"Jesus, girl, you're burning up. You feeling okay?" he rumbles into my neck. A violent shiver rocks through me as his mouth moves languidly over my skin. The sensation is wonderful, but the shiver isn't because I feel good. It's because I'm feeling bad. Really, really bad.

"Oh, G.o.d. Oh, no."

"What is it?" Zeth bites at my ear lobe his arms tightening around me.

"I think... I was out in the rain last night. I think I've caught a chill or something." Sure enough, when I breathe in through my nose, I'm all congested and stuffy. d.a.m.n it!

"I know what'll make you feel better." Zeth turns me slowly onto my back and climbs over me, his face hovering a couple of inches above my own. He looks deliciously tousled from sleep; his hair is much longer than I've ever seen it. He could style it now if he wanted to, yet at this particular moment it's sticking out in every which direction, begging me to tease it between my fingers. I do so, groaning at the ache in my joints. Movement is not my friend.

"Oh, boy. It must be bad. The great Dr Romera is moaning like the world is coming to an end." His mouth moves to the hollow of my neck where he grazes his teeth against my skin. I'm so torn between pulling the cover tight against me and clamping my eyes closed until the awful spinning in my head pa.s.ses, or pulling the s.e.xy guy on top of me closer and letting him have his way with me.

Thing is, I'm feeling very delicate right now. "I don't think I can handle s.e.x with you right now," I moan. "Your usual ministrations might just break me." I can't even believe I'm saying this. I never thought I'd be turning Zeth Mayfair down.

He kisses my chin, then the apple of each of my cheeks in turn. "Sloane?" He continues to kiss me, gently lowering himself onto me, so I can feel just how badly he wants me. His c.o.c.k is hard, pressing gently against my stomach, making me even more conflicted. "Sloane?"

"Mmm?" I hiss when he rubs his cheek against mine, his stubble scratching at my skin in the most delicious way. "You shouldn't kiss me," I whisper. "I don't want you to get si-"

He cuts me off, pressing his lips firmly against mine. I think he may not have been paying attention to what I'm saying at first, but then I realize he's done it on purpose. His tongue teases the crease of my lips until I eventually give in and open my mouth to him. The kiss is deep and sweet and wonderful. He tastes so incredible, even first thing in the morning before brushing his teeth. Not too long ago, I couldn't have imagined this. He waited to kiss me for so long. Weeks and weeks and weeks. It was pure torture. Now, it seems like he doesn't want to stop.

Eventually, he has to.

"You're crazy," I whisper.

"If being sick means I still get to kiss you and be inside you, then bring it on. And also," he says, gently rocking his hips against mine, "who said anything about my usual ministrations?"

"What, no black bag?"

"Not this morning," he whispers, grinding himself against me. "Open your eyes."

I do. The tone of his voice is intense, full of some hidden message I'm not sure I understand. When I look into his eyes, I see what's there, though-he loves me. He f.u.c.king loves me, and I've been grumbling, absorbed with how terrible I feel. My worsening condition doesn't seem that important anymore. I'm intrigued by what he has in store for me. "Oh really?"

"Mmmm." His lips vibrate against my skin as he hums. "You want to try something different?"

"How different?" I peer up at him, wondering at the fierce look on his face.

"Well..." He almost looks like he's about to smile. No matter how c.r.a.ppy I'm feeling, my heart swells in my chest at the sight of his lips lifting at either side of his mouth. It's the most amazing thing. It's addicting. He dips his head and lightly rubs his nose against the bridge of my own. "How about you let me show you?"

"Okay." I whisper the word, half expecting to be caught up in a whirlwind of movement and tension and Zeth less than a second later, but that's not what happens. Instead, Zeth lets his weight down on top of me so he can take my face in his hands. He kisses me, deep and intense, his mouth working against mine in a slow, pa.s.sionate rhythm that makes my bones feel like lead weights inside my body, making me heavy. Drunk. Dizzy.

The way I feel could be attributed to the fact that I'm coming down with something, but then again it really doesn't feel that way. It's that desperate, adoring, all-powerful, all-consuming fire that I've never experienced myself but I've read about. This is what being in love is. This is what falling even more deeply in love is, with each and every pa.s.sing second.

Cities could burn and the world could be ending, crashing down around my ears, and I wouldn't trade this feeling or this man to save a single soul. I just wouldn't be able to.

His hands move over my body slowly, curiously, like he's never touched me before. We've had s.e.x so many times now, but it's never been mechanical or rote. Every single inch of my skin has been explored and marked, claimed as his own, and yet when he touches me now it's as though he's still in wonder of me. Still completely obsessed with the texture and softness of my curves.

