by J. R. Ward
Their time was totally coming to an end: she was going to continue to train and do the right thing by the species, and he had his career as a professional club douche to resume.
Busy, busy, on both their parts.
As his phone went off with a call, he ignored it and tried to get motivated for his walk of shame.
It was a good half hour before he made it down the hall and back. And after he had cleaned himself and everything else up, he laid himself flat on the desk again and passed out.
In his fitful rest, he was haunted by a lover with long dark hair, eyes of fire...and a will of steel.
As night fell the following evening, Saxton rolled over and looked at the other side of his bed. There had been a male in those twisted sheets. A body that he had used and which had used his own in return.
At the other end of the penthouse, a door shut quietly.
Saxton sat up and pushed his hair out of his eyes. Recollections of how he had spent the day made him feel hollow, and wasn't that a hangover he could have done without--and then there was the added fun of a dingy headache that came from too much champagne and not enough sleep.
When he was finally able to focus properly, he looked around at the sleek mirror-fronted bureaus and side tables, the black chairs, the soft gray rug, the pattern of evenly spaced hanging light fixtures that were like stars in the ceiling.
For no good reason, he thought of how he'd misled Blay.
He hadn't sold his Victorian house across town. Now, did he ever go there? Absolutely not. But the fact that he couldn't be in it anymore, yet nor could he let it go, had seemed like a weakness best kept to himself: It was a sad reality that he was paying property taxes on a shrine to a love that had gone nowhere.
Well, not exactly nowhere. He had been in pain for quite some time now, and that certainly felt like a destination.
Not a good one, granted.
With a subtle hiss, the automatic shutters on all the glass panels started to rise, revealing the twinkling lights of the city by inches, curtains pulled away by an invisible hand. And it was strange...as he considered once more how he had spent the day, he realized that for once, Blay had not been the reason for his little dalliance. Usually the male was. Yet in fact all those pneumatics had been caused by...
He frowned and rubbed his gritty eyes. But no. Surely he must have imagined that moment, when he and Ruhn had been in that truck, and Ruhn had looked over at him? It could have been anything.
Just because he found the male attractive did not mean that regard was mutual.
Still, there had been an undeniable trickle-down effect, a gnawing, restless energy that had ultimately taken him into his contacts list and through the entries of males and human men that he had availed himself of from time to time. Most of them were acquaintances, individuals he met at clubs or parties, and he never asked about their couple status. All he cared about, as did they, was that they could fuck well.
Not to put it too bluntly.
And the fact that he had chosen one with dark hair and a big, strong body? He supposed he could look at it as a sign of improvement. At least it hadn't been a redhead. Somehow, though, it was hard to be encouraged by the fact that he had traded one male he couldn't have for another.
"Enough," he said aloud.
Shifting his legs out from the satin sheets, he sent himself toward the bath, the subtle aches and click to his hip the kind of things he was used to after a day like the one he'd had--and he tried not to think of Blay and the past. Back when he had been with that male, the aftermath of the sex had been more about the warmth in the center of his chest and the side smile that had come unto him whenever he had thought about his love.
What he was experiencing now was nothing more than the mechanical residual of unaccustomed exercise.
As he entered the marble enclave, he kept the lights over the sinks off for a number of reasons, the main one being that the glow from the urban landscape provided him with more than enough illumination. And he also didn't want to look at himself in all the mirrors.
He took four Motrin as he waited for the hot water to get running in the shower.
Stepping into the multiple heads, he washed himself thoroughly and shaved using the anti-fogging mirror he'd had mounted in one corner. When he was finished, he was no more refreshed than he had been satisfied by the way he had spent the day--and for the first time he could remember, the idea of going in to work and losing himself in his nightly tasks held no prospect of enthusiasm or satisfaction.
And then as he toweled himself off, the sound of flapping terrycloth made the emptiness of the penthouse seem like a black hole in space.
