Page 44 of Tempting Fate

“Metukà shelì.” I flinch at the depth of love in his whispered endearment. “Talk to me.”

Turning my back to him, I lower my aching body onto the bed we share at the Shamrocks clubhouse. Every part of me hurts, from the lump on my forehead to the battered ribs that stop me from taking a full breath to the knees I grazed when I tripped outside Alex’s window. Doc did his best to be gentle as he checked me over, liberal with the pain relief, administering local anaesthetic before he stitched up my eyebrow and my top lip. Charlie was careful, her movements measured, her manner placid, while she helped me shower.

Unfortunately, their ministrations have only taken the edge off my discomfort.

My ribs are bruised, and while my cheekbone and my nose are tender, they’re not broken. Doc used his portable X-ray and ultrasound machines to double check when Zeke wouldn’t accept his initial assessment. Knowing that my soreness is more a case of painful but superficial injuries colliding with five years of mental anguish and a giant-sized dose of exhaustion doesn’t really fill me with comfort.

I want to forget the whole thing happened.

But I also know that in the morning, my father, uncles, and the rest of the Shamrocks will demand a total retelling of everything that went down this evening. They won’t care that the embarrassment I feel over Alex getting hold of me again has found a permanent home in my bone marrow. It won’t bother them that everyone’s been reminded, once again, exactly how filthy and used up I am.

It won’t even cross their mind that the perpetual humiliation is choking me to death.

That I feel dirty.

Used.

Broken.

Ruined.

“Answer me.” There’s an edge to Zeke’s voice that’s at odds with the patience he’s trying to exude. Flames of regret lick the length of my spine, even as I refuse to engage. “I’m not fuckin’ around here, Lily… I needa know.”

In my logical brain, I know I should just tell him and let the chips fall where they may.

My heart, the delicate organ that’s filled with love for the hardarse biker I can hear pacing the floor behind me, refuses to cooperate. Even though I know my man, know in intimate detail the lengths he’ll go to for me, I can’t bring myself to respond. I’m aware that he’ll repeat his question once more, offering me two chances to come clean—which is one more than everyone else in the world gets—before he reverts to the scorched earth policy he prefers.

Despite that, I remain silent.

Because, while Zeke is being his usual steadfast self, what I did to escape Alex is sitting at the forefront of my mind, eating me alive. Taunting me with my disloyalty. It’s a big, glaring, neon sign shining the spotlight on my disgusting behaviour. Not only am I drowning in a Shamrocks sympathy, but I’m also collapsing under the weight of my conscience.

My pride can’t handle their pity.

My heart is crumbling beneath my shame.

I don’t know if I can find my way free of Alex’s poison this time.

“Talk to me, sweet thing.”

I let the tiredness that’s dogging me show in my voice as I finally answer him. “I don’t know what more you want from me, Zeke. We went over everything half a dozen times on the way back here… just let it be for tonight. Maybe tomorrow when I’m being interrogated by the club, I’ll remember some silly inconsequential detail in the light of the new day, some stupid little detail that I missed that’ll make you all feel better about what happened.”

His nostrils flare and he growls at me. The hurt on his face, coupled with his clear belief that I’m lying to him, makes my heart lurch in my chest. Before I break and give him the truth that will change our relationship, I roll away from him.

The king-sized bed that dominates our room sits between us, yet I feel claustrophobic within his proximity.

My hair is still damp after my shower. It sticks to my neck, reminding me that I should’ve piled it on top of my head before throwing myself on the bed like a drama queen. I’m struggling to breathe through my conflicting emotions, lying as still as I can to hide my turmoil from my man. Ducking my nose inside the shirt I pulled on after my shower, I draw in as big of a lungful as my sore ribs will allow. I want to distract myself with Zeke’s scent, use the Tom Ford cologne that clings to the t-shirt and shorts he gave to me to wear as a shield.

I smell leather and spiced amber.

Somehow, I still taste Alex’s cloying scent.

It’s stupid. I’ve showered. I’m clean as can be.

There’s no way I can actually smell him.

Tell that to my muddled brain.

“I need time,” I mutter, mainly to myself.

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