Beyond Possession (Beyond #5.5) (3 page)

She was
lonely
.

She dragged her gaze away from his tattooed forearm and blushed when she realized he'd caught her staring. "I was eating," she replied, waving at the lunch next to her stack of paperwork. "But if you need something..."

"Jas said you asked about me. How I was doing." He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I'm better. I'm good."

Oh, hell. That was far more embarrassing than being caught staring. Lust was an unavoidable physical response when confronted with a man like Zan.
Worry
was something else, a vulnerability that left her feeling exposed.

It was instinct to deflect, to move to hide her weak spot with a laugh. "I'm glad. I miss having you around. Who else is going to pester me about moving all the heavy boxes on my own?"

"Not me. Not right now, anyway." He laid a hand on his other shoulder and winced. "You might ask me to move them."

She lifted her hand before she could stop herself, and she covered by crossing her arms over her chest. Zan was an O'Kane, and O'Kanes had doctors. The urge to push him down into a chair and strip off his shirt so she could examine the wound was nothing but her thwarted protective instincts struggling for an outlet now that Catalina had flounced from her life.

The idea of
her
protecting an O'Kane from anything was laughable.

Even though she'd checked the gesture, she couldn't seem to hold her tongue. "You're healing up all right?"

"Doc says no worries. Just takes time, that's all."

"Do you need anything to help? I have—" She bit her lower lip against the offer and shook her head. "No, I'm sure whatever the doctor can give you works better than homemade salves and massage oil."

The corner of his mouth tilted up in a smile. "Believe it or not, Doc hasn't offered to massage me. Not once."

He was teasing her. Worse, it was working. Blatant come-ons were easily brushed aside, but this—this was dangerous. Tatiana knew her way around a good, satisfying fuck, but she liked her men agreeable and easily controlled. Men her own age, who were so horny they'd do whatever she said for the chance to get inside her, and go away when it was over, relieved she didn't want to cuddle.

Something told her Zan wouldn't be manageable.

"Stay here," she ordered, jabbing her finger in his direction. She didn't give him a chance to reply before pivoting to push through the swinging door that separated her office from the main storefront. She half-expected to hear his footsteps behind her before she reached the shelf of salves, but when she'd gathered up what she wanted and turned, she was still alone.

Which didn't prove he was manageable. Just that he knew how to bide his time.

She retrieved a recycled paper sack from behind the counter and returned to the office. "For sore muscles," she said, holding up the silver tin before slipping it into the bag. Then she lifted the bottle of massage oil and forbade herself from imagining what lay under his clothes.

Of course it didn't work. She'd seen him shirtless once or twice—fight night made that an inevitability—and she could conjure the memory without trying. He was big, broad, and strong. Not just hard, but solid, like a tree with roots that went deep. He had tattoos, lots of them, some in vivid colors and some in elegant black and gray, all etched into skin almost the same light brown as her own.

She'd inherited her coloring from her mother, whose great-grandparents had come from Mexico. Her mother had traced her family history back generations for her once, teaching Tatiana about the wars men had fought in the world before the Flares. About countries and constitutions, about politics and betrayal. All the things a good princess should understand.

Maybe that was why she loved Zan's wild stories about the world that had died when the lights went out. It was a secret, shared language. Something that made her feel less alone in a world where no one else remembered what
Mexico
was.

He met her stare full-on, unblinking. Then he began to unbutton his shirt.

Oh, Christ.

She'd meant to shove the massage oil into the bag, too, but this was what staring got you. It got you into trouble your pride wouldn't let you back out of, because Zan had revealed his chest, and her fingers itched to touch him. So much that she cleared her throat and pointed to the chair. "Sit."

One of his eyebrows quirked up, the one bisected by a scar over his brow bone, but he obeyed, sliding the fabric down off his shoulders as he moved.

His chest was glorious. So was his back. But it was the scars that froze her breath in her lungs. There had been rumors, of course, the usual gossip that accompanied anything an O'Kane did. She'd heard the shooting had been bad...

