She blinked, as if surprised she'd said anything. "I mean… it hasn't tried to kill us. Right? It just… touches us. Like it wants to be close."
"Or it's waiting," Jude said. "To see how far it can go."
No one argued.
That night, Jude didn't sleep in the treehouse. He took his bedroll and climbed down to the forest floor, laying it near the roots of the largest tree in camp. The others protested, but he insisted. He needed to feel the ground, the heartbeat of the island itself. He needed to know if the presence was inside the trees, the soil, the roots. If it lived in the very bones of the shell that carried them.
He closed his eyes. Listened. The wind rustled through the branches. Somewhere, an owl called. The jungle never slept, but tonight it felt like it held its breath.
And just before he drifted off, he heard it again. That same voice. Not in words, not in sound, but in his bones.
You are mine. Not because I take you. Because you want to be taken.
He didn't move.
