The Duty and the Gone (The Fertility Plague Book 1) Page 6

  I suspected I wasn’t supposed to hear, either, but there it was. Official. I was unexpected and unwanted.

  The guard had to scan me in, my citizen number ringed on my finger, before he raised the barrier to let us through.

  “Do we have to scan in every time?” I said.

  “Only when there’s a new guard in rotation who doesn’t recognize you. That first scan also registers you in their log.”

  I realized the security was for the council families, but it felt like just another set of eyes on me, tracking my movements. “Am I allowed visitors?”

  “So long as they’re cleared,” Roman said. “There’s an intercom system connected to each house.”

  We turned off the main avenue, down a rutted, packed dirt lane that speared into heavy woodlands. It wasn’t long before the headlamps lit on a rustic cabin tucked snug into a small clearing. Roman slowed to a stop and cut the engine. Without the headlamps, moonlit shadows swayed and crawled beneath my skin.

  Oh my God, this is my new home?

  I must have betrayed my disappointment with an unknowing gasp or sigh or something because Roman murmured, “Not the mansion you were expecting?”

  My temper flared. “I wasn’t expecting anything! I didn’t have the luxury of a dossier stuffed with stats and scores and a detailed profile.”

  He was the one who knew exactly what he was getting and still he managed to be ridiculously disgruntled about it. How dare he mock my lack of enthusiasm for a shack in the middle of the woods!

  I fumbled for the latch and shoved the door open.

  “Georga, mind the—”

  —high step. Too late. I’d clear forgotten how freaking high the truck was. I landed heavily and felt my ankle turn out on a stiletto heel. I tilted off balance, tried to over-correct but my tight skirt took me down. Ow! Crap!

  “Georga!” The driver door slammed.

  That’s not happening. Thankfully I was able to pick myself up before Roman came charging around the truck. “I’m fine.”

  His moonlit silhouette stopped short. “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay,” he grunted. “Well, next time you want to throw a temper tantrum, mind the damned step while you’re at it.”

  My jaw went slack. Temper tantrum?

  Roman walked around me and I had to turn to glare at him. Not that he noticed. He grabbed my bag from the rear seat and marched up to the cabin door. A narrow, serviceable door set in a windowless logged wood wall.

  Blowing out a noisy breath, I took a cautious step to test my ankle. It felt a little weak. On the next step, needle pains shot up my calf like pinpricks of lightening. I bit down on my back teeth, suffering in silence as I followed without showing too much of a hobble. My ankle could take the extra battering, my ego couldn’t.

  Up ahead, Roman unlocked the door and stepped inside. A moment later, pale yellow light pooled across the threshold.

  “At least we have electrics,” I muttered, picking a painful path across the packed dirt and fallen leaves in my heels.

  The door led into a claustrophobic, oblong hallway that gave the impression of an enclosed porch. A lonely windbreaker hung off the end of a row of hooks and beneath that, a pair of mud-caked gumboots. The source of the dim light was a naked bulb dangling from a slanted ceiling.

  Roman was already disappearing through a doorway at the end of the tunnel. I paused to slip my heels off and stacked them beside the gumboots before following with measured, flat-footed steps—partly due to my protesting ankle, partly for fear of splinters from the raw, timber floor.

  More light flickered on and when I emerged from the hallway, I sucked in a breath of moderate relief. The cabin was small, but the open-plan layout and peaked roof with exposed beams made it feel less cramped. The slate floors would be brutal in winter. Directly to my right was the kitchen area, and I had to walk around a squat oak table that sat four and appeared to double as a dining and kitchen table. Beyond that, a bulky leather sofa and matching armchair arranged around a stacked fireplace and a wall of drapes that promised a wall of windows. A closed door next to the fireplace, and another two closed doors on my left. Everything was very woodsy and stony and basic, not a drop of elegance, but not a shack either.

  “The bedroom’s through here,” Roman said, drawing my attention as he opened one of those doors to my left, waiting for me, watching me strain to not limp. He noticed my bare feet and frowned. “You didn’t have to take your shoes off.”

  Trust me, I did.

  “I didn’t want to traipse mud and wet leaves all over the floor.” The little white lie trickled shamelessly from my lips.

