“Someone needs to move the body,Alyona. Areyougoing to do it?” He says my name like he’s mad at it. Hell, I know he is. What an absolute shit show this all is.
Before I can reply, he’s already left the room.
Getting clothes on a dead person is a lot harder than it seems, especially when you have wounds all over your body that make bending and lifting agonizing.
“Why won’t you freaking move?” I grumble, trying to put his leg in the pants.
“Rigor mortis sets in within the first two hours,” Z says, putting down the bottles of bleach concoction and easily lifting Jeremiah’s leg. It crunches when he bends the knee, and vomit churns in my gut.
“You don’t seem that bothered that your lover is dead,” he states, shifting the other leg into the pants. “Did you love him?”
Even though he’s still wearing those stupid scuba diving goggles that he must have found in Jeremiah’s stuff, the piercing blue of his eyes focuses on me and renders me breathless.
“Did you love him?” he repeats when I don’t answer.
“I didn’t love him.” I shake my head and rub at my forehead for no other reason than to not have to return his stare. Guilt niggles at me for the truth of my words. Because of me, Jeremiah is dead, and I didn’t even love him.
“Have you loved any man in your life, Alyona?”
Fucking hell, there’s so much hurt in his voice it seeps into me like black smog snaking around my organs and choking me.
“Yes, Z, I have.” I sit on the edge of the mattress and watch as he makes quick work of getting Jeremiah’s pants fastened.
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me for leaving like I did?” I murmur.
Is it selfish to ask for it?
Please forgive me. Please forgive me. Please forgive me.
Pausing his movements, he cocks his head to the side and studies me, the intensity of his gaze making my skin tingle.
“Forgiveness is action, right? I’m here cleaning your lover’s bodily fluids off your mattress. Is that not forgiveness?”
Frowning at him, I groan, “Why word it that way?”
“What way?” he teases with a raised brow and a twist of his lips.
“Like it’s sexual, when it’s anything but.”
He taps his forefinger to his temple and chuckles, “Don’t blame me for your interpretation, love. That’s your mind in the gutter, not mine.”
“Yeah, right.”
Pointing down at Jeremiah, he asks, “Where’s the shirt he was wearing?”
Oh fuck.
Wincing, I look down at myself wearing said shirt. It’s only then that I remember I’m still freaking naked from the waist down with only the shirt covering my upper thighs. Dried blood still coats my skin.
Z seems to come to the same realization because his gaze drags down my form, lingering on my legs and his hands fist.
“I grabbed his shirt when I fled,” I say quickly.
“Take it off.” He holds his hand out to me.
I stumble to my feet and waver, but he continues to stare at me with his hand outstretched. Lifting the shirt, I get it to my waist and cringe, sucking in a breath.
Fucking shit.
