Dark Lover

by J. R. Ward

  "I… ah, I'm kinda scared, sensei."

  "You should be."

  Riddle looked vaguely nauseated at having his fears confirmed.

  "So, Billy. I want to know. You ever kill something?"

  Riddle frowned at the abrupt change of subject. "What are you talking about?"

  "You know. A bird. Squirrel. Maybe a cat or a dog?"

  "No, sensei."

  "No?" Mr. X leveled his eyes on Billy's. "I got no time for liars, son."

  Billy cleared his throat. "Yeah. Maybe. When I was younger."

  "How'd that make you feel?"

  A flush crept up Billy's neck. His hands came apart. "Nada. I didn't feel anything."

  "Come on, Billy. You've got to trust me."

  Billy's eyes flashed. "Okay. Maybe I liked it."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah." Riddle drew out the word.

  "Good." Mr. X lifted his hand and caught the waitress's eye. She took her time coming over. "We'll talk about that man later. First, I want you to tell me about your father."

  "My dad?"

  "You ready to order now?" the waitress said in a snotty tone.

  "What do you want, Billy? It's on me."

  Riddle recited half the menu.

  When the waitress left, Mr. X prompted him. "Your dad?"

  Billy shrugged. "I don't see him a lot. But he's… you know… whatever. A dad. I mean, who cares what he's like?"

  "Listen, Billy." Mr. X leaned forward. "I know you ran away from home three times before you turned twelve. I know your father sent you to prep school the minute your mom was in the ground. And I know when you got yourself kicked out of Northfield Mount Hermon, he packed you off to Groton, and when you were tossed out of there, he put you in a military academy. It sounds to me like he's been trying to get rid of you for the last decade."

  "He's busy."

  "And you've been a lot to handle, haven't you?"

  "Maybe."

  "So would I be right in assuming that you and Daddy Dearest don't have some kind of Leave It to Beaver thing going?" Mr. X waited. "Tell me the truth."

  "I hate him," Riddle blurted.

  "Why?"

  Billy crossed his arms over his chest again. His eyes went cold.

  "Why do you hate him, son?"

  "Because he breathes."

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Beth stared off into a vast white distance. She was in some kind of dreamscape, with hazy edges that suggested there was no end to what was before her.

  A lone figure, lit from behind, approached out of the vapor. She sensed that it was male, whatever it was, and she didn't feel threatened. She felt as if she knew him.

  "Father?" she whispered, not sure whether she meant her own or God Himself.

  The man was still quite far away, but his hand lifted in greeting, as if he'd heard her.

  She stepped forward, but her mouth was suddenly flooded with a taste she didn't recognize. She put her fingertips to her lips. When she looked down at them, she saw red.

  The figure dropped his hand. As if he knew what the stain meant.

  Beth slammed back into her body. It was like being catapulted and landing on gravel. Everything hurt.

  She cried out. As her mouth opened, she got a rush of that taste. She swallowed reflexively.

  Something miraculous happened. Like a balloon reinflating, her skin filled with life. Her senses came alive.

  She blindly grabbed onto something hard. Latched on to the source of the taste.

  Wrath felt Beth jerk like she'd been electrocuted. And then she started to drink at his neck with great, urgent pulls of her mouth. Her arms tightened around his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh.

  His roar was one of triumph as he eased back on the bed, lying down so the blood flow would be better. He kept his head to one side, exposing his neck to her, and she crawled up onto his chest, her hair spilling all over him. The wet sound of her sucking, the knowledge he was giving her life, gave him a monstrous hard-on.

  He held her loosely, stroking her arms. Encouraging her to take more of him. Take all that she needed.

  Much later, Beth lifted her head. Licked her lips. Opened her eyes.

  Wrath was staring up at her.

  And he had a gaping wound in his neck.

  "Oh, God… what have I done to you?" She reached to stanch the blood seeping from his vein.

  He grabbed her hands and brought them to his lips. "Will you have me as your hellren?"

  "What?" Her mind was having difficulty turning over.

  "Marry me."

  She looked at the hole in his throat and her stomach lurched. "I-I…"

  The pain came hard and fast. Tackling her. Taking her into a shadow box of agony. She doubled over, rolling onto the mattress.

  Wrath shot up and cradled her in his lap.

  "Am I dying… ?" she moaned.

  "Oh, no, leelan. You're not. This will pass," he whispered. "But it's not going to be fun."

  Her entire digestive tract convulsed in waves, and she flopped over onto her back. She could barely make out Wrath's face through the pain, but his eyes were wide with worry. He took her hand in his and she squeezed as the next blast of torture overtook her.

  Her vision dimmed. Came back. Dimmed again.

  Sweat dripped from her body, soaking the sheets. She gritted her teeth and arched. Turned this way and then another. Trying to escape.

  She didn't know how long it lasted. Hours. Days.

  Wrath stayed with her the whole time.

  Wrath took his first deep breath sometime after three A.M.

  Finally, she was still.

  And not dead still. Calm still.

  She'd been so brave. She'd taken the pain with no whimpering, no crying. Even he had begged for his transition to be over.

  A croak came out of her.

