Twisted's Finished!

I got to write those ultra-rewarding two words today--The End. Twisted has proven to be a challenge to write, purely because there was so much to fit in, but I'm feeling very good about it. I said last time that Fallen was the longest novel in the series so far, but now I get to tell you that Twisted has taken that title, so you guys get even more Zeth & Sloane. There are a lot of revelations in this instalment. I hope you're prepared!

As promised, another little teaser for you guys. It's just a baby one this  time--I don't wanna give away all the best bits! Please bear in my that this is an UNEDITED and unrevised excerpt, and therefore may contain editorial errors. 

Twisted

“Are you awake yet, Sloane?” I murmur against her skin.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Given what’s happening right now, I could still be asleep,” she moans.

A half smile pulls my mouth up to one side. Well, this is interesting. Really fucking interesting. “Oh, Sloane…have you been dreaming about me?”

Her eyes crack open, and she gazes at me, a small smile forming on her own lips. “Maybe.”

Oh, this is fucking perfect. I bite at her collarbone, pressing my dick up against her some more. I want to strip her naked and fuck her, but I want to hear about this first. “What have you been dreaming, angry girl?”

She drags her teeth over her bottom lip, shaking her head slightly. I think I’m gonna have to employ some corporal punishment to make her talk—she must see my thoughts on my face, because she swallows and then says, “Bad things.”

I ease back just enough that I can slide my hand in between our bodies, and then I slip my hand down the front of her PJs. “What kind of bad things?”

She inhales sharply when my fingers find what they’re looking for. She’s wet, yes, and not from the shower. There’s a distinct difference between the feel of the water battering our bodies and the silky, glossy texture of the wetness between her legs. It drives me fucking crazy. I find her clit, and I gently stroke the tips of my fingers against the small, swollen bud of nerve endings. I won’t give her more until she gives me what I want.

Sloane knows this.

“We were in your car,” she pants. “You pulled over to the side of the road and told me you were going to fuck me. I thought you were joking, but then you unzipped your pants and you were…you…” Her eyes travel down to my cock. It's right there, rigid between us, and just the power of her eyes on my hard skin makes me want to push her to her knees so she can take me into her mouth.

“I was what, Sloane?”

“You were hard. And big.” She swallows. “You took hold of my hand and closed my fist around you, and then you told me to make you come.”

“And did you?”

She nods slowly, her eyes still fixed on my dick. “Yes. I jerked you off while you sat in the driver’s seat, and when you came, I licked it off your skin and my hands. I licked you clean.”

This girl is seriously pushing my buttons now. I was the one who was supposed to be shocking her with my surprise sex, but it would seem she’s turning the tables on me. Even the words—her describing that action—is making it harder for me to hold back.

“Did you like it, Sloane? Did you like licking me clean?”

Her eyes lift to mine; with the water running down our faces, she does remarkably well not to blink as she looks at me. “Yes," she whispers. "Yes, I liked it very much.”

Twisted Teaser

Yayyy!!!! Twisted Teaser Time! Try saying that after a few glasses of vino. 

So this scene...I wanted to share it with you as a little taster for what's to come. A lot's gonna go down in Twisted, some of which is pretty violent and downright scary, some of which is a little softer. Zeth and Sloane's relationship is hopefully gonna have you squealing in this instalment. Our man is opening himself up a little more, but we're also going to be seeing a lot more of the darker side to him in this book, too. I hope you're ready!

Please be aware that this is an unedited excerpt and subject to change.

Twisted

I open the door and there she is, sitting on the sofa—a sofa that was once white but is now mottled with splotches of bright, ruby red. She’s been bleeding. She’s been bleeding all over that fucking couch, and I was off running around Seattle, trying to get Lacey to calm the fuck down. I should have been here. I should have known she was hurt. Her face in the back of the car when Michael drove her away was totally washed out, her expression terrified, but I’d put that down to the ordeal she’d just been through. Not even considered for a second that one of those shots had gotten lucky. I silently enter the apartment, feeling my pulse throbbing oddly in every single part of my body. I’m measured and careful as I set down the duffel I’ve carried inside and walk towards the table in the middle of the room. I can’t go straight to her. I can’t even look at her. I’m struggling to keep my fucking cool; there’s a desperation inside of me that’s demanding to be answered, though no good can come of that. Sloane won’t be better if I smash up my apartment. She won’t be magically healed if I break every last stick of furniture, smash every single plate, punch holes in every single wall I can reach before my knuckles turn raw and bloody.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods, looking like a small child bundled in the blanket she has tucked around her body. “It was just a graze.” She gingerly lifts her left arm, indicating where she was hurt and wincing at the effort. “Still hurt, though.”

