Lucy clung to him, riding every thrust with abandon, her body wild and divine beneath him. Her climax was thunderous. She clutched him to her chest, her legs wrapped around him, her cries mingling with his groans until they collapsed in each other's arms again.
Around them, the others had done the same.
The final joining was complete.
And when it was over, and the moon sat directly overhead, the spiral lit one last time - twelve tendrils of gold pulsing outward from the grove, etching into the island itself.
Marking it.
Claiming it.
Belonging to them.
And Jude, held in Lucy's arms, surrounded by the breathless, panting bodies of his wives, finally understood.
The spiral was not a curse.
It was a gift.
They didn't belong to the island.
The island belonged to them .
Jude didn't speak for a long time.