Page 110 of Lost Paradise

I don't want to think about it. The future is uncertain, and dwelling on it only brings more questions and fears. Instead, I change the subject to something more immediate, something I can handle.

“How did returning the little girl go?” I ask, casting my other thoughts aside.

“We were in and out unnoticed. She’s back with her family, safe and sound,” Foster confirms

"Safe?" I roll my eyes, a surge of frustration bubbling up. "How is she safe? We returned her to a future where she’ll either be used as some ceremonial sacrifice or forced to have sex with a relative so they can breed more cannibals."

Foster narrows his eyes, his jaw tightening. "She is where she belongs."

"She has no future there," I argue, my voice rising with the intensity of my feelings.

"You really think that?" Foster’s eyes soften, a mix of sadness and understanding in his gaze. "You think our world is better?"

"You can’t be serious," I say, incredulous. "Over there isn’t better."

"It’s what she knows. She’s back where she belongs."

I stare at him, disbelief etched on my face. "How could you say that? That little girl will be stuck on this island and never know what’s beyond it."

Foster sighs, running a hand through his hair before placing it gently on my shoulder. "You think we’re better than them? These natives have lived on this island undisturbed for hundreds, if not thousands, of years and managed to live together. They breed with each other as a survival mechanism. But it took people from our realm of the world to come here, kill all their animals, and split their island into two. Us. The Western civilization split a peaceful island up to suit an agenda, then fucked off and never restored order, never cleaned up their shit."

I look at him in thought, my anger tempered by his words, but I still can't shake the feeling that we could have done more for the girl.

As if knowing what I’m thinking, Foster licks his lips and continues softly, "Darling, see it this way. We are no better than these cannibals." I raise a brow at him.

"No. That’s not true."

"Is it? Because they’re cannibals? We may not eat people, but we sure bloody well kill each other. We've had how many world wars? How many innocent people die every day at our hands? These ingenious people have remained at peace with each other for thousands of years, and even when our kind invaded and terrorized them, they still stuck together. In fact, they are better than us."

"But I’m nothing like the killers, nor are you," I counter, my voice trembling.

"I know you and I aren’t like that, but this is the harsh reality of the world. That little girl is better off with her family."

His hand moves from my shoulder to gently cup my cheek, his thumb brushing against my skin. His touch is tender, grounding me in the present moment. "We did what we could," he murmurs, his eyes searching mine for understanding. "We have to believe it was the right thing."

I nod slowly, still grappling with the complexities of our actions and their consequences. The weight of our choices lingers, but Foster's touch provides a fleeting comfort.

"We’ll be needing dinner," Zane interrupts, holding several fishing spears.

Foster reluctantly lets go of me, his fingers trailing down my arm before reaching out to take a few spears. "I’ll join you on the hunt."

I watch as he and Zane head off toward the beach, their figures quickly becoming smaller in the distance. Turning, I see Byron sitting cross-legged under the shade of the intense sun, already immersed in the files and documents he found. His intense focus is a sharp contrast to the turmoil swirling in my mind.

I push a bead of sweat on my forehead into my hairline.

Just as I go to push off the tree trunk, a giant figure steps in front of me, seemingly from nowhere. I look up into the piercing blue eyes of my gorgeous goth-boy.

"You and I need to finally have a chat about disappearing overnight like you did," he says, his voice low and intense.

"I thought we explained ourselves?" I reply, trying to maintain my composure.

"Not the answer I want, Wildcat," he smirks. Without another word, he scoops me up over his shoulder, his grip firm but gentle.

"Jack, what are you doing?" I protest, my voice muffled against his back as he starts running into the jungle.

His silence is heavy, and I can feel the tension in his body. "We’re having our chat, whether you like it or not," he finally mutters.

As he carries me deeper into the jungle, the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy dances on his leather jacket, momentarily pulling me away from my worries. Despite the urgency of our situation, Jack's playful determination brings a welcome distraction amidst the chaos of my mind.

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