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Hearing her breathing even out, I glanced over again and smiled at
her sleeping form.
On the far side of the station where hot food had once been displayed, Trix snoozed away as Maliki and Zane continued to speak quietly. Every few minutes he would look in my direction, and every time our eyes met, I felt the same pull in my chest and heat between my legs.
I studied his posture and physique. It was easy to hate him for what his family did, harder to remember he didn’t even know who they were. It wasn’t until we’d been in the car together I reminded myself of that.
That didn’t change who he was as a person, though.
I’d heard plenty of stories and even more rumors about the mystery that was Zane Belial. The girl’s at the compound whispered about him constantly.
They seemed to be stuck in a state of perpetual lust with a stranger they’d never laid eyes on other than in a fantasy or few grainy Polaroids.
I’d never understood the allure.
Until now.
Until I was met with whatever this feeling was—more than simple attraction, stronger than insta-lust, but damn sure not love. I couldn’t define it because I’d never felt it before, but whatever this was, I did not like.
Fortunately, the sudden urge to relieve my bladder hit hard and gave me an excuse to get away from him even for just a few minutes.
Rising from my small pallet, I grabbed my case of wet-wipes and headed for the bathroom. After shadowing Nyx here a bit ago, I knew how atrocious the restrooms looked inside.
The women’s room was far worse than the men’s, with a repellent stench of smeared shit and blood on the walls. That meant I was going into the men’s’ room.
I walked down the small hall, the glow from the battery powered lanterns in the main area giving it a bluish glow.
I used my shoulder to open the door. Once inside the bathroom, I didn’t touch anything. I squatted, feeling the muscles in my thighs burn as I relieved myself over the nauseating piece of porcelain.
I used a wet-wipe to clean my lady bits off, pitching it in the hole without glancing down and then exited back into the hall.
My deep inhalation of somewhat fresh air was cut short by the solid force shoving me right back into the bathroom.
I hit the grimy wall, wet-wipes falling away as my wrists were pinned above my head.
Cognizant of everyone sleeping and not wanting to make another scene, I snarled on a whisper, “Get your damn hands off me!”
He ignored my anger, tightening his grip to the point I grimaced. “You know what the most amusing part about that whole statement you gave a bit ago? Your waste of breath to deliver an almost believable performance?”
“You’re a freaking psycho! It was no performance! Now get—.”
“Tell me you’re not mine.” His voice dropped to a near whisper as his lips found their way to my neck, skimming over my sensitive flesh.
My nerve endings immediately began to stir, warmth flooding through me and went straight to my core.
I was suddenly aware of how good he smelled. Simply like a strong bar of soap and hint of sweat—masculine. Like the calloused hands holding my wrists in place.
“Stop it,” I managed to say evenly.
“Why?”
Why? His question caught me off guard. Before I could respond, he was placing his lips firmly against my skin, trailing them up towards my jaw. “You smell like Vanilla,” he absentmindedly noted.
“This is wrong,” I exhaled, inhaling the smell of him and the filthy bathroom we were in.
Lips left my neck and then were hovering centimeters in front of mine, soft breath fanning over my face.
“Does this feel wrong?”