Fucking hell. I can’t believe she was actually shot. Graze or no graze it should never have happened. I suddenly regret not doing more damage to that DEA agent; that would have been a small consolation for what they did to Sloane. I brace myself against the table and close my eyes, trying to somehow maneuver past the urge to go on a rampage. Trying to breathe through it all. If only Dr. Walcott, the psyche guy from Chino, could see me now. Well done, Zeth. Gold fucking star, Zeth. Keep it up.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

My head snaps up. Sloane’s eyes look huge in her face—she’s staring right at me, unblinking, and she looks exhausted. And heartbroken. And a hundred other things I can’t even put a name to, though none of them good. “What are you sorry for?” I whisper.

She swallows. Her head tips back to rest against the sofa, and I can see the fine strands of hair plastered against her forehead. She’s been through hell tonight; you can see just from looking at her that she’s in pain. “I’m sorry for leaving the warehouse. We took Michael, though. I thought…” She trails off, like the effort of even speaking is just too much for her.

I am a wretched, wretched man. I wasn’t here to help her, and she thinks I’m mad with her. Fuck. “You have nothing to apologize for, Sloane. Never apologize to me again.”

She makes a surprised sound at the back of her throat, a combination of choking and pained laughter. “I’m sure you’ll be taking that back in a couple of days.”

I shake my head. Pull in a deep breath. I’m not really ready for this, but I’ll probably be waiting forever to get to a point where it seems right to feel the way that I do. To not be absolutely fucking stunned by how weak it makes me feel. “You’re never going to apologize to me again, Sloane. If you fuck up and make a mistake, that’s on me. If you get hurt, that’s on me. For as long as you’re willing to tolerate being in this situation, everything that happens to you is on me. I’m the one who’s sorry.” I straighten up, scrubbing my hands through my hair. I can hear sounds in the apartment: Michael taking care of Lacey, making sure she’s okay. He’s been here this whole time, watching over them while I couldn’t. I feel sick.

“Zeth, come here.” Sloane’s holding up a hand—the right one, her uninjured arm—and the image, the very sight of her reaching out toward me makes my stomach feel like it’s filled with ice water. She shouldn’t still be doing this; she shouldn’t still be reaching out. She should be pushing me away by now, but she’s not. And I’m the worst kind of monster because I’m relieved. So relieved that my body feels like it’s going into shock. I walk toward her, not quite sure what to do when I get there. I don’t think I’ve ever been unsure of anything in my life. Ever.

Sloane doesn’t seem to be having the same problem. She takes ahold of my wrist and tugs at me gently, pulling me down to sit beside her on the sofa. She places my hand palm up in her lap, and carefully traces her index finger across the lines, creases and callouses that I’ve collected over my lifetime. They’re not the focus of her interest, though. It’s the multitude of scars, deep and ugly, that her fingertips linger over.

“You might be responsible for the fact that I’m not sitting at home, watching a rerun of Seinfeld on my own right now, Zeth. You might be responsible for the fact that I’m not voluntarily working an extra shift at the hospital. I had a safe life, I did, I know that, and it really does suck that being shot at is now a part of my everyday routine. But…” She takes a deep breath. “You heard what I said to Oliver. What I told him…how I feel about you. I did mean that. So while you’re responsible for a lot of crappy things right now, you’re also responsible for that. You’ve woken me up. You’ve made me stronger. You’ve made me feel something I thought I’d never feel.”

My head is spinning. I want to curl my fingers closed and withdraw it from her touch, but that seems like the coward’s way out of this conversation. I leave my hand where it is, forcing myself to hear it. To hear her say the words. To feel it, too. 

“I know you probably never wanted this, Zeth. I can understand why. But I do…I do—”

“I know,” I say, cutting her off. I may have heard the words once today already, but she wasn’t actually giving them to me. Handing them over to me like a fragile, delicate gift. A gift so overwhelming, and confusing and undeserved that I feel like packing up my shit and leaving the fucking state. She was telling someone else, and I’m not prepared for her to be telling me just yet.