  What was wrong with me? Was my ego really that fragile that I couldn’t admit I’d flung myself from the truck in a huff and twisted my ankle in the process?

  Romans’ scowl darkened and he turned from me abruptly, filling the doorway with his height and broad shoulders for a brief second and then gone, swallowed by the bedroom.

  My spine bristled at the cold welcome to my new home, new life. It wasn’t all my ego, I realized, it was survival instinct. Roman had gone out of his way to make me feel like an unwanted intruder in this marriage. I wouldn’t get any sympathy, understanding or kindness from him and I didn’t need any more stabbing remarks or lectures.

  Without eyes on me, I limped freely through to what turned out to be a short forked passage. To my left, the door slightly ajar and the light off, I saw enough to figure that was the bathroom. To my right, an archway into the bedroom without a separate door.

  Roman brushed past me on the way out as I went in, with flash traces of his pine and ash scent and without a word.

  He’d flung my overnight bag onto the bed. A king size bed with a bulky oak base and headboard. All the furnishing was oak, sturdy and masculine. A wide chest of drawers beneath a window. An upstanding double wardrobe against one of the logged timber walls. A rug woven in rich maroons and royal blues covered a large portion of the floor—which was timber, but sealed and smooth.

  I was still standing there, gawking at the masculine sanctuary and feeling wholly out of place, when Roman returned with a first aid kit and growled, “Sit.”

  My ego sank to the bottom of my stomach like a shriveled pip, but my survival instinct kicked in strong. “I told you I’m fine.”

  He scrubbed his jaw, his eyes narrowing into me with the frown that speared his brow. “Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t lie to me,” he said. “It’s obvious you’ve hurt your ankle.”

  Folding my arms, I met his grey stare head-on. “Maybe, but I didn’t lie, I am fine. I don’t need you fussing over me.”

  “I don’t fuss.”

  “No, you don’t fuss,” I dragged through my teeth, watching his granite features turn downright brittle. If he tried a smile now, his face would probably shatter into a million icy shards. “You just growl and brood and bark orders.”

  He cocked his head. “Do you really want to fight me on this?”

  I got his meaning loud and clear. It was there in his dark expression, in his deceptively low voice. There’d be plenty of bigger, badder fights up the road for me to pick from. And maybe he was right.

  Hitching my skirts, I propped myself on the bed.

  Roman kneeled on the floor before me. He set the first aid kit down to free his hands, and lifted my hurt ankle to rest on his sloped thigh. He hadn’t even had to ask which foot, that’s how deluded I was at my deception abilities.

  He cupped my heel in one palm, then cupped his other palm over the swollen joint, fingers gently assessing, his touch sending warm tingles up my calf. I put it down to shock. I’d expected him to jab and poke and generally mishandle my poor foot. Instead his touch was firm, but surprisingly gentle.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked as his fingers probed a little deeper.

  “No,” I said truthfully. The pain only spiked when I put my weight on it.

  “It’s
not too swollen.” More probing and more warm tingles. “Probably just a light strain.”

  “Are you a doctor now?” I muttered, torn between irritation and self-righteous indignation. I’d told him I was fine. But he didn’t have to make it sound like the injury was mostly in my head.

  “I’ve had training for medical emergencies,” he said, ignoring my sarcasm.

  “Is being a warden that hazardous?”

  He ignored that too and went about treating my light sprain with anti-inflammatory gel and an elasticized bandage sleeve from the first aid kit. “Try to keep your weight on your other foot when you walk.”

  A regular Einstein. “Yeah, sure,” was all I said and slipped off the bed to my feet when he stood.

  “You good?”

  I bit down on the automatic, I’m fine. Been there, done that, and I had the bandaged ankle to prove it. “It feels much better, thank you,” I said, falling back on years of well-bred politeness.

  “Okay, and next time…” He looked me in the eye, a contemplative look that lasted so long, I assumed he’d lost his train of thought. Unfortunately he hadn’t. “We’re strangers, you and me, but here we are and playing guessing games just makes it that much harder. Don’t make me work for a simple, honest answer.”

