Page 91 of Lost Paradise

“So we leave you to your own devices, and you end up having a kid,” I chuckle. “Although judging from its coloring, I think it’s Zane's and not Byron’s.”

“Shut up, Astro,” Zane retorts.

“What happened?” Foster asks as we all stare at the savage child, who seems scared out of its wit, and Eve gives it a bowl of fruit to calm its frightened state.

“Can you just calm down? You’re scaring her,” Eve says quietly as if the little beast might understand her. “We think she wandered over by accident.”

“The last we need is it running back across the border,” Byron says.

“Fuck,” Foster says, rubbing his temple. Eve narrows her brows as she notices the bruise on his cheek but knows better than to question the alpha about an obvious scuttle he may have had with his crew. I wish that mark was one of mine, but his favorite prodigy gave it to him, as hilarious as it sounds.

“What’s all this?” Eve and Byron ask in unison, their eyes widening as they take in the scattered debris we brought back.

Foster looks at them, his expression serious. “We came across some of the plane’s wreckage washed up on the shore,” he explains. “We’ll go over the details later, but right now, we need to focus on addressing the situation with the child.”

“I don’t get it,” I ask. “Just send the brat back.”

“We can’t,” Eve explains. “If the savages realize they can cross the border, they’ll be here in no time to take back their island. Right now, we’re protected by some superstition.”

“If they’re that stupid to believe that malarkey, they’ll either not realize the kid wandered off or think it’s cursed and eat it.”

“Eat a child?” Eve looks freaked out, I love doing that to her.

“Better it than us,” Zane says, and for once, I agree with the wanker.

“The child is a girl. Stop usingit,” Eve says.

“No, it’s a child of cannibal parents. There is no humanity in such a race. It remains an it,” I say firmly.

“You’re an asshole,” Eve retorts. “This child is not responsible for the actions of her parents.”

“It comes with its DNA,” I insist.

“Well then,” she eyes me up and down, “You're a first-class asshole through and through, even more so if I were to judge by the crime family you come from.”

“No one is perfect, Princess.”

“So, hand me a gun and turn around,” Eve retorts. “People like you shouldn’t be allowed to breed.”

“Tough words,” I say, intrigued, and walk straight up to her. “But you’re talking bollocks. You want to kill me, then face me, look me in the eyes, and pull that trigger. Hell, if I had a gun right now, I hand it to you. Dare you to do it.”

I stare at her and watch her top lip quiver with annoyance. There’s something very hot about Eve holding a gun and putting it to my head. I could probably get a stiffie if I think about it any longer.

“Too bad we’re stranded on an island. Must be your lucky day,” she says, picking up the child in her arms and standing away.

I hate to say it because I loathe kids to the core, but there’s something beautiful about Eve holding the little cannibal.

“We can’t keep it,” Foster’s voice is firm, and for a minute, I thought I may have said my thoughts aloud. But there’s a twitch in his left eye as if he’s not actually sure of his own statement.

“I realize that, but I don’t think we can give her back either,” Byron says. “What if we sneak her back to their camp, and she finds her way back over, and someone from the tribe sees her cross over? It’ll give them ideas.”

Byron's countering only adds to Foster's inner conflict. His expression is a portrait of indecision as he wrestles with the weight of the decision, his fingers tracing the lines of his temple in uncertainty. Observing his struggle, I can't help but find a sliver of amusement in hispredicament.

He’s not better than us. I can’t understand why they chose to have him rule over us.

“We can’t keep it,” I interject. “You’re a right muppet. That thing will try to eat us,” At least I know what decision I’d make as chief of this pathetic group. “Put it on one of these metal shields, push it out to sea, and let nature take its course. Tragedy happens every day. I’m Greek; my ancestors wrote such tear-jerking stories for fun.”

“Tsk,” Eve huffs a sigh of frustration, rolling her eyes at me. “You have got to be the most ignorant person I’ve ever met. Is your IQ above room temperature?”

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