Page 93 of Shipwrecked

“Ow!” The man on the far side of Mathieu withdraws his hand, shaking it. It’s decorated with a perfect half moon of teeth marks. Mathieu twists towards the remaining man. I don’t see what he does to him, but it draws a similar cry of alarm and a release.

Mathieu leaps to his feet—eyes ablaze—but his escape stops dead. “Cillian!”

Everyone turns towards me. Mathieu gets to me in half a second, looking first at the dressing on my forearm, hiding the snakebite, and then into my eyes. “Are you supposed to be out of bed?”

“Are you okay?” I scan him, but I don’t find anything amiss. If the way he was moving on the bed isn’t an indicator of good physical health, then I don’t know what is.

“Perfectly fine! I tried to see you earlier, but my family”—Mathieu shoots a glare over his shoulder—“wouldn’t let me. Have you got an update on Jules? Last I heard he was just out of surgery, but that was hours ago.”

“I just checked on him. I’m going to sit with him, but I wanted to see you first.”

“I’ll come with you,” Mathieu says.

Six pairs of eyes study me with open curiosity. I wish I was dressed like Mathieu. A shirt and trousers, and not this hospital get-up. “You don’t need to rest?” I ask.

“If someone should still be in bed, it’s you.” Mathieu’s eyes glint, inviting me to argue with him.

Not wanting to get bitten, I nod. “Fair point.”

Mathieu turns on his heel, addressing his family in boisterous French. I hear my name at one point, and a chorus of bonjours comes my way. I answer, “Hello.” Mathieu ushers me out of the room and stops long enough to drag a bench from the hallway across the doorway behind us. The doors open in, so it’s not going to trap anyone. Still.

I stare at Mathieu.

“Yes?” he prompts.

“You’re spoiled,” I realise.

Mathieu looks unfazed. “I’m the youngest.”

He loops his arm in mine and leads me back to Jules, where he has me take the seat while he fetches a second one from a nearby room. If I learn later that he went back to his parents and took one of their chairs right out from under them, I won’t be surprised.

“What?” Mathieu asks, noticing that I’m still looking at him.

“Everything is making sense.” Even his forwardness that first night at the club. No wonder he was so confident coming on to Jules. Mathieu is used to getting his way.

When Mathieu smiles, his eyes dazzling, dimples flashing, I feel as though I’m being sized up. Like I’m a challenge that’s proven more difficult than he’s used to, and he’s figuring out how to crack me. My sore, drained body wakes up. “You think that’s going to go any differently just because we’re on dry land?”

“I know it will.”

I grin. “I’ll look forward to the attempts.”

A soft sound draws our attention to the bed. Jules clenches the sheet in his bandaged hand and winces, his entire arm jerking.

Mathieu intervenes, gently loosening Jules’s grip. “He’s got burns,” he explains. “They’re not bad, but the doctor is worried about the risk of infection. It was a few hours before they were properly cleaned.”

I hate everything about this. I hate that he’s hurt. That I was lying helpless when it happened.

Mathieu sits back down, more sober now.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

I’m even more unhappy by the end. Jules could have died. If Mathieu hadn’t gone back for him, he likely would have. I tip my head back and scrub a hand over my face. There’s more than twilight streaming in the window now, the morning’s early rays lighting up the hospital. Outside, a city is coming to life. Cars honk, sirens shriek in the distance.

“We’re allowed to protect you too,” Mathieu says, unusually serious.

I force down every objection that wants to rise at that assertion. I don’t want them in danger, ever. If there’s a risk that needs taking, leave it to me. The urge to argue is strong, but when I meet Mathieu’s eyes, I know it’s a fight I won’t win.

“I just hate that he’s hurt,” I say.