Footsteps thudded against the old floorboards. The attacker didn’t attempt to hide the noise now.

Connor shifted, but something—no, that was definitely a someone—landed on his back. Not too heavy or with enough strength to pin him down for long but the pressure slowed his movements. He reached around to grab an arm or any limb he could reach when the attacker pressed a hand against his new head wound. One touch and the room began to spin. His arms gave out and his chest and chin crashed into the floor. The force of his yell surprised even him.

Off balance now, he wrestled for control. Repeated bouts of dizziness made it tough to throw the person off him. Everything whirled and raced as he tried to shrug and move. He choked back the need to throw up but froze when the attacker started talking. Right in his ear. Low and deep.

“Leave Whitaker now.”

The insistent sound didn’t hide the person’s attempt to use a fake gravelly tone. A woman? Maybe . . .

Nothing about the hit-and-threaten move made sense but the buzzing in his head had his arms shaking. His body listed to one side as he fought to keep from face-planting on the floor. “I . . . what the hell?”

The pressure against his body vanished in a flash. Then he heard the thump of footsteps as the person raced away. A rush of cold air swept through the cabin. Connor dragged in enough to revive some of his energy and lift his head. Even in the relative darkness he could see the cabin door standing wide open. The pain knocking inside his brain refused to subside. A haze blurred his vision and he tried to blink it away.

Help. He needed help. Get checked. Find the attacker.

But he didn’t know one person on the island. A few by name, but that was it.

He stumbled to his feet. Bobbing and weaving, he made it to the front door and slammed into the wall. His fingers found the light switch and clicked it on. Nothing happened. The cabin up through the loft remained plunged in darkness.

The whole thing had been weird but thorough—cut the power, sneak in, and attack. But that didn’t explain what the person wanted or why.

A few more blinks and his eyes finally adjusted to the relative blackness. Lumps that looked like furniture formed in the shadows. Taking slow steps, he bumped his way back to the sofa. Careful not to shift his head too much, he leaned down and patted the floor and the couch cushion in a desperate search for his cell. His fingertips knocked against it on the ottoman and it slipped to the floor.

“Mother . . .” Even talking hurt his head, so he let the front half of the grumbled profanity be enough.