  Ah, the lecture… “I totally agree, but let’s be clear. Saying I’m fine when I’m maybe not a hundred percent fine doesn’t count as dishonesty.” I moved around him and the base of the bed to reach my overnight bag as I spoke, my ankle definitely enjoying the bandaged support. “Is there space for me to unpack?”

  A heartbeat pause, then, “The bottom drawer’s empty and most of the wardrobe. If you need more shelf space, I’ll arrange another chest tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll leave you to settle in.”

  Great. I perched on the bed to drag my bag closer, watching as he turned from me and walked out, wondering how on earth I’d ended up here. I mean, I knew why I’d chosen Roman. In a moment of insanity that I was sorely regretting. He’d stormed into my vision like the wrath of a hundred Greek gods and my newly minted rebellion had taken up the challenge. What the hell had I been trying to prove? If I’d ever known, I didn’t any more.

  Roman, on the other hand, what was his excuse? We’re strangers, you and me, but here we are… Not encouraging so far as life choices went, more like another nail in the coffin of this marriage. He’d offered for me, but I was obviously the very last thing he’d ever wanted.

  “But here we are…” I muttered and got on with settling in.

  There wasn’t much to unpack. Three changes of underwear. A silky negligee that barely brushed my thighs—my mom had insisted. The cotton pants and camisole I usually slept in—I had insisted. Jeans and a strappy t-shirt. That all went into the bottom drawer. Roman had a handful of shirts and trousers hanging on one end of the wardrobe, loads of space for me when I brought the rest of my things over.

  I stowed my running shoes and the bag in a corner of the wardrobe and carried my toiletry bag through to the bathroom. The very small bathroom, about half the size of mine back home. This is my home now. The floor was stone, everything else was wood except for the bathtub and single washbasin and the tiny frosted window. No separate shower, just a showerhead fitted above the tub.

  I placed my toiletry bag next to a pottery holder that contained a lone toothbrush and then stood back to take a proper look at myself in the mirror above the washbasin. Amazingly, on the outside I looked like I’d just stepped off the dancefloor. My hair fell in sleek, straight lengths over my shoulders and down my back. My makeup wasn’t smudged. My dress wasn’t streaked with dirt or crumpled from my fall.

  On the inside, I felt like I’d gone through a couple of rinse cycles. I just needed this day to be done. But before that could happen, I had to go to bed. Was Roman expecting…? Maybe I’d get a reprieve because of my ankle… Maybe I’d get a reprieve because he didn’t want to…

  My gaze slid longingly to the tub. The prospect called to my bones, a hot, relaxing soak, crawling into bed…and then what? Tossing and turning, wondering if/when Roman would suddenly pop up like a Jumping Jack next to me? Or worse, on top of me?

  Stuff that. I spun on my non-injured heel and went in search of him. I’d vowed to live this marriage on my own terms and if Roman intended to claim his husbandly rights, I just wanted it over and done with so I could get on with ending this day.

  He’d flung his jacket over the leather armchair. The wall of drapes had been drawn aside, revealing a glass door slid all the way open. If there’d been a gusty wind, it would have blown straight through to the kitchen. But there was no wind, just the dead calm of cool night air and Roman, leaning with his back against the deck railing, caught in shadows of the light bleeding out. He watched me approach and I watched him, all at once intensely aware of his predatory maleness. I blamed it on that talk with myself back there in the bathroom and the talk we were about to have.

  I stepped out onto the deck and decided that was close enough when my pulse started a slow hum. He’d undone his top button and loosened his tie. Light and shadows played across his sculptured features. He looked recklessly elegant, ferociously handsome. I wasn’t afraid of him, but I wondered if I should be afraid of myself. Because I had to admit, if his expression ever softened just a fraction or, God forbid, invited in a smile, he would be devastatingly beautiful.

  He just watched me, didn’t say anything. Filling awkward silences were clearly not his style.

  I wet my lips, the conversation I’d come here to have momentarily forgotten. “Why did you choose me?”

  “I didn’t,” he said bluntly. “I put in an offer. You chose me.”

  Seriously? I took the higher road. “Okay, then, why did you offer for me?”

