I follow him in without being invited.
The cadavers sit, covered, at our lab tables. The scent of formaldehyde greets us, familiar and nauseating all at once. Jason moves toward his desk at the front of the room, riffling through scattered papers.
“You look awful, Jason,” I say again as I walk up to his desk. “And you’re not acting like yourself.”
He stops and looks at me then, really looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot and tired. “What do you want from me, Angie?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh heavily and glance around the room. The stillness of it echoes my own confusion.
Jason turns back to his papers without responding. His shoulders are slumped. A silence grows between us, thick with words unspoken and feelings unexpressed.
“You should go,” he says as he picks up a few papers.
A sudden surge of anger hits me. “Well, if you’re going to be like that,” I snap, “then maybe I will.”
It’s an empty threat, and we both know it. But I also know that this isn’t the place or the time to push him. Jason needs something, but right now, he’s not willing to accept any help.
I turn and?—
He yanks me back, my body slamming against his chest.
The faint smell of liquor emanates from his breath.
“Are you drunk?” I demand.
He scowls. “Of course not.”
“Then what do I smell?”
He looks down. “The remnants of my bender last night.”
Bender? He told me he doesn’t drink much. Or did he say that? Hell, I don’t remember. I was too enamored with him being at my home, wine in tow, looking like a dark god with piercing green eyes.
“Why?” I ask.
“None of your damned business.”
Then his mouth comes down on mine.
It’s a ruthless kiss, a desperate one, full of pent-up frustration and hurt. He pulls me closer, tangling his hand in my ponytail. He rips out the band, and my hair falls down my back. I can taste the bitterness of alcohol on his tongue.
His lips move against mine with an urgency that leaves me breathless. I push against him, trying to create some semblance of distance, but he’s relentless. He tightens his grip and pulls me closer until there’s no space left between us.
I should resist him. I should push him away. But I don’t. Instead, I kiss him back and clutch at his shirt.
When we finally break apart, we’re both panting. He doesn’t let go of me. Instead, he rests his forehead against mine, his breath drifting over my lips.
“I’m sorry.” He steps backward.
There’s a wild desperation in his eyes that frightens me. He looks lost, tortured even. And I realize then just how little I actually know about this man.
Then—
“You know what? Fuck that. I’m not sorry. Not the least fucking bit sorry.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jason
