“You need to see,” he says curtly. The door’s still open behind me, and I know I should use it, turn around and walk right back out of it, but something about the way he pins his dark gaze on me has me rooted to the spot. Our interaction since we met again forty-eight hours ago has been based on a system of theft, threats and dares, but now it feels like a barrier is coming down and something honest is about to happen. That thought in itself is so confronting that I want to run and hide. His suit jacket comes off, and he hangs it over the shadow of a high-backed chair beside him. He then unbuttons his shirt, which strains against his shoulders, the material drawn tight over his arms as he bends them to free each fastener from the neck down. Underneath the shirt he’s wearing a black singlet that hugs his torso, clinging to every ripped inch of him. He looks like a goddamn UFC fighter. His skin is pale, ivory marked with splashes of black—tattoos. He looks up at me from under his drawn eyebrows and I feel the need to wipe my slick palms against my dress. Hot damn. I kind of hate him, but his larger-than-life presence, his magnetism, the way he looks at me like he’s already inside me…he slays me.
In a swift and frankly mesmerising motion he rips the singlet from his body, tearing the thing over his head to reveal a wall of muscle that flexes, each individual part of him working together as he moves. There are four or five small tattoos across his chest, aside from the ones marking his arms, but they’re tough to make out. A huge fleur de lis rides just above his hip, though—that one is easy enough to make out, along with the eagle over his left pec, its wings outstretched. Script writing dips down around his neck, elaborate wording I can’t quite discern. He steps forward, and I step back, holding my breath. I’m hovering in the doorway now, and Zeth’s movement has brought him into the light, but only really halfway. The front of his body, his chest, his defined stomach, the deeply cut V that slices over his hipbones and disappears down below his belt, is bathed in light from the hallway. The rest of him is cast in shadows.
“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.”