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Zandrel

Mate Match Transcript: S24 E3 INTERVIEW 9

Contestant: Zandrel|Producer: Sella

S: Zandrel, I’d like to personally welcome you to the cast.

Z: [Inaudible]

S: You’ll have to speak up a little, and try not to look directly to-camera

Z: Better?

S: Yes, so much better! Now, what can you tell us about your whirlwind romance with Roslyn?

Z: What do you want to know?

S: How about we start at the beginning?

Z: Seems like a logical place to start.

S: …

Z: …

S: Well?

Z: Well what?

S: … You know, I think you and Roslyn are going to get along just fine.

I’ve run missions in three dozen different galaxies, commanded a until of nearly a hundred soldiers, and prevented numerous intergalactic conflicts from breaking out with a well-orchestrated bit of spycraft or clever sabotage, but never in any of my thirty-two revols have I met a challenge like faking passion with Roslyn.

“You could look a little less miserable,” I mutter as we step down the bungalow’s front steps and into the sand.

Five hovercams circle us. Under the bright sun and clear blue sky, there’s nowhere to hide, no forgiving shadows, and the woman by my side looks more like she’s about to be taken prisoner behind enemy lines than spend a nice day on the beach with her paramour.

An auspicious start, indeed.

She looks up at me with a smile that could curdle a lesser male’s blood in his veins.

I lift a hand and run my thumb over her lower lip, half-convinced I’m about to lose the digit. “Is this a human defense mechanism? Showcasing these deadly fangs of yours?”

Roslyn jerks her head away. “You obviously don’t know human biology. Our bites contain bacteria that can cause a person to go septic.”

“And you obviously don’t know Revexoran biology. Our blood has antiseptic properties.”

Taking her hand in mine, I tug her down the beach toward the pavilion, where our first gauntlet of the day awaits.

“Well, maybe we’ll have to see how antiseptic it really is,” she mutters, and though—idiotically—I don’t hate the idea of feeling her blunt little teeth on me again, this is hardly the type of conversation that’s going to win us more points with producers.

In fact, I doubt we’re capable of doing much on that front at all, because the closer we get to the pavilion, the heavier the air between us becomes.

It’s stifling, the weight of her anger and mistrust and suspicion, her utter unwillingness to work with me on this. And while I can’t blame her for her attitude toward me, nor can I dredge up much hope that we’re going to make it through even one day before they call this whole thing off.

Not a single soul is going to believe Roslyn and I are in love.

Not with the way she drops my hand and stomps up the stairs, leaving me to fend for myself. Not with the way her misery and obstinance hang over her like a storm-cloud waiting to unleash its fury.

Facing the daunting task of breakfast with the cast all on my own, I pause at the top of the steps and survey the battlefield.

We’re late arrivals. It looks like nearly every other contestant is already here. Sitting in pairs or groups or picking at what’s left of the spread, with even more cams circling to capture every mundane moment.

Roslyn’s already half-way across the pavilion, making straight for her Volbherran friend.

Fine. If that’s how she wants to play it, that’s how we’ll play it.

I’ll get my own food and excuse myself, head back down to the beach and—

I’ve barely made it three steps when all conversation dies.

I doubt anyone is even still chewing with how heavy the silence is, the only sound the whir of cams that reposition themselves on their new victim.

But I’m not their only target.

Across the pavilion, a trio of cams find Rhevar, a flash of surprise breaking across the Vas-Greshiran’s face as he realizes he’s been thrust into the spotlight. He recovers quickly, smiling as he leans in to say something to the female he’s dining with before standing and striding toward me.

Instinctively, I assemble a plan of attack. Cataloging his height, his breadth, the cut of his muscles and the cadence of his gait, anything that might give me an advantage if it comes to physical combat.

It takes me an embarrassing few seconds to tamp down that instinct—precious time I might have used to prepare something to say, something to do, made some strategy for how I’m going to handle this.

I should have seen this coming. Of course production would want to play this moment up.

Roslyn’s jilted suitor, coming to confront the male who stole her away.

Her new paramour, ready to defend her honor.

Fates, this trite garbage writes itself.

Rhevar, though, doesn’t appear as if he’s about to commit murder or assault as he approaches. Smile still firmly in place, posture relaxed, he stops just before he reaches me and holds out a hand.

Warily, I take it, clasping his forearm as he clasps mine. A common greeting. A warrior’s acknowledgment.

