The lighthouse

Stone, weather-beaten, half-swallowed by ivy, with rusting railings and broken windows. The wooden door was ajar, creaking in the breeze. Jill approached it warily, blanket still wrapped tight around her damp, naked body.

Inside, the lighthouse was dark and stale. The air reeked of sea rot and dust. Her bare feet left faint prints in the grime as she moved through the main floor, scanning for supplies. A toolbox. A radio. Clothes. Anything.

Her breath still came fast. Her thighs still trembled, not just from the cold. The edge of heat clung to her — shameful, stubborn, deep in her core. She could still feel Jackie’s touch on her breasts, the ghost of rough fingers, and it infuriated her. She wasn’t a victim. She wasn’t done.

She reached for a rusted locker when—

Click.

The unmistakable sound of a hammer drawn back.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

The voice was gravel. Old. Hard.

She turned.

An old man stood in the stairwell’s shadows, a battered shotgun trained right at her. He had a gray beard, leathery skin, and eyes like dull knives — sharp, tired, unflinching. His coat hung loose, boots heavy and worn.

“Blanket,” he said.

Jill stared him down. “I’m not a threat.”

“You’re naked, armed with nothing but attitude. That makes you dangerous.” He stepped forward. “Drop the blanket. Now.”

She hesitated.

“Do it or I’ll do it for you.”

Her jaw clenched. Slowly, she let the blanket fall.

It slid from her shoulders, trailing down her arms, brushing over her hips before pooling at her feet.

She stood straight, chin up, starkly nude under the pale shaft of moonlight from the broken window. The air kissed her flushed skin — every scar, every curve, every shadow. Her full breasts lifted with each breath, nipples still taut from the cold. Her stomach was flat but tense, glistening faintly with dried salt and sweat. Her hips flared powerfully, thighs firm, feet dirty. The fine lines of muscle across her arms and legs told a story: she was a fighter. A survivor. A woman who'd endure.

The old man circled her slowly, like a wolf scenting prey.

“Damn,” he muttered. “They don’t make ‘em like you anymore.”

Jill didn’t flinch, even as the barrel of the shotgun passed within inches of her bare skin.

“You with someone? Who sent you?”

“No one,” she said, voice even. “I escaped.”

He looked her up and down. “From where?”

“A warehouse. Dockside. Seven men. One with a ponytail. They tried to sell me.”

He studied her face. Her bruised cheek. The fine red lines where the cuffs had dug in. His eyes lingered on her chest, on the way her nipples still hardened in the cold air, then down, between her legs — where the shine of her own arousal hadn’t quite dried.

“You look like hell. But you walk like you’ve still got a spine.”

“I do,” she said flatly. “Now either shoot me, or help me.”

He didn’t move. But his grip on the shotgun shifted, just slightly.

“You're lucky I'm old,” he said gruffly. “Twenty years ago, I'd’ve taken one look at a girl like you and…” He trailed off.

Jill tilted her head. “And what? Shot me? Or something worse?”

He gave a bitter smirk. “That depends on how honest you were.”

The silence stretched between them like tension wire.