Zeth’s warehouse is neatly compartmentalized into areas where I feel safe, and areas I don’t. The kitchen, bathroom and his bedroom are all fairly safe, but the open-plan living space just kills me. The black leather couches; the bookcase with so many books stacked and wedged into it that you have to use brute force to even extract one; the magazines and the running shoes by the door, and the heavy bag, taped over and over with duct tape where it’s been split from all the abuse it’s taken. All of it. It’s just too him, and raises far too many questions. I want to know whether he’s actually read Dostoevsky, or whether he just bought Crime and Punishment to look smart, or to impress a girl he brought here once. I want to know whether he’s aware that he rolls out when he runs; that the heels of his running shoes tell me he strikes too hard and if he only landed a little flatter, it would hurt less. I want to know if he works out in here, beating on that heavy bag, because he’s frustrated or angry, or simply because it feels good to smash his fists into something.

 

I am way, way, way too close.

 

And I have no idea how, or if I want to get away.

 

Coming here to Zeth’s place was a necessity, but now that I’m here, I find myself wondering strange and disconcerting things. Like where do I fit into this world of his? What would it look like to have my medical journals crammed up there beside his Dostoevsky, or my running shoes sitting right there next to his?

 

After Zeth’s admission earlier, I have no doubt in my mind that he wants that. I never would have thought it possible, but apparently it’s true. He does want me. He wants me to be with him. In what capacity, I have no idea. Perhaps he just expects to keep me here as his plaything; to screw me when he feels like it and then ignore me when he’s bored of me. Whatever he wants, though, I’m now faced with the question of what I want. A place to stay safe until all of this blows over, or something more.

 

I’m staring at the vast bookcase, thinking this over, when Michael finds me. I feel like crap for slapping him. He’s been so good. He even drove back to my house and collected more clothes for me, since my bag got carted away with my wrecked car after the crash. He’s been practically glowing since Zeth woke up; his smile is a mellow one as he sits down carefully next to me.

 

“He still sleeping?” he asks.

 

I nod absently. “Yeah. He’ll be tired for a few days more, I think. Then he can start rehabilitating. Maybe we can have him walking around in a week or so.”

 

Michael almost chokes. The coughing, spluttering sound doesn’t look like it’s being caused by some obstruction in his throat, but more like poorly contained laughter. “You’re kidding, right?” he wheezes.

 

“What? It’s gonna take a while for him to get back on his feet.”

 

Michael looks at me like he almost feels sorry for me. “Zeth is gonna be back up and running by the morning, trust me.”

 

“No way.” I shake my head. “I’m going back to work tomorrow. You have to make sure he doesn’t get out of that bed. Not even to go to the bathroom.”

 

Ever since I’ve met him, Michael has been the epitome of dignified grace, yet he doesn’t look very dignified right now, howling on the couch. I might as well be the funniest stand-up comedian in the world because Michael is finding everything I’m saying side-splittingly hilarious. He gets to his feet, holding out his hand. From there he starts to unbutton his shirt.

 

“Whoa! Whoa, what the hell are you doing?”

 

“I need to show you something, Ms. Romera,” he says, finally regaining his composure. He finishes unbuttoning and shrugs his right shoulder out of his shirt, pivoting to show me a four-inch-long, jagged scar that runs across the back of his shoulder blade. It’s faded, but would have been fairly nasty once upon a time. “I received that for my troubles the last time I tried to make Zeth Mayfair recuperate in bed. I won’t be trying it again. I learn my lessons the first time around.”

 

“He did that to you?”

 

Michael lifts both shoulders, unfazed. “He told me to leave him the hell alone. I didn’t. He told me again. I still wouldn’t listen, so he proved he was well enough to get out of bed by kicking my ass.”

 

I feel like groaning. That definitely does sound like something Zeth would do. “Neanderthal,” I mutter.

 

“He’d argue that he’s actually very highly evolved, I’m sure,” Michael says, grinning. “Anyway, I’m taking Lacey to see the shrink. You wanna come with? Zee’ll be fine on his own for a couple of hours.”

 

Lacey’s appointment with Pippa. Oh, god, it seriously feels like I was there just yesterday. I so can not face that right now. And Pippa seeing my face? The cuts and scratches are healing really well, but they’re still visible. She’s immediately going to jump to conclusions—that Zeth is somehow responsible. Even if I told her the truth that it was one of Charlie’s men who did it, she will still see that as Zeth’s fault. My involvement with him putting me in harm’s way. I just can’t bear the thought of arguing with her right now, and I certainly can’t bear the thought of her chewing me out for not telling her sooner that I was in a serious car crash.

 

“No, you know what, that’s fine, Michael. I’m just gonna wait here in case he even thinks about climbing out of that bed.”

 

“I’d just let it go if I were you, Ms. Romera. It’s not worth the headache. Can I bring you anything back?”