  "What, my leelan?" He put his head down to her mouth.

  "Shower."

  "Right."

  He left the bed, got the water started, and came back for her. Gently lifting her into his arms, he carried her to the bathroom. She couldn't stand, so he sat her on the marble counter, stripped her clothes off, and then picked her up again.

  He stepped under the water, shielding her body with his back. He wanted to see if the change in temperature and humidity was unpleasant for her. When she didn't protest, he let the rush hit her feet first in case the sensation was too much. Gradually, he eased her under the showerhead.

  She seemed to like the water, craning her neck and opening her mouth.

  He saw her fangs, and they were beautiful to him. Bright white. Sharply pointed. He remembered the sensation of her drinking.

  Wrath pulled her against him for a moment, just hugging her. And then he dropped her feet to the ground and held her body with one arm. With his free hand, he picked up a jar of shampoo and squeezed a little on the top of her head. He rubbed her hair into a lather and then rinsed it clean. With a bar of soap, he gently massaged her skin as best he could without dropping her and then made sure every last suds was washed off.

  Scooping her up into his arms again, he shut off the water, got out, and grabbed a towel. He wrapped her up and put her back on the counter, propping her against the wall and the mirror. Carefully, he blotted the water from her hair, her face, her neck, her arms. Then her feet, calves, and knees.

  Her skin was going to be hypersensitive for a while. Her eyes and hearing, too.

  During her transition, he'd watched for signs that her body was changing and had seen none. She was the same height as before. She fit the same way against him. He wondered if she'd even be able to go out during the day.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  He kissed her and carried her to the sofa. Then he stripped the bed of the wet sheets and mattress pad. He struggled with remaking it. He had a tough time finding the other set of sheets, and getting them on right was hard as hell for him. When he was finally finished, he picked her up and set
tled her against the fresh satin.

  Her deep sigh was the best compliment he'd ever been paid.

  Wrath knelt by the side of the bed, suddenly aware that his leather pants and his shitkickers were soaking wet.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  He kissed her forehead. "Yes what, my leelan?"

  "I will marry you."

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Butch paced around the drawing room again, stopping at the fireplace. He looked down at the logs that were banked in the hearth. He imagined how nice a fire would be in there during the winter. How you could sit on the silk couches and watch the flickering flames. How that butler would serve you hot toddies or something.

  What the hell was that bunch of thugs doing in a place like this?

  From down the hall, he heard the sounds of the men. They'd been in what he assumed must be a dining room for hours, just running their mouths. At least their choice of dinner music was appropriate. Hard-core rap thumped through the house, 2Pac, Jay-Z, D-12. Occasionally, he heard shouts of laughter over the beats. Taunts of the macho variety.

  He eyed the front door for the one millionth time.

  When the men had shoved him into the drawing room and then headed down the hall a lifetime ago, his first thought was of escaping, even if he had to put a chair through a window. He'd call José. Bring the whole station house to their front door.

  But before he could act on the impulse, a voice had filled his ear. "I hope you decide to run."

  Butch had spun around, crouching. The skull-trimmed, scarred one was right next to him, though he hadn't heard the guy move.

  "Go 'head." Those freaky-ass black eyes had stared at Butch with the dead intensity of a shark. "Crack open that door. Run your little heart out. Run fast, run smart, call for help. Just know that I'll come after you. Like a hearse."

  "Zsadist, leave him alone." The guy with the great hair had stuck his head out into the room. "Wrath wants the human alive. For the time being."

  The scarred man had spared Butch one last look. "Try it. Just try it. I'd rather hunt you down than eat dinner with them."

  Then he'd sauntered out.

  Threat notwithstanding, Butch had cased what he could see of the house. There wasn't a phone that he could find, and judging by the security system panel he'd spied in the front hall, all the windows and doors in the place had to be wired for sound. Busting out discreetly wasn't an option.

  And he didn't want to leave Beth behind.

  God, if she died…

  Butch inhaled. Frowned.

  What the hell was that?

  The tropics. He smelled the ocean.

  He turned around.

  A breathtaking woman was standing in the doorway. Waif-like, elegant, she was dressed in a filmy gown, and her gorgeous blond hair drifted to her hips in waves. Her face was all delicate perfection, her eyes the pale blue color of sea glass.

  She took a step back, as if in fear of him.

  "No," he said, lurching forward, thinking of the men in the room down the hall. "Don't go back there."

  She looked around, as if she wanted to call for help.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," he said quickly.

  "How do I know that?"

  She had a subtle accent. Like all of them did. Maybe Russian?

  He held his hands out, palms up, to show he didn't have a weapon. "I'm a cop."

  Yeah, okay, so that was no longer exactly true, but he wanted to reassure her.

  She gathered the skirt of her dress up, as if she were going to take off.

  Hell, he shouldn't have used the C-word. If she was the moll of one of them, then she was even more likely to bolt if she thought he was the law.

  "I'm not here in an official capacity," he said. "No gun, no badge."

  Abruptly, she dropped the gown, and her shoulders straightened as if she were drafting her courage into service. She came forward a little, moving fluidly, gracefully. Butch kept his mouth shut and tried to look smaller than he actually was, less threatening.

