Zeth looks down, a calculated tilt of his head. His bag is sitting on the floor by the doorway to my left; I shiver when I see it. “My bag of tricks is slightly bigger than yours, Sloane. And there’s more than bondage gear in there, too. Maybe if you’re brave you’ll open it and find out?”
Infection is a major problem after surgery. We doctors spend a great deal of time battling to ensure that it doesn’t happen, that the wounds we create or try to fix remain clean, but sometimes it just happens no matter how careful we are. A body gets cut and ultimately infected; organs become enflamed, the body rejects new limbs. I’ve watched it happen time and time again, but I’ve never experienced it first hand. Yet it feels like I am right now—it feels like Zeth is performing a butcher’s surgery on my open chest cavity, and my heart is already enflamed. It pounds in my chest, fighting against the strange, alien feelings he’s purposefully infecting me with.
“I’m not touching that thing, okay? And I brought my medical bag with me so I could see to Carrie.” I emphasise the name so he gets that I know it’s fake. He doesn’t seem remotely fazed.
“Carrie is sleeping. But you’re more than welcome to play doctors with me? With the right inspiration, I can be a very good patient.” His hand rises slowly; he moves it the same way a person would when going to pat a horse. My mom showed me how to do that when I was a kid—let him see your hand, honey. Let him know you’re not going to hurt him. But I can see from the amused spark in Zeth’s eyes that he is going to hurt me. One way or another. He’s going to tear the bottom right out of my world. He makes contact with my cheekbone, his fingers so barely there that it takes concentration to feel them. It makes a huge difference from the last time he touched me back in the hospital, but that doesn’t make up for his rough treatment.
“I’m not playing anything with you, Zeth. You’ll let me see Carrie if you care about her at all. Her wrists are nowhere near healed. She needs medication and she needs her dressings changed.”
“She’s on amoxicillin and her dressings are changed three times a day. More if they need it. She has a drip to help replace the plasma she lost, and she’s been restricted to bed rest. And right now, she’s sleeping,” he growls. I’ve pissed him off; that much is clear. I swallow when he shifts forward, subtly leaning into me so that his body is less than a foot away from mine. Twelve inches has never felt like such a short distance. “Now, Sloane, if you don’t mind, I’m hosting a party here. If you’re a coward and you’re going to bolt, then I suggest you do it now before things really heat up.”
Before things really heat up? I dread to think what that means, especially if he thinks things haven’t already escalated to surface of the sun type degrees out in his formal lounge. Maybe he hasn’t been out there. Maybe he has no idea what’s going on. Maybe he thought his guests would actually use the finger food to…well, eat. My subconscious laughs at me, practically pointing a finger. He was sitting here in the dark…waiting for you. He knows exactly what’s going on. He knows perfectly well, you stupid girl.
“Fine. I’ll happily leave, but first you have to tell me one thing. Is…is she alive, Zeth?” My stubborn exterior slips. There are times when I let myself bawl over the loss of Lex, sob until I’m sick, but the single tear that escapes me now seems filled with an unfathomable sadness way more profound than any that. Zeth huffs and does something unexpected; he carefully takes off his mask. He tosses it onto the bed that I can barely make out behind him, and then his huge hands begin to work at the cufflinks at his wrists.
“What…what are you doing?”