Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 1)

Fear and curiosity collided, wrestled. What sort of divine notions had hatched in that mercurial brain of his? Was he going to offer fatherhood? For a child I couldn’t have and didn’t want? “Conception maybe. But pregnancy to term? Or a baby that lives after it inhales the virus? Just because I’m immune doesn’t mean my child would be.” The reminder of my A’s final hours wrenched my gut. “Why?”

“The Shard. They’ll pursue this option.”

Oh. The last human woman begetting children. Yeah, that would be a coup. One that ran a chill through me. Maybe I’d agree to be a guinea pig in their research, but I’d die before I’d bring a daughter into a world rife with rapists.

I swilled the contents of my glass and met his heavy gaze.

“Ye know it’s different now.”

“You’re referring to this sign from your god?” I gestured to the bed. “Now you’re suddenly released from your vow?”

“I den’ know. I asked for a sign and the aphids’ predator rains down upon us. Perhaps, it’s a blessing from God.”

Oh, my sentimental Irishman. “It’s frigid above the freeze line. Bugs come inside, drawn to the warmth.”

“Maybe.” Thoughts swirled through his expression. “Regardless, I’m bound to ye.”

I leaned away. “That’s not necessary.”

“I’m not asking. Nor am I asking for the same in return. We no longer live in a world that accommodates traditional sensibilities.”

What the hell was he getting at? He was bound to me, but wouldn’t sleep with me?

He drained his tumbler. “And I will kill any man who tries to own ye like a thing to possess.”

I straightened. “Not if I kill him first. And for my part, I’m not a whore.” Between Jesse’s disappearance and Roark’s celibacy, I faced a future of abstinence.

He jerked my stool between his legs and planted his palms on my hips. “No. Ye are hallowed.” He touched his forehead to mine and brushed a thumb over my lips. “Times are different now.”

First my fertility. Then my fidelity? I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t.

He stood, the Bushmills bottle tucked under his arm, and walked to the stereo. He held up a CD. “Flogging Molly?”

To my silence, he nodded to the bed. “Or ye could snuggle with your bugs.”

I grabbed my empty tumbler and joined him on the couch.

The whiskey flowed for the next couple hours. We avoided further discussion on sex, the Shard, or beetles sent from God. Instead, we shared stories about our families growing up and our experiences during the outbreak. And I told him about my nightmares with the Drone.

“I felt his name when we encountered the messenger bug.”

“That’s why ye jumped off the bike.”

I nodded.

“Ye think this…Drone is real? And he’s looking for ye?”

I shrugged. “Colorful delusions have become my norm since the outbreak.”

He pulled my legs across his lap and bent over me. His lids hung heavy over cloudy eyes. I nursed my own buzz, but he was hammered. He set his glass on my chest, its amber dram sloshing on my shirt. The glass bottom moved over my scar.

“Tell me how that bloody butcher died.”

I unfolded my memories of Dover Port while massaging the frown lines rutting between his brows. Then I told him about the basement in Pomme de Terre. Despite my taut throat, I recited the events in a toneless monologue.

He listened without interrupting, but the muscles jerked in his clamped jaw. His arms around my legs turned to stone. “And ye den’ remember wha’ happened to Joel?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to.”

He studied my face with eyes that penetrated a hole in my defenses. “Ye never cry about this, about anything you’ve been through.” His brows gathered. “Ye think emotions are useless to survival.”

Christ, he knew me well. “I’ve learned the hard way.”

He pushed off my legs and staggered to his feet. “Then let’s not get weighted down with them.”

Relief washed over me. He stumbled to the stereo and punched a button. His voice warbled through the basement as “Rebels of the Sacred Heart” kicked off with the vocals.

He turned to me and winked, his beautiful voice hitting every note. Then he set down his glass and prowled toward me.

“Tipsy much?” I hollered over the feel-good Irish chords.

He swayed over me. “Rubbered. Blootered. Pole-axed. Monkeyed. Rat-arsed.” He swished a finger in the air. “But tipsy? Naw.”

I ducked under him and stood. “We should get some sleep. Separately.”

“Away on a’ that. Sing with me.” He followed me around the couch, belting lyrics to the rafters.

Holy fuck, he was adorable. His roughened lilt, the cleft of his stubborn chin, the way his boyish smile turned my hardened heart into butter. In matters of intimacy, he was just a boy.

I powered off the stereo mid-verse and tugged him back to the couch.

He fell against me and gripped the back of my thighs. His hands inched up and cupped my rear. “Give me a snog, love.”