She turned her back to him and wiggled close, as they’d done last night. As if this were a thing they did.
He hesitated for three long breaths before succumbing to the siren’s song of warmth and comfort and that other thing. The thing he’d never had growing up. The thing he’d never needed or, frankly, wanted until he and this woman had been forced to team up against the world.
Connection.
Despite himself, he sighed at the close, warm smell of her neck and the perfect, easy fit of their bodies.
Her answering sigh didn’t surprise him. It seemed natural, as did the press of her rear to his groin, the tightening of his arms and the loosening of something vital in his chest.
As he lay there, a concept seeped into his head. An idea that he’d never had occasion to examine, much less yearn for. Something he’d have sworn he didn’t care about or have time for or, in fact, believe in at all. How could he believe in something he’d never been able to fathom until this very moment?
Home. It floated through his mind and lodged itself somewhere deep inside, awkward but not uncomfortable.Home,he thought, as he let sleep take over.
Chapter 22
Day 3—239 Miles to Volkov Station—19 Days of Food Remaining
“Angel. Up.”
A freight train ground overhead, smashing the world to smithereens.
The darkness split open, revealing orange-tinted shapes. Socks on the ceiling, swaying above her. Beside her, a man, bent, yelling something that she couldn’t hear. She shut her eyes and pressed her fists hard to her ears so her eardrums wouldn’t explode from the pressure.
And the cold.
Angel!
Her eyes snapped open again to see Ford’s mouth move, but any sounds he made were just notes in the cacophony, whipped away like tiny bits of paper.
“Up. Come on.”
Angel turned over with a groan, keeping her ear covered to block out Ford and the wind and the incessant rattle of straps against tent poles. “This is the worst alarm tone in the world.”
He drew close and put a hand to her shoulder. “Here. Take this,” he said, his voice like a chainsaw scraped slowly over metal. What had happened, she wondered—not for the first time—to damage his vocal cords like that?
“Don’t…”want it, she meant to finish, but she couldn’t quite get her mouth to function. She tried to roll again and knocked her knee to the ground, which sparked off a series of lancing, interconnected pains. “Ooooohhh.”
“Sit up.” Only the consonants were audible through the screech of the wind.
“It’s so dark.” How long would they be battered by the surreal presence outside? She pictured it like a storm at sea, waves crashing over their tiny vessel. Alone. So alone. “Is it even day?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t know why that made her feel better. “Did we sleep?”
“Some.” He tightened his hold on her shoulder, all gruff business. “Sit.”
No break, of course. Days off were for regular expeditions across the far reaches of hell. Not for this running-for-your-life malarkey.
Okay. She could do this. With a grimace, she put her weight on her fists, feeling every bone as if it were bruised, and pushed up.
Once she’d worked her way to sitting, he shoved the tea in her hands and plunked her coat over her shoulders. “Where’s it hurt?”
“Where doesn’t it?” Every bit of her hurt. Although mostly her knee. She opened one eye and looked him over. “’S it cold out?” The question was ridiculous, obviously, but out here, the difference between -15 and -40 was substantial.
His answer—“Not too bad”—made her smile.
“Why’re you so chipper?”
