"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

I'm standing behind Ben's wheelchair, so I cannot see his expression when he asks, "How bad is the bad news?"

"It's not great," I answer.

"Good news first."

"Well, the good news is you haven't ripped any of your stitches. The bad news is, your dragon tattoo is all kinds of messed up."

Ben's quiet for a moment. "Do you think it's hideous?"

"No, of course not. I. . . uh-oh."

"What?" Ben asks. "What do you mean uh-oh?"

"I think your stitches are infected. It's hard to tell because of your tattoo. We should call Jack and have him come look at it."

"Let him sleep," Ben answers softly, and the way he seems to have lost all his energy saddens me. "I'm not going to die of infection by tomorrow. You can fetch him then."

"Or," I offer, walking around in front of his wheelchair so he can admire my exaggerated and ridiculous dance, if you can even call it that. Most people would probably say it's less dancing and more me flailing my arms around. I finish with a clap and say, "You can just let me heal you!"

It was a shot in the dark, considering he's turned down my offer to heal him every single time since I landed on this island. Still, I wasn't expecting him to bare his teeth in a silent snarl at the offer.

Annoyed, I drop my arms and snap, "What? I'm just trying to help you. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"If you believe asking the same question multiple times will yield a different answer, I'm sorry to disappoint you."

I'm not even annoyed anymore, I just want a straight answer. "W hy won't you let me help you?"

I've barely asked the question before he answers, "Everyone, for my entire life, thinks I killed you. Why would I willinglyput myself in a position to make that a reality?"

"Healing your stitches isn't going to kill me," I counter.

"It might not," he agrees. "But why would I take that risk? My body can heal on its own."

There's a newfound fire in me that makes it difficult not to fight back, but I take a deep breath and process what he's saying. Stop pushing him. He's obviously tied up in complicated PTSD about my death. He's not just scared about hurting me, he's also scared of the societal ramifications that come with that. Let it go. He's right. Just drop it and go get Jack in the morning.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "I won't suggest that anymore." He says something, but I'm so focused on walking back behind his wheelchair so I can push him over to the edge of his bed that I miss whatever it is he said. He doesn't repeat himself, so I don't bother asking. Instead, I busy myself with squeezing all the water out of the washcloth I set on his bedside table and mentally prepare myself to touch him.

Neither of us say a word as I scrub his face first, running the warm washcloth over his forehead, down his nose, and across his cheeks while I try and keep my eyes focused on the washcloth to distract me from the fact that he's staring directly at me with zero embaressment. The longer he remains silent, the more my anxiety builds. I can't seem to figure out if I like being brazenly adored or if it freaks me out. Right now, it's a strange mixture of both. Please, say something, Ben.

"I'm sorry for asking to heal you earlier," I whisper. "I don't want you to be mad at me anymore."

"I'm not mad."

"Yes you were."

"I'm not mad anymore," he clarifies, gifting me with a small smile. "Thank you for—" Ben pauses, darting his eyes down to my hand before looking back up at my face. "—this."

I have no idea what I'm doing, and yet I know exactly what I'm doing when I say, "You should brush your hair back more often, like you did at the wedding."

Ben opens and closes his mouth about a dozen times, thinking and rethinking an answer. I reach out and gently brush back some hair so it softens the spikes and falls in line with the style I mentioned, my fingers lingering against his temple. For once I don't feel completely stupid because judging by the stunned look on his face, he doesn't know what to do either.

"Okay," he breathes. "Noted."

Now. Lean in and kiss him now. Wait, no, that will freak him out. Right? Oh my God, stop making excuses and just do it. He's literally confessed an undying devotion to you, so why are you still afraid of rejection? "What do you like to do for fun?" I blurt out, my heartbeat suddenly pounding against my ribs. "I just realized we've never talked about hobbies. Well, I mean, besides cooking and drawing."

