Fuck. If Roslyn had been here, if he hadn’t taken her away, this could have been her. His head spun and the scene before him blurred for a moment. Not Roslyn, never her. Once he got home she wouldn’t leave his sight ever again.

The girl’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, eyes big and empty. “I … I—ah …”

“You’re infected?” His voice sounded weird, like he’d packed his ears with cotton-wool.

Hard to tell if she nodded or the shakes moved her head for her.

Poor kid.

Janie. That was her name.

Cold and empty spread through him till it swallowed him whole. “Yeah. I’ll stay with you.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Nick had left her, obviously.

Roslyn huddled deeper into the blanket, her throat scraped raw from crying. She sat in despair on the cold, hard floor beside the bed because she was a f**king idiot. Not so much him this time. Oh, no. It was all her.

She’d trashed the cabin. Stuff was spread everywhere. Her stomach rumbled, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat. What would happen when she’d worked her way through the collection of canned food? And he’d left her stacks of drinking water, but eventually …

The lone butter knife he’d left her trembled in her hand. Her breath misted before her face. She should close up the front patio doors. Get organized for the night. Use up some of the precious store of wood and kindling, break open the last box of matches. Her cheeks felt like parchment, stiff beneath the tracks of her tears.

Because she was an idiot, an idiot who would die slowly and horribly in this butt-ugly pine prison.

She choked on another sob.

Why had he given up so soon? Nick had seemed different, but in the end he’d left too.

Everything hurt, inside and out. The first few times she’d lost it she’d picked herself up and told herself not to be such a melodramatic cow. So she couldn’t get away. So she’d tried everything short of amputating her foot. Didn’t mean he’d abandoned her.

Then hours had passed. The sunlight had slid away, leaving her sitting in shadows. Her will to live was at an all-time low.

Why had he given up on her? She beat him in the head with a bottle of booze, and he came back for more. Freak out and reject one little kiss and he called it a day. It made no sense.

Fuck. Just … fuck.

She listened for his voice, his heavy footsteps coming up the ramp. Strained to hear the rattling of the key in the lock and imagined the back door swinging open. His face would appear in the opening. Nick wasn’t handsome, exactly. He had a high forehead, thin lips and a blade-straight nose. His ears were maybe a touch too big, now she came to think of it. His dark eyes were too bright, probably from thinking bad thoughts. He looked like trouble. He was tall and lean and hard as anything she’d ever come across. But he’d been soft to her in lots of ways. Being with him had become a clutter of memories in her head. She couldn’t tell anymore if he’d behaved admirably towards her in the ways that mattered or not.

All she knew was that she didn’t want to die and she didn’t know what the hell to do about it. Even if she gnawed off her foot and got free of the chain, what then? The back door was locked. Every window had been barricaded. She could tie together some sheets and climb down the two- or three-story drop from the front veranda. Her and her one foot, because she’d had to cut off the other one to rid herself of the bloody chain. Guess she’d have to cauterize the stump, Misery-style. The book, not the movie.

Tears flowed freely down her face. Torrents. Rivers.

“Roslyn,” a voice said. “What the f**k … where are you?”

Her vision was too blurred to see. The room appeared a mass of murky shadows.

“Ros!”

“Nick?” she hiccupped.

“Shit,” he muttered and crouched before her, a big black-jeaned, black-shirted, black-clad figure of a man. The heel of his hand smoothed over her face, thumb gently wiping away her tears. “What happened?”

She just stared at him, dazed.

“Was there an infected?” he asked.

“No,” she sniffed. Then she sniffled. Then she gave in and wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

With a scowl he grabbed her, hands beneath her arms, towing her out of the pile of blankets she’d bundled around herself. He dragged her onto his lap and held her close. A palm settled on one of her cheeks. His skin felt blessedly cool against her fevered face. “You feel hot.”

She felt awful, truly, deeply awful. And it was all his fault.

“Aren’t you going to talk to me?” he asked.

“No.”

“No?”

She swallowed hard. It felt like shoving down broken glass. “No.”

Nick held her tight and she sat there too tired and sore to care. There was no fight left in her. Not right now, anyway. Maybe later.

“I’m sorry I was away so long,” he said.

He smelled good, as if he’d just washed. Tomorrow she’d hate him again, but right now she burrowed in and laid her cheek against his chest. Taking what comfort she could get wherever she could get it. His hand rubbed over her back and the side of his face rested against the top of her head.

“You really went through the place,” he said. “I’ll leave you a note next time. Okay?”

No. Jerk. She sniveled as quietly as she could.

“Come on, Ros. Talk to me. I can’t stand it when you don’t talk to me.” His hand slipped beneath her chin and he tipped his head, studied what had to be her disaster of a face. “Please?”