The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

He wanted to be all over her, inside of her.

  He wanted to do some marking of his own.

  Cormia knew that her body was doing exactly what the Primale’s had the day before. The gathering storm and the urgency she felt and the heat roaring through her told her she was where he had been.

  On the brink.

  The Primale was huge between her legs, his broad shoulders stretching her wide. His gorgeous multicolored hair was all over her thighs, and his mouth was like on like against her core, lips meeting lips, slippery tongue against slick folds. It all seemed so glorious and scary and inevitable . . . and the only reason she wasn’t completely overwhelmed was his hand on hers.

  The touch was better than any words of reassurance on so many levels—but mostly because if he’d tried to speak to her, he would have had to stop what he was doing, and that would have been a crime.

  Just when she thought she would fragment apart, a wave of energy crashed down all over her, sweeping her up and away to some other place as her body rhythmically surged. As all that wonderful tension snapped free, the release was so satisfying tears sprang to her eyes, and she cried out something—or maybe it was nothing, just an explosion of breath.

  When it was over, the Primale lifted his head, his tongue taking on one last lingering upstroke before flicking free of her core.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes wild and yellow.

  She opened her mouth to speak. When nothing coherent came out, she nodded.

  The Primale licked his lips nice and slow, flashing the tips of fangs that were visible . . . and became even more pronounced as he looked at her neck.

  Shifting her head to the side and offering him her vein was the most natural thing in the world to do.

  “Take from me,” she said.

  His eyes flared and he prowled up her body, kissing her stomach and pausing at one of her nipples, giving it lapping attention. And then his fangs were over her throat. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes—oh, GOD!”

  His strike was hard and deep, and it happened so fast . . . just as she’d imagined it would. He was a Brother in need of what sustained them all, and she was nothing fragile to be broken. She gave and he took and another surge of that wild tension began to build in her again.

  She shifted on the table, spreading her legs. “Take me. Whilst you do this . . . be in me.”

  Without breaking the seal on her throat, he growled wildly and worked at his pants, the belt buckle clanging against the table. He shifted her down to the end roughly, clapped his hands behind her knees, and eased her open.

  She felt a hot, hard probe—

  But then he stopped.

  The sucking drifted off to a soft lapping and then to little kisses, and then he grew motionless except for his breathing. She could still sense the sex in his blood, could still smell his dark scent, could still feel the need for her vein, but he didn’t move even though she was spread for his use.

  He let go of her legs, gently put them down, and gathered her up, tucking his head into her shoulder.

  She held him gently, the tremendous weight of his muscles and bones balanced between the floor and the table so he didn’t crush her.

  “Are you all right?” she said into his ear.

  His head shook back and forth and inched even closer to her. “I need you to know something.”

  “What ails you?” She stroked his shoulder. “Talk to me.”

  He said something that she didn’t catch. “What?”

  “I’m . . . a virgin.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  "TONIGHT?” Xhex asked. “You’re going up north tonight?”

  Rehv nodded and went back to reviewing the construction plans for his new club. The sheaves of paper were stretched out across his desk, the blue architectural renderings overtaking all his other paperwork.

  Nope. This was not what he wanted. The flow wasn’t right—it was too open. He wanted a layout that was full of small spaces where people could get off in the shadows. He wanted a dance floor, sure, but not a square one. He wanted unusual. Creepy. Vaguely threatening and very elegant. He wanted the club to be Edgar Allan Poe and Bram Stoker and Jack the Ripper, only done in nickel-plated chrome and a lot of glossy black. Victorian meets modern Goth.

  The shit he was looking at was like every other club in town.

  He pushed the plans away and checked his watch. “I gotta go.”

  Xhex crossed her arms and stood in front of the office’s door.

  “And no, you’re not,” he said.

  “I want to come.”

  “Am I having a nasty flashback? Because didn’t we just do this the night before last? As well as a hundred other times? The answer is and always will be no.”