Nevermind that we’re both wearing asinine beach attire instead of tactical gear that may hide a weapon.

“So, the rumors are true,” Rhevar says wryly.

“Rumors?”

Who knows what’s been going around? Who knows how many of the contestants already suspect Roslyn and I aren’t what we seem, given how poorly things are already—

“That you’d joined the cast,” he explains. “A few of the contestants saw the two of you leaving Marva’s office last night.”

“Ah,” I say, unintelligently.

I don’t usually do a lot of speaking on missions. I don’t do a lot of speaking in general. And here, now, with the number of unknowns to face and no partner to back me up, dredging through the tangled mess of my thoughts for more than a couple of syllables is a losing battle.

“I also wanted to come over and clear the air.”

“Clear what from the air?” I ask.

“Everything that happened with me and Roslyn.”

“If any air needs clearing, it’s between you and her.”

Rhevar nods, looking contrite. I catch sight of the camera just behind and to the right of him, hear a similar drone over my own left shoulder, and try to school my features into neutrality.

How do I play this conversation?

Rage at the male who dared touch ‘my’ human and score a few points for bluster and drama’s sake? Be the bigger male and accept whatever amends he’s trying to make?

Fates above, I’d take a battlefield over trying to sort through how to properly emote.

But Rhevar’s still unflustered, and he claps me on the shoulder. I try not to immediately throw off his hand.

“Believe me, I made a point to speak with her the day after it happened. There’s no excusing the way I behaved, and I hope you’ll both accept my apologies.”

There’s no guile on the Vas-Greshiran’s face. No lying edge or bitterness. Nothing but an open friendliness I find as unnerving as his hostility would have been, if not more so.

Perhaps it’s a tactic meant to distract and disarm, to make me believe he truly carries no animosity.

Or perhaps he’s much better at this game than I might have initially given him credit for.

What better way to endear yourself to the audience than to be the handsome—by objective standards, anyway—jilted lover treating the male you were thrown over for with humility and magnanimity?

It’s not a poor strategy, all things considered.

The hovercams are still recording us at an uncomfortably close proximity, and I suppose I should say something. Standing here in surly silence likely isn’t making the best impression on that same intergalactic audience who are supposed to be rooting for my and Roslyn’s love story .

I clear my throat. “Right. Well. If she’s forgiven you, that’s all that matters.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” he says, all good humor. “And it’s wonderful, isn’t it? The way you two have fallen for each other? Never would have expected something like that to happen.”

I choke back a scoff.

Never would have expected it?

Why? If Roslyn could supposedly have fallen for one of the pretentious idiots here, then there’s no reason why—

No, that’s beside the point, and probably not what he’s implying, anyway.

I narrow my eyes, but I still can’t read him. Still can’t find any hint that he’s trying to get the upper hand.

“It, uh. It is. Wonderful, I mean. Roslyn and I.”

Strike me down now and bury me. Right where I stand.

Rhevar flawlessly picks up my pathetic thread of conversation again and gives me one more clap on the shoulder. “I wish the best of luck to you both. And don’t be a stranger, eh? We’re glad to welcome you to the cast.”

He gives a brief gesture to a group of contestants gathered for breakfast and I garner myself a few more nods and hums of agreement before Rhevar takes his leave.

A few of the cameras follow, and though it might just be my over-wrought nerves imagining it, the pressure in the pavilion seems to have lowered a few notches. Conversations resume, and beyond pointed stares from a handful of contestants, I don’t draw any undue notice.

At least until Roslyn reappears a moment later. She’s holding two plates of food and seems to have lost her Volbherran friend.

“Here,” she says, thrusting one of the plates toward me. “Let’s eat.”

“Your friend isn’t joining us?”

Another storm-cloud passes over Roslyn’s expression as I take the plate and she stalks toward the entrance to the pavilion, muttering low enough so only I can hear. “No. Juni thought it would be nice for both of us to have a sweet, romantic breakfast our first day as a couple.”

For both of us… and the cameras, it would seem, as we’re swarmed again.

Another canny player, this Volbherran.

Silently, I follow Roslyn a few meters down the beach to where she plunks down at one of the tables set on the sand and digs into her food.

She doesn’t say a single word to me the entire meal.

Not that I’m much more talkative.

Hopeless, the two of us.