“What are you afraid of, Zeth?” she whispers. “Why am I scaring you so badly right now? It’s not like I’m expecting you to say it back.”

I laugh, unable to fight it anymore. I just can’t help it; I close my hand into a fist. “I’m not scared of you, Sloane.”

She gives me a sad look. It’s the kind of look that can make a man feel two inches tall. “Yes, you are,” she says. “Of course you are. You’re terrified.”

While We Wait...

So Fallen is still not live, which is making me very sad indeed. From your posts on Facebook, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say it's making you guys sad, too.

To keep you going, I've decided to give you the prologue of Fallen. Hopefully that will tide you over until Zeth and Sloane show up....

Prologue

Castle Security offices

Jimmy Renford

Five forty-seven a.m. Five forty-fucking-seven a.m. I hate clocking in for the early shift. I’ve been doing nights for the last three months though, and I think they decided it was time I put in the hard yards. That’s fair enough, I suppose. However, working with Myers is something else entirely. The man has no sense of personal hygiene, and also has no idea when to shut the fuck up. I’ve only been rostered with him three or four times since starting work here. Since then I’ve heard from the other guys that to land a shift with Myers is a punishment of some sort. I’m here on time; I’m never late. I do the job well, so I have no idea what ball I’ve dropped to deserve this shit. It ain’t gonna fly, though. Today is gonna be all-out hell.

The bank of screens in front of the desk where Myers and I are stationed are already filled with images of people, awake and going about their early morning routines. It’s never seemed right to me—that the world never seems to stop moving. That there are people always awake, no matter what time of day or night, for us to witness on the screens of these monitors. We are Big Brother, overseeing the mundane rituals and the sometimes highly illicit activities of Seattle’s residents. We see everything, and I mean everything. It even creeps me out sometimes, and I work here.

“So I told her, ‘bitch, if you really want to get on with my sister, you can’t be talking to me like that in front of her. I’m her baby brother, you know? She’s always going to stick up for—’ Hey! Hey, Renford, check that out. The feed's gone live for the new gas station account. Did you notice that? I can’t believe they want us to watch over eighteen new places.” Myers nudges me a little too hard with his elbow, and the takeaway coffee cup I’ve been stirring sugar into rocks dangerously, nearly spilling the hot black liquid all over my crotch.

“Careful, asshole! You nearly burned my dick off.”

Myers just laughs his annoying donkey bray of a laugh, completely unfazed by the clear dislike in my voice. I’m not even pretending to hide it. Not that Myers seems to care. “Whatever, man. Hey, and check that out.” He stabs a finger at the bottom right-hand screen, the one right in front of me, gesturing to the vehicle that’s just rolled onto a gas station forecourt. I know the gas station; it’s the one out by the airport. I’ve used it enough times before to recognize the layout and the busy street out of the building’s window, as the camera’s view rotates from the outside to an internal shot.

Myers is still staring in awe at the car that’s just pulled up to the pumps. It’s an Aston Martin one-77; the kind of supercar little boys dream about owning one day, while they’re playing with the Matchbox version. This monster of a car is being well cared for. The bright sheen to the hood speaks of a wax polish that must have been done very recently. Even I have to agree that it’s a beautiful machine.

“I’ve thought about test driving one of those things,” Myers says, stuffing a piece of buttered toast into his mouth. “You know, you can go down to the dealership and pretend you’re interested in buying one. Wear something nice, make them think that you have some money or something. I figure that’s the only way I’m gonna find myself behind the steering wheel of a car like that,” Myer says, brushing crumbs from the outside of his mouth. “You never know, though. I might win the lottery one of these days.” Myers continues to ramble on about playing the odds in some sort of betting ring he is involved in, offering me a buy-in if I’m interested, but I’m not listening. I’m looking at the man who’s just climbed out of the backseat of the car. I know the man, although a lot of people wouldn’t. He’s an A-list celebrity. The kind of celebrity that only people in certain circles would be acquainted with. He’s mentioned on the news sometimes, but not in the entertainment section; they report about him in the section that covers the unsolved murders and brutal beatings that sometimes take place within the darker corners of this city. They never say his name, although I am well aware of it: Charlie Holsan.