In the back of his mind, the idea of leaving Caldwell tantalized him yet again. Certainly, everywhere he went, there he was...but he had to believe that a fresh perspective would come if he lived in a different place and pursued a different kind of life. Perhaps as a teacher? There were people who still wanted to know about the Old Laws, and he was so well-versed in them now that he could easily design a curriculum--
When his phone went off out in the bedroom, he let whoever it was go into voicemail. But when the thing immediately began to ring again, he wrapped the towel around his hips and proceeded over to it--because, yes, he was that kind of male who thought answering a phone while naked was inappropriate, even if FaceTime was not involved.
Especially as it was likely Wrath or one of the Brothers--
No, not this time. As he checked the phone's face, it was not someone who was in his contacts, although the No Caller ID suggested it was from a member of the Brotherhood's household.
Vishous was into the untraceable.
"Hello?" he said.
"Saxton?" Ruhn's voice was instantly recognizable, and a surprise. Also carried with it an erotic charge, but again, that was just on his side.
"Yes? Hello? Ruhn?" There was some interference over the connection, some wind blowing or something. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you?"
"I'm out at Miniahna's." Fuzz. Rustle. "I just ran two men off her property." Wind blowing. "Where are you?"
"I'm at home. Downtown."
"Can I come see you?"
"Yes, yes, of course--let me tell you how to get here." After he provided directions, he cut in, "Wait, before you hang up. Did you kill the trespassers? Do I need to call for a body removal?"
Blustering sounds. "Not yet, you don't. But that is not going to last."
As soon as the call ended, Saxton rushed into his walk-in closet and pulled a pair of slacks on along with a white button-down shirt--and had to resolutely ignore the fact that he had quite a bounce in his step all of a sudden.
This is just business, he told himself. For godsakes, keep it professional.
--
Across town, in the wealthy zip code where mansions sat like crowns in the midst of manicured, snow-covered grounds, Peyton arrived on the grand doorstep of his father's house along with a marching band of exhaustion, his dull-thumping temples the bass section, the sharp shooters in his lower back the cymbals, and the grumbling cramps in his gut a tuba manned by a very low-skilled, but highly enthusiastic, player with a great set of lungs.
He couldn't decide whether he was hungry or nauseous.
And his first clue that the night was about to go from bad to worse--once again--came as he opened the front door: There was a sweet smell in the air that was utterly foreign. Perfume? he thought. Yes, that was it. But who could be wearing any--
His father's butler shot out from under the stairs as if the male were on roller skates.
"You're late." Eyes the color of old newspapers swept up and down him. "And you are not dressed."
Last time I checked, I sure as shit was, Peyton thought. These scrubs cover the naughty bits.
He kept that to himself. "What are you talking about?"
"First Meal starts in fifteen minutes." The doggen pulled up his cuff and flashed a watch like it was a gun aimed at a mugger. "You have missed libations."
> Peyton rubbed the front of his skull with the heel of his hand. It was either that or take that timepiece and feed it to the guy--through his ass.
"Look, I don't know what you're going on about, but I haven't slept well since the day before yesterday, and there was a terrible accident last night in the field--"
"There. You. Are."
Closing his eyes, he thought, of course, his father. And that tone? It made the butler seem like a BFF.
Pivoting around, he caught a glare like a frying pan to the side of the face. Which was saying something considering his sire was wearing a custom-made tuxedo and was hardly the type to throw pans, much less punches.
But that stare was a stinger for sure.
"Hello, Father." Peyton clapped his palms together. "Well, good talk, and now I'm going up to bed--"
As he turned away, his father stepped in front of him, blocking the way to the stairs. "Yes. You are going to the second floor right now, but it is to change--because you agreed to meet Romina this evening. At this hour--actually, last hour, and where have you been."
"I don't know anything about this."
"I called you last night. Twice! So go up and put your tuxedo on so you don't embarrass me or that poor female any further." The male leaned in. "Her parents are here, for godsakes. What is wrong with you. Can you not, for one night only, be the son I need you to be?"
