by J. R. Ward
As he looked at the dress, the effects of the alcohol made it seem as if the skirting was caught in a breeze, the bloodred fabric waving to and fro, the weight catching the light and reflecting it back at him at various angles.
Except he was the one moving, wasn’t he.
Reaching up, he lifted the hanger from where it had been slung over the sconce, and carried the gown inside his room, shutting his door behind them both. Over at the bed, he laid the dress out on the side that Wellsie had always preferred—the one farthest from the door—and carefully arranged the sleeves and the skirting, making minute adjustments until it was in perfect position.
Then he willed the lights off.
Lying down, he curled on his side, putting his head on the pillow opposite the one that would have supported his Wellsie’s head.
With a shaking hand, he touched the satin of the filled-out bodice, feeling the whalebones set within the fabric, the structure of the dress built to enhance a female’s gentle, curving body.
It was not as good as her rib cage. Just as the satin was not as good as her body. And the sleeves weren’t as good as her arms.
“I miss you.…” He stroked the indentation of the gown where her waist would have been—should have been. “I miss you so much.”
To think she had once filled this dress out. Had lived inside of it for a brief time, nothing but a camera shot of one evening in both their lives.
Why couldn’t his memories bring her back? They felt strong enough, powerful enough, a summoning spell that should have had her magically reinflating the gown.
Except she was alive only in his mind. Ever with him, always out of reach.
That’s what death was, he realized. The great fictionalizer.
And just as he would have reread a passage in a book, he remembered their mating day, the way he had stood so nervously to one side of his brothers, fidgeting with his satin robe and his jeweled belt. His blooded sire, Hharm, had yet to come around, the reconciliation that had arrived at the end of his life still a century in the making. But Darius had been there, the male looking over at him every second or two, no doubt because he’d been worried Tohr was going to pass the fuck out.
Which had made two of them.
And then Wellsie had shown.…
Tohr slipped his palm down to the satin skirting. Closing his eyes, he imagined her warm, vital flesh filling out the gown once again, her breath expanding and contracting the confines of the bodice, her long, long legs holding the skirting up off the floor, her red hair curling down to the black lace of the sleeves.
In his vision, she was real and she was in his arms, looking up at him from under her lashes as they had danced the minuet with the others. They’d both been virgins that night. He’d been a fumbling idiot. She’d known exactly what to do. And that was pretty much the way things had continued throughout their mating.
Although he’d gotten pretty goddamn good at the sex, pretty fucking fast.
They had been yin and yang, and yet exactly the same: He’d been a sergeant with the Brotherhood, she’d been the general at home, and together, they’d had it all.…
Maybe that was why it had happened, he thought. He’d had too much luck and so had she, and the Scribe Virgin had had to level that score.
And now here he was, empty just like the dress, because what had filled both him and this gown was gone.
The tears that came out of his eyes were silent, the kind that seeped out and soaked the pillow, traveling over the bridge of his nose and falling free to drop one after another like rain from the lip of a roof.
His thumb went back and forth over the satin, as if he were rubbing her hip as he had when they’d been together, and he moved his leg over so that it was on top of the skirting.
It wasn’t the same, though. There was no body underneath, and the fabric smelled like lemons, not her skin. And he was, after all, alone in this room that was not theirs.
“God, I miss you,” he said in a voice that cracked. “Every night. Every day…”
From across the dark bedroom, Lassiter stood in the corner next to the highboy, feeling like crap while Tohr whispered to the dress.
Scrubbing his face, he wondered why… why in the hell, of all the ways he could have gotten free of the In Between, did it have to be this one.
The shit was starting to get to him.
Him. The angel who didn’t give a shit about other people, the one who should have been a claims adjuster or a personal injury lawyer or anything on the earth where screwing others was an asset in his course of work.
He should never have been an angel. That required a skill set he didn’t have, and couldn’t fake.
Back when the Maker had approached him with an opportunity to redeem himself, he’d been too focused on the idea of getting free to think about the particulars of the assignment. All he’d heard was something along the lines of, “Go to earth, get this vampire back on track, set that shellan free,” yada, yada, yada.… After which he’d be released to go about his business instead of stuck in the land of neither-here-nor-there. Seemed like a good deal. And in the beginning, it was. Show up in the woods with a Big Mac, feed the sorry bastard, drag him back here… and then wait until Tohr was strong enough physically to start the process of moving on.
Good plan. Except then came the stall-out.
“Moving on” was more than just fighting the enemy, apparently.
He’d been losing hope, about to throw up his hands… when suddenly that female No’One appeared in the house—and for the first time, Tohr actually focused on something.
Which was when light dawned on Marblehead: “Moving on” was going to require another level of participation in the world.
Sure. Fine. Dandy. Get the guy laid, great. Then everyone won—most especially Lassiter himself. And, shit, the instant he’d seen No’One without that hood up, he’d known he was on the right track. She was astonishingly beautiful, the kind of female who made even a male who wasn’t interested in anything like that stand a little straighter and jack his slacks up. She had paper white skin, and blond hair that would have come down to her hips if it hadn’t been braided. With lips that were pink, and eyes that were a lovely gray, and cheeks that were the color of the inside of a strawberry, she was too bright to be real.