  He shoved a hand through his hair, slowly, his eyes searching mine as he considered his response—or maybe he was still considering the question.

  I wasn’t fishing for compliments.

  I was genuinely, morbidly curious.

  Roman was a warden, for goodness sake. Sculpted in arrogance. Power leashed to every fiber of his existence. Darkly chiseled from the inside out by God, nature and our society to do as he darn well pleased. So how had he landed up here, so thoroughly disgruntled and displeased?

  Finally, he said, “I took a gamble.”

  “And lost.” If his general state of miserableness was anything to go by.

  “Now, don’t put yourself down,” he drawled thickly. “According to your scores, you’re one hell of a premium consolation prize.”

  He wasn’t being amusing. It was a bitter-crusted, sardonic jab. I just wasn’t sure if it was aimed at himself or me. And if I was the consolation, what was the main prize? Having his offer rejected? Is that what he’d gambled on? It didn’t make much sense. And Roman didn’t strike me as a guy who’d gamble willy-nilly on such a life-changing roll of the dice. Unless…unless he had something worthwhile at stake and the odds were heavily stacked in his favor.

  Roman and Daniel were friends. I didn’t know what guys talked about amongst themselves, but the graduation ceremonies were kind of a major topic to avoid altogether. Had Daniel’s fake interest in me fooled Roman, too? Or maybe Daniel’s interest hadn’t been fake, maybe he’d really changed his mind at the last possible moment. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made, pieces of a puzzle slotting neatly into the gaping holes.

  “You assumed Daniel would offer for me and you gambled on me accepting him,” I said bluntly. “Your offer was a Trojan horse.”

  “A Trojan horse?”

  “Completely hollow and filled with things that came back to bite you on the ass.” I would’ve thought that would crack a smile at the very least.

  Instead, Roman’s brows speared as he dragged a hand through his hair again. “It doesn’t matter how we got here. We’re married now and nothing can change that.”

  Except death, I thought but didn’t say. I didn’t want to give hi
m any ideas. Instead I cleared my throat and said, “Um, about that… I was wondering…”

  Crap. I could feel the embarrassment creeping up my throat like a hot rash, I lifted my wrist to make a show of looking at the white-gold bangle watch I’d received for my sixteenth birthday. I didn’t even try to read the dainty hands on the ridiculously narrow face, that wasn’t the point. “It’s just, it’s been a long day and I’m ready to turn in, and well, I didn’t know if you, you know…”

  In hindsight, I should have spent another minute or so in the bathroom to figure out how this conversation would go. Wish to claim your husbandly rights? That sounded too much like sixty-plus-year-old Mrs. Brownfield. Want to have sex tonight? That sounded too much like an invitation.

  Roman pushed off the railing, closing the gap between us at a measured, unhurried pace. “You’re asking about our wedding night.”

  Or I could have said that. I gave an awkward shrug and I couldn’t seem to hold his gaze anymore, my line of vision sliding to his mouth as each stride brought him closer.

  His knuckles came beneath my chin, nudging my eyes up to his. “You should never have married me.”

  I held his gaze, witness to all the ice and storm and dangerous edges that made up Roman West. “You should never have offered.”

  After a pause that felt like it might go on forever, he sighed.

  “As for your question,” he said, referring to the question I’d never gotten around to asking, “Not tonight. Not any night, until we’re ready.” His voice was husky, warm honey rumbling over gravel, strangely seductive considering the reprieve he was giving. “There’s no rush. We have the rest of our lives ahead of us.”

  Actually, we didn’t. Not for this. What he suggested was practically treason. We had a duty to the future of mankind, and a deadline of exactly one year to try and conceive naturally. Then again, I suffered no illusions that I would be the walking miracle, the one the Puritans prayed for and our society ruthlessly aimed to engineer. So I wasn’t really shirking my duty, was I? And hence, it wasn’t really treason, was it?

  Still, as tempted as I was, I couldn’t accept. Roman was a warden. I was a Sister of Capra. Lines would be crossed in this marriage that I couldn’t even begin to imagine and I needed at least one solid barrier to shield my conscience. I’d married Roman in good faith and I’d never intended to shirk my duty to him or our society.