Well, jeez, Dad, when you put it like that, how about I solve the issue for the both of us and go hang myself in the bathroom?
#problemsolved
Peyton glanced over his sire's shoulder at the staircase and tried the suicide plan on for size. He had plenty of belts, for sure--and a nice sturdy light fixture in his bedroom.
Except then the image of Novo feeding from him came back, sharp as a knife-edge.
Yeah, no way he was offing himself. Not yet, at any rate.
Shifting his stare into the parlor, he started to form a fuck-off, fuck-you, and fuck-this combo that somehow encapsulated how little he cared about social bullshit after having spent the last twenty-four hours dealing with the reality that he had nearly gotten someone killed.
But all that came to a crashing halt.
Through the ornate archway, he could see into the elegant room, the silk sofas and chairs arranged with the marble fireplace as a focal point. Seated on the cushions, with her back to him, was a female with brunette hair pulled back in a chignon and a formal, pale blue dress that had some sort of tie or sleeving that draped like an angel's wing over the arm. Her head was down, and her shoulders were tight, as if she were holding herself together.
But just barely.
She didn't want this any more than he did, he thought. Either that, or she was feeling rejected by him because he hadn't showed up.
"Will you please get moving," his father demanded.
Peyton looked at the poor female a little longer and wondered where she would rather be tonight.
"Give me ten minutes," he said gruffly. "I'll be right down."
As he stepped around his father and took the stairs two at a time, he despised his family and its traditions and the glymera's stupid fucking rules. But what he was not going to do? Leave some other schmuck like him out to dry, thinking she was lesser because of stuff that had nothing to with her.
He didn't know the female, but the way he looked at it, they were in the social cesspool together.
At least for this one meal.
As Ruhn materialized on a skyscraper terrace that was larger than the estate cottage he had lived in, he took a moment to internalize where he was. Saxton's home. Where the male lived.
He should have waited an hour and met with the attorney at the Audience House.
What had he been thinking--
You wanted to see him, a small voice said in his head. Alone.
"No, I don't."
The words he spoke out loud were lost in the cold wind that rushed at his back, the blustery, chilly gusts seeming to urge him inside. For a moment or two, he fought against the draft, leaning against the invisible hands pushing at him...but it was too late to turn back now. Not without making a mess of things.
Besides, this was not personal. They were working on something together.
"And I do not want to be alone with him."
With that resolved, he tried to figure out where he was supposed to knock, or ring a bell. The entire penthouse seemed to be made of glass, great panels lining up one to another down the front. Inside, there were few lights on, everything dim, the shadows of the furniture a landscape yet to be revealed by an artificial dawn.
So luxurious and fancy, he thought. It seemed all very sophisticated, just like the male who lived there.
Then again, someone's personal space tended to reflect who they were. Take him, for example. He was a squatter with no prospects, homeless but for the kindness of others. It made sense if you had no future and little of the present that you would also have no roof and four walls of your own.
Walking over and inspecting one of what he hoped were sliders, he wondered who lived here with the solicitor? He had never seen the male with a shellan, nor had there been any mention of one. But then a certain professional distance had always seemed to surround Saxton, even as it was clear that he was respected by all.
Surely there had to be a female somewhere in the picture. And didn't that fact make all of this even more uncomfortable--
He froze as Saxton came into the great open room, the male's stride sure, his blond hair gleaming under the dimmed ceiling lights, his impeccable slacks and super-white button-down looking tuxedo ready. Or, like, whatever you wore on top of all that.
The solicitor headed into the kitchen area, throwing out a casual hand to turn on lights that provided brighter pools of illumination from above. He started doing something at the counter, by the sink--he was preparing coffee and getting out mugs and a tray. But Ruhn noticed little of that. The things that registered? Saxton's skin was golden. His face was beautiful. His body was lithe.