To distract myself from the rising panic, I move my attention to scrubbing his arms. Ben remains silent, so I hold off for as long as I can until the silence forces me to look at him, only to find his eyes heavy lidded, his mouth set in a shit eating grin. Having his full attention is the most wonderful feeling, but it's also the worst feeling because it paralyses me. If men do not inherit magic, then how do you explain that when our eyes lock, I cannot force myself to look away?

"What I like to do for fun will have to wait until after I'm fully healed," he says, and every hair follicle on my body stands on end. It's at this moment that I realize our positions. He's trapped in a wheelchair, but I'm still physically below him because I'm kneeling. Ben locks his eyes to mine, lording over me like a king awaiting worship. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait."

I get it now. I understand. I feel it. Magic. Coursing through my veins, making it easy to say what I would normally never think to say. "And what if I don't like waiting?" This seems to take him by surprise, which only makes me more bold. "What if I'm really impatient?"

"I don't think. . ." he starts, but I watch as he takes a few seconds to try and process the situation and his place in it. "I don't know if I can?" he says, but it sounds like a question trembling with nerves.

The world stands still as I push up to my feet. I'm not terribly taller than he is sitting down, but it's enough to draw clear lines as to who's in charge. "What are you going to do to stop me?" I croon. "Wheel over my toes? You know. . . I'm getting sick of you ordering me around. Who do you think you are, anyway?"

Ben's trying—and failing miserably—to keep his breathing measured as I trail downward, passing the washcloth over the dip of his bellybutton. He keeps his intense eyes trained on me as I make little circles with the cloth, dipping it back into the bowl and squeezing out the excess with one hand. I take my time, making sure I do a thorough job of passing over every inch of skin above the waistband of his pajamas.

"I need to wash your legs now." Even I can hear the husky, erotic desire in my voice. "You're fond of saying you don't need my help, but let me help you out of your pants."

What the hell is going on? What is happening? Who am I? I'm sorry God. I'm sorry grandma. Please don't be watching me right now. I don't know what I'm going to do once his pants are off, but for some reason the uncertainty just makes me more excited. I've never even seen a penis in real life before. I hope it doesn't look weird.

All at once, the worry racing through my mind stills, and I can literally feel the magic wafting off me. Look at him. He probably doesn't even remember his own name at this point. I could ask him for anything and he'd do it. Ha. Men are so easy. Pathetic.

Ben's moving much too slowly for my taste, but I don't tell him to hurry. Something about the way his big beautiful eyes light up with equal amounts of desire and terror does something to me that I have absolutely no plans to psychoanalyze anytime soon. My breathing quickens as his waistband slides further down—

—and then the front door slams shut and there's the sound of muffled footsteps in the hallway.

"Dad?" Alex calls.

"Jesus Christ," I whisper in horror and jerk away from him. Someone knocks on the closed bedroom door, and there's no time to open the window and shimmy out. I help him back into his shirt and hide in the closet, pulling the door closed as quietly as I can.

"Dad?" Alex cracks the door open a fraction and whispers, "Dad, are you asleep?"

"Hi Alex," he answers with a smile, having successfully buttoned his shirt closed at record speed. "You can come in."

"Just checking on you," she says from the doorway. "I totally forgot to pack Charlotte's wedding present, so I had to rush back. I can't stay long. Hey, do you know where Cora is? She's not in my room. If she's not here, do you need help getting into bed?"

"I'll need help getting into bed, but I'm not quite ready to lay down yet. I'll ask Cora when she returns. I believe she went for a night walk." Ben clears his throat. "She should be back soon."

I wait until Alex leaves, closing the door behind her, before revealing myself. I wag a thumb at Ben's bedroom window, unable to even look in his general direction. I silently mouth the words, "I'm gonna go." Alex is still digging around for something in her room, and I cannot bare to spend another second trapped in here with Ben. Careful not to make a sound, I pull up his bedroom window, shimmy out, and run into my son.

Christopher blinks at me in the light of Ben's front porch, his eyes darting behind me, where he just saw me come from. We're both too shocked to be the one to speak first.

