Fracture (Blood & Roses #2)

by Callie Hart

  Contents

  Copyright

  1

  2

  3

  4

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  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Callie

  Next in the Series

  About the Author

  Tell me your favorite bit!

  FRACTURE

  Callie Hart

  Copyright © 2014 Callie Hart

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at callie.law.author@gmail.com

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  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. The author recognises the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work.

  All rights reserved

  ISBN:978-1496927251

  “Open your mouth.”

  “No!”

  “Fucking open it.”

  Andreas Medina, sweating, hands cuffed behind his back, blinks up at me—the wild terror he should be displaying right now is like a drug. One I have a love/hate addiction to. And yet Andreas is probably only exhibiting a five on the fear scale, a fact that is making me downright pissed. He’s basically ruining my high. I bring the butt of my Desert Eagle (previous owner recently deceased) down on his forehead, and a jet stream of crimson blood pours down his face. The Mexican is a defiant motherfucker; he winces through the pain, setting his jaw. There’s no begging here, no groveling or bargaining. Andreas is old school. He knows there’s a very strong probability that he’s about to die, and he’s doing his best not to go out shitting his pants. I guess I can respect that.

  I crouch down so that our eyes are level. Above us the naked light bulb swings to and fro, casting shadows first over him and then me. We have the same bleak void lurking behind our irises—I recognize myself in him, and I wonder whether he likes hurting people, too. Of course he fucking does. “Where is he?”

  “I’m not telling you shit, hijo.” He spits blood at me. It sprays down the front of my jacket, over my T-shirt. Sloane thinks I wear black because I’m some kind of nightmarish vision, a creature of the night. The reality of it is much more practical—black hides the blood. I look down at myself, considering Andreas’ action, while I try to think of something fitting to punish him. It comes to me pretty quickly—a neat trick I picked up in prison. I straighten up and turn, surveying the empty room, taking my time. The place is bare concrete, solid walls, thick. Thick enough to block out a grown man’s screams. A single rickety wooden table leans up against the wall on the far side of the room. I smirk as I make my way over to it, knowing what I’m going to need from the black duffel that sits on top of it.

  “Cabrón, you better not turn your back on me!”

  I stop. In the darkness, I smile. I let Andreas think for a moment that I’m going to react to his bravado, but then I continue, slowly walking to the bag and unzipping it. There are so many different utensils inside that it takes me a moment to find what I’m looking for, but I eventually find it: a small black box, about three inches square and another inch deep.

  “If you think you’re gonna get anything out of me, you’re crazy, white boy.”

  I pace back to him, training a blank expression onto my face. “You always have to state the obvious?” I ask him, palming the small box in front of me, making sure Andreas sees it. On his knees, he eyes the box, clenching down on his jaw. I will show no fear, I will show no fear. I’m already inside his head, though. I see his fear. It just looks different to most people’s. It’s dark and tainted, like the rest of him.

  “What you talking ’bout?”

  “White boy,” I say, bending down again. “I’m white, you’re not. Back when I arrived at the compound, when you were standing at the gate, you called me that then, too. Why do you feel the need to call me that when we both know who we are? And who we aren’t?”

  “Ain’t got nothing to do with the color of your skin, hijo. It’s about who you are, where you come from. Who you work for.”

  I think on that. While I’m doing that, I tease the lid of the box open just enough for Andreas to catch a glimpse of the shiny metal inside. I snap the lid closed. “Charlie’s an equal opportunities employer. He has black, white, yellow—every color you can think of working on his books.” But Andreas isn’t listening to me. He’s staring at the box. Good. I shake it from side to side, scratching at the stubble on my jaw with my free hand. “Right now, we’re not here because of who we work for, though. Forget all about Julio and Charlie. Right now I want to talk to you about this box.” I hold it five inches from his face, so close he has to tip his head back in order to focus on it. “What can you tell me about this box?” I ask him.