  “Why?” she snapped. “I’ve never understood why. You let Trez go.”

  “Trez is different.” Rehv pulled on his sable coat and opened the drawer of the desk. The new pair of Glock forties he’d just bought fit perfectly into the holster he’d put on with his Bottega Veneta suit.

  “I know what you do. With her.”

  Rehv froze. Then continued slipping the guns into their sleeves. “Of course you do. I meet with her. Give her the money. Leave.”

  “That’s not all you do.”

  He flashed his fangs at her. “Yes. It is.”

  “No, it isn’t. Is that what you don’t want me to see?”

  Rehv bit down on his molars and glared at her from across the office. “There is nothing to see. Period.”

  Xhex didn’t back down often, but she had the good sense not to push him any further. Even though her anger simmered in her eyes, she said, “Changes in schedule are not good. She tell you why?”

  “No.” He headed for the door. “But this is just going to be business as usual.”

  “It’s never business as usual. You’ve just forgotten that.”

  He thought of the years of this dirty shit and the fact that the future held only more of the same. “You’re so wrong about the forgetting part. Trust me.”

  “Tell me something. If she tried to hurt you, would you shoot to kill?”

  “You did not just ask me that.”

  The topic of conversation alone was enough to make him want to peel his skin off and send the shit to a dry cleaner. The idea that Xhex was calling him out on something he didn’t want to look too closely at was beyond the pale.

  The truth was, a part of him loved what he did once a month, too. And that reality was totally unbearable when he was in the world he mostly inhabited, the world the dopamine allowed him to live in, the world that was relatively normal and healthy.

  That little slice of ugliness in his heart was something he sure as fuck wasn’t sharing with anybody.

  Xhex put her hands on her hips and kicked up her chin, her classic pose whenever they argued. “Call me when it’s done.”

  “I always do.”

  He gathered together the plans for the club, picked up his overday bag, and stepped out of his office and into the alley. Trez was waiting in the Bentley, and when he saw Rehv, he vacated the driver’s seat.

  The Moor’s voice appeared in Rehv’s head, deep, melodic. I’LL BE THERE IN ABOUT A HALF HOUR TO SCOPE THE ENVIRONS AND CHECK THE CABIN.

  “Good deal.”

  TELL ME YOU’RE UNMEDICATED.

  Rehv clapped the guy on the shoulder. “As of an hour ago. And yes, I have the antivenom.”

  GOOD. DRIVE SAFELY, ASSHOLE.

  “No. I’m going to aim for logging trucks and stray deer.”

  Trez shut the door and took a step back. As he crossed his arms over his massive chest, he cracked a rare smile, his white fangs glowing against his dark, beautiful face. For a split second, his eyes flashed brilliant peridot green—the Moorish equivalent of a wink.

  As Rehvenge took off, he was glad Trez backed him up. The Moor and his brother, iAm, had a bag of fancy tricks that would challenge even a symphath. They were, after all, royal members of the s’Hisbe of Shadows.
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  Rehv glanced at the Bentley’s clock. He was due to meet the Princess at one a.m. Considering it was a two-hour trip north and it was now eleven fifteen, he was going to have to drive like a bat out of hell.

  As he took off, he thought about Xhex. He didn’t want to know how she knew about the sex . . . hoped like hell she continued to respect his wishes and not show up and hang in the shadows.

  He hated that she knew he was nothing but a whore.

  On one hand, Phury couldn’t believe that the words “I am a virgin” had come out of his mouth. On another, he was glad he’d said them.

  He had no idea what Cormia thought, though. She was dead quiet.

  He pulled back just enough so he could stuff his sex back in his pants and zip up, then he righted her robe, bringing the two halves together and covering her beautiful body up.

  In the silence between them, he paced around the room, going from the door to the far wall and back.

  Her eyes watched his every move. God, what the hell was she thinking?

  “I suppose it shouldn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t know why I brought it up.”

