“Are you hungry?” she asked, breath warm on his skin.
“Not for food.”
She wiggled her hips slightly, nudging his rekindled erection. “You like to come across so civilized, but I know better.”
“I’m perfectly civilized. Let me show you.” He tugged her back toward the bedroom.
“No way. You may not be hungry, but I am. Hold on.”
With the throw still his only covering, Chris leaned against the nearest wall and watched as Rosa moved through her little kitchen. She was strong and graceful, focused and efficient.
His words of love had been wrenched from his gut, pulled from him after so many hours and days and weeks of need. But a gentler emotion filled him, there in her home. He wanted this—to share a life with Rosa. Sighing, he was almost relieved to recognize the depth of his affection. This was no lark, no fling. This was something to nurture and defend. What he’d done to Falco, he would revisit it a thousand times on whoever tried to keep him from her. This was the woman he’d spent his life seeking.
“So serious,” she said over her shoulder. “Read something instead of dwelling wherever you’ve gone.”
Chris flipped open the book of sonnets to find the only one he’d ever really enjoyed, Sonnet 89. “Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, / And I will comment upon that offence; / Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, / Against thy reasons making no defence.”
Rosa had turned with a plate in hand, leaning against the countertop. She tipped her head to one side. “Say it again.”
With a smile, Chris obliged.
“So,” she said, “if I tell you you’ve done something wrong, you’ll fix it and not complain?”
“That’s just Shakespeare talking, sweetheart.”
“Ha. You borrow the man’s words, then ignore them. Typical.”
She sauntered past, dragging the plate of snacks just beneath his nose as she passed. It was a one-two punch of primal urges, woman and food. He followed like a starving animal.
Rosa placed the offering on the edge of the bed, then pulled a little stool up beside it, as if sitting down at a dining table. She smoothed her hair over one shoulder and began to braid it. A secretive smile shaped her lips.
There in the doorway, Chris nearly crumpled under the weight of déjà vu. That was what he’d dreamed—one of the dreams he’d been convinced would never come true.
He leaned his head against the cool doorjamb. Suspecting something and finding it confirmed were two radically different matters.
“What is it?” She’d stopped plaiting, her expression concerned.
Dizziness fogged his mind.
And let’s just say it, folks—there’s a good dose of fear here.
This wasn’t just an inkling; it was a full-fledged premonition.
Throat tight, knees unsteady, Chris loped to the bed and stretched out on it. “I dreamed this.”
“What, exactly?”
“This. You.” Coming up on his elbow, he waved a hand at the sweet, erotic scene she portrayed. “You sitting on that stool, here in your bedroom. You were wearing that robe, with the tie so loose I could see the curve of your left breast.”
At that, Rosa glanced down and tugged the fabric shut.
“There’s no need to punish me for honesty,” he said.
“Go on.”
“You were braiding your hair and smiling. It was the smile I didn’t believe.”
“Gracias,”
she said with a sour expression. Finished with her braid, she tossed it over her shoulder and grabbed a slice of cheese. She regarded him steadily, almost critically, as she chewed. The way she licked her fingers afterward dragged his thoughts back to sex, but he wouldn’t be deterred in this.
“Say something,” he said.
“You’re being honest with me?
Es importante.
”
“Jesus, I’m a trained scientist. You think I like admitting when there are things in this new world I can’t explain? That
no one
can explain?” He reached across the bed and took her hand. “And I haven’t lied to you, Rosita. Not ever.”
“Fine. Okay, fine. You want to hear mine? Here goes. The night I left you in the cave, I came back here and finally got to sleep. And, oh, guess who I dreamed about?”
“Me?”
“
Sí, claro
. You were standing in front of my bookshelves wearing that green knitted wrap. It drooped over one shoulder so I could see your tattoo. And when you turned around, you held Shakespeare’s sonnets.”
Chris’s lungs felt too hot. When he managed a breath, he only said, “Shit.”
“Cristián, what does it mean?”
“Hell if I know. Look, things happen now. Things that can’t be broken down with logic.” He didn’t like bringing up Jenna, knowing Rosa’s opinion about the skinwalkers, but it was all he could produce by way of evidence. “A friend of mine, back where I came from—she confided that she and her partner could hear each other’s thoughts.”
“¿Es la verdad?”
“Like I said, I have no way of knowing for sure. But believe me, she wasn’t one for voodoo and superstition. She seemed as freaked out by it as we are now.”
Rosa ate a few more slices of cheese, her mind so obviously working
.
Such a clever woman. Clever and stubborn.
No wonder I can’t get enough.
“So what else have you dreamed?” she asked.
“Oh, no. I don’t think we should go there.”
“Why not?”
“What if it changes something? If you’d told me about finding me in front of your bookshelves, I might have stayed in bed just to prove fate wrong.”
She shrugged. “But then I wouldn’t have dreamed it.”
Chris flopped back on the bed, elbow tossed over his brow. Which was worse? That his life suddenly contained infuriating, inexplicable elements, or that it seemed preordained? Screw free will. If all this proved true, there was no such thing.
“All right,” he said, sitting up. The throw settled into his lap, but Rosa’s gaze remained on his chest. She grinned when he caught her staring. “Stop that.”
She arose from her stool and set the plate on it. Her next seat of choice was Chris’s lap. With Rosa’s arms around his neck and her lips on his temple, he had a perfect view of her cleavage. He dipped his head, kissing one luscious swell.
“Are you going to tell me or not?”
