Withering Hope (17 page)

"You have an inner strength that few people have. And you know how to give it to others. You could help people in your own way. Taking care of them one by one. Like you do with me. I've told you things I haven't told anyone. Not even the counsellor. In a way, I've given you a part of my past—of me—that I have never given to anyone. I'm not used to making myself vulnerable."

I've never heard anyone talk so openly about their feelings. I have no idea how to respond, and it seems that he's expecting me to. I rack my tired brain to come up with something else to talk about.

"What did the natives use to tattoo themselves in the marriage ceremony? Did it hurt more than getting a regular tattoo?" I blurt out, remembering what he told me a week ago.
Smooth, Aimee. Really smooth way to change the subject.

"I have no idea," Tristan answers, confusion dripping from his voice.

"But doing something like that if it hurts is barbaric. Well, I always kind of thought getting a tattoo was barbaric. And what if you want to get rid of it?"

"They don't plan to remove it at all. That's the whole point of it. I think it’s beautiful to give yourself to someone so utterly and completely."

My breath catches. Maybe if he hadn't told me a few minutes ago that he's given a part of himself to me that he had never given to anyone else, I'd think nothing of this. As it is… I can't help thinking that this… whatever this is… means so much more to him than I thought. But I'm not sure I'm ready to find out what it means. His eyes have an intense glint to them that ripples through me. When I can't hold his gaze any longer, I turn around and say, "Good night."

Tristan falls asleep before me, his even breathing filling the cabin. I manage to convince myself I'm overreacting and almost fall asleep too. Then he slings an arm around my waist, moving close to me. Too close. Feeling every inch of his body pegged to mine is excruciating.

His breath feathers on my nape, his strong chest muscles press against my back. And his lower body—no, I won't go there. But my body doesn't need my permission to torture me. A strong, almost painful need awakens deep inside my core. I can't quench it, hard as I try. Not even guilt can quench it. Tomorrow I will tell Tristan I can't do this anymore. I will sleep in my place and only come to him if he needs me. We are both confused enough as it is. Me—unable to control my body, and he… that look in Tristan's eyes spoke of feelings he shouldn't have for me. I've let this go too far. But it's not like sleeping next to him will make any difference.

But it does make a difference. Tristan sleeps the entire night without waking up once. It's me who has a nightmare this time. I wake up panting, with tears in my eyes. In my nightmare, we were attacked by a pack of wild beasts, and Tristan helped me up a tree that had no lower branches so the animals couldn't climb it. Then he got torn apart by the beasts. When I realize he's next to me, unharmed, I snuggle up in his arms and weep again, this time with joy. I wonder, why the sudden dream? Tristan has gone to great lengths to protect me these past weeks.

As I drift off to sleep again, a frightening awareness wedges its way into my mind. I thought the bond between us here in the rainforest was one of friendship. But maybe it’s more. Maybe I feel more than I think for this man who's not only the strongest person I've met, but who also seems more determined to keep me alive than himself.

T
he next days we sink into the deepest hell there must be, because we find fresh paw prints inside the fence each morning. And then a second set of prints, which is just as large as the first ones. Tristan was right. It's a female jaguar with at least one cub. And the cub is no longer the size of a cute kitten, but a deadly size. There is no sight of the beasts during the day, but they roam around at night. They knock over our wood supply and drink our water. Tristan suggests leaving once or twice, but neither of us thinks it's a very good idea. We climb down the hill regularly; the water level is still very high. We'd be advancing at a slow pace, and it'd be hard to build a shelter during the night. Then, on the morning marking two months and two weeks since we crashed, the paw prints vanish. Another week has passed since then, and we still look for them every morning and check the fence for holes, but there are no fresh holes or paw prints. Maybe the jaguar female and her cub (I refuse to think plural—cubs) were just passing by this area.

