The morning progressed with a heavy, stifling stillness. After the villagers finally moved on to their daily chores, Ren managed to drag himself back onto the bamboo bed.
He sat there now, his back pressed against the rough wall, his fists clenched so tightly on his thighs that his knuckles were white.
He watched Cilian through the corner of his eye. The Alpha was busy cleaning himself with a damp cloth, moving with a leisurely, satisfied grace that made Ren's stomach churn. Cilian looked refreshed—as if the crash, the wound, and the night of debauchery had only served to revitalize him.
Ren's mind, however, was a dark spiral of 'what ifs.'
How long? How long would they be trapped on this island before help came? Every hour spent under the tropical sun felt like a day added to the sentence. If they stayed much longer, he knew exactly what would happen. The effects of the nectar might fade, but Cilian's obsession wouldn't.
