Page 167 of Rosetti Family New York
"Still not my problem."
He's lying. I can see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his fists clench in the sheets. He cares, even if he doesn't want to.
"Maddy's dead," I blurt out. The words taste like poison. "Her body—"
But I can't finish. My throat closes up again. I pull the blanket tighter, around my shoulders this time, hiding in it. It's the only way I can breathe. I sound weak and small, and I hate myself for it.
He exhales, rubs a hand over his jaw.
"You're fucking crazy," he mutters.
"Probably." I hear the unhinged edge in my voice, know he hears it too. "I couldn't stand it." I pause, swallow hard. "Being by myself."
"Doesn't mean you get to barge in here," he says, still angry.
He drags a hand through his hair, and I watch his muscles bunch and flex with the motion. I feel every inch of the bed, every inch of him. A pulse of heat shoots through me, settling low in my belly. I shouldn't be reacting this way to him, not when I'm grieving, not when he's pushing me away. But I can't help it.
"I need to stay." It sounds desperate. It is. "I need—"
"You need to leave."
His face is a mask of conflict – anger warring with something that looks almost like hunger. He leans closer, and for a moment, his gaze drops to my lips. My breath catches, anticipation thrumming through me like electricity. The air between us is thick, charged with a tension that has nothing to do with anger.
For a heartbeat, I think he's going to kiss me. His breath fans across my face, warm and enticing. My eyes flutter closed, and I sway toward him, drawn by a magnetism I can't explain.
Then he pulls back sharply, like he's been burned. The moment shatters.
He grabs my wrist, yanking me toward the edge of the bed. He thinks I'm breakable.
"No." I struggle out of his grip, heart racing faster. "I won't. I won't do it."
He looks like he might shake me. Or throw me over his shoulder and toss me back into that tiny room himself.
"Jesus, Sloane."
I clutch his arm, hard. My fingertips register the heat of his skin, the solid muscle beneath. The contact sends a spark through my entire body, and from the way his pupils dilate, I know he feels it too.
"Please."
The word feels like sawdust in my mouth.
His eyes narrow, and I see the moment his will crumbles. He lets go, disgusted. At himself, or at me. Maybe both. I don't care, as long as I get to stay.
The blanket slips off me as I lie back. It's cool on my skin, against the damp heat. He feels like a fire next to me, wild and consuming. I start to shiver again, and my teeth clatter together, a frantic drumbeat in my head.
"Are you going to freak out all night?" he asks, shifting away, but I can't tell if it's so he won't touch me, or if it's to get a better look at how wrecked I am.
"Probably."
"You're a goddamn mess."
He tries to sound harsh, but I can hear the resignation under it. It's almost relief. I swallow down the laugh that bubbles up in my throat, and it tastes hysterical.
Then, somehow, it's all turning inside out. The fear is still there, the terror and panic, but they're changing shape. Changing into something else. Something hungry.
It's Rafaele. So close I can feel the heat off him, feel the wild, powerful rhythm of him. I can smell him – that intoxicating blend of leather and musk and something darker that makes my head spin. The sheet whispers between us, too thin a barrier.
And then my hands are on him.