Tristan still checks the fence every morning, but I've stopped going with him. He also does one last round in the evening after we eat, carrying a torch, and that's where he is right now; whereas I'm curled in my seat, chewing my lip. Tonight I'm trying to muster the courage to tell him what I couldn't say this past week: I don't want to sleep so close to him anymore. Jaguars aside, I've been through my own personal hell. While I've been sleeping longer than one hour a night, sleeping next to him is becoming more torturous night by night. He's better now, his nightmares few and far between. There's no reason to continue this.

"No traces," Tristan announces, entering the plane. "I'll go change and be back in a minute." He disappears in the cockpit without glancing at me. He hasn't seen that I'm not lying in his seat, but in my own.

But he does see five minutes later when he returns. He stops in front of the seats. I had all this speech prepared how it's best if I sleep here, but under his hurtful gaze, the words I manage to get out are, "I want to sleep in my spot tonight, Tristan. It's just so warm in here. It's even warmer when we're so close together."

He reads right through my excuse. "I see. All right. Sleep tight, then." Without another word, he’s off to sleep. I try to do the same, without success. I start my old technique of imagining a waterfall—I haven't had to use it since I've slept by Tristan's side. I start painting the image behind my eyelids when his nightmare begins. Wild. Loud. Desperate. In a heartbeat, I’m right next to him.

"Tristan," I whisper. His nails graze the leather chair in his relentless thrashing, and I can't seem to be able to wake him. I pin my knees on the chair at his sides, trapping him beneath me, restricting his ability to move. Then I put my palms on each of his cheeks, and call his name louder. When he opens his eyes, the moonlight shines over the terror and pain in his eyes. It tears at me, guilt branching out from deep inside my chest. I shouldn't have left his side tonight.

"Just stay with for a little while, please. I need you so much, Aimee." The sound of my name from his mouth awakens something in me that has me writhing in a blazing torture. It’s doing things to me it shouldn't do.

"Shh, okay. I'll stay. I know it helps having someone."

"Not someone. You. You make the memories bearable, the present better. You have an unbelievably strong will to keep going, even if you don't know where you're heading, hoping you'll find something worthy at the end of the road. You have an inherent ability to pick up the good on the way—those that give you strength, the happy things, like your poems—and you go on. You pass that strength onto others, even if it costs you sleep and peace.

“I used to hate waking up every morning. Now I look forward to every day, even though we're stuck in this place. Because it means one more day with you." He caresses my lips with his thumb. I open my mouth, but he shakes his head. "Don't say anything, please."

For a long moment, we are silent, our gazes locked. I breathe in his hot breaths, tension crackling in the short distance between our lips. Then he pulls me into a kiss. The touch of his lips on mine electrifies me, shimmer after shimmer coursing through my nerve endings. His tongue takes mine in a primal claim. Icy shivers splinter my skin, and at the same time, fire awakens deep within me. I've never been kissed like this. Ferociously, with absolute, desperate need. I try to temper the heated emotions building inside me. I try to remember it's wrong. But that fleeting thought is drowned by the heat igniting his lips and hands, and I surrender. Tristan deepens the kiss until I'm out of breath. I become aware of his hard chest muscles, of every line and every ridge, as my hands roam wildly with a greed I don't recognize. His hands graze my body, traveling from my back to my thighs, spreading the fire in my center; I'm convinced it will consume me. With a jolt, he pulls me even closer to him, so I'm all but straddling him. His fingers fumble with my hair, as his blessed mouth cradles mine, coaxing a whimper from me.

And then I snap out of it. I push myself away, breathless, flushed, and ashamed. I spring to my feet, taking refuge in my seat, guilt seeping into me like a poisoned arrow. I try to concentrate on the sound of the torrential rain outside. It's pouring. I curl in a fetal position. The realization of what I have done grows, fuelling the guilt, until I can't stand being in my own skin anymore.

S
taying away from her tears at me. But I know trying to talk to her, or comforting her, would only make it worse. I know what she’s thinking about, because I am too.
Him
. This is one hell of a way to thank him for helping me.

But there is no going back after this.

I will fight for her.