"You're so f.u.c.king beautiful, Sloane," he whispers into my hair. I feel like I've been drugged. When he slides his hands down over me and in between my legs, my breathing has quickened, right alongside my heart rate. He makes me feel incredible. "Close your eyes, Sloane," he whispers. His voice is thick with the fire that's burning up within his own body. I don't really want to close my eyes-watching him like this is the most amazing thing I've ever experienced-but then again, falling into myself, letting him own me, sinking into the pleasure of his naked body against mine is amazing in its own right.

His fingers work over my c.l.i.t, teasing me, driving me crazy. I'm completely absorbed in the sensation, wanting to beg him, plead with him for more, but there's no rushing this man. He'll give me what he wants to give me and when. And besides, the pure torture of it is delicious.

Zeth gathers my right wrist in his free hand, and then the left, lifting both up over my head. He slides off me to one side so he doesn't crush me, and then he pushes my legs apart, opening me to him. I don't fight against him. My legs fall open, and then he has access to all of me. He makes good use of that access, his fingers tracing up and down over my p.u.s.s.y, setting me on fire as he teases my c.l.i.t, gently dipping his index finger inside me, and then moving further down to lightly stroke an area of my body I never thought I'd allow anyone to touch. Ever.

With him, there are no taboos, though. No area of me off limits. No part of me I'll ever deny to him. Especially when he makes me feel this good.

"You gonna come for me, angry girl?" he says into my ear. He's breathless; I can feel his heart thumping in his chest, where his skin is pressed up against me.

"Yes."

"You want to come hard?"

"Yes."

"I want to feel you all over my fingers, okay? I want to know exactly when you're about to explode."

"Oh my G.o.d. f.u.c.k, oh my G.o.d." But he is my G.o.d. He's the sun and I'm the earth, orbiting him always, unable to escape his gravity. Unwilling to try.

"Come for me, Sloane. Come on. Do it."

I've never been able to hold back with him. I have this overwhelming need to do what he wants me to, despite how much I fought against that idea when we first met. And right now, he wants me to come. He makes this pretty d.a.m.n easy for me when he slides his fingers all the way inside, twisting them toward him and making a beckoning motion that tips me right over the edge.

I'm incapable of making a sound as my body locks up, gripped by the sheer force of the o.r.g.a.s.m that hits me. It feels like I'm slamming into a brick wall.

Zeth growls deep in his throat as I writhe against him; he holds onto my wrists, stopping me from reaching out to touch him. I want to so badly, but I can tell by the firm grip of his hand that he doesn't want me to.

"f.u.c.k, your body looks incredible like that. All stretched out and long, with your arms over your head, " he says, his voice deep and filled with promises. I'm still coming, synapses snapping and firing blindly in my head as he stoops to take one of my nipples in his mouth. He licks and sucks at me, squeezing my nipple in-between his teeth as I squirm, trying to catch my breath.

"Are you ready for me, angry girl? Do you want me inside you? Is that what you want?"

I nod my head, burying my face in his shoulder as he continues to work his fingers inside me. Zeth doesn't wait for me to regain my voice; he accepts my nodding as all the permission he needs. He's inside me a second later, strong, hard body between my legs, his hands pulling my thighs up and around his waist. This is normally where he would f.u.c.k me until I can't see straight. I'm expecting it, holding my breath, waiting for it, and yet it doesn't happen. Opening my eyes, my heart still charging beneath my ribcage, I find Zeth staring down at me with a look akin to complete awe on his face. He just shakes his head, half smiling as he begins to move inside me.

It's torturous. Slow. Purposeful and intense. I've never experienced anything like it. And the whole time, Zeth doesn't look away. He holds me in his gaze as he fills me, carefully bringing me back to the point of frenzy. My body is crying out for him to sink himself deeper, harder, faster inside me, but my head knows that's not what this moment is right now. I'm too scared to even admit what this moment is.

Zeth's hands stroke my body as we move together, and it's almost as if I can feel it happening. This is more than just our bodies connecting. This is something else entirely.

When we come, we come together, and it's silent. Zeth wraps his arms around me and I cling to him, and it feels like he's absorbed me into him. I have the most insane, obscene urge to cry. Why the f.u.c.k do I want to cry? I can't let it happen. If I do, he'll think I'm one of those crazy b.i.t.c.hes who start sobbing after s.e.x in the movies, and that is the very last thing I want. Instead, I press my face into the skin of his chest, eyes closed, trying to remember what my life looked like before he was in it. All I can remember is darkness.

Zeth slowly rolls us over, still inside me, so that he's lying on his back and I'm lying on top of him. There isn't a second where he removes his arms from around me. He holds on tight, like he's afraid I'm about to vanish into thin air. I can hardly breathe around the burning in my throat as his huge hands, used for so many years for violence, for inflicting pain, carefully stroke my hair.