And clearly she was perfect for other reasons: She wanted to make amends, and Lassiter had been assuming that with any luck, nature would take its course and everything would fall into place… and she would fall into the Brother’s bed.
Sure. Fine. Dandy.
Except, whatever. This… display… across the way? Not sure, not fine, not dandy.
That kind of suffering was a canyon, a purgatory of its own for someone who had not died. And damned if the angel had any clue how to drag the Brother out of it.
Frankly, he was having enough trouble just playing witness.
And on that note, he hadn’t planned on respecting the guy. After all, he was on a mission, not here to get buddy-buddy with his key to freedom.
Trouble was, as the acrid scent of the male’s agony rose up and filled the room, it was impossible not to feel for him.
Man, he just couldn’t fucking take this.
Spiriting himself out into the corridor, he walked alone down the hall of statues to the head of the great staircase. Planting his ass on the top step, he listened to the sounds of the house. Down below, the doggen were cleaning up after Last Meal, their cheerful running commentary like chamber music in the background, all bippity-boppity, busy-busy. Behind him, in the study, the king and queen were… “working,” so to speak, Wrath’s bonding scent thick in the air, Beth’s hitched breathing very quiet. The rest of the house was relatively quiet, the other Brothers and shellans and guests retiring for sleep… or other things along the lines of what the royal couple were up to.
Lifting his eyes, he focused on the painted ceiling that was high above the mosaic floor of the foyer. Over the heads of the depicted warriors on thei
r fearsome, grimacing steeds, the blue sky and white clouds were kind of ridiculous—after all, vampires couldn’t fight during the day. But, whatever, that was the beauty of representing reality instead of being in it: When you had the paintbrush in your hand, you were the god you wished ruled your life, capable of picking and choosing among fate’s catalog of wares and destiny’s deck of cards to your prolonged and sustained advantage.
Peering into the clouds, he waited for the figure he was looking for to appear, and soon it did.
Wellesandra was seated in a vast, desolate field, the endless gray plain studded with large boulders, the merciless wind blowing at her from all directions. She was not doing as well as she had been when he’d first seen her. Beneath the gray blanket that she clutched to herself and the young, she had grown paler, her red hair fading to a dull stain, her skin going pasty, her eyes no longer any discernible shade of sherry brown. And the babe in her arms, the tiny, swaddled bundle, didn’t move as much anymore.
This was the tragedy of the In Between. Unlike the Fade, it wasn’t meant to be forever. It was a way station to a final destination, and everyone’s was a little different. The only thing that was the same? If you stayed too long, you couldn’t get out. No eternal grace for you.
You just transitioned into a Dhund-like nothingness, with no chance of ever getting free of the void.
And these two were reaching the end of their rope.
“I’m doing the best I can,” he said to them. “Just hold on… fucking hell, just hold on.”
EIGHT
The first thing Xhex did when she checked back into consciousness was look for John in the recovery room.
He wasn’t in the chair across the way. Wasn’t on the floor, propped up in the corner. Wasn’t on the bed beside her.
She was alone.
Where the hell was he?
Oh, yeah, sure. He crawled all over her in the field, but then he left her here? Had he even come back for her operation?
With a groan, she considered rolling onto her side, but with all the IV lines in her arm and wires on her chest, she decided not to fight her plug-ins. Well, and then there was the happy fact that someone had drilled a large bore hole in her shoulder. A number of times.
Lying there with a snarl on her face, everything about the room annoyed her. The blow of the heat from the ceiling, the whirring sound of the machines behind her head, the sheets that felt like sandpaper, the rock-hard pillow and the too-soft mattress…
Where the fuck was John?
For the love of God, she may have made a mistake mating him. The loving him thing was what it was—no changing that, and she wouldn’t want to. But she should have known better than to make things official. Even though the traditional sex roles of vampires were changing, thanks in large part to Wrath loosening up the Old Ways, there was still a load of patriarchal shit surrounding shellans. You could be a friend, a girlfriend, a lover, a coworker, a car mechanic, for fuck’s sake, and expect your life to be your own.
But she feared that once your name was in the back of a male—and worse, a full-blooded warrior male—things changed. Expectations shifted.
Your mate started getting up in your face and thinking you couldn’t take care of yourself.
Where was John?
Fed up, she shoved herself off the pillows, took out her IV and clipped the end so that the saline and whatever else didn’t drip all over the floor. Next she silenced the heart monitor behind her, and then ripped the pads off her chest with her free hand.
She kept her right arm immobilized against her rib cage—she just needed to walk, not wave a flag.
At least she didn’t have a catheter.
Putting her feet on the linoleum, she stood up carefully and gave herself props for being such a good little patient. In the bathroom, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, used the loo.
When she came back out, she expected to see John in one of the two doorways.
Nope.
Going around the end of the bed, she took things slowly, because her body was logy from the drugs, the operation, and the fact that she needed to feed—although shit knew, scoring John’s vein was the last thing she was interested in. The longer he stayed away, the more she didn’t want to see his hairy ass.
