“What do I represent for you, Sloane?” he whispers.

Again I ask him the same question. “Are you sure you want to know?”

He gives me one short, curt nod. That mouth of his lifts to one side, though it’s not a smile. It’s bemusement of some sort; not mockery. It’s as though he’s just intensely interested in what I have to say.

“You represent a lifetime of worry and potential pain, Zeth. You represent countless sleepless nights while I worry about you, where you are, whether you’re okay. If you’re hurt. You represent the repeated sheer terror of finding out you are actually hurt and the subsequent sheer terror that comes with trying to save you. You represent heartbreak and fear and loss.”

Zeth absorbs each word, hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, eyes no longer even pretending to watch the road. “Sounds like a great relationship,” he murmurs. There’s a level of resignation that transforms his face as he breathes in, holds the breath for a moment, then breathes out.

“That’s what I’m thinking about, Zeth. I’m not afraid of that anymore. I’m willing to accept all of that, because I’m also thinking about the other things you represent to me. You represent freedom. You represent forgiveness. You represent loyalty and love,” he flinches, “and honesty and protection. You represent strength, not just physically but mentally. When I’m with you I’m not the scared girl I used to be. You challenge me every single day. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t ever want to give you up.” I shrug, suddenly feeling very much like I just poured my heart and soul out to him, and he’s recording and remembering every second of it in that complex, strange head of his. “So…,” I say, closing my eyes, losing my nerve. “That’s why I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

The car swerves a little, and I crack one eyelid—we’re pulling into an extremely dodgy-looking motel: The All Nite Long Rest Stop. Pendleton’s #1 quality accommodation. It sure as hell doesn’t look like quality accommodation. It looks like it was built in the sixties and hasn’t had a refurb since. “This is where we were headed?”

Zeth parks the car and removes the keys from the ignition. “No.”

“Then why are we stopping here?”

“Just wait in the car. Lock the doors,” he commands. He gets out, and I think about throwing up in the footwell. I should never have opened my mouth. He’s so freaked out by my little speech he had to pull off the freeway for a moment to get the hell away from me. His brows are banked together in one stressed line as he jogs away from the car toward the reception of the motel.

“Fuck.” I lean forward, pressing my forehead against the dash. I close my eyes and count, trying to calm myself down. It’s not that bad. It really can’t be that bad. He’ll take a quick walk, maybe punch a wall or two and then come back right as rain and moody as hell like always. I must stay there for at least five minutes, telling myself the same things over and over, before there’s a tap at my window. I look up and there he is, standing in the rain. When did it start to rain? I have no idea, but he’s standing in it and he’s pretty much soaking wet. He looks angry.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Get out of the car, Sloane.”

My fingers feel like they’re made out of wood as I open the door and climb out. As though mother nature knows the exact moment my feet hit the parking lot, the rain hardens, lashing down on the asphalt. “Ahhh! What the hell, Zeth?”

He doesn’t say a word; he takes hold of my hand and begins to drag me toward the motel, though not to the reception—to the rusted stairway that leads up to the second floor. To the rooms. “So we are staying here?”

Zeth doesn’t reply, but it seems as though I’m not moving quite as quickly as he would like; he pauses his stride long enough to turn and pick me up at the waist, throwing me over his shoulder.

I scream a wordless cry. The world is suddenly upside down and Zeth Mayfair is running up a set of very creaky, dangerous steps, his strong arms wrapped securely around my legs. We’re at the top of the stairs, then we’re moving quickly down the long walkway that leads to the rooms. He doesn’t put me down. He pulls a key out of his pocket, opens the door he’s stopped in front of, rushes inside, slams the door, and that’s when he puts me down. I land with a rush of air from my lungs as my back hits a very lumpy, springy mattress. “Uffff!”

Zeth wipes a hand over his face, ridding himself of the rivers of water that are still running out of his hair. He opens his mouth, flaring his nostrils, and then changes his mind. He starts pacing up and down the twelve-foot-long area between the door to the room and the bathroom at the other end. His hands are balled up into fists, his eyes on fire every time he spins around and glares at me until he gets to the other side of the room and turns his back on me again. I’ve never seen him this angry. I’ve never seen him this…I don’t know what this is but it’s a little frightening.

Maybe I spoke too soon. Maybe I should never have said I wasn’t afraid of him. I scramble off the bed and find my feet just in time for him to spin and come stalking toward me, chin dipped low into his chest, dark eyes burning into me like brands. He gets halfway to me, his pace quickening, and then stops, shakes his head. He spins, paces back to the far wall by the bathroom, and then launches his fist into the plasterboard, roaring at the top of his lungs. “FUCK! Fuck, Sloane.”