by J. R. Ward
She just wanted her pathetic, boring life back. And how ridiculous was that? Considering she'd thought that getting out of it was the only way to save herself only a little while ago.
"Beth." His voice had lost most of its edge. "Look at me."
She shook her head, only to have her hands peeled back from her eyes.
"You're going to be okay."
"Yeah, right. There's probably a warrant being issued for my arrest at this very moment. I'm running around in the dark with the likes of you. And this is all happening because I'm so desperate to know my dead parents, I'm willing to put my life in danger on the remote chance I could learn something about them. I'm telling you, it's one hell of trip from where I am to 'okay.'"
His fingertip stroked down her cheek. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to let anything hurt you."
She rubbed her forehead, wondering whether she was ever going to feel normal again. "God, I wish you'd never shown-up at my back door. I wish I'd never seen your face."
He dropped his hand.
"We're almost there," he said tersely.
Butch gave up trying to stand and sank to the ground.
He sat there for a while, just breathing in and out. He couldn't seem to move.
It wasn't because his head hurt, although it did. And it wasn't because his legs felt weak, although they did.
He was ashamed.
Getting beaten by a bigger man wasn't the problem, although his ego had certainly taken one on the chin.
No, it was the knowledge that he'd screwed up and endangered a young woman's life. When he'd called about the weapons pickup, he should have had two officers waiting for him at the door to the station. He'd known that suspect was especially dangerous, but he'd been sure he could handle it himself.
Yeah, well, he'd handled jack shit. He'd had his ass kicked. And now Beth was in the company of a killer.
God only knew what would become of her.
Butch closed his eyes and put his chin down on his knee. His throat was killing him, but it was his head that he was really worried about. The damn thing wasn't working right. His thoughts were incoherent, his cognitive processes shot to hell. Maybe he'd gone without oxygen long enough to get brain-fry.
He tried to pull it together, but only managed to sink deeper into the fog.
And then, because his masochistic side had terrific timing, the past reared its thorny skull.
Out of the messy jumble of images clanging around his mind, one popped forward that brought tears to his eyes. A young girl, no more than fifteen. Getting into an unfamiliar car. Waving at him from the window as she disappeared down their street.
His older sister. Janie.
Her body had been found in the woods behind the local baseball field the following morning. She'd been raped, beaten, and strangled. Not in that order.
After she'd been abducted, Butch had stopped sleeping through the night. Two decades later, he still hadn't picked up the habit again.
He thought of Beth, looking over her shoulder as she'd run away with the suspect. The fact she'd disappeared with that killer was the only thing that got Butch to plant his feet on the ground and drag his body toward the station.
"Yo! O'Neal!" José came pounding down the alley. "What happened to you?"
"We need to get out an APB." Was that his voice? It sounded hoarse, like he'd been to a football game and screamed for two hours. "White male, six-six, two seventy. Dressed in black leather, wearing sunglasses, shoulder-length dark hair." Butch threw out a hand, steadying himself against the building. "Suspect not armed. Only because I stripped him. He'll be restocked within the hour, no doubt."
When he stepped forward, he swayed.
"Jesus." José grabbed his arm, holding him up.
Butch tried not to lean on the guy, but he needed the help. He couldn't make his legs move right.
"And a white female." His voice cracked. "Five-nine, long black hair. Wearing a blue skirt and a white button-down." He paused. "Beth."
"I know. She called." Jose's face tightened. "I didn't ask for details. From the sound of her voice, she wasn't about to give me any."
Butch's knees wobbled.
"Whoa, Detective." José hoisted him up. "We're going to take this slow."
The instant they came through the station's back door, Butch weaved. "I need to go look for her."
"Let's just chill on this bench."
"No…"
José loosened his hold, and Butch went down like a piano.
Just as half the freaking precinct came up in a rush. The fleet of concerned guys in dark blue and badges made him feel pathetic.
"I'm fine," he snapped. Then he had to put his head between his knees.
How could he have let this happen?
If Beth turned up dead in the morning…
"Detective?" José got down on his haunches, putting his face in Butch's line of sight. "We've called an ambulance."
"Don't need one. Is the APB out?"
"Yeah, Ricky's doing it right now."
Butch brought his head up. Slowly.
"Man, what happened to your neck?" José breathed.
"It was used to hold my body off the ground." He swallowed a couple of times. "Did the weapons get picked up from the address I called in?"
"Yeah. We got 'em and the cash. Who the hell is this guy?"
"I have no fucking clue."
* * *
Chapter Seventeen
Wrath walked up the front steps of Darius's house. The door swung open before he could reach the brass handle.
Fritz was on the other side. "Master, I didn't know you were—"
The doggen froze as he saw Beth.
Yeah, you know who she is, Wrath thought. But let's be cool.
She was jumpy enough as it was.
"Fritz, I'd like you to meet Beth Randall." The butler kept staring. "You going to let us in?"
Fritz bent down low and bowed his head. "Of course, master. Ms. Randall, it is an honor to finally meet you in person."
