It was a strangely meaningful concept – someone with the power and aptitude to wrestle sharks, to shred you where you stood if he wanted, but who would never touch a hair on her head. There he was, muscle and power and instinct and blood on his hands, but the ferocity bypassed her. His killer hands rested by his sides, not touching her.
But she recalled a time when they had touched her. When he had taken those beaten-up fingers, capable of anything, and trailed them over her skin with war-paint sentiments. And they had been gentle.
Like a butterfly straining against its cocoon, something nudged inside her, wanting to feel that touch again. There was something in the restraint, in the fact that he could ravage her like a rabid wolf and then his touch registered with the lightness of a feather. It was surprising, confusing, intriguing.
Made her curious what he was holding back.
Only tantalized her motives to connect.
She hadn't planned the next question, but the curiosity came to her like a sudden rain in the jungle. “Have you ever fallen for a savage?”
In usual Jayx fashion, he didn't spew some immediate response. This time, he actually glanced down at his lap and kicked a heel against the craggy bluff. Was she on to something?
“Hard to say,” he admitted, the moonlit blue of his eyes shifting to her. They were her favorite color, she realized in that moment. “I'm not sure if she's a savage yet.”
It took a beat, and then her heart fluttered to a stop at the implications. What...he didn't mean...
Surely he couldn't...
Her mind went blank like the miles of empty ocean that stretched all around them. To the edges of the earth, it stretched.
Just as Jayx was surely not afraid to stare down the wild beasts of Paradise, he was not afraid to look into her deer-startled eyes. But then his gaze wandered, down her neck, over her shoulder, up the arch of a wing.
His hand left his side, no longer restrained. The touch she had been curious to feel again brushed the tip of her wing, equally as curious to touch her.
Light as a feather, she had deemed his touch, and there he was touching her feathers. A giddy rush of hysteria threatened to bubble out as a giggle. She managed to swallow it, her mouth dry.
Jayx traced the curve of a wingbone, the fall of feathers past her shoulder. Shiloh almost convinced herself she had interpreted him wrong, was almost able to chalk this up to his own curiosity toward the anomaly attached to her body. But all of that became irrelevant the moment she realized she could feel it – he was touching her wing, not her own flesh, not her own body, and she could feel it.
Equal parts horror and amazement stung her other thoughts to silence. She stilled, focusing on the faint sensations that rippled along the extensions connected to her body. Goosebumps formed around the embedded root of the wing, creeping down her back.
The wings shivered at his touch, a response she could not control, and Jayx focused back on her face. Would he read the wings' response as her own?
Could she even say if one was separated from the other? There was a primal instinct creeping out of the woodwork inside her, relishing his touch, but was she just blaming a foreign influence for something that was in her own mind?
It was impossible to say. But in that instant, the fact that she could blame anything on alien compulsion liberated her to give in.
For a single moment, it terrified her. Until Jayx’s sentiment regarding her possible savagery kicked in. The fact that it was even open for debate named her a vicious contender, fear an uncharacteristic infliction. She may encounter uncertainties of her own, struggles with identity and humanity and a torrent of other complex emotions, but she was a fierce, stubborn, volatile force in her own right. A survivor of the apocalypse. A blazer of trails. A challenger of savages. Bold – not afraid.
And one cocky queen-bee, to boot.
Shut up, Shiloh.
The prince of the jungle was touching her. The killer of beasts, rebel of savages, tamer of the Apocalypse. Fingers calloused from a thousand kills brushed her cheekbone.
So it wasn't just her wings that he wanted.
He could kill you with those fingers.
But if he planned on killing her, it started with his lips covering hers. Pine musk and orange blossom flooded her senses. A feeling reminiscent to when she'd first come to Paradise and tasted the fruit spiked again at this incitement – a thirst, a need, a response to something sweetly irresistible.
Jayx's words about what unified them flashed through her mind – hunger, fear, desire...desire to indulge. She could not say he was wrong, as their two forces collided, responding to the same feeling.
But was that all it was to him?
