Midnight Sommelier - Anne Malcom Page 0,46

known that, hadn’t I?

I wasn’t someone versed in the darker sides of life. The underworld. I knew death well enough. But not in the same way that Zeke did. I should’ve been shocked. Maybe disgusted at the realization of what he was. But the truth was, I’d sensed it all along.

“Good,” I said on a whisper.

He jerked again, like I’d struck him. “Good?” he repeated.

“Yeah,” I said, sipping my wine. “Someone laid a hand on my kids...” I trailed off, my stomach turning with the mere thought. I met Zeke’s eyes. “I wouldn’t lose a second of sleep once I’d punished whoever was responsible for it.”

“But it’s me,” he said. “I’m the one responsible for it. I’m the one who looked into her eyes, seconds after she was born. Saw that she was my whole world. Saw that she was going to be the only good thing I’d ever create. I saw all that and still kept the patch on my back. It took her mother being murdered in front of her for me to rip it off. And it was far too late by then.”

Zeke drained his glass and stood. He didn’t look me in the eye; he just melted into the darkness and left me with his words. Left me with the tragedy.

One Week Later

I got a text telling me to put on jeans, boots, and a leather jacket.

It was from Zeke.

We had each other’s numbers for practical reasons, for the kids. Well, that’s what I told myself. But he texted me every single night asking me what wine I was in the mood for. Thick, smooth, spicy, sweet. I knew it really was his way of daring me to tell him not to come. I knew that parts of him wanted that. After he’d spilled the secret about his past, about who he was, what he was—he’d expected me to shun him. Treat him like the monster he thought he was.

I wanted to do that. Not because I thought he was a monster, but because I was. Craving him. Counting down the hours until darkness crept in and the house went to sleep so he’d come.

Wished for him to kiss me, to do more than kiss me. But every night it was just wine. Just him. Just the thick tension between us.

And now the text.

With the demands to wear certain clothes. The feminist in me had her hackles raising. No man told me what to wear, not even this one. Especially not this one. He already had control over my mind, my wants, my needs.

Yet, somehow, I was wearing tight black jeans, an equally tight tank, and a leather jacket. Even some very stylish and very expensive Alexander Wang biker boots.

I heard the roar of the bike because, well, it was impossible not to on our quiet street. I was dumbfounded that the Homeowners Association hadn’t fined him already. They sure as shit were quick to slap us with warnings if our grass was too high.

Just more of Zeke’s magic.

He was here.

In the daylight.

There were no stars above us, no wine in his hand, no darkness to cloak my demons and pain. There was only harsh, blinding sunlight, illuminating all of his dark beauty. Forcing reality in my face.

Forcing my need in my face.

“What are you doing?” I asked, glancing around to see if any of my nosy neighbors were peering out their windows, judging me.

“I’m taking you on a ride,” Zeke said, not glancing around, focusing purely on me as was his habit. What an infuriating, arousing habit.

I stared at the helmet he was extending to me.

Then I stared at his arm. It was a very attractive arm. Of course, I’d seen it plenty of times by now. Knew it was covered in intricate tattoos, that it had sinewy muscles snaking up it, veins protruding in a way that shouldn’t have been attractive but totally freaking were.

“I can’t ride on the back of your motorcycle,” I said to his arm.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a mother.”

Another arm entered my vision. This one came close, way too close. His fingers pushed my chin up slightly so I was forced to make eye contact. “You’re a mother,” he agreed. “But that ain’t all you are. Not by a long shot. And you’re allowed to live, sweetheart.”

The sweetheart was a punch in the ovaries if I’ve ever had one, in an excellent way. I know he’d used it before because he said it in the perfect combination of sweet and rough.

But