Page 62

Across the street, fifty—maybe sixty—aphids formed a circle. Every bug in sight pressed into the frenzy. Rifle rounds and masculine shouting boomed from the center.

“I’ve never seen so many in one place,” I whispered at his back. The contentment from the feeding washed over me, sickening and sating at the same time.

A man detached from the swarm. He ran backwards, firing his machine gun, screaming. Aphids scurried after him, unfazed by his bullets. Roark squeezed my hand.

The closest one clamped a pincer on the man’s neck. His eyes bulged. Then half a dozen mouths pierced his torso. A wet howl cut through the buzzing.

He pulled me through the entryway. We slipped onto the sidewalk and ran the opposite way. When we veered down a side street, the screaming ceased. A muscle twitched on his clenched jaw, but he kept his pace next to me.

Our truck emerged on the hill ahead. The surrounding lawns and homes were barren. Puffs of steam pumped from my burning lungs. My knees jarred with each smack of my boots on the pavement.

A few blocks later, I swung open the truck door and dropped with a slump on the seat.

He turned over the engine and raced away from the aphid rally. “Where to?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“Back to the bunker, then. Until we have a plan.”

“Okay.” I slouched into the seat and rubbed my chest. I definitely needed a plan.

“So, how do we do this?” Roark asked that night.

I lay in the bed in borrowed sweat pants and a T-shirt. “For it to work, skin to skin is necessary.”

His mouth twitched. I sounded like a nut job.

“How much skin?”

“When I was with the Lakota, they kept a bare arm around my waist and a bare chest against my back. But here’s the deal. If the contact is lost, the nightmare slips in.” Which was why I didn’t have a single lapse when I slept nude with Joel.

He stood next to the bed and stared down at me, his expression grave. Yeah, he was having second thoughts.

“It’s hard to keep contact all night anyway,” I said. “Just forget it.”

He put a knee on the mattress. “Scoot.”

I gave him half the twin mattress and blew out the candle. When he settled behind me, I tucked the hem of my shirt under my breasts.

His warm fingers brushed my waist and settled into a fist against my belly. A few moments passed.

“Evie?”

“Mm?”

“This tug ye talked about. Do ye think it has something to do with your wonder woman powers?”

I shrugged, and my cheeks twitched against the pillow.

“And your immunity. Any guesses?”

“We know the virus targeted low testosterone and I have evidence of the opposite.”

“Your libido?”

“That’s one symptom. I have others.”

He opened his fist and tucked me closer to his naked chest. Warmth flooded my body.

His breath brushed my hair. “Have ye heard of the Shard?”

Joel’s letter. A twinge burned away my arousal. “Yeah.”

“In the early days, they were campaigning to find surviving women.”

“I know.”

“But the airwaves have been dead,” he said. “I haven’t heard mention of them for six months.”

I didn’t want to tell him I didn’t give a shit about saving humanity. As a priest, it would be his mission to correct my opinion. I was too tired for that debate. I feigned a yawn.

“Night, Evie.”

“Night.”

Three weeks later, I twisted and grunted under Roark. I angled my face away from the sweat doused shirt clinging to his pecs and arched my back. My heartbeat accompanied the pounding drums, bagpipe and tin whistle rattling the gym’s speakers. I rocked my hips to leverage a better position under him. He slipped through my guard. Then he mimed a knockout punch to my face.

“Arrgh” ripped from my throat. “Dammit, you suck.”

I elbowed him off me. His laughter bounced off the concrete walls.

“You learn Jujitsu in three weeks,” I shouted, “and now I can’t last five minutes with you.”

“Woot-hoo-hoo.” He rolled on his back, clutching his stomach.

Next, there’d be tears streaking his face. “Fuck you.” He could’ve at least made me feel like it was an even match. I stormed toward the door, my face burning.

He beat me there, blocking the exit and pinning me with those damn jade eyes. “How ‘bout I remind ye I had a stonking teacher?”

I sighed and crossed my arms. “Fine. But I’m still in a snit. Warm up the heavy bag. I’m going to…I’m just going.”

He stepped aside, and I ran down the hall. I knew where I headed and so did he.

“I love that short fuse of yours, temptress,” he hollered after me. “If ye keep showing me your buttons, I’m going to push ‘em.”

I slammed the bathroom door and yanked my battery-powered bullet out of the drawer. Then I slid to the floor.

He called me temptress. It became a running joke when he gleaned I was escaping to the bathroom with my bullet every time my libido triggered. He called me temptress because I behaved contrarily. I vacated at the first hint of indecency between us. He, on the other hand, was insufferably flirtatious and enjoyed roiling me then watching me run to the bathroom.