by J. R. Ward
Butch hauled back and nailed his roommate in the arm with his fist. And as the brother cursed, Butch popped him another one.
V glared and rubbed himself. “Christ, cop.”
“Suck it up, you deserve it.”
p. 193
“Shit . . . you’re right. I apologize.”
“Can we screw the ‘sorry’ part and let me hit you back instead?”
p. 194
“V, you know I love you like a brother, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You feed her and I’ll tear your fucking throat out.”
p. 218
“That’s what I like to hear. ” The Reverend slid into the booth, his amethyst eyes scanning the VIP section. He looked good, his suit black, his silk shirt black, his mohawk a dark cropped stripe that ran front to back on his skull. “So I want to share a little news.”
“You getting married?” Butch tossed back half the new Lag. “Where you registered? Crate and Bury ’Em?”
“Try Heckler and Koch.” The Reverend opened his jacket and flashed the butt of a forty.
“Nice little poodle shooter you got there, vampire.”
“Put a hell of a—”
V cut in. “You two are like watching tennis, and racquet sports bore me. What’s the news?”
Rehv looked at Butch. “He has such phenomenal people skills, doesn’t he.”
“Try living with him.”
pp. 219-220
“You’re such a pain in the ass.”
“Said the SIG to the Glock.”
p. 281
Except when his roommate’s palm landed on his bare chest all he felt was a warm weight. Butch frowned. This was it? This was fucking it? Scaring the shit out of Marissa for no good—
He looked down, pissed off.
Oh, wrong hand.
p. 316
“Marissa,” he mumbled, taking her hand. “Don’t want to see you drink so much.” Wait, not really what he’d been going for. “Ah . . . don’t you to see me drink so much . . . want.”
Whatever. God . . . he was so confused.
p. 320
Wrath smiled broadly, his fangs so very white. “What’s doing . . . cousin.”
Butch frowned. “What . . .?”
“You’ve got some of me in you, cop.” Wrath’s smile stuck around as he slid his glasses back in. “Course, I always knew you were a royal. Just didn’t think it went past the pain-in-the-ass part, is all.”
p. 321
Butch looked back at the Scribe Virgin.
“Do you have any idea how relieved—”
As Marissa gasped, V stepped in and slapped his gloved hand over Butch’s mouth, yanking him backward by the head and hissing in his ear, “Do you want to get fried like an egg here, buddy? No questions—”
“Ease from him, warrior,” the Scribe Virgin snapped. “This I wish to hear.”
V’s grip slid off his face. “Watch it.”
“Sorry about the question thing,” Butch said to the black robes. “But I just . . . I’m glad I know what’s in my veins. And honestly, if I die today, I’m grateful I finally know what I am.” He took Marissa’s hand. “And who I love. If this is where my life took me after all those years of being lost, I’d say my time here wasn’t wasted.”
There was a long silence. Then the Scribe Virgin said, “Do you regret that you leave behind your human family?”
“Nope. This is my family. Here with me now and elsewhere in the compound. Why would I need anything else?” The cursing in the room told him he’d thrown another question out there. “Yeah . . . ah, sorry—”
A soft feminine laugh came from under the robes. “You are rather fearless, human.”
“Or you could call it stupid.” As Wrath’s mouth fell open, Butch rubbed his face. “You know, I’m trying here. I really am. You know, to be respectful.”
“Your hand, human.”
He offered her his left, the one that was free.
“Palm up,” Wrath barked.
He flipped his hand over.
“Tell me, human,” the Scribe Virgin said, “if I asked for the one you hold this female with, would you offer it to me?”
“Yeah. I’d just reach over to her with the other guy.” As that little laugh came again, he said, “You know, you sound like birds when you do that chuckle thing. It’s nice.”
Over to the left, Vishous put his head in his hands.
There was a long silence.
Butch took a deep breath. “Guess I’m not allowed to say that.”
The Scribe Virgin reached up and slowly lifted the robes from her face.
Jesus . . . Christ . . . Butch squeezed Marissa’s hand hard at what was revealed. “You’re an angel,” he whispered.
Perfect lips lifted in a smile. “No. I am Myself.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“I know. ” Her voice became authoritative again. “Your right palm, Butch O’Neal, descended of Wrath son of Wrath.”
Butch let go of Marissa, regripped her with his left hand, and reached forward. When the Scribe Virgin touched him, he flinched. Though his bones weren’t crushed, the awesome strength in her was merely shelved potential. She could grind him to powder on a whim.
The Scribe Virgin turned to Marissa. “Child, give me yours now.”
The instant that connection was made, a warm current flooded Butch’s body. At first he assumed it was because the heating system in the room was really cooking, but then he realized the rush was under his skin.
“Ah, yes. This is a very good mating,” the Scribe Virgin pronounced. “And you have my permission to join for however long you have together.” She dropped their hands and looked at Wrath. “The presentation to me is complete. If he lives, you shall finish the ceremony as soon as he is well enough.”
The king bowed his head. “So be it.”
The Scribe Virgin turned back to Butch. “Now, we shall see how strong you are.”
