Light (Gone, #6)

by Michael Grant

“Yes. In triumph. The conquering hero,” he said. “King Caine. I was just remembering that.” “With that monster in my belly,” Diana said. “Not your fault,” he said tersely. “Not mine, either.” “I wonder.” “We had . . . Listen, we made love, right? Isn’t that what we’re calling it? No one warned us we were conceiving a body for the gaiaphage.” “Did we make love?” Diana asked him. “Jesus, Diana,” he pleaded. “Tell me, Caine. Did we make love or did we just have sex? It’s a simple question.” “No, it isn’t,” Caine said. He heard Diana’s sardonic laugh, and at that instant he knew the answer to her question. He heard that snarky, almost cruel laugh and he knew, and it filled him so suddenly full of emotion that he almost cried out. “No, it’s not an easy question between us,” Diana admitted. Then: “Did we make love, Caine?” “Okay. Okay, yes, Diana, we made love.” “Say it to me, Caine,” she said. “What’s the point?” he pleaded. “I’m running away. I’m saving myself and leaving you behind. I’m a rat deserting the sinking ship. I’m a coward holding on to his pathetic life for an extra hour or two. I’m scared to death; I can’t stand up to it anymore. I’m done. Why do you want me to say it?” She didn’t answer. She had bathed him when he was lost in madness, had spoon-fed him, had been there each time he woke to rave, to rave about the hunger in the dark. She had backed him in all his wild plans. She had stood by him, despite, oh man, despite so much. So much. He couldn’t see her face, ...