The scars on his chest were thin and white, proof that whatever had happened had required regeneration technology just to keep him alive. The ones on his shoulder were still red and angry, healing with the help of med-gel but undoubtedly still painful. And the rest of him...

He had older scars everywhere, the kind you wouldn't see from far away but couldn't ignore up close. Her father's inner circle had looked like this, their bodies recounting the history of every sector war, every attempted coup.

Security came at a price. Zan had been paying it with his body so others wouldn't have to, and she wasn't fooled by the fact that the latest scars were the only new ones. Dallas O'Kane hadn't stopped fighting. He'd just become successful enough to put his men's bodies back together cleanly and efficiently so they could go out and bleed some more.

Zan was still watching her, so she hid her worry and anger behind a smile. "Don't go getting ideas. I'm just doing what your doctor should have."

"No ideas," he rumbled as he sat. He was so tall that he loomed above the back of the chair, affording her easy access to the muscled lines of his shoulders.

She set the bag aside and broke the wax seal on the glass bottle. The scents of vanilla and chili filled the air, growing stronger as she spilled the oil into her palm. "This will warm up on your skin, but if it burns or itches or anything else, let me know. Some people have sensitivities."

"Hmph." He stretched and leaned his head forward. "I think I'll make it."

He might, but her survival instincts were in serious question. She had an hour at most before people would expect the store to open back up. She usually spent that time choking down a hasty meal and rushing to pack her afternoon orders. If she wanted to fall into bed with enough time for a half-decent night's sleep, she needed to get ahead of the work.

Instead, here she was, putting her slick palms on Zan's back and fighting a shiver of pure carnal appreciation.
She
was getting ideas now. Ideas about all the other ways these muscles could flex, and what he could be doing to her while they flexed.

Lord, she
had
to find some safe little street punk to ride before she did something stupid—like convince herself she could fuck an O'Kane and walk away a free woman. There were always chains with the O'Kanes, even if they weren't the literal kind.

Though those seemed to show up often enough, too.

He sighed and rolled his head to one side, giving her more room to work her hands over his injured shoulder. "You were right. Hot."

Hot was right. She was plenty flushed—and fervently grateful that her leather vest hid the damning evidence of her tight, aching nipples. She worked her way gently around the worst of the scarring, feeling for points of tension and reminding herself with every touch that it was wrong to take pleasure in the feel of him under her hands.

She found a particularly stubborn knot and returned to it, bracing one hand on his good shoulder. "Tell me if this hurts too much."

Zan sucked in a breath, but he didn't flinch. "No worse than punching Cruz in his steel-plated jaw."

"Cruz? Is he the one who fought three men in the cage and won?"

"Yeah. His jaw isn't really steel-plated, though. Probably."

Zan's jaw was so close. Especially with the way his head was tilted, exposing his throat. She didn't really make the decision to touch him, it just...
happened
. She skated her knuckles over the underside of his chin, savoring the rough rasp of his beard. "Yours feels suspiciously tough. Remind me not to punch you there."

"If you punch me at all, I have a feeling it'll mean I fucked up. Bad."

"Probably." It was a terrible idea, but she trailed the backs of her fingers along the side of his neck on her way back to his shoulder. What would it be like, having all this strength at her disposal? Heady. Intoxicating. A girl could get reckless with a man like Zan around, every flexing muscle its own silent promise.
You're safe. You're protected
.

But knowing history meant knowing how swiftly the balance of power could change. Hell, she was living proof of what happened to a woman surviving on borrowed safety when the man with the muscles fell.

He was an enchanting temptation, but he wasn't for her. So she worked the last knot out of his shoulder and let her hands fall away. "I'll put the rest in the bag. I'm sure you can find someone willing to give you another rubdown tomorrow."

He turned impossibly fast and caught her wrist. "Maybe you can do it."

Tatiana tensed, but her body betrayed her. If any other man had grabbed her without warning, she'd already have her knife out of her boot. But Zan was under her skin, making her stupid. And—worse—making her
want
.