  “How is it possible . . . I’m sorry. That’s so inappropriate—”

  “No, I don’t mind explaining.” He paused, unsure as to whether she’d read about Zsadist’s past. “I took a vow of celibacy when I was young. To make me stronger. And I stuck to it.”

  Not quite, mate, the wizard chimed in. Tell her about the whore, why don’t you. Tell her about the prostitute that you bought at ZeroSum and took into a bathroom and couldn’t finish with.

  How typical of you to be exceptional in that manner. The only soiled virgin on the planet.

  Phury stopped in front of his drawing on the blackboard. He’d ruined everything.

  Picking up a piece of chalk, he started at her feet, beginning to draw the ivy leaves.

  “What are you doing?” she said. “You’re ruining it.”

  Ah, lass, the wizard answered. However good he is at drawing, he’s better at ruination.

  Before long, the stunning figure of her was covered with a blanket of ivy leaves. When he was finished, he stepped back from the board. “I tried sex once. And it didn’t work out.”

  “Why not?” she asked in a tight voice.

  “It wasn’t right. It wasn’t a good choice. I stopped.”

  There was a pause and then a shuffling sound as she got off the table. “Just as it was now with me.”

  He spun around. “No, that isn’t—”

  “You stopped, didn’t you. You chose not to go on.”

  “Cormia, it’s not that—”

  “Who are you saving yourself for?” Her eyes were smart as hell as she looked at him. “Or is it more like what? Is it the fantasy you have of Bella? Is that what’s stopping you? If it is, I feel sorry for the Chosen. But if the celibacy is to keep yourself insulated and safe, I feel sorry for you. That strength is a lie.”

  She was right. Fuck him, but she was so right.

  Cormia coiled up her hair and regarded him with a queen’s dignity as she pinned it in place. “I’m going back to the Sanctuary. I wish you well.”

  As she turned away, he jogged over to her. “Cormia, wait—”

  She took her arm away when he tried to take it. “Why should I wait? What precisely is going to change? Nothing. Go be with the others. If you can. And if you can’t, you need to step down so someone else can be the strength the race needs.”

  She clapped the door shut behind her.

  Standing in the empty classroom, with the wizard’s laughter ringing in his ears, Phury closed his eyes and felt the world shrink down all around him until his past and his present and his future were choking him of breath . . . turning him into one of the statues in his family’s overgrown, dead garden.

  That strength is a lie. . . .

  In the silence that surrounded him, her words just kept replaying in his head, over and over again.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  "This is just a club,” the Omega’s son said, his voice at once defeated and annoyed.

  Mr. D turned off the Focus’s wheezer of an engine and looked over. “Yup. And we’re going to get you what you need here.”

  They’d been driving around aimlessly for quite a while, because the Omega’s son couldn’t stop throwing up. The last heaving session had been about forty minutes ago, though, so Mr. D was pretty sure things had done settled some. Hard to know whether the pukin’ were because of what the son had had to do or on account of his induction. Either way, Mr. D had taken care of him, even holding the son’s head up at one point, because the guy had been too weak to do it himself.

  Screamer’s was the right place for them to be hauntin’. Even though the son of the Evil wouldn’t be able to eat or have sex, there was one sure thing they would find here: drunken human males what could be used as punching bags.

  Tired and overwrought as the son was, he had power in his veins, power that needed to be triggered. The club and its idiots were the gun. The son was the bullet.

  And a fight would revive things real good. “Come on, now,” Mr. D said, getting out.

  “This is bullshit.” The words mighta sounded strong, but the tone was still that of a guy whose grain silo was empty.

  “It ain’t.” Mr. D walked around, opened the son’s door, and helped him out. "Y’all gotta trust me.”

  They walked across the street to the club, and when the bouncer at the head of the wait line glared at Mr. D, he slipped the big man a fifty, which got them in.

  “We gonna just have a hang-around,” Mr. D said as he took them through the crowd and over to the bar.

  All through the club, hard-core rap thumped, while women dressed in bits of leather paraded by on cock patrol and men glared at one another.