"Oh, there you are!" Alex closes the front door behind her and hurries down the porch steps to give me a hug. "What are you up to so late?"

"I. . . was. . . out walking." I give Chris what I hope is a pleading look and turn to answer Alex with a wobbly, "Nothing like a night walk after such a muggy day, right? I was just about to check in on your dad. What are you two doing here?"

"We were halfway to Hydra when Alex remembered she left her wedding present at home," Chris answers, and I turn away from Alex and towards him.

"You could have sent me a letter," I offer. "I could have brought it when I sailed their tomorrow."

"Yeah," Alex cuts in, "but I. . . kinda haven't finished it. I really need to pull an all-nighter so it's ready in time."

"Oh, okay." I bring a hand up to swipe at my already sweating forehead. "Well, in that case, I won't keep you any longer. Safe travels. And good luck finishing that gift."

I wave as they walk away, through the courtyard and out of sight. Face inflaming, I pause with my hand on the doorknob, mortified at what might have happened had I pushed Ben to take his pants off faster.

Ah, there it is. Good old Catholic guilt.

How does someone even find themselves in a situation like this?

It's 2am, and I'm wide awake, fully clothed, lying on my back directly beside Ben on his bed. I couldn't even explain the psychology behind this if I tried.

I was headed to Alex's room, initially. I only came in here because I needed to help Ben out of his wheelchair and into bed. What I failed to realize until just now is that this was just a classic case of manipulation. Ben turned down Alex's offer of help because he wanted me to know he had the power to demand my help. It was his way of ensuring I didn't flee to Hydra and leave him stranded here alone before we had a chance to talk. As to why I agreed to lie here until he falls asleep? Even I don't know the answer to that.

I close my eyes and whisper, "Are you asleep?"

"Not anymore," Ben answers

I'm a selfish bitch. I haven't told him about his future yet because I'm a selfish bitch. I want him all to myself before he's riddled with more anxieties. I'm sure there's not a person on either island that wouldn't freak out if they knew they were going to die. Kinda takes the mood out of it, right? I want him at his most free, and that makes me a selfish piece of shit. . . like my father.

Just like my father.

"We can't ever do that again. We can't ever do anything like that again." I don't realize I'm crying until I taste the inescapable tang of salt. "Or you're going to die."

There's a bewildered pause before he asks, "Right now?"

"What? No."

"Then when?"

"I. . . don't know."

"Soon? Do you at least know if it's soon?"

"No. I. . . I don't know when, I just know you're going to eventually die."

"Yes," he immediately replies. "That's definitely the biggest downside to being mortal."

"No," I try to explain, but now it's obvious I'm crying.

Ben sighs. "What did I do this time?"

I'm so upset at the thought of losing him, I cannot stop the word vomit from flowing. "I had a vision that you're going to get me pregnant, and then you're going to die."

"How very black widow of you."

"Stop with the jokes," I yell, and he stiffens at my tone.

"Cora," Ben treads carefully, "what you're telling me is, as far as you know, we could live perfectly normal, happy lives for months. Years. Decades, even."

"No, that's not—"

"You just said you don't know when it will happen."

Wait, he's right. I don't actually know when it's going to happen. I only know that in the future, I haven't aged too much because everyone recognizes me in this current form. But. . . at what point would that stop? 24? 25? 30? 35? Men can get women pregnant up until the day they croak, but women go through menopause and lose their fertility. But is that even a possibility for me? Could I remain fertile forever, and Ben doesn't get me pregnant until he's an old man, so when I time travel back to the 70's everyone just thinks I'm still 21 when in reality I'm 60? Could Ben be right about all this? Could we have an entire lifetime of sexual fulfillment, so that when the day of his death finally does come, it will at least have been a life well spent?

Or what if I'm wrong and I'm about two seconds from accidentally killing my dream man with my magical coochie?

"I'm going to get pregnant," I whisper up at the ceiling. "It happens while I'm pregnant." With Christopher.

"Okay. And? Do you at least know how old you are when you're pregnant?"