Chapter Eight.

Zeth Something is really f.u.c.king wrong with me. When I left the house this morning, Sloane was sniffing and coughing, and all I wanted to do was stay home and take care of her. I had no idea how to do that, though, so I left instead. Feeling f.u.c.king useless is not my wheelhouse. My wheelhouse is smashing s.h.i.t up and making people feel decidedly worse than before they met me. I don't have the first clue how to make someone feel better.

And the s.e.x?

I don't even want to think about the s.e.x. It was f.u.c.king insane in the very best way. Six months ago I'd have laughed hysterically at the very prospect of being intimate like that with someone. s.e.x has always been an outlet for some of my more exotic proclivities; it sure as s.h.i.t has never been an outlet for affection. Or a display of love.

As I drive toward the gym, I bite the bullet. I let the guy from before, the guy I was for years, have free rein. What the f.u.c.k are you doing, a.s.shole? She's just some piece of a.s.s. She's going to ruin you if you let her. Women come and go. They don't sleep in your bed. They don't make you coffee in the morning. And you don't f.u.c.king make love to them! You f.u.c.k. You fight. You flee. That's always been the rule, man. What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?

What would Charlie think?

My stomach feels like it's full of ice-cold water at that last thought. For years, what Charlie thought or wanted or cared about was all that concerned me. The f.u.c.ker tried to kill me repeatedly. He stole into my room every night for years, playing his f.u.c.ked-up mind games with me, and yet still some desire to please him is ingrained deep within my bones. The guy's dead and even now I can't escape him. How f.u.c.ked up is that?

I'm almost at the gym when my cell starts ringing. a.s.suming it's Michael, I almost answer it without thinking. The out-of-state number on the display catches my eye, though. I stare at the screen for a moment, debating whether to answer. On the sixth ring, I make up my mind. This had better be f.u.c.king good.

I pick up, and I don't say a motherf.u.c.king word.

I'm met with silence, and then "What's up, a.s.shole? Roberto Barbieri asked us to call you."

Barbieri? What the f.u.c.k? The name has instant alarm bells ringing in my head. Barbieri and Charlie used to have some dealings back in the day. The Italians are based out of New York, but they're always looking to move in on new territory. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I'm hearing from them now. Seattle has been a largely unclaimed territory for months. In fact, this probably should have happened much sooner.

"Roberto Barbieri shouldn't even have this number," I growl into the phone. There are sounds of a scuffle on the other end of the line, and then another voice speaks. These are the brothers, Theo and Sal. Barbieri's sons. Their reputations precede them, just like mine does. And from the calm tone and the fierce intelligence I can hear in this guy's voice, I'm talking to the older brother right now-Theo.

"Mr. Mayfair, we met back in Seattle a couple of months ago. I believe we had a common enemy. The Monterellis? You took care of one brother. We took care of the other."

Huh. I'd had my suspicions about that. I did end Frankie Monterelli, yes. He was the last person I killed, and the f.u.c.ker had been going for his gun. When his younger brother, Archie Monterelli, was killed at St. Peter's Hospital, things really started to get complicated for me. "I remember," I say. "The cops pinned me for that one, too. Made life very difficult for me and my girl."

"We're sorry about that. The method of execution's usually enough to tip the cops off over here in New York." The method of execution being a Columbian Necktie. I remember Sloane telling me the blood had hit the d.a.m.n ceiling. Not my style at all.

"Seattle cops don't know s.h.i.t about Roberto Barbieri. And they don't care, either. You guys made a mess."

"Irrespective of what happened, Roberto wants to hire you. He's offering big money for you to fly out to New York."

"I don't work for other people, Theo." I throw in the name just to let him know I'm aware of exactly who he is. I can almost feel the f.u.c.ker squirming on the other end of the line.

"You'd be a contractor. My father would give you free rein to handle the job however you pleased. You'd be here for a couple of days, do the work and then you'd be flying home again. Simple."

Well that's f.u.c.king strange. I thought for sure this would be about claiming the city that Charlie Holsan left behind. And now it looks like Barbieri wants me to do a job for him in New York? That's bulls.h.i.t. He has plenty of morons on hand to pull the trigger of a gun. His sons, for instance. No, this is about Seattle. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's just being sneaky about it.

"The kind of jobs your father hires men like me for are never simple. I'm west coast these days, Theo. And I don't kill people for money anymore. Tell your father thanks but no thanks. Don't call this number again."

I hang up before he has chance to say anything else. There isn't a single thing he could say to me to change my d.a.m.n mind. I have a very clear vision of how I want my life to be in the future, and getting caught up in this s.h.i.t does not feature whatsoever.

No, you're all about the white picket fence now, huh, motherf.u.c.ker?