  Andreas looks at me as though I’m crazy. With a slow and measured movement he cranes his neck forward again, widening his eyes at me. “I don’t fucking care about your box.”

  Oh, Andreas. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “Okay, fair enough. I guess we’re only wasting time, anyway. It’s black, it’s small, it’s whatever. The most important thing about this box,” I say, shaking it from side to side again, “is that right now it’s closed. It has something inside it that I want. Just like you. You have something inside of you that I want, Andreas. And just like this box, I’m going to open you up and reach in and take it.”

  I lift the lid properly this time, wide enough that he can see inside, and I remove a single, slim piece of metal. A paperclip. Andreas’s eyes go round.

  “You’re fucking crazy, pendejo. Everybody knows it,” he hisses.

  I snap the lid closed again and tuck the box into the pocket of my jacket. I hold up the single paperclip I took out so he can watch what I’m doing. “I’m not crazy, Andreas. Crazy people aren’t rational. I’m very rational, and right now this situation you find yourself in is a rational one, too. You tell me where my guy is, and I won’t shove this piece of metal underneath your fingernail. And as a result, I won’t have to keep getting more paperclips from my box to use on your other fingers until you tell me. Doesn’t that sound entirely logical to you?”

  Andreas looks a little lost, like he’s anticipated the pain and already seen himself crumble. “Fuck you, man. This is about loyalty.”

  “This is not about loyalty. There’s no such thing.”

  “Bullshit. You wouldn’t be here threatening me otherwise. You’re loyal to that English motherfucker, and I’m loyal to Julio.”

  I shake my head, tutting. “Loyalty is another word for stupidity, Andreas. Dogs are loyal. You kick a loyal dog and it cowers at your feet, dreaming of a way to get back into your good graces. Kick me and I’ll bite your fucking hand off.”

  He falters. “You’re not here to protect Charlie?”

  I shove my face in his, baring my teeth. “I’m protecting myself. And if you’re smart you’ll start doing the same.”

  I can’t breathe. I can barely keep my legs straight. Barely concentrate on my surroundings as Zeth growls into my ear. “Then
you’d better get talking.”

  I have my cell phone jammed up against my ear and Pippa is rambling away on the other end, entirely oblivious to the fact that a dangerous, impossibly sexy, impossibly cruel man has two of his fingers inside me. He works his thumb over the swollen bud of my clitoris, smirking with a look of dark pleasure that sends vibrations through my whole body.

  “Pippa, hi…I…I need to ask you a favor.”

  “A favor? For my favorite girl? Sure, hon, shoot.”

  Zeth draws his fingers out of me and slides them over my pussy, grinning when I twitch. “I need you to see someone for me.”

  “Like a patient?”

  “Like someone who wants to ask you a few questions before you see the—ah!—the patient.”

  “Are you okay, Sloane? You sound like you’re trying to do yoga and failing again.”

  Zeth gently squeezes the tiny knot of nerves that make up my clit, grinning mercilessly. He switches out his hands and begins stroking me with his left, bringing his right up to his mouth. He slowly sucks his own fingers into his mouth, piercing me with his gaze the whole time, sucking them clean. Embarrassment floods me, swiftly followed by a crescendo of desire that takes me by surprise. Every single experience I’ve had with this guy has involved him going down on me or tasting me in some way. As a fairly introverted person during my teens, the prospect of someone enjoying the way that I tasted was a ridiculous one, but there’s no denying Zeth’s addiction here. He leans into me pressing his chest against mine, and my heart stumbles in my chest. He’s going to kiss me. He’s actually going to kiss me…

  But at the last moment he angles his head, like he’s caught himself about to do something unwise, and nips with his teeth at my jawline.

  “Sloane? Sloane, do you need to call me back?”

  “Uhhhh….may…maybe.”

  Zeth palms my breast through my T-shirt, squeezing painfully. He shakes his head, tutting. “Don’t be a bad girl,” he whispers.

