Page 5 of Tempting Fate

Perfectly poised.

The opposite of me.

“Now I just need to get it finished in time,” I grumble to myself.

On the muted television that’s lighting up the early morning dawn, Klaus Michaelson expertly dispatches someone who’s displeased him. Most likely a family member—which is an inclination I find myself battling more and more as my brothers get older. I allow my gaze to drift from my cross-stitch to the screen a second before the piece of satin is gently snatched out of my grasp and I’m pushed backward on the couch.

“Good mornin’, metukà shelì,” my fiancé tells me in a growly voice as he pins my arms over my head. Above me, Zeke’s hungry gaze roams my face. His pupils contract, his multi-coloured irises take on a lusty light. He bites down on his full bottom lip, shaking his head. “Fuck you’re beautiful.”

It’s more than five years since Alex raped and beat me, yet I still can’t accept compliments without hearing his voice in my head adding his commentary. Informing me how unworthy I am. Calling me a Jezebel. Telling me that he’ll always be in me. Reminding me how easy it is for men to deceive.

The smile that I offer Zeke is genuine.

It’s also a lie.

He makes me feel beautiful.

It’s my mind that tells me I’m ugly.

“Yeah,” I say as I strain against his grip. In an effort to drown out Alex’s voice, I use one of the distraction techniques my therapist taught me. “Does that mean you’ll bow down before me?” Lifting my head as far as I can, I nip at his lightly bearded chin with my teeth. “After all, you’re the one who tells me beauty like mine deserves to be worshipped.”

“Like this?” Zeke uses his free hand to slide the hem of the t-shirt I’m wearing toward my collarbones. Once my upper body is exposed, he dips his head and the longer tresses of his bronze-brown hair flop forward over his forehead. He twirls his tongue around my left nipple. The sensitive flesh tightens, my skin electrifying when he runs his tongue across the valley of my cleavage to lavish attention on my right breast. “Is that the kinda worshippin’ you want, sweet thing?”

“It’s a good start.” Zeke chuckles at my breathy tone. “But I’m sure a talented man like you can do better.”

“Better, she says,” my fiancé teases me with a smirk. “That sounds like a challenge, Lil. And you know I never back down from a challenge.”

Lowering my gaze, I regard him through my eyelashes. “You have fifteen minutes before I need to be in the shower. Gabriel’s called an early meeting.”

“A challenge with a time limit. Looks like my woman’s really layin’ down the gauntlet this mornin’.”

Before I can respond, Zeke is moving above me. He makes quick work of securing my hands over my head with the t-shirt that I stole from the back of the chair he uses as a half-way house for his clothing before they’re dirty enough to be added to the laundry hamper. The panties I’m wearing are ripped at the waistband, then tied around my ankles, and he has my arse in his hands as he pulls me to the edge of the couch.

“Zeke?” I hate the fear in my voice. The same terror that I know he can see in my face. “I don’t know if?—”

“Keep your eyes on me.” The take-no-prisoners tone he invokes is exactly what I need. “Trust me, metukà shelì… I’ll take care of you.”

His Hebrew endearment makes my heart race even faster.

Being Zeke’s little sweetheart is my favourite role in life.

“I know.”

His eyes narrow when I hesitate.

My bomb-proof man never looks unsure of himself—especially when it comes to dealing with me and my trauma-induced quirks. Today, though, his throat works as he peers down at me with a strange glint in his eyes. It takes me a second to decipher his expression, but when I do, my heart sinks.

I’ve made him uncertain.

“Say it again, sweet thing. Tell me you trust me like you trust no one else.”

“I trust you, Zeke.”

This time, my answer is immediate. I don’t hesitate, responding in a breathy rush, not because I’m trying to hide the truth that my faith in him has wavered—it hasn’t—but to show him that I have complete confidence in his ability to protect me.

It’s me I don’t trust.

My mind.

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