Charlie Holsan has just gotten out of that ridiculously expensive car and is now walking into the gas station. A tall, unfamiliar-looking man gets out of the driver’s seat and follows Charlie inside. I don’t know the driver, but I know Charlie quite well; he’s been my brother’s employer for the past eight years. Eight years of Sammy never answering his phone, and never showing up to family events. Eight years of me bailing Sammy out of jail when his boss has been too busy to send someone himself. Eight years of my brother becoming more and more corrupt, as this English prick sinks his claws just a little bit fucking deeper.

I hate the man.

Charlie and his driver don’t get gas; they both enter the building, dressed in their ridiculously expensive suits, their Italian leather shoes shining under the bright glare of the gas stations strip lights. They start perusing the shelves, looking for…looking for I don’t know what. We’ve been trained to spot people like this—people who look like they’re killing time. It generally means that they’re about to hold up the place, but somehow I think armed robbery is a little below Charlie’s pay grade. If he were short on cash, which I don’t think he is, then he has a whole crew of mindless goons who can perform such menial tasks for him.

“Lucky bastard,” Myers says, shoving more of his breakfast into his mouth. “What do you think? Personal banker? Lawyer? He looks like a fucking lawyer. Gotta have some serious money to afford an Aston.”

If Myers were one of the other guys, someone I actually like hanging out with, I might break my silence and tell him what this man does for a living. As it stands, I simply reach forward and hit the lockout button that prevents the screen in front of me from scrolling through to another camera somewhere else in the city. Charlie and his hired help continue to pace around the store, picking up random items from the shelves and talking to one another. Charlie selects an item from the shelf and says something to his henchman, laughing. He tosses the packaged item to the other man, who opens it and starts to eat the contents inside. Over Charlie’s shoulder, the door opens and a young woman walks in, talking on her cell phone. She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t notice Charlie and the other guy stop laughing and look at her. She has a big bag strapped over her shoulder; it looks unwieldy and awkward to carry. She walks to the checkout and sets it down at her feet, laughing at something that the person on the other end of the phone is saying to her.

I have a bad feeling about this. I don’t know what it is, but something…something just isn’t right. The men aren’t buying anything, and they seem far too focused on this young woman to be merely showing a passing interest. I think about reaching for the radio and getting the boys onto this, but what would I say? I can’t explain how I know Charlie, how I know that this middle-aged guy who looks like your average businessman is actually a crime kingpin, wanted for countless murders and crimes of drug trafficking. If I did, then that would definitely be getting Sammy into trouble. The punk deserves it for sure, but my mom sure as hell doesn’t.

The girl’s paid for something over the counter, and Charlie and his friend have stopped their horseplay and have queued up behind her. The driver moves to one side, while Charlie bends down and collects up the girl’s bag for her, holding it out to her as she turns around. It’s a kind thing to do, and the girl grins at him as she accepts the bag.

“Whoa! Hang on a second,” Myers says. He leans across me, his eyebrows bunching together. “What the hell is that guy doing?”

I’ve been too busy watching Charlie as he tricks this girl into believing he is a gentleman to notice the other guy; he is standing really close behind her, and it looks like he’s holding something up to the back of her neck. Something sharp; something silver; something glinting in a fuzzy patch of white through the CCTV camera’s low-res feed. Adrenalin slams through my body. “Holy shit! He’s going to rob her or something. He’s actually going to do it.”

Before I react, the siren on the wall behind me begins to wail, loud and piercing; the cashier, standing on the other side of the Plexiglas right in front of the three people in the gas station, has a closer view of what is going on there, and he obviously thinks this girl is in danger, too. He’s hit the alarm. “Fuck. Do it. Call the emergency response unit.”

Myers might be an asshole, but he reacts quickly. He’s on the line, giving the cops the details of the robbery in progress and then he’s dispatching the security unit employed by Castle. I’m having trouble peeling my eyes from the screen. The driver and Charlie have both stepped away from the woman, and whatever it was the driver was holding up to the woman’s neck has now been secreted away again; the cashier has come around the front of the booth—moron! They’re told never to do that—and is trying to force Charlie and the other man out of the gas station.