  He knew he’d done right when the son’s eyes rifle-sighted a group of college-y guys who was barking loudly and sucking back hot sauce in martini glasses.

  “Yup, we just havin’ ourselves a little breather,” Mr. D said with satisfaction.

  The bartender came by. “Whatchu want?”

  Mr. D smiled. “Nothing for us—”

  “Shot of Patrón,” the son said.

  As the bartender went off, Mr. D leaned in. “You can’t eat no more. No drinking ’n’ no sex neither.”

  The son’s pale eyes shot over to him. “What? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “No, suh, that’s the way—”

  “Yeah, fuck that.” When the shot glass came down for a landing, the son said to the bartender, “Start a tab.”

  Lash tossed back the tequila while glaring at Mr. D.

  Mr. D shook his head and started scouting for the bathroom. Yeah, boy, when he’d tried the food routine he’d ended up hurling for an hour, and hadn’t they already done enough of that tonight?

  “Where’s my second,” Lash barked out to the bartender.

  Mr. D swiveled his head back around. The Omega’s son was standing there, happy as you please, tapping his fingers on the bar. The second shot came. Then the third.

  After the fourth was ordered, Lash’s pale eyes slid over, aggression flaring in them. “So what was this about no eating and no drinking?”

  Mr. D couldn’t decide whether he was looking at a bomb about to go off . . . or a miracle. No lessers were able to take food and drink once they’d been turned. The Omega’s black blood nourished them and was incompatible with anything else. All they needed to survive was a couple of hours of rest every day.

  “I guess you is different,” Mr. D said with respect in his voice.

  “Damn straight I am,” the son muttered, and then ordered a hamburger.

  As the guy ate and drank, you could see the color come back into his face and the spaced-out look get replaced by confidence. And while watching that hamburger and fries and all that tequila go down into Lash’s gullet, Mr. D had to wonder whether the son would pale out as the rest of the lessers did. The regular rules were clearly not applying her
e.

  “And what is this shit about no sex?” the son said as he wiped his mouth on a black paper napkin.

  “We is impotent. You know, can’t get—”

  “I know what it means, Professor.”

  The son eyed a blond loose goose at the end of the bar. The woman was no one Mr. D would have had the guts to go after, even if he’d been able to get it up. With her Play-boy body and her prom-queen face, he woulda given her a pass as out of his league. Not that she’d have noticed him to begin with.

  She noticed the son, though, and the way she were looking at the guy made Mr. D measure his new boss right careful. Lash was a handsome sonofa, true ’nough, with his cropped blond hair and his chiseled face and those gray eyes. And he had the kind of body the women done go for, big and muscled, his torso an inverted triangle sitting on his hips, ready for all kinds of action.

  It dawned on Mr. D that if they was still in school, he’d be proud to be seen with the son. And likely on the outs with the kind of people the son hung with.

  But this weren’t school, and Lash needed him. Knew it, too.

  The girl across the way smiled at the son, picked the cherry out of her blue drink, and swirled her pink tongue around the dangler.

  You could kind of imagine her doing that to a set of balls and Mr. D had to look away. Oh, yes’m, he’da been blushing right good if he’d still been human. He’d always been a blusher when it came to girls.

  The son shifted off his bar stool. “No food. No sex. Yeah, right. Wait here, motherfucker.”

  The son turned away and headed for the woman.

  As Mr. D got left at the bar with an empty shot glass and a plate with smudges of ketchup and grease on it, he supposed he’d done good. He’d wanted to get the Omega’s son thinking about something other than slaughtering his vampire parents . . . he’d just figured it was going to be a good fistfight.

  Instead, the son had a nice little meal and got hisself some booze. And was now going to top things off by banging the experience out of his memory.

  Mr. D shook his head at the bartender when he was asked if he wanted something. Damn shame he couldn’t drink no more. He’d liked his SoCo. Could have used the hamburger, too. He’d loved his burgers, he really had.