No. "No."

"You don't have any other information? Is it after you birth our first child? Will it happen after multiple children down the line?"

Is Chris my only child? "I don't know," I croak miserably.

"Okay," he concludes. "Then I'm going to choose not to worry about it."

"But what if—"

"Cora, if what you're saying is true, and you can't change this from happening, then I'm not going to waste whatever time I have left worrying about death. I'm not afraid to die. Although," he adds, "it is a little concerning how upset you are about this. Do you not plan on sending me to Fólkvangr? Do you not plan on visiting me in Fólkvangr?" I don't even have a chance to think up an answer to his strange question before I notice the exact moment he fully realizes what I've said. "Pregnant," he deadpans. "I see."

I sigh, wiping my face dry, relieved that he at least seems to fully understand the danger he's in. "As long as we don't have sex, you're safe."

"Well," Ben counters, "certain kinds, at least." A light blush dusts across his cheeks and nose when my face scrunches up in confusion. "I feel like this is some kind of test," he says, squinting with suspicion. "I'm not going to be sopresumptuous as to explain lovemaking to the Goddess of Love."

"Oh, I see what you mean." Shit. I'm so stupid. "I mean, yes. Of course. Obviously we could. . . do. . . other things." I might have gotten away with my lapse in understanding if I'd just laughed it off from the start, but now I'm babbling, and I can tell Ben's now fully aware that I don't know a damn thing about intimacy, which just makes me more embarrassed.

"Have you—" Ben pauses for a painful amount of time, probably to ensure his question is not insulting. "Have you had any lovers since your rebirth?"

I don't even bother trying to answer because the answer is written all over my mortified face.

"None?" Ben's eyes widen, and he sighs with what sounds like intense relief.

"What?" I'm immediately on edge, ready to defend myself from whatever stupid joke he's about to make at my expense.

Instead of poking fun at me, Ben smiles and says, "You have a habit of flinching away when I'm close to you. I've been worried it meant you secretly find me repulsive. Never in a million years would I have thought it was because you were nervous." I watch as his expression slowly shifts from nervous excitement to a completely different type of excitement. "Goddess, why would you be nervous around me?"

Why are you just laying here? You know what you want. Say what you want. Tell him every little thing that you want. Tell him how much you want him. Tell him how much you want him inside you—whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Hold on. No, snap out of it! Resist! Breaking out of the magic lust barrier helps bring me a brief moment of clarity, even though it's exhausting to do and leaves me trembling. I don't know what I'm more embarrassed by—what he's saying or my inability to calm down and flirt back with him. It's impossible to flirt because all my body wants to do is strip naked and ride him until my legs cramp. In my panic, I snap, "You know why."

"I do," he clarifies, darting his eyes down to my mouth and back up to my eyes. "I just want to hear you say it."

I can't answer him, so I roll onto my side and silence him with desperate kisses, our lips crushing together so urgently it's hard to breathe. He's right in front of me, but he's nowhere near close enough for my liking.

If I'd had known how good making out feels, I would have pushed for this sooner. Why would I ever choose to turn away from this? I never want this feeling to end. I would do anything to keep going like this forever. I would do anything he asked of me. I would raze entire cities to the ground if he asked me to. I would stop death itself. Yes, that's what I'll do. I simply won't let him die. That's how I'll save him.

There's a hand on my leg, gripping my upper thigh. He tells me how good I feel between kisses, and it doesn't make me uncomfortable because, at least in this moment, I believe him. So much so, that I feel a crackling surge of what can only be described as intense magic.

"No!" By the way he gasps, you'd think I'd just plunged a knife into his stomach. "No, no, no, Cora, what did you do? What did you do?"

"I'm so sorry," I gasp, pulling away. Did the crackling electrocute him? "Did I hurt you?" I'm legitimately confused why he's so upset until I feel a sharp pain sending lightning up my spine, and I buckle from the intensity. "Oh no! I didn't mean to! I swear I didn't mean to—agh!" I scream. Another stabbing pain shoots through my spine, and all I can do is hiss through clenched teeth and focus on breathing. "How the hell have you been putting up with this. . . this whole time? I can barely breathe."