What is this, Ruhn thought...especially as sexual arousal curled around his hips, sure as if hands were touching him--
Saxton looked over without warning and stopped as he saw that he was in the regard of another.
Moments turned into a full minute.
And then they both snapped back into action at the same time, Ruhn trying to pretend that he was just searching for a handle or an opening or something as Saxton came across and solved the problem for him.
"Good evening," the male said as he slid one of the panels back.
"You invited me." As Ruhn heard the words leave his mouth, he closed his eyes. "I mean, I'm here. I mean..."
"Yes, you are expected."
When Ruhn didn't respond, Saxton stepped aside. "Come in."
Two words. Two syllables. A simple invitation. The kind of thing that was offered and accepted or rejected by humans and vampires all over the world.
The trouble was, Ruhn couldn't shake the awareness that it was so much more for him--and he couldn't handle it. He could handle...none of this.
"I should go," he mumbled. "Actually. Yeah, I'm sorry--"
"Why?" Saxton frowned. "What's wrong?"
I think I want you, that's what's wrong.
Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, had that just gone through his mind?
"Ruhn, come in. It's cold."
Turn away, he told himself. Just turn and leave, and tell him that you'll meet him at the Audience House in a little bit.
"I shouldn't have disturbed you at home." He shook his head and prayed that the heavy beating of his heart was not something Saxton could hear or sense. "I apologize."
--
Across town, Peyton returned downstairs in exactly ten minutes, his hair wet and slicked back thanks to the fastest shower in the east, his tuxedo on and poppin'--and also a little tight across the shoulders, in the arms, and at the thighs, thanks to all the exercise he'd been getting.
As he entered the parlor, he did a quick check th
at the bar was stocked and open for business. Yup: Over there in the corner, an array of mimosas in slender flutes and Bloody Marys in squat glasses had been arranged on an antique brass cart.
My friends, I cannot wait for us to become reacquainted, he thought.
But first things first.
"Ah, yes, my firstborn son," Peythone said in the Old Language from the armchair closest to the fire--and hey, points for the smile, old man; it looked almost sincere. "Salone and Idina, may I present Peyton, son of Peythone."
The couple were seated on the silk sofa across from their sacrificial lamb--sorry, daughter--and Peyton walked forward to them and bowed low, first to the male, who was your bog-standard glymera type, and then the female, who was wearing a dress the exact same blue color as her young. Which was creepy. He also didn't immediately recognize them, which was unusual. The aristocracy was small, and nearly everyone was their own uncle's first cousin. They must be from out of town, he thought. Maybe down South?
"It is my pleasure to meet you," he said. "Please excuse my tardiness. I have been unforgivably rude."
Blah, blah, blah.
"You are even more handsome than I have heard," the mahmen said, her eyes going wide. "So handsome. Is he not handsome? Such a handsome male, fresh from his transition."
You are no MILF, he thought. So stop looking at me like I'm fresh meat.
God, he hated this.
"Enough with that, Idina," Salone grumbled before he switched things to English. "Now, Peyton, your sire indicated you are in the Black Dagger Brotherhood's training program--something that we have only just learned this night. I suppose we may give your tardiness a pass on this account."
Peythone smiled smugly. "Indeed, Peyton is contributing to the defense of the species in a very meaningful way. But one does not wish to brag."
Oh, yeah. Riiiiiiiiiiight.
Idina placed her hands on either side of her decolletage and leaned forward as if they were going to share a secret--or perhaps she was going to flash him. "You must tell me, what are the Brotherhood like? They are so mysterious, so impressive, so frightening. I have only ever seen them from afar at meetings of the Council. Tell me, you must."
Okay, he hated everything about the female. From her rapacious eyes, to those big diamonds, and that accent. God, what was up with that accent? It was like ninety percent right, but there was something wrong with her r's. She couldn't seem to roll them properly. And then there was the sire. Upon closer reflection, his features were coarser than one might expect, and that tuxedo--it had a shine on it like it had been rubbed hard with some KFC.