Charlie’s driver pulls a gun. Things have descended into the realm of ‘fucked’ very quickly, but as soon as that gun comes out, I know it’s game over. I can see it all happening—the cashier trying to be a big guy, rushing the other two men, the gun going off, the cashier falling to the ground…

But the gun never goes off, and it’s not the cashier who falls to the ground. It’s the woman. The cashier turns, and his complete horror is perfectly visible even through the crappy camera footage. Charlie says something, and then the driver is pushing past the cashier, snatching something up off the counter. He stoops, pushes the girl over, and lifts her shirt up, baring her stomach.

“Oh fuck. He’s not—he’s not gonna—” Myers says. I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking the driver is going to sexually assault her on top of whatever he’s already done, but he doesn’t. He bends over her body, blocking whatever he’s up to. His shoulder shifts up and down for a moment and then he pulls the girl’s shirt back down to cover her belly. He throws something down on top of her where she lies—something long, and thin, and black—laughing. Now that he’s no longer obstructing the camera’s view of her, it’s plain to see there’s something wrong with the girl. There is something seriously wrong with her. She struggles back up onto her hands and knees on the floor, and it looks like she’s retching, her body jerking violently. The cashier rushes to the girl’s side, placing an unsure hand on her back, his mouth moving as he speaks frantically to her.

Charlie and the driver casually stroll out of the gas station...and the woman on her knees begins to vomit blood.

Fallen Cover Reveal!

Yay! I can finally share this with you. I've been dying to spread this around. I'm also dying to share the book, but, like you guys, I'm waiting patiently for the 8th of July.... 

So come on, tell me...what do you think? Do you love the cover? And are you looking forward to release day? I seriously hope so!

Teaser Tuesday! (almost)

I promised yesterday that I would share a teaser from the fourth book in Zeth and Sloane's story with you guys, and this is me making good on that promise. 

I am loving how the dynamics are altering between the characters as this series develops, but that said you guys don't need to worry. Zeth isn't turning into a pussy, that's for sure. I wish I could share more about what happens, but that just wouldn't be fair. I'd be robbing you of the fun of experiencing things within the books as they happen, and that's what's so great about reading, right? You'd probably punch someone in the face if they told you the twist to a movie just as it was about to come up (Bruce Willis was dead all along, BTW). 

And in the same vein, I don't wanna share all of the sexy moments between these two either. That totally ruins the surprises as they arise (pun totally intended), so I know a few of you might be disappointed but I won't be giving too much away on that front. I'll give you hints here and there in my visual teasers, but for the most part I'm keeping that stuff under wraps. What I can say is that there are definitely a few more boundaries being pushed in this book,  ;)

Alrighty, let's get this show on the road! Please be aware that this teaser is UNEDITED and may contain typos or errors. If you enjoy the teaser or wanna have a chat about it, please make sure to comment below!

FALLEN

Zeth winces as he tries to sit up straighter in the chair, the bandages pulling tight across his chest. 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 himself, studying the point where out bodies touch.

“I’m fine, Sloane.”

“You’re not fine.” 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 raises to my face, fingers skimming over my forehead, exploring an area that stings sharply. I must have a cut from where the glass shattered all over me.

“I don’t like this, angry girl,” he informs me. His voice is low and soft.

“Mmmm. Well I can’t say I’m entirely happy about the situation, either.” I begin to pack away my medical supplies, replacing them carefully back into my bag. It’s good to have something to do with my hands. Much better to keep busy than to collapse under the weight of everything that’s just happened.

“We’re gonna finish our conversation from the park now, Sloane,” Zeth tells me.

“What?” My head snaps up. Of all the things to talk about, I really don’t feel like rehashing about that. This really isn’t the time or the place. Plus our talk in the park, well, it was awkward to say the least. I doubt I’ll ever stop feeling like I betrayed myself when I told him what I did.

“You were honest with me, Sloane. Which means you were honest with yourself. I’ve been waiting for that.”