"Lay on your side," he instructs kindly and hops out of bed, as if he didn't just have major reconstructive surgery. "It hurts less when you're on your side."

"No," I hiss. "I can't move. It hurts. Everything hurts. What did you do to me?"

My eyes are squeezed shut from the pain, but I can hear his frown when he shouts, "What did I do to you? You healed me without permission!"

"No," I hiss even louder. "You're not listening. Everything hurts. I think I accidentally fixed more than just your spine."

Ben quickly bends his knees and swivels his torso, seeming surprised. "Well, now that you mention it—"

"See?" I gasp. "Do you understand now? I need a distraction." My body feels a little more healed when I think of him without a shirt on. Take your shirt off. "Talk to me."

"You need a doctor. I'm going to get Jack."

"No," I shriek. "Ben, please, please believe me when I say it was an accident. I never would have intentionally healed you after promising not to. It's these stupid magic surges. I can't control them. I've been trying to, I swear."

It takes a second, but he says, "I believe you."

I nod with gratitude, trying my best to subdue the pain so it doesn't look like I'm about to pass out. "Thank you. Since it was an accident, I'm hoping you can continue to honor my wishes of dealing with this on my own." I swallow down a scream of pain, only for it to bounce back up my throat as a moan. Hopefully, he didn't notice. "Please. . . I promise you I'm not going to die. Goddess of foresight, remember? Please just distract me from the pain. Tell me something I don't know."

It's like he's been waiting all day to tell me when he blurts out, "Jack and Juliet are an item."

I blink away the sweat dripping into my eyes and shoot him an unamused look. "I already know that."

"Tom's gay."

"Ugh, I already—"

"And he is having an affair off-island."

"I already know that, too. Try harder," I moan in pain, attempting to hide my embarrassment at how sexual it sounds when it echoes throughout the room. "Tell me something truly shocking to distract me."

Without missing a beat, Ben confesses, "When I touch myself, I can't come unless I think of you."

For what it's worth, his confession does, at least momentarily, shock the pain away. I blink at him in the darkness. "You. . . what?"

Ben's expression is an ever evolving mess of embarrassed confusion and pure mortification. His voice comes out soft and incredibly measured when he says, "Clearly that is not what you meant by tell me something truly shocking. Ahem. I. . . would. . . like to apologize—"

"No need to apologize," I interrupt, feeling slightly dizzy but otherwise pretty damn good. Why doesn't my back hurt anymore? "Enjoying the knees?"

I watch him blink rapidly as he cuts his apology short. "What?"

"Your new knees," I clarify. Tilting my head down ever so slightly, I look up at him and bat my lashes. "I didn't mean to heal you, but now that I have, you might as well enjoy yourself, right?"

Ben doesn't seem to gain his confidence back when he realizes I'm coming onto him. If anything, he just looks more terrified. He takes a small step away from where I was huddled in pain on his bed, and I realize it's because I've completely straightened my spine. I'm already fully healed. "Careful, Cora," he warns, "I think you just healed yourself."

"Do you honestly think I don't know that?" I'm fully aware of the boost in my abilities. "Of course I healed myself." My head is heavy with seduction as I roll out of bed and walk towards him, slowly, never breaking eye contact. "I'm a goddess," I brag in a whisper, stepping close enough to rub my hands up his chest. "I'm your goddess."

Please, Ben, I'm begging you. Do something to stop me. Anything. Damn it, Ben, snap out of it! Oh, no! Neither of us can snap out of it! Unable to wait any longer, I hook a finger under his chin and guide him over to his bed like the pathetic little animal he is.

Everything blends into one overpowering sensation as he works me out of my dress. Fingers brushing against my exposed nipples, the cold dampness left behind by his eager mouth, the never-ending need to press myself closer to him by any means necessary.

