Page 61 of Shipwrecked

“I’m not jealous.”

I can’t breathe.

“I feel bad for Mathieu. You can be charming when you—”

I jam my palm into his face, shoving.

Darren leans back with a curse. His arm span is greater than mine, and he’s out of reach.

I kick his leg.

Darren’s head snaps to the side, eyes flashing down the treeline. He abruptly drops his hands, turning away from me.

I double over, cupping my throat, gasping. It feels indented, as if his hand is still clutching me. The entire area throbs like a burn.

Voices approach. Willow and Yasop. Darren turns in their direction, straightening his sleeves, brushing sand off the knee I kicked.

The surge of panic and fear transitions into anger. I plant my hands on Darren’s back and shove with all my weight. He yelps and fumbles, landing on his hands and knees in the sand.

Darren twists towards me, mouth curled into a rotten sneer.

“Don’t ever touch me again.”

I snatch up my bottles from where they fell in the sand and rush on to camp. My entire body is trembling. Behind me, I hear Willow ask, “Did you fall?”

Mathieu is stirring something in the skillet set over the fire. He looks up as I walk into camp. “I know it’s hot, but we agreed that we’d like something cooked. Seán found enough eggs, so I’m putting together egg-fried rice.”

I go to where the bottles are gathered and put the empties in the right place. The unsteadiness of the night before rises like a wave. My hands won’t stop shaking. My throat is hot, like Darren is still crushing it.

“Jules?” Mathieu calls tentatively. There’s an insecure note in his voice.

I don’t want him to think I’m being cold. Or brushing him off. Or for him to think there’s something about him that’s making me turn aside. I sit next to him. “Smells good.”

I feel the weight of his gaze on the side of my face. I pretend that I’m too engrossed in the food to notice.

“I’m sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Mathieu says.

“You don’t need to apologise, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I think you’re cool.” Mathieu stirs the food. “And if we were dating, you being social is the part I’d like best. Even if the person you’re talking to is hot. I was surprised by what you said earlier. I wasn’t trying to be critical.”

My gaze travels up Mathieu’s hand, his slender wrist, to the slope of his shoulder, the curve of his neck. By the time I’m looking at his dark eyes, his attention is back on me. There’s tenderness in his gaze. “Rather than saying it’s fine, I’d like it if you could say you forgive me.”

I hear rustling down the path and approaching voices. I shuffle closer to Mathieu and rest my head on his shoulder. I press my leg against his. Taking, soaking up, all his sunshine warmth.

“I forgive you.”

Mathieu wraps his arm around my back, and he keeps it there. Apparently he has no reservations about people seeing the contact and gauging for themselves what it means.

I don’t look at Darren.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Cillian

The main camp feels bare when night falls. The signal fire is burning bright on the beach where Willow and Yasop have said they’re going to keep it going until they’re tired. Mary and Charles have already turned in for the night in their own camp, and Darren has gone off to his own new lean-to as well. I prod our fire, but any panic about it going out has passed. We have matches. Relighting it won’t involve hard labour.

Seán rests his forearms on his knees. “There’s space for you to have your own spot now.” The empty lean-tos in camp have supplies stashed beneath them that could be easily moved. I go still, feeling caught in a lie. Seán raises a brow and waits.