Flesh (Flesh 1)

This man was every bit as good at the silent treatment as she was. In truth, he was better.

Eventually, she stopped. The tears, the words, all of it.

They lay on the pastel linoleum floor in a mess of sweaty limbs. She could barely move with the big bastard on top of her, holding her down. Her arms were pinned by his hands and her legs trapped beneath his. Effortlessly, he contained her. Ali shut her eyes tight, blocking out his determined gaze. Now he’d take what he wanted and all she could do was survive. A cry caught in her throat. She’d seen a woman dragged out of her car and raped on the Neilsens

’ front lawn not long after the infection hit, when the police first

abandoned the streets and chaos took over. But the man on top of her made no move. Apart from his breathing, he remained immobile.

Waiting was the worst part. She’d suffocate on the scent of him before long. The house was oppressive, humid, with every door and window locked tight. Claustrophobia dug into her, its razor sharp fingers sinking through her neck, clawing at her throat.

Everything was locked out. She was locked in – with this stranger – with no escape. She was cornered.

The man said something, chanting it over and over. His breath was hot on her ear, and his body hovered above her, caging her in even though he carried his weight on his arms. She couldn’t quite hear him over the pounding of her heart and the shit running riot in her head.

There was no air. No hope. No nothing. Sweat poured off her face as she gulped for breath. Her body was giving up, signing off, as all good little ensigns eventually did.

“Breathe, damn it. Breathe.” The man was in her face, staring down at her, blue eyes shot with concern. “You’re having a panic attack. Do you hear me? It’s a panic attack. You’re safe. Everything’s okay. Now breathe. That’s al you need to do. Just breathe for me.”

His words unlocked something, flicked a switch in her head. Her airways opened and stale, fetid air rushed in.

The sudden rush of oxygen was magic. She couldn’t get it down fast enough. Her head swam.

“Easy. Easy now, that’s it.” He stroked her arm, murmuring on and on.

Eventually he stopped too, rolled onto his side.

They lay in silence, him with a leg and an arm thrown over her, holding her down. He needn’t have bothered. Exhaustion had already won the war. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Both of them stared up at the hole in the ceiling as their heartbeats slowed.

CHAPTER THREE

“You weigh a ton,” she said.

Daniel lifted his head off his little ray of sunshine’s chest, ridiculously gratified by the calm, even thumping of her heart, and the steady, measured lift and fall of her ribs. She was alright. Never mind the griping.

His girl was okay, and on some subconscious, unchartable level, that equated to trust. It had to be trust. Or maybe she was just worn out. Oh well. He’d settle for what he could get, for now.

“Hey.” He held both of her wrists in one hand, and used the other to wipe at the dirty tear tracks on her face, to tuck a strand of oily hair behind an ear more adorable than any ear had a right to be. He was grinning again, and he didn’t bother to fight it. She was every Christmas all at once, tinsel and trees and the whole shebang. Sure, last Christmas had been spent fighting for survival, but this more than made up for it. What a wonderful present. He’d even gotten used to her smell. “How are you feeling?”

“Squished.”

“Right. Sorry.” In deference to her future goodwill, he shifted more of his weight off her and onto his side, leaving a leg thrown over her and her hands trapped, for safety’s sake. Thankfully he had gotten his c**k under control a while back. “Better?” he asked.

By way of a response, she snorted and stretched her fingers as if she was working out the kinks.

“Did you know it’s Valentine’s Day? And you still haven’t told me your name,” he said.

“It’s Valentine’s?”

“Mm hmm. February fifteen. I’ve been keeping track.”

“Valentine’s is the fourteenth.”

“What’s a day between friends? Anyway, we were talking about your name. Which you were going to tel me,” he prompted.

She didn’t even blink.

“Whenever you’re ready. No rush at all.”

Her focus remained fixed on a point above his head. He didn’t need to look. He knew what she was staring at so wistfully – the gruesome hole in the ceiling. Her own perceived gateway to freedom. That bubble needed bursting. Obviously she’d been holed up in the attic since the shit hit the fan, given the state of her.

He waited while she deliberated.

Daniel sucked in some much-needed oxygen. Why had he held his breath? That was dumb.

Eventually, she blew a strand of hair out of her face, her throat moved, and she gave a bare inch. “Ali.”

“Hi, Ali. I’m Daniel.” He smiled, and like the turning of the tide, about an ocean’s worth of tension eased out of him. “Well, I have a feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

She gave a brief bark of laughter, or perhaps a cough. The house was dusty. It made it hard to tell. “Friends don’t hold friends hostage. General y speaking.”

“Hmm,” he nodded. “Friends also don’t let friends live out their days in a stinking, dark, dusty hole. Or so I’ve heard.”

She pinned her lips tight and turned her head away, making him feel ten types of ass**le. Too bad.

There was a message to be delivered here, and he could not afford to fail. He couldn’t face going back to being alone. Could not do it. Boy didn’t that mess with his whole “man as an island ” theory of a lifetime’s making. “Ali, I know things are scary, but barricading yourself in here alone isn’t the answer.”

“Real y?” She glared at him. It was a queenly glare. His girl pulled it off with aplomb, no matter the grime. “Living in a dark, stinking hole got me this far.”

“Granted, but the worst is over. I’m not saying things are a party out there, but they have calmed down.”

“Are you serious?” she asked, her voice highly skeptical.

“Hear me out.” Her brow flinched for a moment, but at least he had her attention. Until she craned her neck and frowned at what his finger was up to mid-torso – the torso in question being hers. His digit was drawing circles around the dip of her bellybutton. Endless circles. They both watched his finger go round and round, dawdling over soft skin in a lingering caress.