“Wait,” Butch said, thinking about the glymera. “Marissa’s mated now, right? I mean, even if I die, she will have had a mate, right?”
“Death wish,” V said under his breath. “Fucking Death Wish Boy we got over here.”
The Scribe Virgin seemed flat-out amazed. “I should kill you now.”
“I’m sorry, but this matters. I don’t want her falling under that whole sehclusion thing. I want her to be my widow so she doesn’t have to worry about anyone else leading her life.”
“Human, you are astoundingly arrogant,” the Scribe Virgin snapped. But then she smiled. “And totally unrepentant, aren’t you.”
pp. 347-349
V was halfway down the hall when he heard a yelp. He hightailed it back, barging through the door. “What? What’s—”
“I’m going bald!”
V whipped back the shower curtain and frowned. “What are you tasking about? You’ve still got your hair—”
“Not my head! My body, you idiot! I’m going bald!”
Vishous glanced down. Butch’s torso and legs were shedding, a rush of dark brown fuzz pooling around the drain.
V started laughing. “Think of it this way. At least you won’t have to worry about shaving your back as you get old, true? No manscaping for you.”
He was not surprised when a bar of soap came firing at him.
p. 376
As her brother rose from his chair, Marissa rapped her knuckles sharply on the table. All eyes shot to her. “Wrong name.”
The leahdyre’s eyes went so wide she was quite sure he could see behind himself. And he was so aghast at her interruption, he was speechless as she smiled a little and glanced at Havers. “You may sit down, physician,” she said.
“I beg your pardon,” the leahdyre stammered.
Marissa got to her feet. “It’s been so long since we’ve done one of these votes . . . not since Wrath’s father died.” She leaned forward on her hands as she pegged the leahdyre’s face with a level stare. “And back then, centuries ag
o, my father lived and cast our family’s vote. So obviously that is why you are confused.”
The leahdyre looked at Havers in a panic. “Perhaps you will inform your sister she is out of order—”
Marissa cut in. “I’m not his sister anymore, or so he’s told me. Though I believe we can all agree that blood lineage is immutable. As is order of birth.” She smiled coolly. “It so happens that I was born eleven years before Havers. Which makes me older than he is. Which means he can sit down, because as the eldest surviving member of my family, the vote from our bloodline is mine to cast. Or not. And in this case, it is most definitely . . . not.”
Chaos broke out. Absolute pandemonium.
In the midst of which, Rehv laughed and clapped his palms together. “Hot damn, girl. You are so the shit.”
pp. 421-422
Then the Omega disappeared in a flare of white. As did the Scribe Virgin.
Gone. Both of them. Nothing remaining except a bitterly cold wind that cleared the clouds from the sky like curtains ripped away by a savage hand.
Rhage cleared his throat. “Okay . . . I’m not sleeping for the next week and a half. How about you two?”
p. 427
“That’s you,” Wrath said. “You shall be called the Black Dagger warrior Dhestroyer, descended of Wrath son of Wrath.”
“But you’ll always be Butch to us,” Rhuge cut in. “As well as hard-ass. Smart-ass. Royal pain in the ass. You know, whatever the situation calls for. I think as long as there’s an ass in there, it’ll be accurate.”
“How about basstard?” Z suggested.
“Nice. I feel that.”
p. 445
Lover Unbound
“I am so not feeling all this cowhide.”
Vishous looked up from his bank of computers. Butch O’Neal was standing in the Pit’s living room with a pair of leathers on his thighs and a whole lot of you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me on his puss.
“They don’t fit you?” V asked his roommate.
“Not the point. No offense, but these are wicked Village People.” Butch held his heavy arms out and turned in a circle, his bare chest catching the light. “I mean, come on.”
“They’re for fighting, not fashion.”
“So are kilts, but you don’t see me rocking the tartan.”
“And thank God for that. You’re too bowlegged to pull that shit off.”
Butch assumed a bored expression. “You can bite me.”
p. 10
As another martini arrived, Phury tried to remember whether it was his fifth? Or sixth? He wasn’t sure.
“Man, good thing we ain’t fighting tonight,” Butch said. “You’re drinking that shit like water.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Guess so.” The cop stretched in the booth. “How much longer you plan on rehydrating there, Lawrence of Arabia?”
p. 49
Moments later a huge male with a cropped mohawk came out. Rehvenge was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit and had a black cane in his right hand. As he came slowly over to the Brotherhood’s table, his patrons parted before him, partially out of respect for his size, partly out of fear from his reputation. Everyone knew who he was and what he was capable of: Rehv was the kind of drug lord who took a personal interest in his livelihood. You crossed him and you turned up diced like something off the Food Channel.
p. 50
“Okay, so spill,” Blay said. “What was your transition like?”
“Screw the change, I got laid.” As Blay and John both bug-eyed, Qhuinn chuckled. “Yeah. I did. Got my cherry popped, so to speak.”
p. 52
“You so need to lighten up about that potato-launcher incident,” Butch said.
Phury rolled his eyes and eased back in the banquette. “You broke my window.”
