The Last Uprising (Defectors Trilogy) (29 page)

“Good. I might have Shriver take a look at you when she’s done examining Roman.”

“Not tonight,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I feel fine. Besides . . . I’m in good hands.”

Amory swallowed, a light flush creeping up the back of his cheeks. “I don’t know . . .” He flashed a grin. “I think I’ve got a blind spot when it comes to you.”

He sank down on his bed, which seemed so small for someone his size. He watched my every move as I paced around his room. I was finding it difficult to breathe normally.

“Come over here,” he murmured. It wasn’t a command. It was a request that left him exposed.

I crossed the room and sank onto the soft red blanket, remembering how I had awoken here, in this room, when I had first arrived at the farm and passed out from hunger and blood loss.

Amory’s arms came around me, one behind my back and one under my knees. With surprising ease, he pulled me onto his lap and leaned back against the wall. I let my weight fall against his chest, savoring the warmth and strength of his arms.
 

He was staring at me through half-lidded eyes, his contentment barely masking the intensity simmering beneath the surface.
 

There was so much going on behind those bright gray eyes it made me nervous: hunger and longing, but also fear. My gut ached remembering how I had rejected him just a few weeks ago when I had not remembered who I was.

“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” he whispered.

“What?”

“Everything that’s happened since I first brought you up here.”

I nodded. “I remember. You trusted me when no one else did. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

“Neither would I,” he reminded me, fingers absently brushing the back of his neck, where he had a scar identical to mine.
 

I shivered. I didn’t want to think about those horrible three weeks he’d been World Corp’s prisoner any more than I wanted to remember my own imprisonment.

“I’m so
glad
I met you,” he said.

The swell of emotion this simple statement triggered surprised me. Amory wasn’t talking about me saving him anymore, at least not in that way.

“Me, too.”

“These last few weeks have nearly killed me, Haven.” He shook his head. “The way you looked at me like I was the enemy . . . It made me feel like I didn’t even know who I was anymore.”

His words were painful, but there was no accusation in his tone. He was just sharing the burden, something we’d done since the beginning.

“I didn’t know who I was either.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand.” He took a deep breath. “Before I met you . . . I
hated
myself sometimes. I hated that I was a coward, and I hated what I had almost become . . . with the PMC.”
 

My chest hurt, and I longed to throw my arms around him and kiss him until he forgot.

Amory smiled absently. “You changed all that. You made me feel strong . . . like I finally had something to fight for.”
 

A muscle was working in his jaw, and he was avoiding my gaze now. “When you were taken, I didn’t just feel empty because I love you . . . I felt empty because the one person in the world who thought I was worth something was gone.”

The wind was knocked out of me so fast it felt as though I’d fallen flat on my back.
 

He’d said he
loved
me. He’d said it once before, when we’d been traveling north to steal the cure, but it had been in a rush of anger and passion. This felt different.

Amory seemed to realize the weight of what he’d said, too. He looked up at me, his eyes burning, deadly serious. “I love you, Haven.”

Those words — I could listen to them on repeat all day long.
 

“Amory . . . I’ve
always
loved you. Even when I didn’t remember, it was in there. I never stopped.”

That was it. That was all he had to hear. Suddenly he was two Amorys: the Amory I only saw when we were alone together — raw and exposed — and the fighter who attacked everything with ferocity.

His hand came around my neck, lifting my hair off my back and cupping my head gently. His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me against him.

His lips were burning with hunger when they found mine, and I returned the kiss just as fervently.
 

He groaned softly — almost too low to hear — and brought me closer. Even in his eagerness, his hands were gentle and moved expertly around my injuries as though he’d memorized every cut and bruise.

Amory’s long, dexterous fingers tangled in my hair, and I felt the roughness of his calluses graze my ear. Before I knew what I had done, I had swung my legs over to straddle his hips.

He wasn’t resting against the wall anymore. He was leaning into me — urgent and alert — his hands gripping my hips. I tried to savor the taste of him on my tongue, but it made me too hungry.
 

I wanted more of this, and it felt as though he was going to be yanked away.
Who knew how much time we had?

I pulled in to close the paper-thin breath of air between us, nearly sending us both crashing off the edge of the bed.

Amory steadied me, his hands trailing dangerously high up my waist, feeling every inch of me and sending a shiver down my spine. I bit his lip, wanting more, and his fingers slipped beneath my shirt, caressing the bare skin at the small of my back.
 

I reached down to the hem of my shirt, pulled it over my head, and looked down. For a second, Amory looked genuinely nervous, but the look faded as quickly as it had come, melting into adoration as he studied me.

I raised an eyebrow. He took the hint and yanked off his own shirt. My mouth fell open a little as I took in his perfectly sculpted torso. His skin held traces of a tan, his smooth chest narrowing at his hips and fading into cut abdominals. Not for the first time, I noticed that the muscles of his shoulders and arms were lean and feral, formed from lifting and building and fighting.

I let my fingers ghost over his bare shoulders, pulling him closer so I could study him. His arms wrapped around me, eyes locked on mine.
 

He didn’t break eye contact, but his fingers drifted to the clasp of my bra. He was breathing a little faster than normal. I felt every rise and fall of his chest through my whole body. The clasp released, and he pulled it away, his eyes blazing.

I touched his jaw, feeling the barely-there stubble beneath my finger.
 

“You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Then his arms came around me. He rested his forehead against mine, pressing our chests together, and for five whole seconds, I couldn’t breathe.

Gently, he lowered me onto his pillow, and I had the opportunity to study the subtle lines where his abs trailed into the hem of his pants — teasing me.

“Is this okay?” he asked, brushing my hair to the side.

I nodded, trying to find my voice. “Yes.”

It wasn’t okay. It was perfect.

