Page 63 of Shipwrecked

I didn’t know it was possible to find a grown man cute.

“Jules.” I raise my voice above a whisper.

I get the same not-really-awake “hm” from him.

I scoot closer, ignoring Mathieu’s amused look.

“Is it okay if I sleep in here?” I ask. I doubt any apology is going to get through right now.

“Of course.” Jules rolls away from Mathieu and stretches out so he’s lying in his own spot, and mine too. His eyes are shut, his breaths steady.

I blink at the positioning.

“I mean, can I join you?” I ask.

Mathieu covers his mouth, stifling his laugh.

Jules has gone back to sleep.

I crawl into the lean-to. “Jules.” I cup his shoulder. “Can I—”

Jules’s entire body flinches.

“Ow”—a punch lands square on my nose—“Get your”—hard enough that my vision blots out—“fucking”—I jerk back, as startled by Jules’s raised voice as I am by the hit—“hands off me.”

I fall out of the lean-to, catching myself on my palms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Did I hurt you?”

Mathieu bolts upright at the same time as Jules, who’s cupping his shoulder, eyes flashing in my direction, wide with panic.

Seán seizes my shoulder, poised to haul me away.

I cup my throbbing nose, tasting blood.

Our eyes collide. Jules’s fill with recognition. “Cillian?” His voice is hoarse. He scrambles out of the lean-to, hands feathering against my face as Seán crouches next to me. His grip on my shoulder eases.

“I thought it was Darren. I’m so sorry, I was asleep—is there gauze in the med kit?”

Amid the bustle of Mathieu grabbing the med kit and Seán finding the gauze, I register a few things. A reactive, fear-filled punch. I thought it was Darren. Jules is holding his shoulder oddly. And then, I see his throat.

I go cold.

I know for damn sure I didn’t grab his throat hard enough to bruise, let alone do that.

Jules is crying. He’s framing my face, staring at the blood dripping down my chin with open horror. A dozen I’m sorrys fall from his lips in quick succession. His voice sounds sore.

“Hey.” I press my hand against the back of his. “It’s okay. You thought I was going to hurt you?”

“No, no, of course not. I thought you were Darren—” He cuts off.

I swallow hard.

“Darren did that to your throat?” I ask.

Seán’s hand stops in the middle of handing me gauze. His gaze moves to Jules, and genuine anger fills his eyes as he lays eyes on his throat. The ring of bruises is tight beneath Jules’s jaw, his delicate throat marked out by individual fingers. Darren’s handprint.

Jules starts to pull back, but I squeeze his hand and will him to keep looking at me. “Jules,” I say. “Darren injured you?”

His nod is tiny.