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she thought might be his own—a taste she’d liked and she knew she shouldn’t, like strong whiskey.
    She knew she was in even more trouble when—with bodies still tangled and clothes a disaster—he kissed the pulse on her neck and on her temple and whispered in her ear, “I’m sorry...I...ah, I’m not. Not for this, but you probably are. Please, it’s...well, nothing’s okay. But that wasn’t...oh, sweet mercy, it was.”
    His arms tightened, closed around her, and he tucked her against him, cradled her as if she were precious. She came apart then and let sorrow flow.
     

CHAPTER FIVE
    There’s nothing like straying too near death to make you feel utterly alive. But you can also get accustomed to anything—even to living too close to the bone. — Excerpt Carrie Brody’s Journal
    Carrie burrowed into him. His robes had been pulled off—she could remember doing that—and his shirt smelled of something spicy. Her tears streamed, slid silent and strong. But she wouldn’t whimper. She’d grown stronger than that. And she started the litany she’d learned in her heart.
    Tears weren’t anything of reason, just a science of emotional release. This was stress coming out. Sexual relief. But that hadn’t been just sex—they’d bonded. She knew it in her body even as her mind scoffed, but there was science there, too. A chemical release of oxytocin. The body’s answer to encourage pair bonding, and endorphins to feel good, and that had been more than good, which made the bonds stronger, with muscles eased and tension taken and reason stripped.
    She decided she’d encourage her other delusions a little longer, because it had been good. Still was because he held and muttered soft words. Kind words. Assurances he couldn’t possibly mean. But that voice wrapped around her better than his arms, and he didn’t sound crazy, so maybe she really was the lunatic here.
    Oh, god, it could be true. This could be her going mental with delusions of apocalypse and other worlds in some warped fantasy. The side effects of something gone very wrong in her lab. That thought forced her eyes open—and she had to admit the truth.
    She was lost amid the ruins of stone, her clothes half abandoned, any kind of sense even further gone, and still hot under her skin. The blush hit, flamed, but she’d done worse in her youth when she’d brought home any guy the old man would hate. She’d thought she’d left the self-destructive streak behind. But the same ol’ Carrie still lived under her skin. She had to get herself under control—she was more rational than this. She knew where it led if you let emotions lead, and she wasn’t doing that.
    She twitched, couldn’t stop that instant of withdrawing, and Gideon seemed to know what that meant.
    He kept one hand wrapped around her wrist, but he moved the length of his body away. It felt like losing religion. He let go of her to pull up his jeans. Fumbling, she got her clothes back on, which went fast since she’d only shucked her trousers from one leg. She had lost a shoe. And her lab coat.
    Twisting, she looked for the coat in the faint light. She had a vague memory of Gideon’s hands trailing over her arms, stripping away the coat. When she looked at him, he held her lab coat out to her. She stared at it, finally looked up to meet his gaze. “Okay, who’s mad here? You with your Voodoo dolls, or me for—?”
    She broke off the words, swiped the back of her hand across damp eyes. Pushing off the stone pillar, she faced him. He stood only a few inches taller and she noticed the fatigue etching deeper lines around his mouth and eyes. His shoulders slumped and he looked like he needed a stiff drink or a long night’s sleep or both.
    He kept hold of her coat and tried a smile that wobbled and charmed and went straight to her belly like that good shot of whiskey you always wanted. “I know. I…I don’t want the world to be what it is, either.”
    She nodded. Patched memories