Beth seemed taken aback, but managed a smile as the doggen straightened and moved from the doorway.
When she stuck her hand out, Fritz gasped and looked to Wrath for permission.
"Go ahead," Wrath muttered as he shut the front door. He never could understand the strict traditions of the doggens.
Fritz reached out reverently, clasping her palm in both of his and dropping his forehead to their joined hands. Words in the old language were spoken in a quiet rush.
Beth was clearly astonished. But then she had no way of knowing that by offering her hand to him, she had paid him the highest honor of his species. As the daughter of a princeps, she was a high-bred aristocrat in their world.
Fritz was going to be glowing for days.
"We'll be in my chamber," Wrath said when the contact was broken.
The doggen hesitated. "Master, Rhage is here. He had a… little accident."
Wrath cursed. "Where is he?"
"In the downstairs bathroom."
"Needle and thread?"
"In there with him."
"Who's Rhage?" Beth asked as they started down the hall.
Wrath paused by the drawing room. "You wait here."
But she followed when he walked on.
He turned around, pointing over her shoulder. "That wasn't a request."
"And I'm not waiting anywhere."
"Damn it, do as I say."
"No." The word was spoken without heat. She defied him with total calmness and strength of purpose.
As if he were no more an obstacle in her path than a throw rug.
"Jesus Christ. Fine, lose your dinner."
As he stalked down to the bathroom, he could smell the blood all the way out in the hall. This was a nasty one, and he really wished Beth weren't so hell-bent on seeing for herself.
He pushed the door open, and Rhage looked up. The vampire's arm was hanging over the sink. There was blood everywhere, a dark pool on the floor
, a little pond on the counter.
"Rhage, man, what's up?"
"Sliced and diced. Lesser got me a good one, right through a vein, down to the bone. I'm leaking like a sieve."
In a blurry composite. Wrath caught the movement of Rhage's hand going down to his shoulder and up into the air. Down to his shoulder, up into the air.
"Did you get him?"
"Hell, yeah."
"Oh… my… God," Beth said. "Oh, dear God. Is he stitching—"
"Hey, who's the cutie?" Rhage said, pausing on the upstroke.
There was a strangled sound, and Wrath moved, blocking Beth's view with his bodv.
"Need help?" he asked, even though both he and his brother knew he had nothing to offer. He couldn't see well enough to close his own wounds, much less someone else's. The fact that he had to rely on his brothers or Fritz to tend to him was a weakness he despised.
"No, thanks." Rhage laughed. "I'm a good little sewer, as you know firsthand. Now who's your friend?"
"Beth Randall, this is Rhage. An associate of mine. Rhage, this is Beth, and she doesn't do movie stars, got it?"
"Loud and clear." Rhage leaned to one side, trying to see around Wrath. "Nice to meet you, Beth."
"Are you sure you don't want to go to a hospital?" she said weakly.
"Nah. This one's just messy. When you can use your large intestine as a belt loop, that's when you hit the pros."
A croaking sound came out of Beth's mouth.
"I'm going to take her downstairs," Wrath said.
"Oh, yes, please," she murmured. "I'd really like to go down… stairs."
He put his arm around her, and he knew how affected she was by the way she melted into his body. It felt so good to have her relying on him for strength.
Too good, actually.
"You cool?" Wrath said to his brother.
"Damn straight. I'm leaving as soon as this is done. Got three jars to collect."
"Nice tally."
"Would have been more if this little gift hadn't come by air mail. No wonder you like those stars so much." Rhage moved his hand around, as if he were tying a knot. "You should know Tohr and the twins are"—he grabbed a pair of scissors off the counter and snipped the thread—"continuing our work from last night. They should be back in a couple hours to report in, just as you asked."
"Tell them to knock first."
Rhage nodded and had the sense not to follow up with any commentary.
As Wrath led Beth down the hall, he found himself stroking her shoulder. Her back. Then he curled his hand around her waist, his fingers sinking into her soft flesh. She fit well against him, her head coming up to his chest, resting on his pectoral as they moved together.
Too comfortable. Too familiar, he thought. Way too good.
He held on to her anyway.
And even as he did, he wished he could take back what he'd said to her on that sidewalk. About her being his.
Because that wasn't true. He didn't want to take her as his shellan. He'd been worked up, jealous. Picturing that cop's hands all over her. Pissed off that he hadn't killed the human after all. The words had slipped out.
Ah, hell. The female did something to his brain. Somehow managed to unplug his well-developed self-control and put him in touch with his inner fricking psycho.
It was a connection he wanted to avoid.
After all, fits of insanity were Rhage's specialty.
And the brothers didn't need another hair-trigger loose cannon in the group.
Beth closed her eyes and leaned against Wrath, trying to shut out the picture of that gaping wound. The effort was like blocking sunlight with her hands: Parts of the image kept seeping through. All that bright red, shiny blood, the raw, dark pink muscle, the shocking white of bone. And that needle. Puncturing the skin, pulling the flesh out to a point, breaking through with the black thread—
She opened her eyes.
Open was better.
