I sigh softly at the woman looking back at me in the small bathroom mirror. She’s doing her best, so who cares if she has dark circles under her eyes and tank-top tan lines that are pretty much permanent at this point?
At least I finally got a really good shower. I’ve been taking two-minute showers lately—pretty much just frantic scrub-downs that get me clean. But this evening, I took a longer one, using one of Amira’s salt and coconut oil scrubs, and I even shaved my legs.
I’m toweling myself dry when someone calls my name.
Shit. What now? I wrap the towel around my hair and squeeze out the excess water.
“Briar, are you in here?”
It’s Amira. She’s in the main bathroom area, but I’m in my own stall. This is the only one that has a shower, sink, and mirror all in one private stall, and it’s usually not open.
“I’m in the big stall!”
“Marcus is back!”
I say a silentthank you, my shoulders relaxing.
“I’m on my way!”
I’m dry enough. I quickly dress in clean clothes and race out of the bathroom.
I’ve missed every single thing about him. His voice. His dark caramel eyes. His quiet, steady protectiveness. The warmth of his body wrapped around mine. We hardly had any time together after we finally talked.
Life on Blue Arrow Island is harder than ever. It’s not just our reduced rations, but so many other things. Waiting for Theron to attack. Hoping our garden will regrow quickly despite the volcano’s damage. Trying to keep peace between two groups who have been fighting each other for years.
A jaguar came into camp last night and mauled a Tider. Aromium made it bold and fearless, and the people who saw it said it looked like it was starving. It slashed at the man’s chest and one of his arms before being put down by an archer and several Tiders. The cuts are deep, but Ellison said she thinks he’ll live.
That’s a fitting metaphor for our camp right now. The volcano showed no mercy. We’re all still numb because there hasn’t been time to pause and mourn everyone we lost.
I leave the bathroom and see others going toward the center of camp. A woman runs toward two other women, her eyes wide and her smile bright.
“Cinnamon rolls!” she cries. “Hurry!”
I pinch my brows together and start jogging. Everyone is moving through the center of camp and continuing on to the dock where our supplies are delivered.
Our supplies come monthly on an armored ship, a massive mechanical claw moving the crates from the boat’s deck to our shore. There’s never any human contact.
But when I get to the dock, there are people everywhere. I scan the beach for Marcus, my feet freezing in place when I see what’s happening. Dozens of men in olive-green uniforms are unpacking things from the boat, all of them armed with guns.
The uniforms have New America flag patches on the shoulders. Bile rises in my throat as I frantically search for Marcus.
There he is. My knees weaken with relief when I see him smiling at Wyatt. A soldier passes Wyatt a white box, Wyatt’s eyes widening when he opens it and looks inside.
He takes out a large cinnamon roll, warm frosting dripping to the sand as he takes a huge bite.
I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I trust Marcus. I run toward him, sand flying up beneath my boots.
He’s here. He’s finally,finallyhere.
When I reach him, I fly into his arms. His body stiffens, then relaxes as he lets out a soft laugh.
“Wow, you smell good,” he says in my ear.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.”
I close my eyes and take in the feel of my body pressed against his. His body is rock solid, but there’s something soft and tender about being wrapped in his embrace.