Should she care if it was? Just because she'd voiced some small desire for connection did not mean she had suddenly become open to forming any deep attachment to another. It was not that easy.
What was easy was admitting sometimes, you just needed a moment of bliss to counteract the darkness. To counteract the pain and horror and feeling terribly, irrevocably alone in this world.
Jayx was warm, his body radiant in such close proximity. His touch was rain and petals, his kisses storm and strength. He was such a clash of softness and fire. This brutal idol, and yet he made her feel safe. Safer than she ever had.
Jayx pulled back, searching her gaze. Shiloh felt her face flush, glad for the darkness.
“What else would you like to know?” the barbarian rebel whispered.
She hadn't realized it, but her fingers – apparently slipping from his chest when he drew back – had caught on his necklace. She toyed with the shark tooth, debating how to respond – then twisted the cord around her fingers and pulled his face back to hers.
26 – A Tide of Arrows
Ophelia pulled at the chewy tidbit between her teeth to win a bite-sized chunk, testing the sweet, jerky-like texture on her tongue. An expression of pleasant surprise enlivened her face. Her latest experiment – various dried fruits – was a splendid success.
She was on watch out amongst the rocks, ready to intercept any newcomers. A cold wind was blowing off the sea, and she sat in the misty spray with her arms wrapped around her legs, as good as another rock in the dark.
Cold and hard and black. Sometimes she felt like her soul was an extension of those rocks. Now and then she was known to give the lump beside her a knowing little pat, as if to say “Yes, cold hard thing. I know. You and me both.”
Leave it to her to be the one to decide the fruit of Paradise was too soft and sweet, and to decide she preferred it dried and hard. She almost snorted.
It was good, though – surprisingly good. She tore off another hunk of the sugary amber jerky, enthusiasm piqued, keeping the rest protected from the moisture of the ocean spray beneath her winter-inspired poncho.
It wasn't as if Paradise was freezing now that it was 'Winter', but there was a definite increased chill out on the ocean.
Shifting position, Ophelia found a more comfortable persuasion for her numb backside. One of the dinghies from the Dauntless bobbed nearby, perhaps a slight upgrade in luxury, but last time she'd hunkered down in its gently-bobbing cradle, it had rocked her right to sleep.
So, a numb bum on the cold hard rocks it was, lest she nod off and fail her post as a watchman.
The tide was coming in, though, and soon she'd have to forsake her disappearing pedestal for another.
But pedestal-hopping was not the name of the game, that night. For with the incoming tide came a new ship.
It sailed into the patch of moonlight that rippled out past the inky spread of shallows. Ophelia did a slight double-take, so monotonous had her task become that she never really expected anything to break the boring pattern of nothing, nothing, nothing-nothing-nothing.
A rare feeling of excitement ricocheted through her. A ship! Oh, glorious ship.
Something was happening on her shift. Her action was needed. Tonight, she would perform a duty greater than some self-appointed culinary ac
complishment related to drying the perfect batch of fruit.
She nearly slipped as she jumped up, stumbling across the stepping-stones of rock back to the dinghy. Light the torch, light the torch, light the torch.
That was the first matter of business to get the attention of anyone on board an incoming vessel. Sloshing unsteadily into the little boat among the rocks, Ophelia all but fell to her knees to extract the matches from her pack. She fumbled like an idiot, cold fingers causing her to struggle to handle the little sticks. It would have been so much easier to light the lantern secured to the front of the dinghy in the first place, and sit there like a lighthouse – but noooo, that might attract someone's attention other than newcomers to Paradise, if you're not the only one on watch.
It was not as if she wanted to draw the attention of the lurking savages while she was out there alone in the dark, but this was ridiculous. It took five tries, and dropping the match twice, before a spitting little flame sizzled to life. Sheltering it with her hand as she reached it toward the open window of the lantern, she said a little incoherent prayer that it would take.
The lantern flared to life, and Ophelia dropped the match in the ocean and grabbed for the torch, inserting it into the lantern chamber to light it as well.
It whooshed into flames likewise, and Ophelia turned her attention back to the incoming ship, raising the torch to wave it back and forth.
