Skin (Flesh 2)

As if he could persuade her to do a damn thing. The cupboard with all the clothes, maybe there’d be something in there.

Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Her breathing sped. She threw open the big doors and started dumping shit onto the floor, clearing it all out. Behind her a bower of clothes and accessories grew. She had to climb up some shelves to check out the back of the top one properly. Her socks slipped, but she persevered. Up she went. Out it all came. Jackets and sweaters and scarves and hats hit the floor. He must have emptied out entire shops in town to outfit her. Did he really think collecting all this stuff was going to get him somewhere? His mind was warped.

Nothing.

Shit. There must be something.

She climbed down before she fell down.

He wasn’t going to be happy with the state of the place. As if his happiness mattered.

Quickly, she searched the rest of the kitchen cupboards, pulling everything out, piling it up on the kitchen benches and generally going crazy. Double-checked the bathroom even though she knew its contents back to front, thanks to the time she’d spent cloistered in there the day before.

Under the bed.

In the bedside tables.

TV cabinet.

Coffee table.

She tore the cushions off the couch. Like a pair of bolt cutters might have accidentally slipped out of someone’s pocket along with their spare change. Mostly she found lint and a long-forgotten tissue. A couple of dust bunnies hid underneath the couch. Nothing useful over by the fireplace, unless she could bang the padlock apart with a block of wood. Unlikely. By the back door there was a little cupboard for stowing shoes and crap. It only held a couple of empty, scrunched-up plastic bags and an ancient umbrella.

He obviously kept anything useful outside. Out of her reach.

Fucker.

But she wouldn’t give up. Not a chance. This might be her only chance to get away from him. Who knew where he’d gone, or for how long. Somewhere in the cabin he had to have missed something and she would find it. She would.

CHAPTER TEN

The school gates stood open. The first sign something was up.

Nick parked the pickup beside the tall stone wall, out of anyone’s immediate view but close enough for a quick getaway. Wind shook the trees and a dark bank of clouds sat on the horizon to the west. The storm would probably hit in the late afternoon.

He’d left Roslyn tucked up safe and sound in their bed, still ignoring him because of one closed-lip kiss. He winced and the stiff, sore flesh around his cut pounded in protest. Such a stupid kiss. If he’d dared to try pushing his tongue in she probably would have bitten it off.

Fucking ridiculous.

He needed to do some wooing. Fetching her stuff seemed the obvious answer. Or the only one he’d come up with, lying awake on the couch all damn night. For hours he’d stared at the ceiling. All of his other efforts had failed up to this point. He’d fed her and kept her warm, clothed her and enabled her to be clean and comfortable. The woman wanted for nothing. He’d listened to her and tried to get to know her. He’d chatted and joked with her, tried to charm her pants off and got no-fucking-where at all.

So like a good little errand boy he’d grabbed his pistol and his bowie knife, and headed out into the great unknown.

For her.

Not that she’d thank him.

Difficult damn woman. He missed her smiles. They’d been rare, only an occasional thing. Just enough to get him hooked on pleasing her and bang … they were gone. All due to one crappy kiss. He’d done better at twelve, sneaking a smack on the lips with some girl in a cupboard at a party. Of course, the girl at the party had wanted him to kiss her. Big difference.

Bloody hell.

He’d planned to scale the wall, get in and out without anyone knowing, but the gate stood open. The only other time that had happened he’d been exchanging the van for Ros.

His back felt inexplicably cold and his hair stood on end. He’d learnt to trust his instincts a long time ago, at least when it came to danger. He’d been to Afghanistan with the army. He’d felt this feeling before. Last time it had been the moment of quiet before an I.E.D. blast tore a building in two. The building his team had been about to walk into. He’d been lucky to survive that one. Others hadn’t.

Things were very f**king wrong here. He could taste it. Something fierce and bitter hung in the air.

Thank God she wasn’t with him.

Nick headed for the main building, dashing from tree to tree. The old wooden front door stood open and some dead leaves had blown inside. It didn’t feel like a set-up. These weren’t the kind of people to lay traps. They were, however, the kind of bloody idiots to screw up and let the infected in somehow.

He should head for home. Pretend he’d never been there. It wasn’t like Roslyn would ever know. But what if someone had survived?

The thought of playing hero turned his guts over. Too many times he’d seen heroes die grisly, thankless deaths. Doing the right thing rarely worked out well, but walking away …

Fuck. Shit. Damn.

These people meant something to Roslyn and Roslyn meant something to him. He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, but … yeah.

In he went. Not that she’d thank him.

He palmed his pistol. Every bloody hair on him had frozen upright.

It was a big old building, riddled with corridors and classrooms. The place stood two stories high.

Roslyn had been hiding in a storage room beneath some stairs. He hadn’t always watched from outside. He’d seen her tucking herself away in there when things got interesting. Like when the shithead with the glasses hassled her. Nick headed there first.

The long hallway was quiet as a tomb, shadowy and cold. He kept his footsteps soft but he still made noise. And the noise was like the clanging of a bell in the silence. A big-ass announcement to one and all that there was fresh meat in the building.

A bloody handprint graced a gray-white wall. Beneath was a swipe of dried blood. No body in sight.

A wide staircase led up to the second level, wooden steps worn down from who knew how many years in service. The door to Ros’s sanctuary was closed. Further down the hallway a shoe stuck out of an open doorway. A shoe connected to a leg. Neither moved.

A chill slid down his spine.

He should have stolen another kiss. Rubbed his cold nose against her warm neck before leaving, and held her tight. Not making it home was out of the question. She needed him, whether she admitted it or not. He’d taped the key to her padlock to the back of the bedside table just in case. Eventually she’d find it, but hopefully not before he got back.