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With Michio’s ability to heal, I wasn’t sure what he could survive. Could the Drone drain him of blood? Tear off his head? Rip out his heart? An ache swelled behind my eyes and weighed down my limbs. What would I do if I never saw him again?
I imagined him treating his injuries alone, suffering from his cravings, my inability to help him, and his memory of our last night together. The thought gripped my insides and wouldn’t let go. I blew out a breath.
Time to stop the unproductive wallowing. Michio didn’t have to leave, didn’t have to become some lone cowboy to prove himself. So fuck him. My resentment burrowed as deep as my fear for him, like a poisonous fuel burning up my blood. I let it fester and build, because anger was a steadier, more vicious companion than fear. It made me feel in control and resolute. Two things I needed for the road ahead.
I rolled over and found Roark kneeling on the other side of the room. He faced the wall, his broad shoulders straining the seams of his tattered cassock. Head bowed, his breaths rose and fell rhythmically. I didn’t need to see his hands to know they were moving methodically over a rosary.
Pushing to sit, my back pinched in pain from the broken mattress springs, but I was used to sleeping on much worse. My attention drifted to the cage across the room, where Shea recovered the past six nights. She was now fully human but still weak. Keeping her behind bars had been the safest solution against an aphid attack.
Only this morning, the cage stood empty. Was she finally strong enough to go for a walk?
Excitement sifted through me. As much as I wanted to stay in Georgia and await Michio’s return, I couldn’t hold onto that hope. Michio never promised he’d come back. In fact, the night he left, he told me it was our last.
I couldn’t let those thoughts cripple me. I had to look forward, get back on the road, and find more women to save.
I rose quietly and tiptoed toward Roark. He looked so chaste and peaceful when he prayed. An untouchable man of the cloth. But that never stopped me.
He didn’t look up as I circled his position and crouched before him. His lips moved silently through his prayer, his finger and thumb gliding along each black bead in the strand. He must’ve been feeling extra guilty for burying his face between my legs last night. And for shoving his fingers in my ass. Oh, and for jerking off on my belly.
I reached out and toyed with a chipped button on his cassock. “God forgives you.”
“Ah sure.” He didn’t look up, his expression creased with concentration. “You’re the one who was after suckin' the pipe off me in the focking woods, ye little harpy.”
That wasn’t true, and he knew it. I’d joined him on his perimeter walk, but it had been him doing the attacking. I didn’t deny it though, because I’d damned well enjoyed it.
I flattened my hands on his chest, gliding them over the heavy, black fabric, which was soaked in sweat. I really should just leave him to his penance, but I hated his guilt. Besides, the clerical collar had squeezed his neck into a blistering shade of red. Fucking ridiculous choice of clothes in this heat.
“You’re going to give yourself heat stroke.” I reached behind his nape, released the snaps and tugged off the white collar, setting it—and the piece of black material attached to it—aside.
His muted prayer hurdled into a vocalization of accented syllables. “Pray for us sinners, now and a’ the hour of our death…”
As he continued aloud, I tuned him out and went to work on the buttons along his sternum, popping them free and exposing his hard chest and sexy stomach. His skin felt like fire beneath the brush of my fingers.
“Ach. Stop it.” He scooted back on his knees but didn’t relinquish his hold on the beads.
“You’re burning up, Roark.”
He stared at the rosary, his thumb rubbing along the strand. “So?”
“You sound like a child.” I finished the rest of the buttons.
He raised his eyes to the peeling paint on the ceiling and said, “See wha’ I’m dealing with? She never listens to me, that one.”
With a sigh, I started to stand, but he grabbed my arm and held me in place. “Ye do it.”
“Undress you?”
“Aye.” He grinned then launched back into his prayer, chanting it out loud.
Moody pain in the ass. I pushed the garment off his shoulders, dragging it to his elbows. Wow. So much better. The deep ridges of his pecs bunched and played beneath my scrutiny.
I traced a finger down the cut lines to the indentions of his hips, which framed bars of muscle on his stomach. All that smooth, tight skin glistened with sweat and channeled into black briefs that sat low on his waist and cupped his groin. So perfectly packaged and ready for handling.
