“This,” he says, pointing to his abdomen, “is where I was stabbed the first time.” I can see the bruised color of the scar he’s pointing to, and my body remembers. It remembers his body. If I closed my eyes, I would know what that scar feels like. I’ve relived touching it so many times when I’m on my own in the dark. My fingers tingle with the echo of the memory, how it feels rigid and tight. “These two were the second time,” he says, trailing his own hand down over his skin. The scars aren’t neat and tidy like the first one; they’re jagged edged and angry-looking, two inches long and almost purple. They definitely weren’t stitched properly. It’s typical that he’s showing me this and my inner monologue, ever the professional, is critiquing the handiwork of whoever saw to saving his life. I could have done a much better job.

“And this is where I got shot.” He angles himself so that his upper body moves a little farther into the light, and I immediately see the red, swollen wound a couple of inches below his collar bone. So close to puncturing his lung. Another inch and it would have caused some serious, maybe irreparable damage. The wound is obviously still damned fresh. I can’t help but gasp.

“When did that happen? Why?”

Zeth carefully takes my hand and draws me to him. My feet are trying to stay glued to the spot, but the rest of my body sinks toward him like it’s been inevitable this whole time. He places my hand over his bullet wound, staring me in the eye. His skin is searing hot, so hot it feels like my hand is on fire. “’Bout three weeks ago,” he says softly. “And it happened because the guy I was sent to kill didn’t feel like going quietly.”

Fuck! I try to pull my hand away, but he clasps hold of it so tight, pinning it to his skin, that I can’t go anywhere.

“This is my world. It’s a world where people get shanked and shot on a regular basis. It’s dark. It’s scary. People die. If your sister has been sucked into this world, do you think she’s survived it?”

Tears well in my eyes. I want to hit him. I want to smash my fist into his face so hard I feel bones break—his or mine, it doesn’t really matter. I’m so enraged that I actually do lash out, but with my open palm. I slap him so hard his face snaps to the side and my hand stings like a bitch. When Zeth’s head rolls back to face me, a slow and considered movement, I’ve already started panicking. There’s a tiny stain of blood on his lower lip where I split his skin. My heart hiccups, already well aware that I made a really stupid move. A really, really stupid move.

“I thought you didn’t want to play, Sloane,” he growls. Still holding onto my hand, he starts to back into the room, pulling me with him. This is the most afraid I’ve ever been in my life. I tug back against him but he doesn’t let go. He moves quickly, bending and picking me up so fast I don’t have time to scream. In three long strides he closes the distance between the door and the bed and dumps me onto it, still picking me over with those almost black eyes.

“I swear to God, if you rape me I’ll kill you,” I spit.

Zeth makes a feral snarl in the back of his throat, wild and dangerous. “I don’t force women, Sloane. If we have sex, it’ll be because you want to.”

“Is that why you’ve just thrown me onto this bed?”

“I threw you onto the bed because you hit me and that was very bad of you, but I’ve decided to make you a deal.”

I eye the doorway. It’s only ten feet away, but I doubt I could make it without him tackling me. “What do you mean, a deal?”

He crouches down besides the bed and I’m transported back to the hotel room again, but this time I can see the inquisitive, knowing look on his face. His powerful jawline puts most men to shame, and coupled with the other unique elements that make up his face—dark eyebrows, dimpled chin, pouting lips, a cheekbone structure more women would die for—he is probably the most savagely beautiful human being I have ever seen. It’s not his looks that freeze my limbs to stone, though. It’s the way he looks at me, like for this split second I am the sole focus of his entire world.

“I want to ask you two questions,” he says carefully. “And then you can stay here and do what I tell you to do, or you can leave. You can go home and forget all about this and me and what you’ve seen here tonight. It will be your choice.”

Seems like a no brainer. I don’t think he’s lying to me—I believe without a doubt that he’ll let me walk right on out of here. I can see it in his eyes. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he says. A thrill of nerves tingles through me when he rises and sits on the very edge of the bed; he leans over and places his left hand beside my head, supporting his weight so that he hovers above me. “Have you had sex with anyone since me?”

What the hell kind of question is that? He waits patiently for me to answer while I feign anger over the indignity of the question. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s pissed me off. He’s just waiting for my answer, and the sooner I tell him then the sooner I can go. Fine. I have no reason to lie to him, so I tell him the truth. “No. I haven’t had sex with anyone since you.”

Zeth’s only reaction to this is a crinkling at the corner of his eyes when he narrows them at me. “Good. Thank you for telling me the truth. And now answer me this and if you still want to go, you can…”

I suck in a breath and hold it. This is going to be messed up, I just know it.