Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 104729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
It really sucks that he didn’t leave the radio in the raft, but I understand why he did it. He couldn’t have expected …
What am I doing? I keep going back and forth on how I feel about this. And now, I’m justifying what happened on his yacht.
The thing is, this all started because of me. Not true. The war started long before me. But this—being on his boat in the first place—all this started because of me.
Because I came up with a stupid and apparently transparent plan, and it backfired.
Royally.
From where I sit, I watch as he takes a knife to open the coconut. Then he collects the milk. I creep closer, not wanting him to spill any.
“Here,” he says as he reaches over to me. The distance isn’t far, and his hands touch mine. With the bottle in my hand, I sip—and I also freaking moan. It tastes so good. With all the adrenaline leaving my body, I realize how hungry I am. We hadn’t eaten all day. Not since we left to fish.
We were so worried about getting to safety that I had forgotten or merely didn’t realize.
“That tastes so good.”
“I can tell.” He chuckles.
“Don’t make fun of me. Wait until you try it.”
As if on cue, he lifts it to his mouth too and then swallows. “Fuck,” he groans, and it’s my turn to laugh. “You’re right. That’s fucking amazing right now.”
“It really is.”
When we are done drinking the milk, he cracks open the shell and takes the fatty meat out.
It tastes just as good as the milk. We sit in silence as we eat, other than letting out the occasional moan of pleasure.
“Wow, we are pigs,” I say when there is nothing left.
“Are you still hungry? I know you don’t want fish, but we have some other fruit in the raft.”
“No. I’m good.”
Again, silence falls on us. My gaze is on the fire, wondering what to talk about.
“Since we don’t have stars tonight, there’s no lesson,” he says.
“That’s a shame. Now what will we talk about?”
“We can talk about you.”
“Or we can talk about you?” I counter.
“Didn’t we already do that?”
He’s right.
Maybe it’s my time to open up.
32
Alaric
“The man you know as Michael is not my actual father,” she says out of nowhere. “Hell, my name isn’t really Phoenix. It’s Sarah. We changed it when he adopted me.”
I sit up from where I’m reclined on the raft near the fire.
Phoenix is still sitting across the raft from me, but I feel I need to be closer to her for what she is about to say.
I already knew he wasn’t her biological dad, but I don’t speak. This is her story, and I’m just here to listen.
She moves forward on the raft, closer to the warmth, as though talking about her past makes her cold. I can understand that. It’s what I felt when I unburdened my childhood to her.
“When I was younger, I lived in New York with my family. We traveled a lot—more than most. Often, my father would take us to South America on his business trips. He was an international lawyer, and we went to Argentina during a time of civil unrest. War broke out. I don’t remember much, but I remember that my family was caught in the crossfire. My parents both died. Michael was his client. He saved me that day and took me in when I had no one else. His life was too difficult, and he moved me around too much to keep me with him, so he sent me to boarding school, but he was always there for me.”
I want to argue that doesn’t stop him from being a monster—that one good deed doesn’t right his wrongs—but this isn’t the time or the place for that.
That is a black cloud always hovering over us. If we let it in, it will destroy us.
Eventually, we will cross that bridge, but not now.
We both sit in silence after her story. There are no words to say that will help. We are both orphans who lost our family. We aren’t that different.
“How long do you think the rain will last?” she asks, finally breaking the silence.
“A tropical storm like this? Probably a few days.”
“This will set us back.”
“It could,” I admit, my voice dipping low.
It’s worse than that. The waters will be unsteady, and although the raft can withstand open water, it can’t withstand a storm like this one.
I don’t say that.
The mood is already too somber to tell her any chance of us leaving in the next few days will have to be pushed back until we are sure another storm isn’t brewing.
“Do you think we will die here?” she whispers.
It’s dark in the cave, except from the fire dancing beside us, there’s no other light, but I can see the way she trembles.