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I think on it so I know I’m going to be telling him the fully considered, fully weighed-out truth. I come to an answer pretty quickly. “No. No, I don’t think you did. I don’t think you would harm someone who couldn’t defend themselves.”
That makes him smirk again. “You have a very high opinion of me, Sloane. Now, please, open your mouth.”
I oblige him. He slides the fork into my mouth, and I take the food, enjoying the way he pulls the tines so slowly away from my lips. He watches my mouth closely, his expression carefully constructed into a blank mask. “I didn’t even touch him. This time,” Zeth whispers. “He gave me Julio’s cell number, and now I have to go see if I can get Cade back.”
I’m not even going to ask about the subtle this time that he just slipped in there. That would only lead us to a dark place I’m positive I don’t want to go. “Are you taking Michael?”
He nods. “You’re going to stay here with Lacey and your friend. Do not let either of them out of your sight.”
I’m suddenly gripped by panic. I don’t want him to go; every time he leaves, something freaking terrible happens and I end up being pursued by the cops. Or shot at. Or both. “We need to stick together right now, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t. You’re injured, Newan’s an unwilling participant in all of this, and Lacey isn’t right at the moment. It would be a very bad idea to take one of you, let alone all three.”
I’d argue this point, irrespective of the fact I can see where he’s coming from, but then Michael enters, wearing a T-shirt drenched with sweat. He left to go running straight after he ate. A bad idea in my book—running on a full stomach—but he seems to have made it work.
“You ready?” he asks. It's like a wall shutters over Zeth’s face; the dark, brooding anger in his eyes is almost breathtaking.
“Yeah, I'm ready. Time to teach that asshole he can’t get away with taking one of ours.”
I feel like pointing out Cade isn’t actually “one of ours”, he's one of Rebel’s, but then the ingratitude of the thought hits home. Of course Cade is one of ours. He spent time in prison with Zeth, and he risked his own safety and freedom to come and help me when Charlie was at St Peter’s. It’s only right that the boys try and free him, but at what cost? That's what everything boils down to these days—the cost of our actions. There can be no more carefree or reckless decisions made within our group. Our group. I am a part of this now, and that knowledge makes me very uncomfortable.
Zeth stands, finishes the bottle of water, crushes it and tosses it in the bin. He looks to me, two distinct lines marring the skin between his brows. “I mean it, Sloane. Do not leave this apartment.”
I nod my head, trying not to look quite as concerned as I’m feeling right now. “I know, I know. There’ll be hell to pay.”
Zeth smirks. “Oh no, angry girl. You’ll be paying me. And trust me—that is far, far worse.”
He does something then that makes my fingers and toes tingle; he leans down and plants a whisper-soft kiss on the top of my head. “We’ll be back soon,” he tells me. “And we’ll have Cade with us.”
The look on Michael’s face is classic—complete surprise. I think he’s as stunned as I am by his employer’s show of affection. Zeth dresses quickly and the two of them leave, and the spot where Zeth kissed me on the top of my crown still burns like crazy.
******
Pippa is still refusing to come out of the bathroom. I don't want her to come out, so it's no great loss to me, but a small part of me does want her to be comfortable. And sitting on cold tiles all day and night definitely can not be comfortable. I'm too angry to go and talk to her, though, so I figure the next best thing is to rope Lacey into the task.
I'm about to knock on Lacey's door when it flies open to reveal the girl’s pale face, eyes huge in her head as usual. She looks stricken. “Where's Zee?” she asks breathlessly.
“He's just gone to handle a few things. He won’t be gone long. A couple of hours, max.”
This news does not seem to please Lacey. Zeth didn't say goodbye to her, and for very good reason. She's never been good about him leaving her, but after yesterday's meltdown she probably would have flipped, not let him walk out the door. That's undoubtedly why he ran out without saying a word to her.
“I need to talk to him,” she says. “It's important.”
“Sorry, Lace. Honestly, though, he will be back soon.”
Lacey blows out a frustrated breath, shaking her head. “You don't understand. Here, look.” She holds out something to me—her chunky cellphone—and on the screen a web page is loaded. I'm surprised the thing even has data. I squint at the tiny writing, trying to read the blocks of narrow, black text, but Lacey is twitching so much it's damn near impossible.
“Give it to me.” I take the phone off her and read quickly, my head spinning at the content of what turns out to be a newspaper article. The spinning grows much, much worse when I see the name Oliver Massey, and the emblem of St Peter's Hospital a little farther down the page.
‘The woman, brought into St Peter's Hospital close to two weeks ago, has still not been identified. Her condition continues to worsen. Her doctors indicate the female patient, currently on life support, is unlikely to survive another twenty-four hours. Dr. Oliver Massey, of St Peter's, believes someone must be able to identify this woman. ‘It would be a devastating if this woman's family members missed out on the opportunity to say goodbye because they were unaware their mother or aunt or sister was in hospital. We would ask Seattle Tribune readers to look closely at the picture of our patient and search their memory. Do they know this woman, and if so, could they assist us in reaching her next of kin?’”
