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All of me is rock-hard, including places that shouldn’t be. I lean over her, telling myself it’s only to decipher her sleep babbling.

Sure.

Her tight little ass wiggles back like she’s seeking me out.

I cut the thought off. Those are unconscious, heat-seeking movements. Nothing more.

My hand circles her slim hip, and she releases a breathy sigh and pushes into me with more force.

Fuck.

Without thinking, I groan and push back. Esme’s eyes fly open, and I freeze, every muscle locking tight.

She peers over her shoulder at me, her eyes wide and confused in the darkness as she tries to process what’s happening.

“I’d like to point out that I’m still on my bedroll. Yours is over there.” I gesture to her bedroll behind her.

Pink floods her cheeks as understanding dawns. Then she flings herself away, scrambling to her feet like I’ve scalded her. She practically sprints to the opposite side of camp, putting the dying fire and six still-sleeping refugees between us.

Good.

Smartest thing she’s done since I met her.

I lie on my back, gazing at the indifferent stars. My whole body is one continuous throb of frustrated desire, the space at my side an empty void.

What the fuck is happening to me?

Giving in to an irresistible desire for a lying thief is at least the second worst idea I’ve ever had. I just can’t remember the first one. This woman won’t tell the truth about anything except her name, and even that I question.

Every part of this is wrong.

But if I could keep it physical… And walk away later…

As if I’ve ever been the kind of man who sleeps with a woman I’m not invested in.

If I were…

Blackwood Valley would still exist. It wouldn’t be a smooth plain between the mountains.

The memory of my satisfaction when they stopped screaming surfaces like a body floating up from watery depths.

The way I yearned for more.

That’s what happens when I let myself feel too much. When emotion overwhelms my control, people die. And I enjoy it.

Never again.

On the far side of the fire, Esme hugs her knees, refusing to meet my gaze.

It’s better this way.

I close my eyes and wait for dawn.

Esme spends all morning avoiding me. She joins the front of the group, her spine straight as she switches between gliding—Light Walking, I think she called it—and kicking pebbles.

The road winds between fields of cotton low enough that no one can hide within, so our formation from the last few days becomes slack. The cotton is pretty, growing in little clumps of dark green with wide rows between them. Bees and wasps bounce off each other, trying to get to the tiny white buds just starting to open. Thick pollen floats in the air, though it causes Mira to sniffle and sneeze.

The scene is almost bucolic, like Meridia before the Withering. The spread of the disease is strange. I have yet to see a pattern to the fields and towns affected, nor any clue as to what might be causing the epidemic.