His lips met mine again, and I gave into it fully. He returned my energy with everything he had, and my fingers fumbled at his belt, hands shaking. A small chuckle rumbled through him.

“Never thought you’d be ripping
my
clothes off,” he whispered.

I let out a low growl that surprised me and finally managed to undo the belt and the top button of his pants. Now that I had, my heart was pounding. There was no going back now — and I didn’t want to — but I was a little scared. I wondered if things would change between us.

Then Amory’s lips teased my collarbone, leaving a light trail of hot kisses down my chest and my stomach. His lips grazed my waistband, and my nerves evaporated.

The rest of our clothes seemed to disappear, though I had no recollection of how it happened, and I could finally run my hands over all of him. The rest of his body was even more wonderful than I could have imagined — all hard lines and soft touches. I caught him staring at me with the same reverence.

“You’re incredible,” he breathed, his hand trailing up my leg.

I couldn’t wait any longer — couldn’t breathe.

“Amory. I want you.”

That did it. He dove in for another kiss so fierce, I physically ached. Our hands were everywhere.

When we came together, I felt the warmth of him in every part of my body. It trailed up from my abdomen and spread from my arms to my cheeks. My blood ran hot, pounding in my veins.

It was slow and tender at first, and then it shifted into something deeper — a desperate, passionate need.

When it was over, he collapsed against my chest. I matched his breaths until I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began, running my fingers through his dark hair.

Three days later, the sound of breaking glass made me topple out of Amory’s bed in a panic.

I was foggy and disoriented from sleep, and it took me a moment to remember where I was. Amory was gone.

Then a strangled yell drifted up through the walls — the unmistakable sound of pain. I ran into the hallway and down to the main landing toward the source of the noise.
 

Roman’s door was ajar, and he was sitting bolt upright in bed. His face was drained of color, and Shriver was staring openmouthed, a glass bottle lying in shards at her feet.

“Shriver? What is it?”

She shook her head, completely speechless, and then removed her glasses and looked at the floor. “Come see for yourself.”

Carefully avoiding the broken glass, I stepped into the room to look at Roman. He was still bedridden and as pale as cauliflower, but at least he was awake. I didn’t know what had startled Shriver until I crossed to the bed and met his wary gaze.

Then I saw it.

The morning light was filtering through the bedroom window, throwing a column of light across one side of his face.
 

His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and a faint yellow tinge was spreading around the edges of his irises.
 

I did a double take, scanning his body for signs that his eyes betrayed him, but there was no denying it. His skin was glistening with cold sweat, and the wounds blotting his neck and chest were oozing yellow with infection.

Shriver had a hand to her mouth, so I said what she couldn’t. “You’re turning.”

Roman stared at me, but he didn’t look surprised. If anything, he was leveling a challenge with his gaze. It was as though he were saying,
Come closer. You scared?

But then something happened that I had not been expecting. His face fell, and for the first time since I’d known him, Roman looked genuinely helpless. “How long do I have?”

I shook my head, turning to Shriver. “I don’t know.”

“It depends on how quickly the virus progresses,” she murmured.

“How long did it take Logan to get like that?” he snapped.

I swallowed, remembering how bad she had looked when he’d seen her at the Infinity Building. When I didn’t answer right away, Roman seized another bottle off the bedside table and hurled it across the room.

“How long?” he demanded.

I didn’t even flinch. The broken glass was nothing.
 

“Three days,” said Logan.

I whipped around to look at her. She was standing in the doorway wearing rolled boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. Her expression was controlled, but I could feel the weight of her misery in the air.

“Shit,” Roman muttered, his voice hitching.

“Everyone’s different,” I said, looking to Shriver for help. “And Logan was off and on. One moment she would be okay . . . and then the next . . .”

“I’d be delirious,” she finished.

Roman’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “Well, I hope I can at least take out a few more PMC before I go.”

I swallowed, thinking that was an odd thing to say. But we all knew that Logan would have gone full carrier if we hadn’t gotten our hands on the cure at World Corp, and it was unlikely we would be able to make the trip for Roman before it was too late.

“You should go,” I said suddenly, not wanting him to die. “Take a few men and drive north now. If you go before it gets any worse, you might be able to break in, kill Aryus, and take the cure.”

Even as I said it, I knew it was hopeless, but I felt desperate — out of control. I couldn’t lose anyone else.

“I’ll go with you,” said Logan quietly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growled.
 

I looked up in surprise.

“The fight is here. I’m going to kill as many PMC as I can before . . . before I change.”

I bent my head, willing my eyes to stop stinging. Roman was going to die, and he’d already accepted it.

“I’ll go . . . get something to clean this up,” said Shriver.

I followed her out into the hallway to give Roman and Logan some time alone. Only she truly understood what he was going through.

“How long does he have?” I whispered as soon as the door closed. “Really?”

Shriver hesitated. “With Logan, the virus progressed very quickly due to her weakened immune system. But with Roman . . . it could work more slowly.”

I let out a long, ragged breath. “How long, Shriver?”

“Two months at most. After that, the brain damage will be too much to bring him back. He might live, but he won’t ever be the same. Within a week, he’ll be stage two, like Mariah was. He’ll be violent, unpredictable, angry . . .”

“So basically himself,” I muttered.

“I should warn you,” said Shriver. “The longer this goes on, the harder it’s going to get. Logan was nothing. When he’s stage two, it will be a constant up and down. One day you might think he’s getting better, and the next hour he won’t know you.” She sighed. “They never get better — not on their own.”

“I know,” I said, thinking of my mother. Shriver didn’t have to tell me how hard it was to watch someone go through that.

I could hear the soft murmur of Logan’s voice through the door, and I felt a surge of affection for her unflagging strength. If anyone could help Roman come to terms with his fate without fear or self-pity, it was Logan.