He whispered against her skin, “I dreamed of you pregnant.”
“Don’t joke about that.”
“I’m not.” He tightened his hands at her waist, his voice becoming thick with emotion. “You were wearing a sundress, which surprised me. But you were on watch, looking out across the desert. Smiling again. A breeze kicked up and outlined your belly.”
“You didn’t . . . you didn’t pull out last night.”
Damn.
He’d forgotten about that.
Chris rubbed his mouth with an unsteady hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.”
She hugged his head. Whether she was frightened or angry or pleased remained just out of sight.
“Whatever happens, I’ll take care of you,” he said. “I meant what I said, Rosita. I love you.”
Unexpectedly she began to laugh. She pushed him back on the bed and stripped away the throw. “You’ll take care of me, eh? I think you got it backward,
hombre
.”
“Fine, whatever—you know what I mean.”
“
Sí
, I know what you mean.” Rosa trailed a string of kisses up from his belly to his throat, where she whispered, “And I love you too.”
His heart hammering, Chris framed her face in his hands, looking for the truth. He found it. Eyes the color of teak were wide and suspiciously bright. Whatever Rosa Cortez could give a man, she was offering it to him. Slowly he pulled her toward him for another kiss. They had hours until dawn.
A knock at the door startled Rosa off the bed. “What?” she called out the open window.
“Rio’s on watch.” It was Singer.
“What’s she doing up?” Chris muttered.
Rosa waved a hand at him and went to open the door, tightening her robe as she did. “What of it, Singer?”
Singer glanced quickly at Chris, who’d only just managed to cover up. But her face was all business. “He says . . . well, he says it looks like a family.”
THIRTY-ONE
“Mmm. You’re distracting me.” Rosa tried to get dressed, but Chris showed no sign of wanting to let her go. He kissed the nape of her neck as she tidied her braid.
“That’s the plan. Send Ex to deal with it.” But she felt his smile on her skin because he knew the likelihood of that happening.
How odd. This was the first time she had a private life to interrupt, and right now, she would much rather let someone else deal with the problem. She wanted to go back to bed and put her head on his chest, listening to his heart. Certainly that impulse had never taken root in her before. But that wasn’t the way the town operated.
Spinning in Chris’s arms, she consoled him with a long kiss. At last he released her, and she dressed quickly. If this was some ploy to test their defenses, well, they needed a reminder. No one fucked with Valle. But if it really was a family in need, she wanted to be there to welcome them home.
Rosa grabbed her rifle on the way out the door, Chris close at her heels. Anyone awake at that hour would see him coming out of her house, but she didn’t mind. The die was cast. She’d claimed him, and he was hers. They had all seen him walk to her casita. She needed to stop thinking of their intimacy as strange or forbidden.
La jefa
had a man.
She jogged toward the front gate and found the refugees waiting with Rio on guard duty. As Singer had reported, it was a family: two parents—a rarity in this world—and a couple of children, a boy and a girl. Rosa put their ages at around ten and twelve. They all looked weary. Dust coated them, and their feet were bloody from where their shoes had worn through. They bore backpacks stuffed full of prized possessions, a sure sign they’d been traveling a long time.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Jacob.” The man nodded at his wife and kids. “Colleen, Joseph, and Connie.”
“Where do you come from?”
“California. Or what used to be, anyway.”
“That’s a long ways.” She studied them, searching for signs of feral behavior.
He shifted beneath the weight of her stare. “Please. We’ve been walking for weeks. Can we get some food and water? For the kids at least?”
“
Sí, claro
. This way,
por favor
.”
Once in the
taberna
, she would explain their rules. But she would give them a meal and something to drink while she did. After they’d eaten, that would be soon enough to perform the test.
Which Chris says is worthless.
With some effort, she shushed that voice and went about serving a quick, cold meal—just bread, cheese, and sliced prickly pear, like the snack she’d just shared with Chris. The refugees dove into the food.
She let them eat for a few minutes and said, “You’re lucky you found us. You’re safe here . . . as long as you’re human.”
The boy’s head came up, a frown between his brows. “What else would we be?”
“Skinwalkers. We devised a precaution,” she went on. “But I’m told it’s ineffective. I’ve been advised that only torturing a loved one would be enough to spark an instinctive shift.”
Chris put a hand on her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Only what you suggested.”
She shook off his touch and watched the newcomers, reading their fear. But she wasn’t sure if it was of her and what she might do to them, or of what she might discover
about
them.
How did a family like this come so far in a world full of raiders and monsters without a visible means of self-defense? Suspicion ratcheted up a notch. Jacob had no weapons she could see. No gun, no knives. His nails were torn—not an indictment in and of itself, but enough to make her take the hard line and hit them where they would be vulnerable.
“I’ll start with the girl,” she said. “Eight hours in isolation.”
Connie whimpered. “Will it be dark? I don’t like the dark.”
The mother spoke for the first time. “I can’t let you take my daughter away. I
won’t
.”
Even the monsters must defend their children.
That wasn’t proof of anything except that Colleen cared for her daughter. Rosa needed to push harder.
“You can’t stop me,” she said. “I don’t think you understand how this works. You beg us for food and shelter. You beg for help. And yet you want to dictate terms? No. If you want to stay here, you follow our rules.”
“What are you trying to prove?” Jacob asked.
“That you’re not skinwalkers. This test should determine that. It will be hard for you to be separated, not knowing what might be happening to your children. I bet that stress would force a shift, if you were other than human.”