Goddamn it.
Over at the closet, she opened the paneled doors, ditched her johnny, and changed into some scrubs—which, of course, were not her size, but male-sized. And wasn’t that a metaphor. As she struggled to dress with one hand, she cursed John, the Brotherhood, the role of shellans, females in general… and especially the shirt and pants, as she struggled to one-handedly roll up the bottoms that pooled around her feet.
As she marched for the door, she studiously ignored the fact that she was looking for her mate, and instead focused on the songs going through her head, little a cappella versions of such happy Top 40 hits as “What Gave Him the Right to Call Her Out on the Field,” “How in the Hell Could He Have Left Her Down Here Alone,” and the ever-popular standby “All Males are Morons.”
Doo-dah, doo-dah.
Tearing open the door, she—
Across the corridor, John was sitting on the hard floor, knees peaked like tent poles, arms crossed around his chest. His eyes met hers the instant she made an appearance—not because he looked her way, but because he had been focused on the space she would fill long before she had actually come out.
The ranting in her brain silenced: He looked like he had been through hell and had carried the flames of the devil’s living room back in his bare hands.
Unwrapping his arms, he signed, I thought you might like your privacy.
Well, shit. There he went, ruining her bad temper.
Shuffling over, she eased herself down beside him. He didn’t help her, and she knew he was doing that on purpose—as a way to honor her independence.
“Guess this was our first fight,” she said.
He nodded. I hated it. The whole thing. And I’m sorry—I just… I can’t explain what came over me, but when I saw you injured, I snapped.
Her exhale was long and slow. “You were okay with me fighting. Right before we were mated, you said you were cool with it.”
I know. And I still am.
“You sure about that.”
After a moment, he nodded again. I love you.
“Me, too. I mean, you. You know.”
But he hadn’t really answered her, had he. And she didn’t have the energy to follow up any further. The pair of them just sat on that floor in silence until eventually she reached out and took his hand.
“I need to feed,” she said roughly. “Will you…”
His eyes shot to hers and his head bobbed. Always, he mouthed.
She got to her feet without his aid and extended her free hand to him. When he took her palm, she summoned her strength and pulled him up. Then she led him into the recovery room, and locked the doors with her mind as he sat down on the bed.
He was rubbing his palms on his leathers as if he were nervous, and before she could go over to him, he jumped up. I need to shower. I can’t get close to you like this—I’m covered in blood.
God, she hadn’t even noticed he was still in his fighting clothes. “Okay.”
They traded places, she heading for the edge of the mattress, he going for the bathroom to turn on the hot water. He left the door open… so as he stripped off his muscle shirt, she watched his shoulders bunch and twist.
Her name, Xhexania, was not just tattooed, but carved in beautiful symbols across his back.
As he bent down to draw off his leathers, his ass made a stupendous appearance, his heavy thighs flexing as he shucked one leg and then the other. When he got in the shower, he went out of eyeshot, but he returned soon thereafter.
He was not aroused, she realized.
First time for that. Especially as she was about to feed.
John wrapped a towel around his hips and tucked the end in at his waist. As he turned to her, his grave eyes mad
e her sad. Would you like me to put on a robe?
What the hell had happened to them? she thought. And for fuck’s sake, they had been through too much just to get to what should be the good stuff only to screw it up.
“No.” She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “Please… no…”
As he came forward, he kept that towel right where it was.
When he got in front of her, he sank down onto his knees and put up his wrist. Take from me. Please let me take care of you.
Xhex leaned in and clasped his hand. Passing her thumb back and forth over his vein, she felt the connection rise between them once again, that link that had been sliced through in the alley reknitting, an injury healing.
Reaching out, she clasped the back of his neck and brought his mouth to hers. Kissing him slowly, thoroughly, she spread her legs, making room for him as he eased forward, his hips finding the place that was his and his alone.
When the towel hit the floor, her hand went to his sex—and found that it had hardened.
Just as she wanted it to.
Stroking him, she curled her upper lip, exposing her fangs. Then, tilting her head to the side, she ran one razor-sharp tip up his neck.
His huge body shuddered—so she repeated the motion, this time with her tongue. “Come up on the bed with me.”
John wasted no time, filling the space she vacated as she pushed herself back to make room for him.
Lot of eye contact. As if they were both reacquainting themselves with each other.
Taking his hand, she put it on her hip as she rolled into him, and as their bodies made contact, his grip tightened, his bonding scent flaring.
She’d intended to keep things slow and low-key. But their flesh had a different plan. Need grabbed the reins and took over, and she struck his throat with a powerful lunge, taking what she had to have to survive and be at her strongest—and also marking him in her own way. In response, his body jacked against her own, his erection wanting inside of her.
While she took great drags on his vein, she struggled to get her scrubs off—but he took care of that for her, gripping the waist and yanking the pants so hard the fabric split on a clean, screaming rip. And then his hand was right where she wanted it to be, moving against her core, slipping and sliding, teasing and then entering her. Working herself against his long, penetrating fingers, she found a rhythm that was guaranteed to get them both off, her moans competing in her throat with the blood she was downing at an alarming rate.