The longer the silence stretches, the fewer cameras stick around to film us. I’d like to say I’m relieved to see them go, but as the last one drifts away a new problem presents itself.

What happens to us when production decides we’re not living up to their expectations?

What happens when better storylines take up their attention, and they decide we’re not worth the price they’re paying us?

I reach across the table to lay my hand over Roslyn’s. If we’re not going to speak, the very least we can do is show a bit of physical affection.

But she’s quicker, pulling away and standing to clear her plate, taking mine too, even though I’m nowhere near finished.

As she goes, I can’t ignore the heavy weight in the bottom of my gut, the sinking certainty that our days here are already numbered, that the only bit of hope I’ve had in months of getting my life back is going to vanish just as quickly as it appeared.

Roslyn and I are in a competition for who is more hopeless at faking a relationship, and right now it’s a dead tie for winner.

Two days.

It’s been two days of this.

Two days of monosyllabic conversations and thinly veiled contempt. Two days of futile attempts at pretending this is anything other than a hostage situation.

Nothing I’ve done has broken through Roslyn’s ice. Nothing has convinced her to give me even an inch. It’s clear she’s not going to trust me. Whatever I say or do, her mind’s made up that I’m more of a risk than a potential asset in achieving what she came here for.

At this point, I’m just waiting for the curtain call. I’m waiting for Marva to appear from the shadows she likes to frequent and call it all off, let me know there’s no pardon waiting for me, escort Roslyn and I to the next ship off this rock.

With nothing more than those cheerful thoughts for company, I sit on a lounger beneath the shade of a swaying palm at the edge of the beach. Sunshades on, arms folded over my chest, I sit statue-still and pretend to be asleep while monitoring the comings and goings around the beach.

It’s all I can do—people watch and try to keep myself otherwise amused—since my paramour is keeping as much distance as she can.

At least she’s got a friend to help break up the tedium.

Nothing in my research flagged Juni as any kind of threat. As far as I can tell, she’s here for all the standard reasons, with no criminal history and nothing that would suggest a possible conspiracy between the pair.

Not that there would be a damn thing I could do about it without making myself even more of a sideshow here.

I can barely move without running into a camera, and even with the ability to send them out of the way, it still feels too precarious to meddle. Roslyn and I are still directly in production’s crosshairs, and any strange behavior isn’t likely to escape notice.

Strange behavior.

Right.

Because all of this is so very normal.

I spot Roslyn on the beach, chatting with Juni and a Jurvian, and perhaps I should make one more attempt. Perhaps I should get up and go join them, sling an arm around her shoulders like the Jurvian’s got his arm around Juni. Perhaps I should try .

But I can’t find it in me.

I’ve never been on a mission like this.

I’ve never been on a mission where so very little is in my control, where I’ve had to depend so intimately on someone who’d no doubt be satisfied to see me crash and burn.

I’m used to being in control, or at the very least being around other soldiers who I knew would have my back. I’m not used to feeling this… helpless, and between that and the cameras and the certainty that any moment now we’ll be pulled by production and asked to leave, I can’t find the will to give it even one more shot.

That, more than anything, feels like a damning failure.

I’ve never stopped trying. From the day I was transported off the smoking ruins of Revexor when I was barely more than a child, I’ve never stopped trying, never stopped fighting.

And this isn’t going to be the place where I start.

Fates, I’m not going to let this chance go so easily. I’m not going to let one stubborn human stand in my way.

I’ve just started to stand from the lounger and go to Roslyn, when I glance up to see Juni give her a nudge and look pointedly in my direction. The two share a whispered back and forth, and I almost think I can hear Roslyn’s resigned sigh from here.

With those same storm-clouds I’m coming to know so well hovering over her, she stalks across the sand.

“Make room,” she commands with absolutely no preamble when she reaches me, tapping the inside of one of my knees impatiently where I’ve got my legs resting on the lounger.

“What do you think you’re—”

“Make. Room.” The order comes through gritted teeth this time, and when I catch sight of three hovers abandoning whatever antics they’d just been capturing and heading our way, I obey.

Just as they’re closing in, Roslyn sinks down into the space between my thighs. She sits with her back against my chest, her legs drawn up in front of her, and my mouth falls open either to protest or urge her closer. I’m not sure which.

“Act like you like me,” she hisses. “God knows we’ve been doing a shit job at it so far today.”

