Fallen (14 page)

She doesn’t even think about her answer this time. “Yes.”

“Then
good
. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

A delicate red blush starts to rise from her neck, staining her cheeks, and turning the tip of her nose pink. Coupled with the tight line of her lips, I think I just made her mad. “So you basically don’t give a shit about my job, is that what you’re saying?” she demands. She thinks I’m being a jerk, telling her that I value my life over anything that could possibly ever matter to her.

“No.” I lean forward as best I can, trying not to show how badly my stomach fucking hurts. “I know exactly how important your job is to you. I’m saying that if you’re willing to risk your work, the thing you care most about, for me, then you and I…we’re in the same place.” I suppose this is my way of thanking her; trying, albeit really fucking badly, to let her know that I’m grateful for what she’s done. That I would do the same. That I would risk everything, too… I know I haven’t worded it right. I could start over and just fucking
say it
, but the angry look on her face softens and falls away and I think she’s got the picture.

“You were going to come and get me, weren’t you?” she asks.

“I said I was. I don’t say something and then not do it, Sloane.”

She nods her head, eyes falling to the bedcovers. “So you don’t want
me
to go?”

This girl. This crazy fucking girl. She’s asking me the same thing I asked her in the park outside Newan’s office. Once we’d established that she could actually acknowledge her feelings and own them, I’d thought we were pretty much set. That even though she might have had a few issues accepting her attraction to me, she was entirely aware of my
need
for her. But then again, I know I’m a stone-cold asshole the majority of the time.

“I stopped you from losing your virginity to a guy I thought would treat you badly,” I tell her, attempting to make my voice soft. “I trusted you with the life of someone I’m responsible for when
I
could do nothing to help her; I went against the man who raised me to find your sister; I put myself directly in danger when I went to get her back for you; the only life I’ve ever known has not only been turned upside down but burned to the ground since I met you. And I keep coming back, Sloane. You don’t need to ask me if I want you to leave. You don’t ever need to ask me that. At this stage in the proceedings, I don’t think there’s any leaving for either of us.”

I watch every last scrap of color drain from her face. I’m not one for speeches or expertly explaining myself, but I can’t lay it out for her any clearer than that. Her hands are trembling as she laces her fingers together and then changes her mind, quickly shifting to slip them beneath her thighs so that she’s sitting on them.

“Oh,” she says.

I can’t tell if she looks happy or really fucking freaked out. She’s a smart girl, so I know what’s going on in her head. How trapped she might feel right now. Because I’m the bad guy. The dark shadow you run from. The nightmare you’re relieved to wake up from.

And she’s stuck with me now, whether she likes it or not.

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.