The man is unraveling in 4K. Shirt half-buttoned, jaw tight, eyes doing that guilty puppy thing. Delicious. And Lena? Radio silence. Girl was everywhere two days ago (perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect fiancée and now… nothing. No posts, no stories, no "just had the best smoothie" selfie. That's not a vacation; that's a plot twist.
Ravenna keeps clutching that creepy black notebook like it's her emotional support diary. She thinks she's mysterious. Honey, mysterious is when your man vanishes with his best friend and nobody's talking. That's the mystery. I sip my rosé and watch. Milo pacing the porch like he's waiting for an Uber that will never come. Ravenna staring out windows like someone died. Shadows doing… whatever shadows do here (moving when they shouldn't, stretching too long, flickering like bad Wi-Fi. Lila and Mara come scampering back from their "totally casual walk" past the cabins, faces white, whispering about weird noises and lights going on and off by themselves. "Spill," I demand, leaning in like it's Fashion Week front row. They trip over each other: muffled voices, a door slamming, someone definitely crying or praying or both. I don't know what's happening in that cabin and I don't need to. The not-knowing is the high. I post a single Instagram story: black screen, red heart emoji, caption "trouble in paradise tastes like salt air." The comments explode in five seconds. Perfect. Let the writers scribble their little spells. Let the island do its creepy shadow puppet show. Let Milo look like he hasn't slept since the invention of guilt. Let Ravenna pretend she's fine. I'm not here to write the drama. I'm here to serve it, film it, and go viral when it all blows up. And something is definitely about to blow.
POV: Ravenna
The moon hung low and swollen, spilling silver across the cabin like liquid mercury. No storm tonight. Just thick, sticky air that tasted of salt and bad decisions. I sat on the windowsill in nothing but that whisper-thin silk slip, knees drawn up, skin already gleaming with heat. The jungle outside wasn't whispering; it was holding its breath. Waiting. Watching. Same as me. Milo had left at dawn without a word, like ripping a page out mid-sentence. I'd spent the whole day feeling the tear. Now the door opened on silent hinges. No knock. No warning. Just him. He stepped inside and the temperature spiked ten degrees. Shirt hanging open, chest slick from the river, hair pushed back, eyes black with something that wasn't anger anymore. It was surrender. He shut the door. One click. Final. I didn't move. Didn't speak. My pulse was already between my legs. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed my waist, and yanked me off the sill like I weighed nothing. My back hit the wall hard enough to rattle the lantern. His mouth found mine before I could breathe, rough, desperate, tasting like guilt and river water and everything we swore we'd never do again.
I kissed him back harder. Bit his lip. Drew blood. His hands shoved the silk up to my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to brand. I wrapped one leg around him, grinding against the ridge in his shorts just to hear that broken sound in his throat. He growled my name against my neck (Rev) like a curse and a prayer. No slow build tonight. No pretending. I dragged him down to the floorboards still warm from the day's sun. Straddled him. Ripped the rest of his shirt open. Buttons scattered like gunfire. My nails raked down his chest, over abs that jumped under my touch. He flipped us, pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, used the other to tear the slip straight down the front. Cool air hit my skin. Then his mouth. Hot. Everywhere. He sucked a bruise into the curve of my breast, teeth scraping, tongue soothing.
I arched so hard my spine left the floor. When his fingers finally slid between my thighs I was already soaked, shameless, rocking against his hand like I'd die if he stopped. He didn't stop. He pushed inside me in one deep thrust that tore a raw moan from both of us. No condom. No words. Just skin on skin, heat on heat, the slap of bodies finally saying what we never could. We fucked like the world was ending, fast, filthy, perfect. Sweat-slick. Breathless. My heels dug into his back, urging him deeper, harder, more. Every thrust felt like punishment and forgiveness at once. I came first, clenching around him, biting his shoulder to muffle the scream. He followed seconds later, burying his face in my neck, groaning my name like it hurt. We stayed locked together, trembling, hearts hammering against each other. Then the whisper slid through the room, cool as moonlight, sharp as a blade: "Write it again… and it will never stop." I froze. He didn't hear it. He was still inside me, still catching his breath, still mine for a few more stolen seconds. But the island heard everything.
Outside, the night was dead calm. No wind. No waves. Even the insects had shut up. Then thunder cracked directly overhead, one violent, impossible boom that shook the cabin like a god slamming a door. The moon outside turned blood-red in the same heartbeat, painting the room in crimson light. The Ledger rose from beneath the pillow. Its black leather bled into deep, wet scarlet, as if the cover itself had been flayed. It opened mid-air. Pages fanned violently, ripping at the edges from the speed. The pen flew to it like iron to a magnet and began writing so fast the nib screamed, sparks flying off the paper, smoke curling up in thin black ribbons that smelled of burnt flesh and orchids. Line after line after line, the handwriting shifting with every sentence: Ravenna's, Milo's, Lena's, then something ancient and spidery no human hand had ever formed. The Ledger wrote for exactly thirteen seconds. Then the pen snapped in half. The broken nib stabbed straight through the final page and kept going, pinning the book to the wooden headboard with a wet crunch. Ink poured from the wound in the paper, running down the wall in thick rivulets that hissed where they touched the wood. The thunder rolled again, farther away this time, satisfied. The moon bled back to silver. The Ledger hung there, crucified and dripping, pages still fluttering like it was laughing. Ravenna never woke. Milo never stirred. But the price had just been named, signed, and nailed above their heads for the rest of their very short lives.