Uncharted(36)

My chin jerks higher. “It’s really none of your concern at all. My age has nothing to do with you.”

“Seeing as we’re stuck here together, I’d say every damn thing about you is my concern.”

Ugh!

“Well, I’d say you’re being an ass,” I contribute. “But, at this point, I’m starting to realize it’s not a temporary state. You’re not being an ass. You are an ass. Always. Constantly. All the time.”

He offers no response except a low, predatory growl, still pacing back and forth.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” I mutter somewhat sourly as I watch him. “This doesn’t change anything—”

“It doesn’t change anything?” he scoffs. “It changes everything. You— you’re a fucking child, for god’s sake!”

“I’m not a child.”

“Spoken like every teenage girl ever.” His laugh is bitter. He runs his hands through his hair, fisting it in angry clumps. “God, what are you, a junior in high school?”

“I’ll be in college in the fall.” The blood drains from my face. “Or… I would’ve been.”

He stops pacing. His gaze cuts to mine across the fire, and I swear there’s more heat in his glare than there is coming from the actual flames two feet away.

“Fuck, Violet,” he rasps, sending shivers down my spine.

Fuck, indeed.

“Why are you so pissed?” I ask, narrowing my eyes and ignoring my thundering heartbeat.

“You should’ve told me.”

“You didn’t tell me how old you were until this afternoon!”

“That’s different,” he grumbles.

“Spoken like every hypocritical adult ever,” I toss back, just to goad him. I rise to my feet, my temper rising along with me. “Tell me why it bothers you so much.”

His jaw is ticking. “It doesn’t.”

My eyes dart down to his hands, curled into tight fists at his sides. “This is you, unbothered,” I say slowly.

He doesn’t respond.

I take a few steps around the fire, closer to him, and he backpedals away like I’ve contracted the Black Plague. “If it doesn’t matter, why can’t you look at me?”

He forces his eyes to mine, just to prove a point.

We stare at each other in the firelight as the air thrums with unspoken thoughts. He might not be able to admit it, but we both know exactly why my age is so abhorrent to him.

This tension between us is suddenly laced with a newfound taboo.

I have no explanation for the move I make next. I’d say I’m emboldened by the whisky in my system, but I haven’t had nearly enough to use alcohol as a scapegoat. There’s no excuse at all for the way I walk toward him, limbs feeling loose, eyes locked on his mouth, lips tingling as I wonder what they would feel like pressed against his.

“Stop,” he mutters, rooted in place. Watching me approach like you might watch a venomous rattlesnake slithering your direction. His jaw is ticking again.

“What is it about me being seventeen that’s got you so tangled up inside, Beck?” I whisper, sidling ever closer. “Enlighten me.”

“Violet, I mean it.”

I take another step. I’m officially invading his space. About to cross a line there’s no coming back from.

“Beck,” I say quietly, trembling with emotions I can barely define. “I want an answer.”

“While you’re at it,” a smooth, southern accent interjects. “I’d like a few answers myself.”

Beck and I both whip our heads around toward the voice, identical expressions of surprise on our faces as we stare at the blond man on the pallet by our feet. He’s staring back at us, eyes half-slitted with pain and confusion.

Ian is awake.





Chapter Eleven





A C H E





We do our best to explain things to Ian. He reacts about as well as can be expected — which is to say, with a fair amount of shock and disbelief as he stares down at the stump where his leg used to reside. He’s equally shocked that so many days have passed since the plane went down. He remembers very little of the actual crash, likely a byproduct of hitting his head in the moments before we struck the water. He has no recollection at all of our time on the emergency raft. The surgery we performed during the height of his fever is a jumble of painful flashes in his mind.

That’s probably for the best, if you ask me.

“I suppose I should be thanking you for saving my life,” he says after a long moment of silent reflection. “But, if I’m being honest, there’s a part of me that would like to kick your ass.”

“Ian I—” I start to apologize.

“Unfortunately,” he carries on. “I don’t think I’ll be doing much kicking again anytime soon, seeing as you’ve chopped off my damn leg.”

A startled laugh bursts from my throat before I can stop it. Despite the not-inconsiderable pain he must be experiencing, I can see a mischievous light shining from his light blue eyes. A dimple hints at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m glad your sense of humor is undamaged.” Smiling, I brush a few strands of hair from his eyes, then lift Beck’s water bottle toward his dry lips. “Now, please drink some water. You’re dehydrated. Tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it, we’ll try a bit of food.”