With a violent buck of his hips he thrusts into me, tearing through the last traces of my innocence in a single stroke. I cry out at the unfamiliar pressure, eyes stinging with tears, my mewls absorbed by his mouth as it claims mine in a relentless kiss. He moves within me, pace increasing in smooth strokes, and after a few moments, I begin to adjust. The ache of pain and shock morphs into something entirely different as my body finds a matching rhythm beneath his weight.
So this is what all the fuss is about, I think, beginning to spiral into bliss. It was worth every second of that torturous wait.
Pleasure grows in steady increments, a drumbeat inside my veins growing faster and faster as I stare up at Beck, seeing nothing but pure wonder reflected back at me. As if he too is awed that our bodies could come together to create this whole symphony of euphoria, flowing from him to me and back again in perfect harmony. There is music in my veins, a melody between my legs I’ll never forget no matter how much time goes by, no matter where we end up — together or apart, uncharted or back on solid ground.
Beck Underwood sings the song of my soul.
For the next few hours, as the typhoon rages on outside, we gasp and cry and sigh, creating a storm all our own within the circle of each other’s arms.
The walk back to camp the following day is slow for many reasons — not the least of which involves the tinge of pain that flares deep inside me with each step, a constant reminder of Beck’s thorough possession last night… and again this morning as our candles burned low and the rain tapered to a drizzle overhead. As much as we’d hated the cave at first, by the time the storm passed I could hardly bring myself to leave.
I smile absentmindedly at the memory, squeezing Beck’s hand tighter as he helps me over a particularly large fallen palm. He grins back, more joy on his face than I’ve ever seen.
We are bursting with life and love, surrounded by utter desolation.
The total wreckage of the island cannot be overstated. Any paths we’d forged through the brush have been obliterated by the typhoon. Elephant ear plants wave like tattered flags of defeat on a deserted battlefield. Bushes lay upside down, roots exposed to the sky. Scattered rocks litter every surface, coral confetti from an unwanted party guest.
I step on something sharp and wince. After yesterday’s bolt toward the caves, my feet are a tattered mess, covered in welts and scrapes that make even the slightest pressure unpleasant. Beck hears my muffled sound of distress and, without a word, drops to his knees to offer up his back. I roll my eyes as if he’s ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop me from looping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. I cling like a baby koala bear as he carries me along, picking our way slowly toward our camp.
Or, whatever remains of it.
My hopes aren’t high by any means. Witnessing the devastation on this side of the island, it’s hard to believe there’ll be anything left at all in our unsheltered lagoon. We will have to start anew, armed only with the few possessions in our bags and the clothing on our backs.
Somehow, that challenge doesn’t seem quite as dire as it once might’ve. I think that has a lot to do with the fact that, this time, we’re unquestionably together. A single unit, forged by time and trauma. I know in my soul that we are stronger than whatever hurdles an unexpected typhoon can throw at us. No matter what the future holds, we will weather every storm and come out stronger on the other side, hand in hand.
It takes nearly an hour to find the beach. When we finally hit white sand, Beck sets me down. My eyes swing in an arc, taking in the whole span of coast, from the rainbow cresting over the distant horizon to the newly exposed bed of coral, stripped bare by the crashing waves.
It’s just as well I’ve prepared myself to find our camp reduced to rubble. It is. Unfortunately, it’s something else, something I haven’t prepared for in the slightest, that makes my feet turn to stone and my heart clench into a fist.
Oh my god.
Is that…
It can’t be…
I hear Beck moving around the remnants of our cabin, searching for anything that can be salvaged, but I don’t look at him. I stand stock still, afraid to blink. Afraid to move. Afraid it’s another mirage.
But, most of all, afraid that it’s actually real.
“Hey, princess did you hear me?” Beck calls. “Your fishing rod is still in one piece!”
When I don’t answer, he moves to my side. I feel his hand at my elbow, hear the concern in his tone, but I can’t bring myself to acknowledge it.
“What’s wrong, Violet? Is it the camp? I know it looks bad, but we’ll make it right—”
“Beck.”
He stops short at my grave tone. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Shaking like a leaf, I lift my hand and point down the beach, past the other side of our inlet, to the exposed bed of reef. There, embedded on its side in the coral, mast snapped in two, is a wrecked sailboat.
I hear Beck gasp.
My eyes lift to his, wide with worry and hope.
“You see it too, don’t you?” I ask, unsure which answer I’m most hoping for.
It doesn’t matter.
I get neither.
He’s already running away from me.
Chapter Eighteen
S A V E D
The sailboat is abandoned.
There are no footprints in the sand around the hull, no signs of life at all. Whatever poor souls once dwelled aboard are long gone, likely victims of the typhoon. As we approach, picking our way across the coral bed with care, I notice the life ring is missing from the stern — not a good sign. Someone went overboard, a rescue was attempted.
Clearly, that attempt failed.
There’s a snapped harness tether dangling from the steering wheel, as if the sailor at the helm was simply torn away and tossed into the waves. Guilt and sorrow spiral through my chest. I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.
The boat is canted at an angle, but with a slight boost from Beck I’m able to scramble aboard. It’s not a particularly large vessel — only around forty feet — but it’s equipped for blue water sailing. The impressive panel of navigational instruments by the helm is a dead giveaway, as are the solar panels affixed to the tattered dodger that covers the cockpit.
Beck moves behind me like a shadow as we make our way down three steep, ladder-like steps into the cabin. The space is so disheveled it looks as if a tornado has picked up the boat and used it as a cocktail shaker. Then again, remembering the waterspouts I saw, I’m not fully confident saying one hasn’t.
Every cushion is overturned, every item scattered across the floor. We sort through piles of clothing, foul weather gear and spare rope. A solar-powered camping lantern. Countless boxes of unopened matches. Bottles of water. Rolls of plush toilet paper. A full stockpile of canned food.
So many things we could’ve used to survive.
So many things I would’ve killed to get my hands on.
I nearly lose it when I spot the perfect fishing lures, manufactured by an assembly line, glinting at me from a clear tackle box. My heart aches when I stumble across an orange pill bottle full of emergency antibiotics, months too late to do Ian any good.