Chapter 94: Cabin 1, Night 8
The cabin door clicked shut, sealing them in a tomb of pine-scented air and unresolved tension. Cabin 1 was smaller than it looked on television, the logs of the walls pressing in, the two sets of bunk beds dominating the space. The silence left behind by the cameras was a physical weight, thick and suffocating after the screaming chaos of the beach.
Briv stood with his back against the door, as if barricading himself from the memory of what had just happened. His skin still crawled with the phantom sensation of the gel-pads, his ears still ringing with Carmen’s shattered sobs. He watched Nicola, who had moved to the bottom bunk farthest from the door and simply folded onto it, her body curling into a tight, defeated ball. Her blonde hair spilled over the rough wool blanket, a stark contrast to the drabness. Eleven points. The number hung in the air, unspoken but deafening.
Nicoleta, in contrast, was a live wire. She prowled the limited floor space, her heavy boots soundless on the braided rug. The confidence she wore like armor seemed to have hardened into something sharper, more brittle. Her dark eyes, lined with kohl that had smudged slightly, flicked from Briv’s tense form to Nicola’s shivering one with a look of impatient contempt.
“Well, that was a fucking circus,” she finally bit out, her voice cutting through the quiet. She stopped by the small, square window, staring out into the impenetrable black of the island night. “A goddamn meat grinder.”
Thomas was already making himself at home. He had chosen the top bunk above Nicola, and now he sat on the edge, his long, skinny legs dangling, swinging back and forth with a childlike casualness that felt obscene. He had retrieved a small, elegant nail file from his bag and was meticulously working on his cuticles, his focus absolute. He seemed utterly untouched, a visitor observing an interesting exhibit.
“It’s a game, Nicoleta,” he said, not looking up from his task. His voice was a soft, reasonable murmur. “They’re just testing the limits. Seeing what breaks first.”
“What breaks first?” Nicoleta spun around, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “They broke Carmen. They almost broke Bianca. They’re not testing limits, they’re systematically dismantling people for ratings.” She glared at Thomas. “And you. You were right in the middle of it. You seemed to be enjoying your part well enough.”
Thomas paused his filing and looked up, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. “I played the game I was given. I ensured our team’s victory. Bianca… performed admirably. She has a remarkable mind.” His gaze drifted to the huddled form of Nicola. “Some are more suited to the pressure than others.”
A hot flush of anger spread through Briv. “She’s right there, Thomas,” he said, his voice tighter than he intended.
“I am aware,” Thomas replied, his eyes now fixed on Briv. “And she is aware of her standing. Ignoring it won’t make the number change.” He went back to his nails. “Denial is not a strategy.”
Nicola let out a small, choked sound, a half-sob she tried to stifle in the blanket. The sound seemed to snap something in Briv. He pushed off from the door and went to the small cooler provided by production. He pulled out four bottles of beer, the glass slick and cold in his hands. He needed the cold. He needed the fuzziness the alcohol would bring, anything to sand down the sharp, jagged edges of the night.
He handed one to Nicoleta. She took it without a word, twisted the cap off with a sharp hiss, and took a long, deep swallow. He then approached Thomas, holding a bottle out. Thomas looked at it, then at Briv, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he accepted it with a slight, condescending nod, as if Briv were a servant offering a canapé.
Finally, Briv walked over to Nicola’s bunk. He sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. She didn’t uncurl. He placed the bottle on the floor beside the bunk and gently laid a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, hard, as if his touch were a brand.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Nicola. Look at me.”
It took a long moment, but she slowly unravelled. She rolled onto her back, her face pale and blotchy, her brown eyes swimming with tears she was too proud to shed fully. She looked utterly lost. The vibrant, sexy woman from the first day was gone, replaced by this ghost.
“Eleven points, Briv,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “Everyone saw. They all know. I’m a joke.”
“You’re not a joke,” Briv said, but the words felt hollow. The board didn’t lie. In the economy of this island, she was bankrupt.
“He’s right, you know,” Nicoleta said from her post by the window, taking another swig of beer. “Feeling sorry for yourself is a luxury you can’t afford here. They smell weakness. They’ll feed you to the machines again and again until there’s nothing left.” Her gaze was hard, practical. “You have to get up. You have to get hard.”
“How?” Nicola’s question was a plea. “How do you just… turn it off?”
“You don’t turn it off,” Thomas interjected from above, his voice calm and instructional. “You redirect it. You use the humiliation. You use the fear. You let it fuel you. Look at Bianca. She transformed the violation into a victory. She understood the assignment.”
“Bianca looked like she’d left her soul on that fucking frame,” Briv shot back, glaring up at Thomas’s dangling legs.
“A fair trade for points, I’d say,” Thomas replied lightly. “Souls are rather cumbersome here. Points are currency.”
The cabin lapsed back into silence, broken only by the sound of swallowing and the soft scratch of Thomas’s nail file. Briv kept his hand on Nicola’s shoulder, and this time, she didn’t flinch. She seemed to draw a faint warmth from the contact. Her eyes moved from Briv’s concerned face to Nicoleta’s defiant one.