As important a task as it was, she felt decidedly stupid doing it. There she was waving a torch back and forth like it was the most vital signal in the world, and how was she even to know if anyone on board was watching? It was the middle of the night, after all. They could be tucked cozily below-deck like some sensible, sane person.
Nevertheless, she counted a full two minutes before executing the next phase of the welcoming process. Securing the torch to its make-shift holster at the back of the dinghy, she took up her oars and pushed off from the rocks. Her cold arms protested the task, but were soon burning with warmth.
Out into the moonlight she rowed, taking frequent stock of the vessel as she approached to see if there was anyone waiting for her on deck. At first it seemed like she would be met by nothing but a few creaking masts, left to take on the role of intruder as she slunk on board to seek out the unknown passenger, but then – there. A shadow on deck. Seemingly dark even for a silhouette.
Pulling alongside the ship with a final heave of her burning arms, Ophelia gathered her wits and peered up at the newcomer. Even in the close proximity and moonlight, it was a silhouette that peered back. Skin like night, and half a dozen thick, dark braids framing the girl's skull and spilling like ropes to mid-back.
Slung across her back amongst the tangle of braids was a long, curved frame, and protruding over her other shoulder a cluster of shafts with feathery ends.
It was a bow, Ophelia realized. A bow and a holster of arrows.
Suddenly, she was more intrigued by the newcomer's display of weaponry, than the newcomer herself.
“Ahoy there,” she called up, following protocol. She couldn't help but be proud of how sure-of-herself she sounded, as if she'd made the welcome a thousand times. Like it was just another day, and she was born to be the welcoming committee, cool and unperturbed.
“Hello,” the girl called back. “Are you the Ambassador?”
Short of starting with the whole 'unfortunately not' speech, Ophelia re-thought the response. Well, she kind of was, wasn't she?
Why not?
“Yes,” she concluded, liking the sound of it. “Yes I am.”
“I'm Kauna.”
Instead of answering with her own name, Ophelia found herself drawn once again to the bow that the other girl carried. She jutted her chin in its direction. “That come in handy?”
Kauna shouldered the weapon into a more presentable position, seeing her interest. “The difference between life and death back home. Tie a cord to the arrows, and it's good for catching fish, too. Little trick I learned during the crossing. I hope you have something other than fish, here?” Her tone was half-joking, sure it went without saying Paradise was overrun with a million choices more appetizing than a twelfth day of fish.
It was the one preconceived notion she would not have dashed through the heart.
Ophelia gave a vague nod. “Delicacies galore. How good are you with hitting live targets other than fish?” She couldn't keep her mind off that track for long.
“I can hit anything.” Clearly, Kauna took great pride in her skill.
Working a piece of dried fruit thoughtfully out of her teeth with her tongue, a devilish smirk tip-toed across Ophelia's face. Hopefully the shadows thrown around by the torch didn't make her look too crazy as she leered at their new guest.
“Welcome to Paradise, Kauna. We're happy you've made it to our hallowed shore.”
And the part she didn’t say, but whispered with conspiratorial grandeur in her head:
Welcome to the Convergence.
27 – Soft
Before, everything had been gray. Gray and lifeless and cold, Bad omens that screamed away, away, away! But there in the clouds, lost in the miles of overgrown fantasy-land, Jayx was color and life and warmth, and everything in her screamed closer. If the fruit in Paradise was delectable, Jayx was absolutely delicious. If she thought she had seen color in the lustrous jungles, Jayx emanated an aura from an entirely new spectrum. Nebula through a kaleidoscope lens of jewel-toned euphoria.
That's what it was like letting her cold, hidden soul be deftly unspooled by his hands. This champion of the wilds wanted to know her, tracing her own wilderness with his fingers, softly caressing the shoulders that had carried the world for so long, blazing goose-bump trails down her arms.
It was as if his lips made art against hers, painting a slow, breathtaking vision of dabs and strokes. Yes, Shiloh caught herself thinking. This...this is Paradise.