A low moan escapes my throat when I realize I'm so aroused it's bordering on painful, and there's only one thing that will help alleviate it. "Touch me," I whisper desperately. "Now. Right now."

Ben doesn't reach down between my legs like I ordered. Instead, he positions himself so he's propped up over me, trapping me against him and the mattress. "You know," he says lowly, waiting for me to look him in the eyes before he continues, "I don't like being told what to do either." Leaning down until his teeth scrape against my ear, he whispers, "Even by a goddess."

I thought I liked being in control, so why am I even more turned on by the fact that he's not letting me order him around anymore?

His demand comes out in a single, clipped word. "Beg."

My response is nothing more than a shaky gasp of air. "What?"

"You heard me," he repeats. "Go on. I'm waiting."

"I. . ." Try as I might, my magic isn't enough to take control of him anymore, and I think I like it. It's all the rush of danger without any real fear because I know he would never hurt me. He's getting drunk off me the way I just got drunk off him. We're getting drunk off each other. With this thought comes the relief of knowing this is a push and pull of power, not a hoarding of it. He's taking charge for now, but it'll be my turn again soon enough. I could accidentally kill him by moving too fast. I know it. He knows it. He values his life too much to actually piss me off. This is a game. I can play games. With a newfound confidence, I look at him with softened eyes, begging like the world will end if he doesn't reward me with his hands down against my—

An embarrassing cry rips from my throat, but it's already replaced with another wild gasp before I even have the chance to think about being embarrassed. At first, it feels amazing just being touched at all, but after the initial shock wares off, I take note of what feels the best and guide his hand, teaching him where to touch, how hard or softly, and with what speed. The fact that he's so focused on making me happy brings a surge of magic back, ensnaring us both until every movement of his fingers is exactly what I need to ride out the most intense orgasm I've ever experienced.

I wait for him to frown and demand we switch spots, but he just smiles and kisses my forehead. "You're glowing," he says, laughing when I roll my eyes. "No, Cora, you are quite literally glowing."

I hold up a hand in the dark and see that he's right. It's not a blinding glow, but my skin shines with light. I look back over to find him smiling triumphantly, shifting to tuck an arm up and behind his head, sighing with self-satisfaction. It's as if all that matters is me and my needs.

It is his lack of aggression that makes me feral. I roll over and straddle him. There's no accounting for where my hands are at any given moment. Every inch of his body needs to be caressed—over his face, down his neck and across his shoulders, my fingernails raking down his back, circling around to his chest, inching down ever closer to his—

Ben pins my wandering wrist against the mattress. "Careful," he warns, his voice low in the back of his throat. "I don't like being tortured. Please don't start something you have no intention of finishing."

"Are you telling me what to do again?" I can see he absolutely does not intend for me to rip free from his grip because the sound he makes when I take him in my hand is not any of the measured, practiced sounds I've heard from him so far. It is the drowning gasps of a desperate man, desperate to do absolutely anything and everything I say. "You've gotten into a bad habit of doing that, Benjamin."

Understanding what I want, he gasps, "I'm sorry."

"Are you?" Not impressed with the apology, I frown with annoyance. "I know how you can make it up to me. Don't move. Not a single muscle. No bucking, no twisting, no twitching, no nothing. I don't want to see you move at all, do you understand me?"

"Yes," he accepts in a strangled huff.

Nothing is a distraction—not the fact that it's hard but fleshy and hotter than I was expecting, not the fact that I have absolutely no experience with this, and certainly not the fact that there's a small voice in the back of my mind telling me there's only one type of acceptable sex and that I'm doing it wrong. No, none of that matters. Nothing can get in-between me and my mission to hear him screaming my name.

I figure out early on that he likes when I praise him, he likes being called Benjamin instead of Ben, and although he doesn't need eye contact to be satisfied, anytime I roll my eyes over to look at him, his jaw starts twitching in a losing battle to follow my orders not to move.

