Isla

02.

0 2 | m a r o u b r a

MY FIST CONNECTED WITH THE BOY'S FACE and he staggered back – more out of surprise than anything else. I inhaled sharply at the contact, waving my fingers in pain.

God, he had a thick head.

A part of me wished I knew how to punch properly. I was sure I heard a loud crack – and I wasn't entirely sure whether it came from me or from him.

He blinked, his hand flying to his cheek before his jaw fell slack with horror. I smirked at my handiwork. His face was already turning red in the shape of a fist, bright on the side of his cheek.

I had good aim.

His eyes snapped to mine, and his jaw tensed. His hand dropped to his side, his fingers twitching as he glared at me.

"You, bitch!"

"Me?" I sputtered, anger building in my chest. "You're the one who was – was – staring!"

"It's not my fault, you were putting it all on display," he challenged, sneering. He gestured vaguely to my body.

My eyes widened, my face heating in both embarrassment and anger. "Display?"

He quirked a brow at me in challenge.

This absolute, little shit.

I leapt forward, my fingers finding their way to his throat.

They brushed his skin and his eyes widened, his hands immediately catching my wrists and wrenching them away. I flinched as he twisted my arms, holding them above my head, and leaned closer.

"Try that again," he growled lowly, his fingers tightening. "I dare you."

His face was centimetres from mine, his eyes dark. For a moment, I froze, flinching back with wide eyes. Heat spread from where he gripped my wrists and my stomach flipped as he leaned towards me.

I had to admit – this shithead was attractive. He was a pretty kind of handsome, all sharp angles and brooding expressions. He looked like something straight out of a Netflix Original.

He was different from most tourists here. Most of them were half-drunk, jolly old men, occasionally with their half-drunk sons. Most drove up from Sydney, some came from England or China or Russia. Some were cute. Some were average.

All were red in the face and stumbled around with idiotic grins.

But this boy – he looked angry.

I was curious.

I found myself staring at the strands of dark hair falling onto his forehead and resisted the urge to push them back. His dark brown eyes glared up at me and I was keenly aware of his large hands pressing into my wrists, practically swallowing them in his touch.

But then his breath hit me, stinking of cigarettes, and I fought the urge to gag. Instead, I scrunched my nose in distaste and pursed my lips, refusing to break eye contact.

"You fucking stink," I said simply.

"You don't smell so great either," he replied.

I rolled my eyes, knowing he was just trying to piss me off, but a part of me felt insecure. I... didn't stink. Right?

The corner of his lips twitched, and I knew I'd shown how he'd gotten to me.

Blushing, I struggled against his grip, eager to get away from this annoying American, but he was strong. It was like he didn't even have to try to keep my wrists in place. I paused, sending him a sharp scowl instead.