It was dizzying, the giddy feeling of letting go – of letting the tension and rigid armor crumble and flurry away in the butterfly-stirring torrent of his kisses. He had carried her through the jungle, once, and she remembered thinking the intimacy of it was probably the last thing on his mind as she clung to his frame, but now – now she wondered if he'd secretly enjoyed their little tandem trek.
He cupped her face with his hands, shifting into a crouching position. Clutching his bicep as he tipped her backward, Shiloh relaxed into his hold, letting out a soft sigh through their brushing lips.
Only as her back pressed into the moss did the sigh turn to a sharp gasp. She lurched back up from the pain that stabbed between her shoulder blades, colliding with Jayx's poised body and spilling him off of her.
A searing ache pulsed out from each wing-bone, driving Shiloh into a hunch. She forced a tight breath out through her lips.
“Your wings,” Jayx concluded sheepishly, catching himself on the moss. “I'm sorry.”
A blush warmed Shiloh's cheeks at the situation they found themselves in, now that the moment was shattered. She blamed it on the pain. Something this painful would make anyone a little red in the face.
“It's okay,” she deflected, too quickly. She was more breathless than she felt was warranted. “You didn't – it's fine.” The distinct urge to stand up straight and clear her throat rippled through her. To avoid looking too obvious, she settled for straightening her shirt.
“Shiloh–”
“It's fine, Jayx. You're not used to tip-toeing around wings protruding from someone's back. It happens.”
His eyes narrowed marginally at her distinction, as if he might have meant to address something else. The fact that they had kissed in the first place, perhaps?
Not a conversation she wanted to have. Quite frankly, not one she could imagine Jayx wanted to have, either. She turned back to the fireflies, cracking her neck.
Jayx seemed perfectly happy not to have to pursue the topic. He rolled to his feet. “Mother Eve will be hungry when she wakes. I'll bring something.” Fluidly dismissing himself from the s
cene, he turned to go, but Shiloh jumped to her feet as well.
“I'll go,” she insisted. “This is your place. You should have a moment to yourself.” She needed something to busy herself with. Something to distract herself from...whatever had just happened between them.
You just kissed the brooding wild-man, Shiloh. Like some love-struck sissy. What were you thinking? She put her finger to her lips as she walked away, as if she could suppress what had happened. She could not help a distraught little twinge that he would never view her as the fearsome, independent force she had set out to become ever again, after exposing that type of vulnerability, that weakness for something as stupid as affection.
Why did she even care how he viewed her? Where was it written that she needed his approval or respect? The only respect she needed was from the Tribal, in the form of them fearing her enough to keep their distance.
Equally as distressing was the feeling that he might think her just as silly for getting flustered and running off over a kiss. There had been a certain power in discovering she could evoke his emotions, too; would she have saved more face in the opposite extreme, taking an immodest approach to unleashing her feelings, plowing onward to establish herself as a provocative womanly force who could drive him to his knees as easily as he could scare her off?
Her face burned, imagining.
Was she weaker for having feelings, or for running from them? Either way, this messy human stuff wasn't all she had elevated it to be. Was this really what she was trying so hard to cling to? This uncomfortable confusion? Easier to be an animal who dealt in black and white, running only from obvious danger, than to run from your own confliction.
She all but stomped down the jade-crushed path, shoving protruding cliff-side vegetation out of her way. Bravo, Shiloh. Now you look like even more of an idiot than you did already. Really, it was anyone's guess why Jayx felt any sort of attraction toward her at all. It would in fact be a much more obvious match for him to pair off with Ophelia. At least she knew how she felt every second of every day and had the confidence to play it off like everyone needed to get on her level, Jayx included. If she and Jayx shacked up, they could have a merry little time trading affection and it would never have anything to do with vulnerability. Ophelia could kiss him, and it wouldn't be because she was some starry-eyed, weak-kneed damsel in distress, it would be because she wanted what she wanted, and what she wanted was to play queenie to a sultry wild man heartthrob.
Wonderland (Deadly Lush Book 2) Page 20