  "He doesn't normally let your kind be around," she said.

  Yeah, he could imagine cops didn't hang out too often in this house. "I'm waiting for… a friend."

  Her head tilted to the side. As she got closer, her beauty nearly blinded him. Her facial structure was the stuff of fashion magazines, her body the kind of long, lovely sweep he imagined trotted down runways. And that perfume she wore. It got into his nose, into his brain. She smelled so good his eyes watered.

  She was unreal, he thought. So pure. So clean.

  He felt like he should brush his teeth and shave before saying one more word to her.

  What the hell was she doing hanging out with those lowlifes?

  Butch's heart cramped with the idea of how useful she'd be to them. Dear God. On the sex market, you could get thousands and thousands and thousands for just an hour with a woman like this one.

  No wonder the house was so well tricked out.

  Marissa was leery of the human, especially considering his size. She'd heard so many stories about them. How they hated the vampire race. How they hunted her species.

  But this one seemed to be taking great pains not to frighten her. He didn't move; he barely breathed. All he did was stare at her.

  Which was unnerving, and not only because she wasn't used to being looked at. His hazel eyes gleamed out of his harsh face, missing nothing, taking in all of her.

  He was smart, this one. Smart and… sad.

  "What's your name?" he asked quietly.

  She liked his voice. Deep and low. Rough around the edges, as if he were perpetually a little hoarse.

  She was getting very close to him now, just feet away, so she stopped.

  "Marissa. I am called Marissa."

  "Butch." He touched his broad chest. "Er… Brian. O'Neal. People call me Butch, though."

  He stuck his hand out. Then retracted it, rubbed it vigorously on his pant leg, and offered it again.

  She lost her nerve. Touching him was too much, and she took a step back.

  He dropped his hand slowly, not looking at all surprised that she'd rejected him.

  And still, he stared.

  "What are you looking at?" She brought her hands up to the bodice of the gown, covering herself.

  A flush ran up his neck and into his cheeks. "Sorry. You're probably sick of men gawking at you."

  Marissa shook her head. "No males look at me."

  "I find that very hard to believe."

  It was true. They were all terrified of what Wrath might do.

  God, if those others had only known how little she'd been wanted.

  "Because…" The human's voice trailed off. "Man, you are so… totally… beautiful."

  And then he cleared his throat, like he wished he could take the words back.

  She tilted her head, considering him. There was something she couldn't decipher in his tone. An achy pitch.

  He dug his hand into his thick, dark hair. "And I'm going to shut up now. Before I make you feel even more uncomfortable."

  His eyes stayed on her face.

  They were really nice eyes, she thought. So warm. And they held a lonely yearning as he looked at her. As if he couldn't have something he wanted.

  She knew all about that.

  The human laughed, a burst of sound that came from deep inside his chest. "And how 'bout I try not to stare? That'd be good." He crammed his hands in the pockets of his pants and focused on the floor. "Look at me. Not staring. Not staring at all. Hey, this is a nice rug. You ever notice it before?"

  Marissa smiled in a small way and took a step closer to him. "I think I like the way you look at me."

  Those hazel eyes snapped back to her face.

  "I'm just not used to it," she explained. Her hand went to her neck, but she dropped it.

  "Man, you cannot be real," the human said softly.

  "Why not?"

  "You just can't."

  She laughed a li
ttle. "Well, I am."

  He cleared his throat again. Offered her a lopsided grin. "Mind if I ask you to prove it?"

  "How?"

  "Can I touch your hair?"

  Her first thought was to back away again. But then, why should she? She was tied to no male. If this human wanted to touch her, why couldn't he?

  Especially because she kind of wanted him to.

  She dropped her head down so some of her hair fell forward. She thought about holding a section out to him. But no. She would let him come closer.

  And the human did.

  His hand was big as it reached out, and her breath caught, but he didn't go for the blond wave hanging in front of her. Instead, his fingertips made contact with a lock resting on her shoulder.

  She felt a blast of heat through her skin, as though he'd touched her with a lit match. In no time, the sensation traveled throughout her body, as if she'd spiked a fever.

  What was this?

  The human's finger moved her hair aside, and then his whole hand brushed against her shoulder. His palm was warm. Solid. Strong.

  She lifted her eyes to him.

  "I can't breathe," she whispered.

  Butch nearly fell over. Good God, he thought. She wanted him. And her innocent amazement at his touch was better than the best sex he'd ever had.

  His body shot into overdrive, his erection straining his jeans, demanding to get out.

  But this couldn't be real, he thought. She had to be playing him. No one looked like she did, and hung out with those boys, without knowing every trick in the book. And pulling a lot of them on her back.

  He watched as she took an unsteady breath. And then licked her lips. The tip of her tongue was pink.

  Sweet Jesus.

  She might only be a fantastic actress. She might only be the best whore anyone had ever come across. But as she looked up at him, she had him in the palm of her hand. He was buying what she was selling in a big fricking way.

  He let his finger run up the side of her neck. Her skin was so soft, so pale, he was afraid he'd leave a mark just by touching her.

  "Do you live here?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "I live with my brother."

  He was relieved. "That's good."