 

“No, I’m fine. Thanks, Michael.”

 

His fingers work quickly, doing up his shirt again. “Okay. I have my cell if you change your mind.”

 

“Thanks. Oh, and Michael?”

 

He pauses mid-stride, turning back to face me. “Yes, Ms. Romera?”

 

“Please…call me Sloane.”

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s getting dark by the time I decide it’s probably time Zeth tried to eat something. I fix him some food and a glass of water and creep into his room, ready to wake him up carefully in case he freaks out, but I immediately see that he’s already awake and sitting on top of the covers. He must have gotten out of bed to do that.

 

“You have got to be kidding me,” I growl.

 

“I am not pissing in this,” he advises me, waving one of the bedpans I ‘borrowed’ from work in my general direction.

 

“You didn’t need to piss in that! You had a freaking catheter!”

 

Zeth looks murderous. “About that. Whose idea was it to shove something into my dick?”

 

“Uh, that would have been mine, considering you would have urinated all over your bed otherwise.” This seems to stump him. The indignity of a catheter is far less than the indignity of throwing out what looks to be a fairly expensive mattress ruined by pee. God knows how the hell he took the thing out, too; he would have had to deflate the balloon and catch the fluid. Second year med students struggle to do that without screwing it up.

 

“Never again,” he says firmly.

 

“How about you try harder at not getting stabbed? That will negate the need for anything remotely catheter-like going anywhere near your dick in the future.”

 

More grumbling ensues. I shove the plate of food at him—ham and cheese sandwich and sliced fruit—and I sit there and glare at him until he begins to eat. It’s the most basic food you can make, and yet I feel a weird sense of warmth inside me. This is the first time I’ve ever made anything for him. He manages to get halfway through and then refuses to eat any more. I decide against pushing him, primarily because it’s more than I would have thought he’d get through anyway, but also because I don’t have the energy to argue over something so small. I need to pick my battles. And Zeth giving himself enough time to recover properly is definitely the battle I need to win.

 

As though he can tell exactly what I’m thinking and he’s ready to test some boundaries, he winces as he tries to sit up straighter in the bed, the bandages pulling tight across his abdomen. If he keeps on like this, he’s going to open all of his stitches.

 

“Freeze, mister.” I place my palm against the flat, toned skin of his stomach. The heat pouring off him makes my hand burn. He looks down at himself, studying the point where our bodies touch.

 

“I’m okay, Sloane.”

 

“You’re not okay.” And neither am I. I want to tell him that, but my pride won’t let me. Even when I was a kid, I’d never admit to physical pain. It seemed like a weakness to me then, and it sure as hell feels like a weakness now. Zeth’s not stupid, though. He’s seen me blanch every time I try to move my left arm.

 

“Is it broken?” he asks, running his fingertips across my bare shoulder.

 

“No, not broken. Just sore.”

 

“So you’re gonna be fine?” There’s an old stillness to him as he asks me this. It’s entirely new, and makes me think he’s holding his breath. He’s such a huge hulk of a man—a fighter’s physique, a wall of intimidating muscle. It seems as though he was made to destroy things, to grind them to dust, and yet he can be gentle. He is so gentle when he touches me right now. His hand rises to my face, fingers skimming over my forehead, exploring an area that still throbs painfully. One of the deepest cuts from where the glass shattered all over me.

 

“You aren’t freaking out about this scarring,” he says. It’s not a question; it’s an observation.

 

I hadn’t even thought about that. My injuries really aren’t that bad. Yes, a couple of the cuts were deep enough to possibly leave a scar, but I’ve kept them clean and let the scabs form properly. I’ve just left it up to fate. If I’m meant to be left with a couple of marks, then I will be. If I’m not meant to, then I won’t. “I know a good plastic surgeon,” I tell him, smiling, though I would never consider that. Not for something so cosmetic. Zeth looks strained as he traces his fingertips down one side of my face, stroking gently over the slight cuts.

 

“I don’t like this, angry girl,” he informs me. I freeze, completely motionless, in a mild state of shock. The way that he’s touching me…his hands have never been like this on me before. Almost reverent. Coupled with the low, soft tone in his voice, and I’m suddenly feeling a little vulnerable.

 

I’m not sure I’m ready, after everything that’s happened in the past few days, to feel that way. My strength has been the only thing keeping me going; I need to cling to that a little while longer.

 

“Mmmm. Well I can’t say I’m entirely happy about the situation, either.” I begin to pack away the medical supplies I’ve been using during the day, replacing them carefully back into my bag. It’s good to have something to do with my hands. Much better to keep busy than to collapse under the weight of everything that’s just happened.

 

“We’re gonna finish our conversation from the park now,” Zeth tells me.

 

“What?” My head snaps up. Of all the things to talk about, I really don’t feel like rehashing that. This really isn’t the time or the place. Plus our talk in the park, well, it was awkward to say the least. I doubt I’ll ever stop feeling like I betrayed myself when I told him what I did.

