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Keaton’s smile was sheepish. “I was being a dick.”

“No, you weren’t. You needed me to keep going. Sitting at the side of the road and feeling sorry for myself would have achieved nothing.”

“That, as well,” Keaton conceded. “But I’d be lying if I claimed that being a dick wasn’t part and parcel of it.” He jerked his head toward the fireplace full of crap. “You can stay here and clear that out.”

“I thought you wanted me to have a rest. Make up your mind.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s a five-minute job. Then, you can have a rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keaton wrestled with a smile, managing to come out the victor and keep it off his face. “Don’t make me tie you up again.”

“You wouldn’t dare. Not now, I have my weapons back.”

In lieu of an answer, he headed for the door. It was mostly solid with a gap at head height, where a pane of glass had once been. It had a still working bolt that we’d utilized once we’d checked the cottage was free of biters. It was rusty enough that it took some wiggling back and forth before Keaton worked it back open. “Lock it behind me. Don’t let anyone else in.”

“Really? I was planning on holding a tea party for biters as soon as I had the place to myself. Can’t a boy have any fun without someone spoiling it?”

“I’m trying to help, August.”

His use of my real name sent a strange frisson through me every time he did it. It had been a mistake to tell him the truth. My name was too real. Too honest. I flicked a lazy hand at him that said “go,” Keaton giving me one last searching look before setting off toward the forest. “Try not to let any biters get the better of you this time,” I shouted after him. “I don’t want to be sitting here waiting for wood while you’re rolling around in the dirt having a good time. No more threesomes.”

He didn’t look back, but he did lift a single middle finger, the childish gesture making me smile.

After bolting the door—because I wanted to and it was common sense, not because I’d been instructed to—I went back into the living room. Clearing the fireplace didn’t take five minutes; it took two.

I busied myself with sorting through my pack and picking out useful items. I lit the candle before we were plunged into complete darkness, putting the lighter to one side ready for the fire. I sorted out food: more dried meat. We needed to hit a community soon and get a decent meal. The thought brought me up short. I needed to hit a community. Not we, I. Keaton and I were not a unit. Not even close.

That didn’t stop the list of things that needed doing from getting ever longer. Stock up on food. Find parts for the motorbike. Find the motorbike again. Fix the motorbike. Work out how to break the news to Keaton that there were no suppressants and that this entire trip—the trip where he’d nearly had his throat ripped out—had been a big, fat waste of time.

It was a shame I hadn’t gotten the words out before we’d come off the bike. Especially when I’d been so damn close to it. Thirty more seconds and I would have confessed. How would Keaton have taken the news? How would he? The longer I led him on a wild goose chase, the more extreme his reaction would probably be. I’d saved his life though, right? That had to count for something.

A sound broke me from my reverie: the familiar pitter-patter of rain. Rushing to the door, I stuck my hand out of the gap, leaving it there for a few seconds before pulling it back in and examining my hand, my worst fears confirmed.

Red rain. Fuck! And Keaton had gone out in it.

Chapter Eight

Keaton

My arms were already full of firewood when the first drop of rain fell. I called myself all the names under the sun as I turned back to the cottage, my plans to collect more immediately shelved.

I should have known it was coming, should have felt it in my bones like a pervading dampness on arthritic limbs. Why hadn’t I? Because the day had been so eventful, so adrenaline fueled, that I’d put any edginess down to my near demise, and hadn’t considered it as a harbinger of things to come.

And where did that leave me? Out in the very rain this journey was supposed to be about avoiding. Where was a suppressant when I needed one? The rain grew heavier as I trudged back toward the cottage, nerve endings sparking to life beneath its onslaught and my thoughts turning more focused, more primal.

This was August’s fault. He’d let me come out here. In fact, if I went back further, there was a long list of things that I could blame on him. Not taking action to avoid the damn oil on the road for a start. If he’d done that, we wouldn’t be here.

Someone should make him pay for all his mistakes, and as I was the only one around, it would have to be me. A smile slid onto my face as I imagined all the lessons I could teach him. Would he scream? Would he beg? The desire to know the answers to those questions was a growing ember in my chest. How many hours could I spend playing with him?

Something else warred with the desire to find out how sweet the sound of August’s bones cracking might be as I tore him limb from limb, something that whispered reminders into my ear that refused to be silenced. How he’d felt in the guesthouse, the blade pressed to my throat secondary to the feel of his wiry strength. The provocative dance he’d performed in the fire station, his skin glistening with a slight sheen of sweat. It didn’t matter that it had been designed to distract.

Then there was him pinned beneath me the previous night. Helpless. Unable to move. Straining to be free. If I’d had any sense, I would have gotten more than his damn name out of him. I could have done anything to him, and he wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it.

Yeah, I’d fuck him and then I’d kill him.

Rather than being a hindrance or something to fear, the rain gave me pleasure as my long strides ate up the space between me and the cottage. Toward August and his lithe body. Confidence that I’d get everything I desired filled me.