“Stop saying that!”
“What? The truth?” His eyes narrow. “You may not like the situation we’re in, but that doesn’t change a damn thing. You need to prepare yourself for the possibility that this story might not have a happy ending.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
His eyes scan my face, my pretty sundress, the long tendrils of hair falling in a curtain around my shoulders. “I think you still believe life is a fairy tale, because it hasn’t disappointed you yet.”
“This may shock you, since I’m getting the sense you’re pretty much in love with yourself, but being here with you?” I lean in. “Big disappointment.”
“Don’t be a child.”
“Don’t be an ass!” I shoot back. “What does it cost you if I decide to stay positive? Holding onto hope isn’t a crime, except maybe in the totalitarian society you’re trying to institute here.”
“You want to be in charge instead?” he snaps. “You want to make all the tough decisions? Ration the water and food packets so we survive this? Make the call when Ian here is too far gone to continue wasting limited resources on?”
I gasp.
Wasting resources. As if his death is a foregone conclusion.
My hands curl into fists. “I’m not giving up on him, even if you have.”
“I’m not telling you to give up. I’m just saying… I wouldn’t get attached.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” I practically spit, suddenly seething with rage. “You don’t ever get attached, do you?” Before I can stop myself, words are pouring out. I don’t even know where they’re coming from, let alone how to stop them. “No need for names! No personal details! No small talk! Certainly no comfort or kindness, even in the bleakest fucking circumstance!” I’m shaking so hard, salty strands of hair fall into my eyes. “Because god forbid you let anyone inside that fortress you’ve put up around yourself — you might actually start to give a shit about them!”
“You don’t know the first thing about me,” he growls.
“I know nothing affects you,” I retort hotly. “I know you’re a fucking robot, who apparently feels nothing about the fact that we’re in this mess together. From where I sit, it seems like you’d rather be alone on this damn raft! Hell, I bet you regret pulling me from that water!”
He flinches at the accusation. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is this! Me and you! The twisted fate of ending up stranded with the last man on earth I’d ever choose as a companion!”
“Trust me, sweetheart, you wouldn’t be my first choice either. You’re not exactly Lara Croft.”
Ugh!
I’m burning with rage and righteous indignation. I don’t let myself look too deep at the source, for fear of what I’ll find. Because, even as the vitriol pours fourth from my lips, I’ve begun to suspect this man — this gruff, grumpy, heroic, handsome, infuriating man — is not actually the reason I’m so steaming mad.
But I can’t be mad at a storm in the sky.
I can’t be mad at a plane for crashing.
I can’t be mad at a little girl for letting go.
I can’t be mad at a man for dying.
I can’t be mad at rescue for not coming.
He’s all I have left. He’s the only one here. The only outlet for my rage and terror and guilt. So, it doesn’t matter that none of this is his fault. I bottle up every ounce of emotion raging inside me and blast it at him without remorse.
“The minute I met you I knew you were the worst kind of man!”
“And what kind of man would that be?” he fires back, just as pissed off at me as I am at him. Maybe I’m not the only one who needs to release a little rage. “Since you’re apparently so well versed in the subject of men and their shortcomings.”
“Arrogant. Rude. Impatient.” I’m panting. “Bossy. Manipulative. Condescending.”
And entirely too good looking, I add silently.
He scoffs. “You got all that in the first minute?”
“The first bloody second!” I snap.
His eyes narrow on mine. “Well, I could tell as soon as I clapped eyes on you that you were a pampered little princess. Believe me, baby, of all the women I could’ve ever envisioned myself marooned with… I never once imagined I’d end up with a child.”
I swallow down a scream. “If I’m a child, you’re a cantankerous old man!”
“Does someone need a time out?” he mocks.
I do scream, this time. My hand curls around the bailer and before I can stop myself or think about the repercussions of my actions, I crank back my arm and chuck it full-force at his head — forgetting, in my rage, that it’s fastened to a short tether line. The plastic bucket arcs perfectly toward his face, a straight shot, before jolting to a stop at the end of its rope and falling to the empty span of raft between us.
For a moment, it’s totally silent as we stare at each other. I think he’s stunned I tried to bean him in the head. Frankly, I’m a bit stunned myself.
His eyes flicker from my face down to the bailer and back again. I see a glimmer of humor flash in their depths, but it’s gone so fast I convince myself I’m hallucinating.
Of all the things that might make him laugh, surely me screaming insults and attempting to maim him isn’t at the top of that list…
Shame swamps me. He was right to call me a child — I’ve behaved worse than a toddler throwing a tantrum. I open my mouth to apologize for my outburst, but he beats me to the punch.
“You should rest,” he says carefully, as though navigating a minefield blindfolded and barefoot. “I’ll keep watch for a while.”
“You’re just as tired as I am,” I point out quietly. With the tension finally abated between us, the fight has gone out of me, replaced by such intense exhaustion I fear I’ll pass out before the protests leave my lips. The stress of the last twenty-four hours has officially caught up. I’ve been reduced to a hollow shell of my former self.
“I can hold out a little while longer,” he murmurs, those unreadable eyes burning into mine once more. “We’ll take shifts. There’s no point in both of us staying awake all the time.”
My lips twitch as my eyelids droop closed. “Plus, there’s probably less of a chance I’ll toss you overboard, if one of us is asleep…”
“True enough.”
I’m half-dreaming when a throat clears roughly, pulling me back from the precipice. His voice is uncharacteristically soft when he asks a question that makes my heart clench.
“Your name.” He pauses a beat. “What’s your name?”
I keep my eyes closed, unable to look at him as I answer. The syllables feel strange on my tongue — like a secret I hadn’t realized I was keeping.
“Violet.” My pulse pounds faster. “My name is Violet Anderson.”
He’s silent for so long, I don’t think he’s going to reciprocate. When he finally does, his voice isn’t full of scorn. It’s achingly sincere. Alarmingly sincere.
“Violet,” he rasps softly, sending a shiver down my spine. “I’m Beck.”
Beck.
The name wraps around my mind, smooth as silk sheets, and I tumble mercifully into oblivion.
Chapter Seven
L A N D F A L L