Nicoleta was watching them, a new, calculating light in her eyes. The initial anger had banked, replaced by a strategic assessment. She finished her beer and placed the empty bottle on the windowsill with a definitive clink.
“Thomas is a parasite, but he’s not wrong about everything,” she said, her tone shifting, becoming lower, more intimate. “This place runs on transactions. Pleasure for power. Affection for alliance.” She took a step toward the bunks. “You’re hurting, Nicola. You feel invisible. Small.”
Nicola’s breath hitched. She nodded, just a tiny movement.
“And you,” Nicoleta’s dark eyes locked onto Briv. “You’re thinking about Alya. You’re watching that point gap and you’re itching. You’re jealous, and you’re scared, and you need to feel something that isn’t… that.” She gestured vaguely, encompassing the entire traumatic memory of the beach.
Briv couldn’t deny it. The image of Alya’s name on the board, six places above his, was a constant, grinding anxiety. Where was she now? Was she in another cabin, talking to Joaquin? Was Thomas’s clinical voice right? Was this all just a game of cold, hard transactions?
Nicoleta moved until she was standing directly in front of them, a femme fatale silhouetted by the dim cabin light. She looked from Briv to Nicola and back again. “So, let’s make a transaction. Let’s forget the outside. Forget the points. Forget the cameras that will be back on us tomorrow. For right now, in this room, let’s just… feel.”
She reached out, her fingers surprisingly gentle as they brushed a strand of hair from Nicola’s damp cheek. Nicola’s eyes widened, a flicker of confusion and something else—a spark of life—igniting in their depths.
Then Nicoleta turned her head and looked at Briv. Her gaze was a direct challenge, an offer, a command. She leaned in, her body a curve of confident intention, and pressed her lips to his.
It wasn’t a tender kiss. It was a claiming. Her lips were firm and tasted of beer and a faint, dark trace of her lipstick. It was an aggressive, desperate attempt to overwrite the night’s horrors with a new, visceral sensation. Briv’s mind, a riot of jealousy and fear and residual shock, short-circuited. For a second, he resisted, the ghost of Alya’s angelic face flashing behind his eyes. But then the heat of Nicoleta’s mouth, the sheer, overwhelming presence of her, washed it all away. His competitive nature, his need to win, to dominate, twisted into this moment. He kissed her back, his hands coming up to grip her hips, pulling her flush against him. It was a battle, a clash of teeth and tongue, a mutually assured destruction of thought.
When they broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Nicoleta’s eyes were dark pools of triumph. She then turned, without a word, and bent down to Nicola.
She cupped Nicola’s face in her hands. “Stop thinking,” Nicoleta whispered, her voice a low, hypnotic rasp. “Just feel.” And she kissed Nicola.
It was different than the kiss with Briv. Softer, but no less intense. It was a persuasion. Nicola froze for a heartbeat, then a small, broken sound escaped her, and she melted into it. Her hands came up, tangling in Nicoleta’s dark hair, pulling her closer as if she were a lifeline. It was hunger, a desperate need for validation, for a reminder that she was still desirable, still alive, more than just a number on a board.
Nicoleta pulled back, her lips glistening. She looked at Briv, then nodded toward Nicola. An invitation. A conspiracy.
Briv’s heart hammered against his ribs. The room felt airless, charged with a dangerous, illicit energy. He looked at Nicola. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her body yearning and pliant. She was beautiful, and she was broken, and in this twisted world, this felt like the only kind of mercy left.
He moved. He leaned over, his frame blocking the light from the overhead bulb, and kissed her. It was softer than his kiss with Nicoleta, exploratory. Nicola responded with a surge of desperate passion, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him down to her. She kissed him like a drowning woman gasping for air.
For a few minutes, the only sounds in the cabin were the soft, wet sounds of their kissing, the rustle of clothing, and the ragged pull of their breath. It was a tangle of limbs and need, a three-way pact of oblivion. Briv was lost in the sensation of Nicola’s soft mouth under his, then Nicoleta’s hands were on his back, her mouth on his neck, her teeth grazing his skin. He turned his head and captured her lips again, while his hand found Nicola’s waist, sliding under her shirt to feel the warm, trembling skin of her stomach. Nicola moaned into the kiss, her body arching against his touch.
It was a frantic, messy attempt to rebuild their shattered egos with the bricks of physical contact. There was no love here, only a shared, feral understanding that they were using each other to feel powerful, to feel wanted, to feel anything other than the crushing weight of the game.
And through it all, from his perch on the top bunk, Thomas watched.
He had stopped filing his nails. His hands were still, resting on his knees. He didn’t leer or smile. He observed with the detached, analytical interest of a scientist studying the behavior of caged animals. His eyes, dark and unblinking, missed nothing: the desperate grip of Nicola’s fingers in Briv’s hair, the possessive curve of Nicoleta’s hand on Briv’s arm, the conflicted hunger in Briv’s eyes as he moved between them. He was a silent auditor of their transaction, cataloging their vulnerabilities, their needs, the specific ways they sought to escape themselves.
He was learning. He was always learning. This was more valuable than any points on a board. This was the raw data of human frailty, and Thomas knew, with a cold, certain clarity, that this was the true currency of Total Temptation Island. And he was becoming very, very rich.