No matter what the man said, that was no little scrape he was dealing with. He needed to go to the hospital. And she would have argued the point more strenuously, except she'd been a little busy trying to convince her pad thai to stay put.
Besides, that guy seemed pretty darned competent at fixing himself up.
He was also one hell of a looker. Even though the gore was distracting, she couldn't help but notice his dazzling face and body. Short blond hair, iridescent blue eyes, a face that belonged on the big screen. He'd been dressed as Wrath was, in black leather pants and shitkickers, but his shirt had been cast aside. The muscles of his upper torso had stood out in sharp relief beneath the overhead light, an impressive display of strength. And the multicolored tattoo of a dragon that covered his whole back was a total stunner.
But then, it wasn't as if Wrath were going to hang out with some scrawny tax accountant-looking nancy.
Drug dealers. They were clearly drug dealers. Guns, weapons, huge amounts of cash. And who else got into a knife fight and played doctor on themselves?
She recalled that the man had borne the same circular-shaped scar on his chest that Wrath did.
They must be in a gang, she thought. Or the mob.
She suddenly needed some space, and Wrath let her go as they walked into a lemon-colored room. Her feet slowed. The place looked like a museum or something she'd expect to see in Architectural Digest. Thick, pale drapery framed wide windows, rich oil paintings gleamed from the walls, objets d'art were tastefully arranged. She glanced down at the carpet. The thing was probably worth more than her apartment.
Maybe they didn't just deal in crack, X, and heroin, she thought. Maybe they worked the antiques black market as well.
Now there was a combo you didn't run across very often.
"This is nice," she murmured, fingering an antique box. "Very nice."
She eyed Wrath when she got no response. He was standing just inside the room, arms folded across his pecs, at the ready even though he was home.
But then, when did he ever relax? she thought.
"Have you always been a collector?" she asked, trying to buy some time so her nerves could settle. She walked over to a Hudson River School painting. Good lord, it was a Thomas Cole. Probably worth hundreds of thousands. "This is beautiful."
She glanced over her shoulder. He was focused on her, paying no attention to the painting. And there was no expression of pride or ownership on his face.
Which was not the way someone looked when their things were admired.
"This is not your house," she said.
"Your father lived here."
Yeah, sure.
But what the hell. She'd come this far. She might as well play along.
"Then he obviously had plenty of money. What did he do for a living?"
Wrath walked across the room, toward an exquisite, full-length portrait of what looked like a king.
"Come with me."
"What? You want me to walk through that wall—"
He pushed one side of the painting, and it swiveled outward to reveal a dark corridor.
"Oh," she said.
He gestured with his arm. "After you."
Beth approached carefully. The glow of gas lanterns flickered over black stone. She leaned in, seeing a set of stairs that disappeared around a turn far below.
"What's down there?"
"A place where we can talk."
"Why don't we stay up here?"
"Because you're going to want to do this privately. And my brothers are likely to show up soon."
"Your brothers?"
"Yes."
"How many of them are there?"
"Five, now. And you're stalling. Go on. Nothing will hurt you down there, I promise."
Uh-huh. Sure.
But she put her foot over the gilded edge of the frame. And stepped into the darkness.
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
Beth took a deep breath and hesitantly put her hands out to the stone walls. The air wasn't musty; there was no c
reepy coating of moisture on anything; it was just very, very dark. She went down the stairs slowly, feeling her way. The lanterns were more like fireflies, lights unto themselves rather than illumination for someone using the stairwell.
And then she reached the bottom. To the right there was an open door, and she caught the warm glow of candlelight.
The room was just like the passageway: black walled, dimly lit, but clean. The candles were soothing as they flickered at their posts. While she put her purse down on the coffee table, she wondered if Wrath slept here.
God knew the bed was big enough for him.
And were those black satin sheets?
She figured he'd taken a lot of women down to this lair of his. And it didn't take a genius to figure out what happened once he closed the door.
A lock clicked into place, and her heart seized up.
"So about my father," she said briskly.
Wrath walked past her, taking off his jacket. He was wearing a muscle shirt under it, and she couldn't ignore the raw power of his arms, his biceps and triceps rippling as he put the leather aside. The tattoos running down his inner forearms flashed as he peeled the empty holster from his shoulders.
He went into the bathroom and she heard water splashing. When he came back out, he was drying his face with a towel. He put his sunglasses on before looking at her.
"You're father, Darius, was a worthy male." Wrath casually tossed the towel back into the bathroom and walked over to the couch. He sat forward, elbows on his knees. "He was an aristocrat from the old country before he became a warrior. He's… he was my friend. My brother in the work I do."
Brother. He kept using that word.
They were in the Mafia. Definitely.
Wrath smiled a little, as if remembering something that pleased him. "D had skills. He was fast on his feet, smart as hell, good with a knife. But he was cultured. A gentleman. He spoke eight languages. Studied everything from world religions to art history to philosophy. He could talk your ear off about Wall Street and then tell you why the Sistine Chapel ceiling is actually a Mannerist work, not from the Renaissance."