His eyes widen when he sees me paralyzed on the treads. “Thea, turn around. He’s in no mood tonight.”
I edge to the side slightly, enough to peer around him. “Is he okay?”
“He’ll be fine. Now come. I’ll warm you up some tea to help you sleep.” He moves around me, quietly descending past and flicking a hand toward the security guards who have entered the home and stand at the foot of the stairs.
Edmond’s pinstriped pajamas dart away, and I study the lines briefly before turning the other direction and quickly ascending the rest of the way.
A groan reverberates from Slade’s suite, and when I reach the door, I slow, peeking around the frame. A lamp lies in pieces at the foot of the bed, the cord ripped from it and strewn at the room’s threshold by my bare feet. His framed posters have been torn from the walls, the glass in one shattered, and the other frame broken in the corner.
As I creep into the room, the bathroom door is splintered, off its hinges, and thrown to the floor. My heart pounds, and for a second I wonder if I should run back to my room to avoid this.
Then I see him.
He’s hunched forward on the edge of his bed, facing away from me. Elbows dug into his thighs, his shoulders rising and falling in labored breaths. His glasses hang in one hand, his other massaging his brow.
As I enter, I kick some glass, and gasp when a thin line of blood blooms on the side of my big toe.
Slade jerks, lifting his head and spinning around.
Gosh. His eyes—wild and bloodshot—glare at me. Sweat clings to his face, the sheen catching the light. His shirt is unbuttoned, or torn open, exposing his muscular bare chestand—I swallow the bitter tang clawing up my throat—a scar. Mangled and fleshy, but years old at this point.
He stands, and that snaps me out of my perusal of him. “Get out,” he says quietly.
His shirt flutters open with his movement, and I stare at his scar again. “Who … who did that to you?” I whisper, looking around the room.
He fists his glasses, placing them back on his face. “I said get out!” He yells this time, grabbing a corner of his bed and shoving it away with both hands. Itthwacksagainst the wooden floor.
I flinch, and he steps back. “Please, Thea.”
I step forward, and his nostrils flare. “I’ll leave—I will. Just tell me if you’re okay?”
His head dips, chin to chest, and he blows out a pent-up sigh. With a trembling hand, he runs it through his hair.
I take another step, and when he doesn’t react, I take another. Then another. I approach him like I used to do with my father. His rage doesn’t scare me. It probably should, but I’ve dealt with it before. When Phil came home drunk, I had to read his behavior, gauge how drunk he was, and measure the heaviness of his footfalls. That’s how I knew if he had had a bad day, whether the bottles of alcohol were going to relax him or rile him up.
Finally, I reach Slade. My hands shake as they move toward the rough fabric of his torn shirt. His chest heaves, and something wet drips onto my fingers as I curl them around the edges and peel it open. Stunned, I study the two letters that now make themselves known, and when I can’t possibly take looking anymore, I move my fingers over the scar. I trace the path down his sternum until I bump the pale raised skin that slashes across his chest.
Inch by inch, I slip my touch around his scar, streaked with sweat. His muscles clench, drawing tight when the pads of myfingers dip deep into the hollows of his abs. Head still down, he watches my skimming touch. His brows pull together in a deep V, and his lips part. He looks bruised. Raw.
I move to push his shirt off, allowing the fabric to shimmy down his shoulders and onto the floor. His face snaps up, and he snatches my wrists with both hands. He tilts his head, and then pulls me close, his mouth a breath’s beat away.
Spicy liquor invades my nostrils as he exhales. “You need to leave.”
For the first time, fear slithers up my spine. “Why? What happened, Slade? Are you drunk?”
He snarls. “Theyhappened. And no, I’m not drunk. I wouldn’t do that to you, Thea.”
I try to move away, but his grip on my wrists tightens. “Do what to me?”
“Your father was a drunk, was he not? Isn’t that how you ended up here?”
His words are a cold jab, and I sneer. “How would you know that?”
He hooks a finger underneath my chin, angling it upward. “I did my research on you,” he whispers.
I swallow.
“The girl who drives me mad. Thewomanmy mind chases obsessively.” He takes a single finger and traces my Cupid’s bow. “I covet the men who’ve had you. Ifeelfor those who want you. And I hate the man that will marry you.”
