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Jesse sat against the cabin wall, one leg bent, the other stretched out, and flicked something into the vines that crept around the railing. His bow lay over his leg, and his tomahawk rested beside his hip. He carried handguns and blades as well, but none were visible beneath his fatigues.
I plonked down beside him and settled the carbine over my lap. “This might be their worst fight yet.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up, but his eyes remained fixed on whatever he cupped in his palm. Crumbled leaves? He picked through the brown pieces, flicking some away. Tobacco.
I leaned back and tried to tune out the whisper-shouting inside. If they raised their voices, the aphids would come.
I glanced over at Jesse, my shoulder brushing his. “You heard all of it.”
Of course, he did, but I wanted his thoughts on it.
“Every creature on the mountain heard.”
Something thumped on the cabin floor, and the whispers died down. Maybe they knocked each other out.
Jesse reached for a broad leaf from the pile before him, his boot scraping along the floorboards. “Some things are worth fighting for.”
His deep voice reverberated through my chest, his words layered with meaning. He fought in his own way. Following me to Europe. Freeing me from Malta. And lounging on the porch now so monsters wouldn't break through that door while I slept.
“I owe you my life.”
He shifted, glanced at the trees and back at his hands. “Don’t say that.”
I would never stop saying it.
There was something so unique and earthly about him. Raw. Feral. With his unkempt hair, disregard for social pleasantry, and preference for crude weaponry, he was an extension of the soil and the woods and the wild beauty that was now reclaiming the earth. But the intelligence in his eyes was staggering.
I looked away, studying my hands, as his gaze heated my face. After a silent moment, the movement of his fingers drew my attention. He was rolling the tobacco in leaves. He didn’t smoke. He rolled them for me.
He tied off the end, lit it with a match, and passed it to me.
I accepted it and raised it to my mouth. “Trying to give me lung cancer?”
He turned his head, eyes on the star-speckled sky. “That’s not how you die.”
Oh right. “The cliff or your cock.” I pulled a drag from the cigarette, relishing the burn in my throat. “Let’s talk about that.”
“We have.”
“No. I talk and you sit there all closed-up and glare-y.”
He glared.
“Yeah, just like that.”
His glare lowered to the fingers I rested on the carbine, staring at my hand like he wanted to hold it.
I reached for him, and he jerked back, hissing through his teeth. Jesus. I was really making a mess of everything tonight.
Closing my eyes, I spoke into the dark. “I’m trying to understand why you’re so distant with me.” I peeked at him. “If romantic involvement with you is supposed to kill me, it must have something to do with sex. Like you transferring the virus to me?”
His jaw set.
My heart raced. “But I’m immune.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He nodded at the cabin door. “You have enough going on in there.”
As if on cue, the door opened. Roark stepped out, swiping blood from his lip, and turned toward the man inside. “I found her first.”
Wow, I really needed to lay down the law. “You know—”
“Actually.” Jesse raised a finger. “I found her first.”
I gave him a narrowed look. “You’re making it worse.”
He shrugged, slouched lower to the floor, and shut his eyes, evidently tucking in for the night.
As Roark sat on the top step, Michio emerged. I scanned him for injuries, found none, and met his eyes. He offered me a smile, which loosened some of the tension in my shoulders, but instead of joining me, he strode to the steps and sat beside Roark.
Huh. “So we’re all sorted then?”
Roark grunted. Michio leaned his elbows on his knees. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirruped.
Jesse lay beside me, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. No help there.
I tapped my fingers on the carbine. “You could at least tell me who won.”
Roark rubbed a hand over his stubble. “We were just communicating, love.”
“With your fists.”
His big shoulder lifted, flexing the muscles in his back.
There were no manuals for these guys. Just a murky collection of stubbornness to wade through.
“I don’t appreciate all the grunting and shrugging and breathing.” I sucked on the cigarette and snuffed it out. I knew what I wanted. All three of them. And what I didn’t want was them fighting it out and making decisions for me. “Will you be communicating again tomorrow?”
Michio turned, bracing his back against the post. He was the depiction of survival—the strength in his hands, the black abyss of his eyes, the threadbare cotton of his shorts, and God knew what churned in that brain. But his body was his weapon, quick as a bullet and sharp as a blade. “Tomorrow, we leave.”