We’re not the only couple canoodling on the loungers, and after a quick glance at some of those much-less-hostile pairs, I wrap my arms around Roslyn’s waist and draw her back into my embrace. I sincerely hope we don’t look as awkward as her board-stiff posture suggests, but for good measure, I lean in and brush my lips over the side of her neck.

As I do, I take a deep inhale of her and nearly lose the plot of whatever it is we’re supposed to be accomplishing right now.

More of her morning dew and blossoms, a hint of sweat from the heat of the day, salt lingering on her skin.

Delicious.

Fates know I can barely stand this human, but nor can I deny that one simple truth.

She’s… appealing.

Not that it matters, and not that I should be thinking it, but it’s true.

“What now?” I murmur against the side of her throat, and feel a shiver of revulsion run through her. Or, at least what I assume is revulsion, because the alternative would be just as outlandish as believing she only took Marva’s deal for a handsome payout.

She turns her head slightly, and it brings her lips unfortunately close to mine.

Close enough to feel their warmth.

Close enough to remember the taste of her, the heat of her, the delicious little sounds she made when we—

“Now we shut the fuck up and just sit here. At least until they get tired of us.”

She nods subtly toward the nearest hover and I can’t suppress a chuckle.

“A human courtship custom? Sitting in silence and acting like you can’t stand your partner?”

A small, indignant noise slips past her lips. She moves like she’s going to turn around and scold me, but I tighten my hold on her.

“Careful. You wouldn’t want producers to think there’s already trouble brewing between us.”

A huff of breath, this time. Subtler, but no less indignant. “Yeah. Because I’m sure they have no reason to believe something isn’t off here.”

Try . I have to try.

I have to make at least one more attempt to keep this plan alive.

I lean back on the lounger, making myself relax. It shifts Roslyn deeper into my embrace, sprawls her out against me, and I run a soothing hand up and down her bicep when she stiffens. Reluctantly, she relaxes, too, and I’m struck again by the softness of her, the strength, the unexpected contradiction this human species presents.

“Well,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “If this is what human courtship amounts to, perhaps we could try the Revexoran route.”

She doesn’t humor me with a reply, but the cameras are still watching and at least she’s not offering more snark or hostility, so perhaps we’re moving into safer territory.

“I was very young when I left Revexor, but from what I remember, courtship included a healthy measure of physical combat.”

Another huff, but I could almost convince myself there’s some humor in it this time. “Really? That’s what passes for romance amongst Revexorans?”

I wouldn’t know.

The last time I ran into another Revexoran was more than a decade ago. There are a few amongst the ranks of the Aux, but none in my immediate sphere of influence. Over ninety-five percent of the population was lost in the final, cataclysmic war that saw Revexor reduced to ruin, and those who made it out alive are spread far and wide across the sector.

But I’m not about to confide any of that to Roslyn.

“Feats of strength, agility, and skill were a sure way to win a partner. A noble thing, to prove your prowess to your lover.”

“I think I’ll stick to human customs, then.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say lightly. “If I recall, you’re more than capable of landing a few good hits.”

The remark is meant in jest, but as soon as it leaves me, I know it’s a mistake. Roslyn stiffens, and her next words are brittle and bitter, any trace of humor disappeared.

“Right. Thanks. Like I need the reminder.”

Of course she’d think I’m taunting her, reminding her of her failure. Why would she expect anything else?

“Roslyn,” I say with a sidelong glance at the hovers, but she’s already composed herself.

She slides off the lounger and tosses me a smile that feels more like a threat. “I’m tired. I’m going back to the bungalow for a nap.”

I sit up, too. “Very well, I’ll accompany you to—”

“Oh, I know you will,” she hisses, then stalks off without another word.

I close my eyes for a few long moments, letting the failure wash over me.

It stings worse than I expected.

Perhaps it’s the reminder of Revexor hitting too closely to the old aching wound at the core of me—the one I can’t look at too long, lest it consume me completely.

Perhaps is the constant surveillance, wearing on my nerves.

Perhaps it’s the heat, the producers, the irritation of dealing with a human who hates me, of failing so spectacularly at a mission this important.

Perhaps it’s all of that and more.

But, with nothing else to do, and knowing that anything I say, any meager attempts at trying to pretend this isn’t a slowly unfolding disaster will come to nothing, I stand and follow her to the bungalow.