I think I like being worshiped after all. He's close. I can hear it in his voice, but I don't know what he's waiting for. He adores me, so I might as well give him even more reason to adore me. I am, after all, a very generous goddess. I rest my mouth against his ear and murmur, "Good boy, Benjamin."

Every cry of ecstasy widens my smile as he begs me not to stop. He breaks my demand not to move by once again propping himself up over me, but only so he can kiss my mouth, so I allow it. He has no idea how pathetic he sounds right now. Look at him, utterly consumed with a need for me. Weak little human thinks he can do whatever he wants. Gail was right. Men need to be reminded of their place, crushed under the sole of my boot. At this last thought, I snap out of it just as Ben collapses against me, sliding off and beside me with a sweaty slickness.

Immediately, I feel it. Like someone's pulled the plug on a record player and all the lovely music has slowed to a halt. Seeded deep in my gut, I feel it.

Shame.

Why? What am I ashamed about? We're married. This is literally one of the major perks of being married, right? There's nothing wrong with what we just did, right?

Am I ashamed that I've put our lives in danger by doing this? No, we had it under control. Right? He stuck his hand down past the waistband of my underwear but never actually took them off. We were never in any danger of getting pregnant. I'm incredibly strong willed. I mean, if he had asked me to, I absolutely would have let him pound me until he came.

And there it is. I'm dangerous, and I've let this go on too long.

I gather up my clothes in a frenzy to get dressed as quickly as possible.

"You're mad at me." Ben shoots up in bed, panicked. "It's because I moved, isn't it? I'm so sorry. I tried not to, I really did, it's just that. . . Cora, please, please don't leave."

"No," I stammer, "no, no, no, you didn't do anything wrong. That was nice." That was nice?! "I mean, it was more than just nice. I mean, I. . . it's not you, I just. . . I'm so sorry, but I need to go back to Hydra."

"At 3 in the morning?"

"Your back is healed," I whisper, thinking of any and all excuses to justify wanting to leave. "You don't need me here anymore."

"WHAT?"

I can't seem to think of anything to say other than, "I'm sorry." Unable to look back to see if he's following, I shake into my boots and practically sprint out the front door.

Sawyer is angry at me about something. Why is he shaking me? What the hell? Why the hell is he shaking me? Get off me! Wait, he doesn't look angry, he looks worried. What is he saying? Breathe?

I open my mouth but nothing happens.

"Breathe, goddammit," Sawyer's voice echoes in my mind.

Where am I? Hydra? When did I get back to Hydra? Suddenly, I remember how to breathe.

"Easy," Sawyer soothes. "Easy, darlin. There we go. Just breathe."

Sawyer lifts a kettle off the clay stove and pours us some tea. I'm seated in the only room in his house. House is actually a generous term, considering he was given nothing more than a glorified shack. Not much to look at from the inside oroutside.

He waits until I've taken a sip before saying, "I don't want to leave."

"Huh?"

"The island," he clarifies. "When the sub comes back, I don't want to leave the island. That's my deal. Take it or leave it."

"Deal? What deal? What are you talking about?"

"Listen, sister, I just damn near pulled you back from the brink of death at 4 in the damn morning. If you think I work for free, you've got another thing coming."

"I was having an anxiety attack. I wasn't dying, it just felt like I was dying." I think of something and frown at him. "What were you doing on the beach at 4 in the morning, anyway?"

"Not that it's any of your business," he says, "but this is the only time I have to myself before those damn kids start bothering me come morning. If you must know, I was reading."

"You were reading on the beach at 4am?"

"Yes, and it doesn't matter if you don't believe me because I have something you want. That is, if your babbling on the beach is to be taken seriously. And boy-howdy do I have the experience to guarantee I'm not bullshitting you in my advice."

I'm annoyed that whatever he's trying to tell me makes no sense. "James," I snap, "just say whatever you're trying to say. This time in English, please?"

"I'll make you a deal," he clarifies. "You let me live out the rest of my days on this island, and I'll teach you how to seduce your husband."