“Of course we did. V and I were aiming for it.”
“Twice.”
“Thus proving that he and I are outstanding marksmen.”
p. 81
“What the guy look like?”
“The vic?” The kid leaned in. “Vic is what the police call the victim. I heard ’em.”
“Thanks for the clarification,” Phury muttered. “So what did he look like?”
p. 93
. . . Damn it. She had no interest in playing doc. It was a big enough job being kidnap victim, thank you very much.
p. 128
“Didn’t we just do this?” Red Sox murmured to the patient. “‘Cept I was the guy in the bed? How about we call it even now and not pull this wounded shit anymore.”
Those icy bright eyes left her and shifted to his buddy. The frown didn’t leave his face. “You look like hell.”
“And you’re Miss America.”
pp. 129-130
Berating herself and them, she took her hand from her pocket, bent down, and grabbed a vial of Demerol out of the bigger duffel. “There aren’t any syringes.”
“I’ve got some.” Red Sox came over and held a sterile pack out. When she tried to take it from him, he kept a grip on the thing. “I know you’ll use this wisely.”
“Wisely?” She snapped the syringe out of his hand. “No, I’m going to poke him in the eye with it. Because that’s what they trained me to do in medical school.”
p. 139
“You’re kidding me, right? Like I’m supposed to forget the abduction and the mortal threat and give you a drive-thru order?”
p. 142
V settled back against the pillows and measured the hard line of her chin. “Take off your coat.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take it off.”
“No.”
“I want it off.”
“Then I suggest you hold your breath. Won’t affect me in the slightest, but at least the suffocation will help pass the time for you.”
p. 157
“What job do you have at the end, exactly?” Please let it not be buying Hefty bags to put her body parts in.
“You aren’t interested in what I am?”
“Tell you what, you let me go, and I’ll ask you plenty of questions about your race. Until then, I’m slightly distracted with how this happy little vacation on the good ship Holy Shit is going to pan out for me.”
p. 163
When she drew the cloth downward, he pulled away.
“Don’t want you near that hand of mine. Even if it’s gloved.”
“Why is—”
“I’m not talking about it. So don’t even ask.”
Okaaaay. “It nearly killed one of my nurses, you know.”
“I’m not surprised.” He glared at the glove. “I’d cut it off if I had the chance.”
“I wouldn’t advise that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You don’t know what it’s like to live with this nightmare on the end of your arm—”
“No, I meant I’d have someone else do the cutting if I were you. You’re more likely to get the job done that way.”
There was a beat of silence; then the patient barked out a laugh. “Smart-ass.”
Jane hid the smile that popped up on her face by doing another dip/rinse routine. “Just rendering a medical opinion.”
pp. 171-172
“Sounds like you want a date, Lash,” Qhuinn barked. “Good deal, ’cause you keep that shit up, you’re going to get fucked, buddy.”
p. 196
Red Sox looked around Jane at the patient. “Your mind reading coming back?”
“With her? Sometimes.”
“Huh. You getting anything from anyone else?”
“Nope.”
Red Sox repositioned his hat. “Well, ah . . . let me know if you pick up shit from me, ’k? There are some things that I’d prefer to keep private, feel me?”
“Roger that. Although I can’t help it sometimes.”
“Which is why I’m going to take up thinking about baseball when you’re around.”
“Thank fuck you’re not a Yankees fan.”
“Don’t u
se the Y-word. We’re in mixed company.”
p. 199
Gimme an S! A T! An O! A C! Followed by a K-H-O-L-M! What’s it spell? HEAD FUCK.
The patient leaned down to her ear. “I can’t see you as the cheerleader type. But you’re right. We both would slaughter anything that so much as startled you.” The patient straightened again, one giant testosterone surge plugged into bedroom slippers.
Jane tapped him on the forearm and crooked her forefinger so he’d lean back down. When he did, she whispered, “I’m scared of mice and spiders. But you don’t need to use that gun on your hip to blow a hole in a wall if I run into one, okay? Havahart traps and rolled newspapers work just as well. Plus, you don’t need a Sheetrock patch and plaster job afterward. I’m just saying.”
She patted his arm, dismissing him, and refocused on the tunnel ahead.
pp. 199-200
Butch nodded as if he knew exactly what was doing. “Like I said, my man, it’s whatever. You and me? Same as always, no matter who you screw. Although . . . if you’re into sheep, that would be tough. Don’t know if I could handle that.”
V had to smile. “I don’t do farm animals.”
“Can’t stand hay in your leathers?”
“Or wool in my teeth.”
p. 211
“She is.” Butch headed for the door but then paused and looked over his shoulder. “V?”
Vishous raised his stare. “Yeah?”
“I think you should know, after all this deep conversatin’ . . .” Butch shook his head gravely. “We still ain’t dating.”
p. 213
Standing in front of his locker three hours later, John wished Qhuinn would shut his damn piehole. Even though the locker room was loud from sounds of metal doors banging shut and clothes flapping and shoes dropping, he felt like his buddy had a bullhorn stapled to his upper lip.