“So, here’s the thing,” Sella says, and even I can hear the trepidation in her usually cheerful voice. “I’m not sure if it’s the cameras or something I’m doing or what, but we’ve got to figure this thing out.”

“Figure what out?” Roslyn asks, like she’s not as painfully aware of the situation as I am.

“The two of you. Getting back that… spark. Whatever it was that brought you together in the first place.”

We’re just off the beach, standing outside the recording studio where Roslyn and I just gave interviews that likely did more to hurt our case than help it.

“We’re doing our best,” I say, fighting back a cringe.

Everyone here knows our best is a disaster without me giving voice to it.

“Right,” Sella says, pasting her smile back into place. “I know you are. And I know the adjustment period might take some time.”

She looks down at the comms tablet she carries, and a brief frown creases her features before she turns her attention back to us.

“How about this? Why don’t you two take the night to yourselves in the bungalow? It’s going to be a wash-out later anyway with this storm rolling in, and maybe a little time alone together would be helpful.”

A little time alone together would likely lead to bloodshed, but I just nod. “Sure. We can do that.”

Roslyn nods, too, eyes drifting up to where the sky is darkening with the approaching storm.

The air is thick with it, heavy and humid, and as Sella takes off for wherever she’s needed next. It leaves the two of us alone, with our own personal storm just as liable to break at any moment.

Our failed attempt at a cuddle on the beach was yesterday afternoon, and nothing has changed since then. No sign of truce in our stalemate. Nothing remotely resembling hope for how this is all going to end.

Sella’s at the end of her rope, and I even spied her speaking with Marva earlier, both their faces creased with disappointment as they studied footage over comms.

Everyone knows it’s over.

It’s only a matter of when they decide to declare time of death.

“Come on,” Roslyn says, turning to head back to the bungalow. “I don’t want to get soaked.”

She stalks off through the jungle, not bothering to see if I follow, and I can’t swallow back my irritation. Not this time. Not when I’ve been trying and she hasn’t given any of this half a chance.

“So this is it, then?” I murmur as I catch up with her, though I hardly care if I’m overhead.

Let them hear. Put the final nail in the coffin and be done with it.

“This is what?” she spits back.

“The end of our charade. Because from where I stand, we might as well go ahead and—”

“Give up if you want. I’d be just fine on my own.”

I’m sure she would be. Just fine, and free to go cause whatever mayhem she intends outside the production zone.

“I doubt that,” I goad. “When I’ve been carrying this team? Putting in all the heavy lifting to endear us to the audience?”

“Are you kidding me? With the pouting and brooding you’ve been doing? Sure, that’s exactly what they’d like to see.”

“As if you’re doing any better.”

She huffs a breath, but doesn’t argue, and I take the imaginary point.

“You might try making a few friends,” Roslyn says under her breath a few minutes later. “Sella told me it’s good for endearing yourself to the audience.”

I lean in close so I can murmur into her ear. “Why would I bother? Sella’s made it more than clear it’s not friendship the audience wants to see. And besides, what use do I have for friends when I’m so clearly, completely, utterly devoted to you?”

Her posture stiffens, and I can nearly feel the irritation rising in her. It’s like a palpable force, her ire, and it makes me a very special kind of fucked up to get a small, dark thrill in provoking it out of her.

Little criminal. She needs to be provoked every once in a while.

Roslyn scowls and opens her mouth, but I cut in before she can speak.

“Forty-five degrees to your right and about a meter and a half up.”

Her eyes dart to the cam I just spotted and, to her grudging credit, her face goes carefully blank for a couple of seconds before it melts into some soft and dreamy human expression I assume is supposed to communicate affection.

It’s rather attractive on her.

To be sure, her soft, blunted features are still strange to behold, but there’s something almost alluring about them like this. Lips curled at the edges and slightly higher on one side than the other, long lashes half-lowered, a certain light shining in her eyes that might be quite disarming if it was ever deployed on a male in earnest.

A hypothetical male, of course.

One who would look at her like a potential partner rather than the confirmed criminal she is.

And it’s a look that’s undercut completely by the absolute venom in her tone when she stops walking and turns her full attention on me. She leans up on her toes, brushes her cheek to mine, and ghosts her lips close my ear to hiss her reply.

“Is that what this is, Zandrel? Devotion? Because you could have fooled me.”

Roslyn winds her arms around my neck and switches sides, brushing those soft, plump lips over the line of my jaw to speak the rest of her poison into my other ear.