 

“You were honest with me, Sloane. Which means you were honest with yourself. I’ve been waiting for that.”

 

I feel like laughing. Honest with myself? He’s completely right. You’d think it impossible to deceive yourself, to hide something and pretend you don’t know it or see it or feel it, but I’ve been doing that for years. I’m good at hiding everything. I’ve been hiding from myself, from him, from my parents. From absolutely anyone who gets remotely too close. It’s been safer that way. My parents have been happy enough to pretend I was okay, even if they could probably see for themselves that I wasn’t, and I managed to somehow trick myself into believing that if I kept busy and didn’t give up searching for Lexi then I could hide myself away and simply survive. Zeth, on the other hand…Zeth knows. He’s known all along. He knows I’m not okay, that I haven’t been okay for the longest time. He sees straight through all of my shit, and he’s known how I feel about him for a while now, too. The most infuriating thing about this whole messed-up situation is that I can’t see anything about him as clearly as he sees me. I can count on my hands how many real things I know about his past, but the fact is that I’m too scared to ask. I’m scared because he will tell me the truth, and then I’ll know everything, and I won’t be able to run and hide anymore. I’ll have to face it all. Him. That darkness inside him that both terrifies and excites me at the same time.

 

“Sloane.”

 

I stop winding the loose bandage around my hand.

 

“Are you going to ask me?”

 

My skin breaks out into goose flesh. Somehow I find enough courage to look up at him. He stares back at me, unblinking, dark eyes burning with intensity. “Am I going to ask you what?” I reply.

 

“What you’ve always wanted to ask me,” he says, a small smirk teasing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are still serious, though. Focused and fixed on mine. “The question you’ve been thinking about since the day we met in that hotel room. You don’t care about how much blood I have on my hands.” I open my mouth—I sure as hell want to disagree with that—but he cuts me off. “You don’t care about prison, or Charlie, or Lacey. You don’t care about where I get my money, or how many women I fucked before you. You might tell yourself you do. It might even bother you a little bit, but none of that burns at you like this one question.” He sits forward, growling at the back of his throat as he moves. I don’t tell him to keep still anymore. I’m too mad at him for seeing inside me so easily. It makes me feel simple, like an open book that anyone can just come along and read any time they like.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I think I do, though, and that’s the worrying part.

 

He tips his head to one side, expression flat. A little angry. “Sloane.”

 

“Zeth. I’m sorry if—”

 

He lunges forward, grabbing hold of my face with both of his hands, pulling me to him. For an insane heartbeat I think it’s going to happen. Goddamn if I am not the stupidest woman on the face of this planet. I thought he was going to kiss me. It feels like my heart is burning in my chest when he doesn’t. He stops just an inch shy of my lips. “Ask me, Sloane. Fucking ask me.”

 

I’m about to tear my way free from his hold, but as soon as I touch his wrists I change my mind. I place my hands over his instead, holding them to my cheeks so that I no longer feel trapped, but rather safe. It’s the look in his eyes that’s done it. Flipped everything around on me and left me reeling. He looks…with that look in his eyes, it’s almost as if he’s begging me to do it. So I do.

 

“Okay, fine. Why? Why are you the way that you are?” A light goes on behind Zeth’s eyes. He blows out the breath he’s been holding, his eyelids fluttering. It’s like a tension inside of him has been cut or extinguished somehow. I know instantly that I’ve asked the right question. “Why do you have that black duffel bag? What happened to you? Who made you the way that you are?” I pause. Take a deep breath. “Who hurt you?”

 

The pressure of his hands increases as he tightens his hold on my face. He leans in even farther, so that our lips are a hair’s breadth apart. The close proximity is torturous; I’m trembling by the time he speaks. Even the movement of his lips faintly brushing mine as he talks is enough to make my heart slam against my ribcage.

 

“There we go, angry girl. The million-dollar question. Are you ready for the answer?”

 

I don’t know if I am or not, but the time has come. I nod my head just once, dizzy from the sensation of his breath skating over my mouth.

 

“Nobody hurt me, Sloane. No one made me who I am. I wasn’t molested or abused, or made to perform disturbing sexual acts. You have to know that there isn’t always a sinister shadow standing over the shoulder of someone like me. We’re a rare and dark breed. I carry that bag because I like it. I cut myself while I’m fucking sometimes because I like it. I play with a knife occasionally because I like it. I do all of the things that I do to you because I like it. And you know what, angry girl? The thing that disturbs you the most…”

 

My breath catches in my throat. I can hardly fucking breathe. Zeth’s tongue carefully flicks out, teasing my upper lip just once. I close my eyes as his words hit home, words that are whispered yet more powerful than a shout.

 

“…is that you like it, too. You’re just like me, Sloane. You’re just like me.”