I've forgotten to shove the old me back into the vault. He thinks all of this is highly f.u.c.king entertaining. I brush the thought aside, determined not to let my jacked-up past dictate how I think and feel now. I won't let what's gone before ruin what could be. If I did, that would make for a really s.h.i.tty life indeed. I wonder what Pippa, Sloane's sometimes best friend and my sometimes therapist would make of me torturing myself like this. She hates me, but she'd probably try and talk me down. Try and make me cut myself some slack. f.u.c.k. I'm probably due an appointment with the woman, but d.a.m.ned if I wouldn't rather shove burning-hot pokers into my eyes right now.

Michael's waiting for me outside the gym when I pull up and park the Camaro. His grim expression matches my own. I take one look at him and I know something is wrong.

I sigh, jamming my hands in my pockets, letting my chin drop to my chest. "What? What the f.u.c.k is it now?"

Michael's mouth pulls into a flat line; I do not like the concerned look in his eyes. "Lowell," he says. "Detective Lowell's back in town. And she's got a f.u.c.king army of DEA agents with her."

Chapter Nine.

Sloane

One of the benefits of being a doctor is that you can get your friends to write you a prescription whenever you need one without too much ha.s.sle. Pippa, my best friend, gave me a script for Valium once when I really needed it, and she didn't ask a single question. Oliver Ma.s.sey doesn't ask me any questions either, as he writes me out a script for antibiotics. He doesn't need to. I have my own pad out and I'm writing him the same script. We're both sick as dogs.

"Seemed like such a good idea at the time, huh?" he groans. So far he's pretended that he didn't say anything to make our lives really awkward the other night, even though he really did. "My mom used to tell me sitting out in the rain would give me hyperthermia. I never believed her."

"Stop being so melodramatic. You've seen hypothermia. This is not hyperthermia. This is the flu, and it really sucks, but these," I wave the two pieces of paper bearing our signatures in the air, "are going to fix us right up. You ready?"

He nods gravely. We head down to the pharmacy and collect our medication, grumbling the entire way. I cough and sneeze, while he holds his palm against the side of his head and takes very deep breaths, complaining about the room spinning. I feel like I already went through that stage this morning. He's still got the congestion and the rattling lungs to look forward to.

"What in G.o.d's name is wrong with you two?" The voice-it takes a while to spin around and see who's standing behind us-belongs to Rebecca Allison, the Chief of Medicine at St Peter's Hospital.

"Oh, it's nothing. We're fine. We're good to go," Oliver says quickly. He only grimaces a little as he stands up straight.

Chief Allison pulls a face-her don't-try-and-pull-that-s.h.i.t-with-me face. She darts forward and holds the back of her hand against Oliver's forehead. There might have been a time when she would have checked me first, but the woman still hasn't forgiven me for the crazy stuff that went down here recently. Crazy stuff that I was heavily involved in, and nearly got people killed.

She prods Oliver in the chest, apparently not liking what she finds when she tests his temperature. "You are already on my s.h.i.t list for that stunt you pulled treating your own brother. And now you're both recklessly endangering the entire medical staff by being here right now. What's wrong with you?" she hisses.

"It's really noth-"

"I don't want to hear it, Romera. Go home. Go to bed. h.e.l.l, I don't care where either of you go so long as you don't come back until you're fit and healthy. Get the h.e.l.l out of my hospital. Now!"

Chapter Ten.

Mason I'm covered in s.h.i.t and grease and I'm sweating like I've just run ten miles when she comes into the shop. Short, with cropped blonde hair that barely grazes her jawline, and stellar blue eyes that are exactly cornflower blue. I feel f.u.c.king ridiculous that I even know what color cornflower blue is. Can't say I've ever even thought about that color, but as soon as I look up and see her standing there, it's the first d.a.m.n thing that pops into my head. She's wearing skinny jeans and a huge parka with fur trim around the hood, hands shoved into her pockets, smoke pluming on her breath. Beautiful. Seriously, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my entire life. A smile pulls at her mouth when those blue eyes see me watching her as she talks to Mac, and I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to bury my head in the car engine I'm working on and not look up again until she's gone. No such luck, though.

"Mason, get your a.s.s over here," Mac calls. I shoot the b.a.s.t.a.r.d an evil glare as I wipe my hands on an oily rag, doing as I'm told. He doesn't even notice that I'm drilling holes into his head as I make my way over to them. "Mason, this young lady has a problem with her car. She's running late to her...wait, what did you say you were studying again?"

The blonde with the huge coat and the cold-reddened cheeks smiles, flashing perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. Up this close, she looks like a little porcelain doll. Or a pixie. Yeah, that's more appropriate. She looks like something out of one of the books I read to Millie before she goes to bed. There's something ethereal about her.