“I think it’s obsession. Frustration. Anger that you couldn’t figure out my play before we got caught.”

A spark of irritation blazes bright in my chest, and when I pull back far enough to meet her gaze, I find that spark echoed in her unsettlingly green eyes.

An inferno, her anger. Whatever’s burning in her, whatever secret she’s holding so closely, it’s incandescent behind those eyes.

And perhaps that’s what bothers me most.

Not knowing her reason, but knowing enough to respect it.

How could I not?

They’re a mirror, these candles we’re burning, and I’m not an arrogant enough creature not to assume whatever she’s after has just as strong a hold on her as my desire to regain my rank.

Whatever it is, whatever her motivation, I see that spark and know it. I feel it in my own chest, scorching all the way through me and bringing an ember of temper to the surface. The need to push, to provoke, to make sure she’s just as irritated with me as I am with her.

“Careful, Roslyn. We’re still being watched.”

She presses herself closer to me, and even with the clothes I’m wearing—some absolutely heinous combination of tan trousers cut to the knee and a lightweight white tunic shirt that production provided—I can feel every curve of her body against mine.

And her warmth. Fates, her warmth.

It bleeds into me like a living thing, heating my skin and making me far too aware of all the contours of her. The swell of her breasts, the press of her belly just against my—

I bite back a curse and rest a hand on her hip with half a mind to push her away, but Roslyn is quicker.

Her teeth catch the bottom of my earlobe in a sharp bite before she whispers her next retort.

“Then send the goddamn cameras away.”

“Can’t do that,” I say, and hate myself to the very soles of my feet for the breathless edge that’s somehow found its way into my voice.

Perhaps it would be wise to fight fire with fire.

I mimic her provocation and run my teeth over her right earlobe, taking more care than she did with me. As much as I’d like to rile her, I have no intention of drawing blood.

“The more I divert them, the more I open us up to discovery. If the producers notice they’re missing footage of their favorite couple, they’re likely to ask questions and connect dots. So chin up, Roslyn, unless you don’t think you can heed Sella’s advice and put on a convincing show.”

She lets out something I can only describe as a frustrated snarl , and yanks me to her with a surprisingly iron-clad grip around the back of my neck. Her mouth closes over mine in a brutal, unforgiving kiss that’s all teeth and silent hatred.

Well, I suppose this qualifies as a show.

One hand buried in her hair, the other settling low enough on her lower back to feel the swell of her ass beneath my fingers, I give just as good as she does. Mindful of my teeth against the tender skin of her lips, aware of the fact that I entirely fucked this up last time, and not about to provide any more humiliating fodder for the cameras, I follow her lead.

Stroke for stroke, mirroring the way she moves her lips, her tongue, I find it’s not a difficult dance to learn.

Especially when she’s kissing me like this.

Teeth dragged over my lip, mouth hot and wet and open on mine, she devours me. She digs her fingertips into my shoulders, and though her blunted nails are nowhere near able to piece my natural protective plating, they provide a pleasurable sting, nonetheless.

It’s that last thought that draws me up short.

A dangerous game, finding any pleasure in this.

When I pull back, Roslyn is breathing hard. Lips pink and swollen, hair tousled, eyes glowing with what’s likely ire, but what I could easily mistake for arousal if I were in the habit of lying to myself.

It sends a hard jolt through the bottom of my stomach, seeing her like that.

Even with her anger.

Even with the daggers in her eyes.

Even though what she’s feeling is most certainly not arousal, I can’t stop that jolt and won’t name it for what it is.

Fates, what’s wrong with me?

Instead of stepping away, I slide both hands back into her rumpled hair, gripping lightly and turning her face toward mine.

For a few long seconds, I simply stare at her.

I wonder what she sees when she looks back.

A face so very different from her own. A body honed and hardened through decades of training and my own natural defenses.

An enemy, most likely, even though I’d like her to see me as an ally.

She narrows her eyes the longer my inspection goes on, and has just opened her mouth—probably to give me some fresh hell—when a new sound pierces the stillness of the surrounding jungle.

“Adorable,” a bored male voice drawls. “And they say no true love matches come out of this show.”

We spring away from each other like we’ve been caught doing something we shouldn’t. I realize the error immediately, and even more so when I turn and see who it is.

There, in the middle of the path, is Brivik.