Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 922

Chapter 922: Chapter 922

The rain came before dawn, not in torrents but as a soft, endless drizzle that turned the leaves to glass and pulled the scent of soil and moss into every breath. Jude lay awake beside Grace, the steady rhythm of droplets on their thatched roof lulling him into a silence he didn’t try to escape. She was curled into his chest, one leg thrown over his, warm and soft and entirely his in the darkness. Her hair smelled like honey and ash. He could have stayed like that forever, and maybe in some part of himself, he did.

When the gray light finally pushed through the clouds and into their home, it caught on the glistening curve of her shoulder. She stirred slowly, sighing, her lips brushing the hollow of his throat.

"Mmm. Is it morning?"

"Technically," he murmured, fingers stroking her back. "But the sky’s not in the mood for brightness."

She smiled against his skin. "Neither am I."

He kissed her hair. "Then let’s not rush."

And they didn’t. They lay together in that slow warmth, listening to the island breathe beyond the walls. When she finally moved, it was to slide above him, her legs straddling his hips, eyes still sleepy but full of that quiet fire she only showed him in these early hours. Her fingers found the edge of his shirt and pushed it up, exposing his ribs, then his chest. She leaned down to kiss the hollow below his collarbone.

"You’re thinking too loudly again," she whispered.

"I always do."

She smiled and kissed him again, slower this time, until the rain faded beneath the sound of their breath.

Later, they emerged to the dripping orchard, hand in hand, and found the rest of their world already in motion. Scarlett and Sophie were reinforcing the southern shelter wall with water-resistant bark. Emma was tending to the cookfire beneath a makeshift canopy, and Raven was teaching Laurel to bind wet herbs for drying. Watchers hovered at a distance, pale and flickering, silent as ever but no longer hiding.

Lucy spotted them first. "Rain plans today?"

Jude nodded. "We’ll finish building the drying vault for herbs and fruit. Then maybe clean the western paths before the vines overtake them again."

Amelia approached with a small basket of soaked berries. "And perhaps you and Grace can teach Raven how to read watcher glyphs. He’s been asking."

Jude smiled. "Happy to. He has a sharp eye."

They fell into their tasks with practiced ease. Every motion , tying rope, stacking wood, clearing mud , held rhythm, not just survival but the motion of home, of shared memory and intention. The rain softened to a mist by midday, and Grace pulled Laurel and Raven beneath the fig-glyph tree for lessons, painting glyphs with a stick in the wet soil.

Jude watched from a distance as Laurel traced a crooked spiral and laughed when it collapsed under her hand. Grace only smiled and gently corrected her grip, ever patient. Jude’s chest filled with something too wide to name , not pride, not joy, not love alone, but something like all three braided together.

He turned when Zoey called from the orchard edge. "Come look."

She led him to where the northern boundary had always held firm , the line past which the watchers never ventured. Except now, in the wet grass, were fresh impressions. Not footsteps exactly, but shapes , pressed like shallow bowls in the earth. As if the watchers had come closer. Much closer.

"They moved again," Zoey said quietly.

He crouched, fingers hovering over the impressions. "These are new."

"Within the last hour," she said. "I was just here checking ribbon lines."

He stood and looked into the trees. The watchers were there, barely visible through the mist , pale forms at the edge of vision.

"Are we drawing them," he said, "or are they herding us?"

Zoey glanced at him. "You still think this island’s leading us somewhere?"

Jude looked at the wet sky, then at the mountain still veiled in cloud. "I think it always was."

That afternoon, Grace joined him in the eastern grove, where they sat on a stone bench made of driftwood and vine. She brought tea , hot, smoky, sharp with crushed ginger.

"I think they’re learning emotions," she said after a quiet sip.

He looked at her.

"The watchers. Last night... I felt one watching me, not just seeing me. It felt like..." She paused. "Like it knew I was remembering something painful. And it backed away. Gently."

He was quiet for a while. "If they understand pain..."

"They might understand love, too."

He watched her eyes, the deep brown threaded with amber when the light touched just right. "Then let’s show them."

And he kissed her again there, in the rain-heavy silence, with the earth watching and the island listening. Her hands threaded into his hair, her body pressing close. There was no urgency, only the deepening certainty that whatever happened next , whatever the mountain held, whatever the watchers became , they would meet it as one.

Evening fell slowly, gray light settling into violet as torches were lit and dinner prepared. The family gathered under the central canopy. Laughter rose through the drizzle. Laurel told a story about a squirrel stealing Sophie’s hair tie. Emma taught a new game with painted stones. Susan played a tune on the hollow reed flute, a lilting melody that reminded them all of river wind and dancing grass.

And then, just before night swallowed the sky, something changed.

A watcher stepped into the orchard.

Not just to the edge. Inside.

Gasps rippled through the group. Children fell silent. Wives rose instinctively, drawing close to Jude and each other. But the watcher did nothing , simply floated forward, a swirl of mist and dim blue light in the shape of something vaguely human.

It stopped before the fig-glyph tree and hovered.

Jude stood, palms open. "You’re welcome," he said quietly.

The watcher slowly tilted its form toward him , a bow, perhaps , and then toward Grace, and then toward the children. Its light flared once.

Then it dropped something.

A bundle.