Fracture (Blood & Roses #3-4) - Callie Hart Page 0,3

me right now?”

“Yes! Yeah…ah…I am, I swear.” This is not going well. Zeth seems intent on me giving myself away—his hand finds its way down my jeans again, teasing over my sensitive skin, making me tremble, while his other hand works over my breast, roughly pinching my other nipple so hard that I want to slap him.

“Alright, then. Tomorrow. Maybe you should come with him. I don’t know if I want to be alone with him either.”

“I…I’ll do my best.”

Pippa hangs up the phone. She’s pissed at me. I knew she would be, but for some unknown reason I can’t say no to this man. I have a feeling it’s something I had better learn soon otherwise goodness knows the kinds of fucked-up situations I’m going to find myself in.

“You ready?” he asks me. That question has me shivering from head to toe. This is a prime moment to try out that word. No. It’s just two letters. I can say it. I say it to other people all day long.

Hey, Sloane, you gonna eat that?

No.

What, you didn’t remember it’s your birthday today?

No.

Can you sign off on my rounds sheet this morning? I know I was late, but—

No.

And yet it’s a totally different matter when this man is standing three inches away from me.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

I’m melting internally when he gives me a savage smile. “Wait here, then.” He leaves the kitchen, at which point my common sense returns with a vengeance and kicks my ass. “Stupid, stupid, stupid…” I mutter under my breath. I put down the phone and grab myself a glass of water, downing the whole thing in one long, gulping mouthful. It’s so weird how Zeth can make one part of me so wet and then another part of me so ridiculously dry. Has there ever been such an inconsistent thing as my body right now?

I hear him come back inside the house. I brace myself against the sink, closing my eyes and savoring a deep breath—I need it. Need the oxygen.

“Sloane.” My name is a reprimand on his lips. Like he’s warning a dog not to pee on the carpet as it’s poised and ready to do just that. When I turn around he’s got something in his hand that makes me want to bolt from the room.

The black bag.

“Come here,” he demands. He sets the bag on top of the dining table that I bought from the ancient antiques store across from the hospital last summer. It had beautifully carved claw feet and intricate patterns hewn into the wood, and I just couldn’t resist. Zeth unzips the bag and pulls out a length of coiled rope.

“You gonna take the rest of your clothes off, or am I gonna do it?” he asks. With any other person, I’d probably leap at the second option—having someone slowly and seductively teasing your clothes off you would probably be incredible—but with Zeth I don’t think he quite means it like that. I think what he’s really asking me is if I’m going to behave myself, and I am yet to find out what happens if I don’t. I don’t really want to yet, either.

I pluck up every scrap of courage I have and walk over to the kitchen table. I position myself right in front of him, so close he can see the defiance, the fuck you in my eyes. I’m doing this because I am almost hopelessly addicted to what this man does to me, but that doesn’t mean I have to be grateful for it. I lock eyes with him, refusing to look away as I yank my jeans down. I kick them away and shimmy out of my underwear, tossing the bundled items away like the action of me stripping for him means nothing. Like my heart isn’t thundering like a piston.

Zeth nods his head, appraising me. His half-lowered eyelids give a heavy, sleepy look to his eyes that feels positively sinful. “You’re perfection, angry girl. No need to huff and puff. I’m gonna take care of you.”

Well, holy shit. I wasn’t expecting that. A reprimand. Some sternly worded, poorly veiled threat. Anything but a compliment, followed by a reassurance. I open my mouth, but infuriatingly I can’t think of anything to say. Zeth puts the thin length of rope down on the table and slowly shrugs out of his jacket. I catch sight of the impressive bulge pressing against his jeans, begging to be set free and I can’t help