I feel like laughing. Honest with myself? He’s completely right. You’d think it impossible to deceive yourself, to hide something and pretend you don’t know it or see it or feel it, but I’ve been doing that for years. I’m good at hiding everything. I’ve been hiding from myself, from him, from my parents. From absolutely anyone who gets remotely too close. It’s been safer that way. My parents have been happy enough to pretend I was okay, even if they could probably see for themselves that I wasn’t, and I managed to somehow trick myself into believing that if I kept busy and didn’t give up searching for Lexi then I could hide myself away and simply survive. Zeth, on the other hand…Zeth knows. He’s known all along. He knows I’m not okay, that I haven’t been okay for the longest time. He sees straight through all of my shit, and he’s known how I feel about him for a while now, too. The most infuriating thing about this whole messed up situation is that I can’t see anything as clearly as he sees me. I can count on my hands how many real things I know about his past, but the fact is that I’m too scared to ask. I’m scared because he will tell me the truth, and then I’ll know everything, and I won’t be able to run and hide anymore. I’ll have to face it all. Him. That darkness inside him that both terrifies and excited me at the same time.

“Sloane.”

I stop winding the lose bandage around my hand.

“Are you going to ask me?”

My skin breaks out into goose flesh. Somehow I find enough courage to look up at him. He stares back at me, unblinking, dark eyes burning with intensity. “Am I going to ask you what?” I reply.

“What you’ve always wanted to ask me,” he says, a small smirk teasing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are still serious, though. Focused and fixed on mine. “The question you’ve been thinking about since the day we met in that hotel room. You don’t care about how much blood I have on my hands.” I open my mouth—I sure as hell want to disagree with that—but he cuts me off. “You don’t care about prison, or Charlie, or Lacey. You don’t care about where I get my money, or how many women I fucked before you. You might tell yourself you do. It might even bother you a little bit, but none of that burns at you like this one question.” He sits forward, growling at the back of his throat as he moves. I don’t tell him to keep still anymore. I’m too mad at him for seeing inside me so easily. It makes me feel simple, like an open book that anyone can just come along and read any time they like.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I think I do, though, and that’s the worrying part.

He tips his head to one side, expression flat. A little angry. “Sloane.”

“Zeth. I’m sorry if—”

He lunges forward, grabbing hold of my face with both of his hands, pulling me to him. For an insane heartbeat I think it’s going to happen. Goddamn if I am not the stupidest woman on the face of this planet. I thought he was going to kiss me. It feels like my heart is burning in my chest when he doesn’t. He stops just an inch shy of my lips. “Ask me, Sloane. Fucking ask me.”

I’m about to tear my way free from his hold, but as soon as I touch his wrists I change my mind. I place my hands over his instead, holding them to my cheeks so that I no longer feel trapped, but rather safe. It’s the look in his eyes that’s done it. Flipped everything around on me and left me reeling. He looks…with that look in his eyes, it’s almost as if he’s begging me to do it. So I do.

“Okay, fine. Why? Why are you the way that you are?” It’s like a light goes on behind Zeth’s eyes. He blows out the breath he’s been holding, his eyelids fluttering. It’s like a tension inside of him has been cut or extinguished somehow. I know instantly that I’ve asked the right question. “Why do you have that black duffel bag? What happened to you? Who made you the way that you are?” I pause. Take a deep breath. “Who hurt you?”

The pressure of his hands increases as he tightens his hold on my face. He leans in even further, so that our lips are a hair’s breadth apart. The close proximity is torturous; I’m trembling by the time he speaks. Even the movement of his lips faintly brushing mine as he talks is enough to make my heart slam against my ribcage.

“There we go, angry girl. The million-dollar question. Are you ready for the answer?”

I don’t know if I am or not, but the time has come. I nod my head just once, dizzy from the sensation of his breath skating over my mouth.

“Nobody hurt me, Sloane. No one made me who I am. I wasn’t molested or abused, or made to perform disturbing sexual acts. You have to know that there isn’t always a sinister shadow standing over the shoulder of someone like me. We’re a rare and dark breed. I carry that bag because I like it. I cut myself while I’m fucking sometimes because I like it. I play with a knife occasionally because I like it. I do all of the things that I do to you because I like it. And you know what, angry girl? The thing that disturbs you the most…”

My breath catches in my throat. I can hardly fucking breathe. Zeth’s tongue carefully flicks out, teasing my upper lip just once. I close my eyes as his words hit home, words that are whispered yet more powerful than a shout.

“…is that you like it, too. You’re just like me, Sloane. You’re just like me.”