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I swallowed past a parched throat. “What’s with the fuck-all mood?” I glanced at our supplies, packed and waiting by the hall. “Is it the trip today? Or something else?” Please don’t let that be resentment in his eyes.

He perched a hip next to mine and cupped my face. “Was that a nightmare?”

I nodded. “They’ve been worse.”

His hand dropped, fisted. “Bloody hell. I’m sorry. I was…” His eyes flicked to the prayer bench then the floor. “Do ye still want to leave today?”

“Yes. You?”

“Ready when ye are.” He smiled, but the mirth was missing from his eyes.

I slid a finger under his white collar and tugged. “What’s this about?”

He rose, a pained expression twisting his beautiful face. “I’m a man of God. Least I can do is dress like one.” Taking long strides, he swept toward the hall.

Unease boiled to realization. “Oh my fucking God. You regret it? You regret what we did?”

He froze, turned. “Ye should find another blasphemy. Coming from a non-believer, that one sounds hollow.”

Fire swept through my bloodstream. I marched toward him, gloriously naked, aware of the remnants of sex crusting my thighs and how my tits bounced with every stomp. I put my face in his and shoved him. The mountain didn’t move.

“You self-righteous fucker.” I shoved again. “Whose name were you groaning while pumping your saintly dick in me?” I cupped my chest. “’Oh, Evie. Oh, love.’ Certainly wasn’t your god’s. You fucking enjoyed it and that makes you feel like a rat-bastard.”

His eyes flared, face crimson.

My heart hit the floor and shattered into a million pieces. My voice came out whispered, broken. “You’re safe with your vow. I’m going alone.”

A hiss whistled through his teeth. “Ballix. I vowed to protect ye, if it’s the last vow I can hold.” He stepped back. “I’ll be waiting by the door.” Then he spun, leaving a tornado of emotional debris in his wake.

In the truck, loaded with food, ammo and petrol, our journey north took us through rippling moors and quaint villages. The drive was tedious, dodging men and aphids. And the brooding priest beside me made it worse.

He wouldn’t talk about the barbed-wire wall erected between us. His silence only stabbed the spikes further in my wound.

When I pushed, he jerked the truck over and foraged for additional supplies. These unnecessary stops resulted in risky battles with aphids, so I stopped pressing.

At night, we slept in the truck, two feet apart. Might as well have been sleeping in separate countries.

So, why hadn’t I shaken free of him? It was as easy as holding the carbine to his head and swiping the keys.

Memories of his drunken laughter, his innocent smile, and his not so innocent lips formed a knot in my gut, replacing the fury there. In my fucked up mind, I convinced myself he was just a sentinel. Someone to watch my back.

Weak. I was so fucking weak.

Several days and seven hundred kilometers later, we reached the basin of the River Tweed, which bordered England and Scotland. We didn’t know how we were going to cross the Atlantic to Iceland, but he planned to filch a boat and use the ferry route to Northern Ireland. The same route he took two years prior when the outbreak forced him afield.

He sat upon a stone wall that edged a moss-covered bridge and watched me bathe in the stream below. “Ye think that bloody Lakota is shadowing ye?”

I glared at him and forced myself a final dunk in the frigid water. Maybe the naked show would make his dick so hard it would crack and fall off.

“Would we know if he was following?” he asked.

“Nope.”

I waded out, flushing a nuthatch bird from its pecking spot.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Our interactions were so attuned, we could communicate with the exchange of a look or slight gesture. As we shared a glance across the space between us, we knew the other’s hurt. We didn’t need to vocalize feelings or hash out issues. What we needed was an impossible solution.

The sun dipped below the lea that stretched beyond the bluff we parked on. The night was made darker by the wall of clouds charging in.

An hour later, sleet pounded, drenching our clothes and chasing us into the shelter of a limestone cave.

Settled and dried on our bedroll, he sat beside me, his outstretched hand offering an opened can of chili and a spoon.

“Are ye well?” he asked, five days behind.

I snorted.

“This land reminds me of me boyo home.”

It rained a lot in that climate, which kept the aphids away. But who fucking cared? “We need to talk.”

He dug a spoon in my can then slipped it between his lips, that talented tongue licking both sides. “I know.”

My eyes went back to our dinner. Why the hell was I torturing myself? I wanted him, but I couldn’t have him. More painful silence stretched between us.