  I am instantly filled with the urge to please him. “I just need you to meet this guy, Pip. He wants to ask you some questions before he sends his friend over to you. Is that okay?”

  Zeth nods approvingly, watching me squirm beneath him like a leopard might watch a mouse. Before it pounces on the mouse and devours it. Pippa goes silent on the other end of the phone. Even her breathing seems to stop, and I can imagine her stern face puckered into a frown as she sits at her desk.

  “Please tell me I don’t need to have that conversation with you after all?”

  “What conversation?”

  Zeth pulls back, still watching me, backing up toward the kitchen island. He reaches out behind him, barely glancing to locate what he’s after, and then my throat swells up. His hand curves around a black handle—one belonging to the serrated meat knife that lives in the wooden block on my marble countertop. My heart doesn’t beat once during the long second it takes him to withdraw the blade, always watching me, never taking his eyes off me. A dark and sinister intent lurks in his eyes.

  “The conversation I said we’d skip back in the coffee house, the one about you making smart choices. This is about that guy, isn’t it? You promised me you weren’t going to see him again, Sloane. He’s dangerous.”

  He. Is. Dangerous.

  He is approaching me with a terrifyingly sharp knife in his hand, and he looks seriously fucking dangerous. I press back into the wall, swallowing, blinking, clutching at the phone pressed up against my ear. I know he can hear what she’s saying on the phone, and Pip’s remark seems to have galvanized him toward some outcome I don’t even want to think about. “You’re wrong,” I breathe.

  His torturously slow approach hesitates. With his head tilted to one side, only half a degree, easy to miss if you aren’t paying attention, he narrows his eyes, studying me.

  “He’s just looking out for his friend. Why else would he be doing this? How can he be so bad if he cares for her so much?”

  “Just because he cares for someone else doesn’t mean he won’t skin you alive and hack you into small pieces. You’re being incredibly naïve over this guy.”

  “I’m not,” I whisper. He’s closer now, standing right in front of me. He takes hold of the hem of my T-shirt, gathering it carefully in gentle fingers. “I’m just choosing to be hopeful.”

  “Naïve,” Zeth mouths, shaking his head again. I swallow down the building panic forcing its way up my throat, pulling in a deep breath. This is going to be okay. This is all going to be okay. A clever person might tell Pippa right here and now that Zeth Mayfair is holding them up at knifepoint in their kitchen, but something…something’s holding me back.

  “Well,” Pippa says on the other end of the phone. “I’m really hoping that you’re not letting your lady parts rule your brain on this one. If I meet this guy and he’s smoking hot, then I know you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Don’t worry, Pip.” Zeth takes the sharp edge of the knife and holds it to my T-shirt, barely touching the sharpened metal against the material; it parts like he’s tearing through wet paper. “He’s hideous,” I say into the phone. One single, dark eyebrow curves upward as he reacts to that. Bullshit.

  “Playing with fire,” he tells me. I don’t think Pippa hears him, though. His voice is so low and laden with desire that I’m pretty sure I don’t really hear it. I feel it in my bones, burning its way inside me, branding me, charging me with electricity.

  “I can see him tomorrow, okay? I have a half-hour spot open at two. If he’s late or he doesn’t show up then we’re done. I don’t trust him, Sloane, and I think you’re mad to even be talking with him. If I were you, I’d sever all ties and run like hell.”

  The knife has cut a clean line all the way through my shirt; Zeth places it carefully onto the countertop beside me and then draws back the fabric, exposing my bare breasts. His eyes feast on me, lighting every square inch of me on fire.

  “I don’t like your friend,” he growls. And then he dips his head and laps his tongue at my nipple, sucking the already swollen twist of flesh into his warm mouth. My knees want to buckle, but his solid body presses into mine, holding me up.

  “Two o’clock. Got it. I’ll make sure he gets the message.”

  “I’m more concerned about you getting this message, Sloane. Please tell me you’re hearing 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 hang up 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.”