"Oh, is that what you're after?" She kept her voice light. "Damn, Zan. You should have just said so, and I could have told you that you're not my type."

His fingers tightened for a fraction of a second before relaxing. Even then, he didn't release her, just rubbed his thumb over the inside of her wrist.

He didn't say a word, but it was there in his eyes, burning. Certain.

Liar.

Fair enough. She would have called bullshit on it, too. Her heart was racing, and it was too easy to imagine giving in. She'd heard that no one did rough and wild like an O'Kane. Zan could have her bent over her desk and coming on his fingers in five minutes—if you listened to rumors. Or maybe he wouldn't even fuck around. Maybe he'd find out how wet she was and just go for it, driving his cock so deep she'd feel it for days.

"Complicated." She covered his fingers with her own, tugging lightly in an attempt to free her wrist. "That's what you are, sugar, I don't care how much you crank my engine. And complicated isn't my type."

He held on to her for a heartbeat longer, then opened his hand. "Complicated, huh?"

She could still feel his touch, the heat and memory of his grip lingering on her wrist even after she strode to the sink to wash her hands. "Things are tense right now, you know that. I'm trying to talk my sister around, but..."

Too late, she realized she was talking to him like he was a friend. Like he was a part of her life, someone who could be trusted, someone whose loyalties didn't lie in direct conflict with Catalina's.

Her sister was being stupid, for sure. Wallace had known just how to work her, and Tatiana's initial attempts to intervene had done more harm than good. After years of driving herself past the point of exhaustion to ensure an easier life for her baby sister, it seemed all Tatiana had managed to do was raise a spoiled princess even more sheltered than
she'd
been.

Zan's gaze softened, and he rose in front of her, a solid wall of muscle and bare, bronzed skin. "I can help you with that, Tatiana."

It could be a trap. A beautifully baited one. Dallas might not have the subtlety for this, but he had Lex at his side now, a woman trained in manipulation and deception in the most elite brothel in the sectors. They could woo her into their camp with a clean conscience, because it wasn't like they couldn't deliver on their promises. They'd give her a soft life as a kept woman, no doubt about it.

All she'd have to do was shatter her sister's trust and probably lose her forever.

She stared up into Zan's eyes and saw no hint of deception. No sign he was working an angle or here just to fuck her into orgasm-addled compliance. But that didn't mean a damn thing. Zan could have come to her in all earnestness and still be part of the trap.

Or he could know exactly what he was doing.

"I need to think," she whispered, holding his gaze. She couldn't look at the rest of him because, trap or not, she was tired. Tired and lonely and all too susceptible to heroes. The last time she'd let one rescue her, she'd ended up with a badly bruised heart.

This time would be so much worse.

Zan gave her a short nod and reached for his shirt. "You should. You think long and hard, and do it now. Before next time."

Something in the words stirred a dangerous echo in her. They weren't quite menacing enough to be a warning, but they held an edge of irresistible challenge. "Why, Zan? What happens next time?"

"You make a decision," he answered simply. "Whether I'm worth it or not."

"Tell me something first. Why me?"

He had his hand on the door already, even though his shirt was still hanging open over his bare chest, revealing hints of the ink on his skin. He paused and looked back at her. "You know better than to ask me that. And not because of Dallas or your sister or anyone else."

She'd been a fool
not
to ask him that, and a bigger fool to expect an honest answer. Zan had been collecting her payments and coming around the store for years without taking off his shirt and doing his damnedest to melt her knees.

He was a trap, all right. And she was a Stone. Reckless, greedy, and self-destructive. She could stare at him, knowing full well that he signaled the end of her carefully ordered world, and still be tempted.

Still be stupid. "Why me?" she repeated, all that Stone recklessness turning it into a challenge.

He met her gaze, unflinching and unabashed. "Because I don't just look at you," he murmured. "I see you. I've been seeing you for months."

If it was a calculated lie, it was the sweetest one she'd ever heard—and that was proof enough that she was in trouble. She'd built her defenses to protect her from the harsh realities of sector life. Men who coerced and intimidated, who tried to take and dominate.