by J. R. Ward
But he was even stronger. A surge of pure panic shot him upright in spite of the people around him, and he tore the oxygen feed free.
To settle any arguments to the contrary, he opened his mouth and dragged all the air in the weight room down deep. Immediately, there was a horrid cracking sound, like an oak branch snapping in half, and a lightning bolt of agony accompanied the noise—still, his light-headedness fled like an intruder chased away, his heart hammering in an even rhythm.
“Well, there’s that approach to it, too,” Dr. Manello muttered. “Is it all right if I take a look at you?”
As Ruhn was still having to concentrate to get the inhale/exhale thing right, he simply nodded.
“Can you lie down for me?” the doctor asked.
Ruhn shook his head. Nope, no way. The panic would come back and take over—and with a shiver of claustrophobia, he looked at the door. Thank Fates that it had a window out into the corridor, and he reminded himself that there was a place to escape out of—
Someone came at him with something.
With a quick mortal reflex, he slapped a grip onto the wrist and bent the arm in its joint socket so hard and fast that whatever person was attached to it went down on the mats.
“Whoa, easy…” The Brother Rhage broke the hold and put his body in the way. “Hey, look at me. Come on, son, you focus on me now.”
Ruhn blinked. Blinked again. Tried to follow the command, but it was impossible. Rhage was jumping around like water on a griddle—oh, wait. Ruhn was shaking. Yup, those huge feet of the Brother’s were not moving; Ruhn was the one with the over-motorization.
“Where are you in there?” the Brother murmured. “ ’Cuz I need you to come back so you don’t hurt the doctor, ’kay?”
Something was wrong with his hearing. The volume was going up and down on the world, words fading in and out of mute with a randomness that required him to fill in the blanks.
Ruhn breathed in and out some more, and then he looked down, to where Dr. Manello was examining his own forearm like he was wondering if it was broken.
“I’m so sorry,” Ruhn choked out. “Oh, dearest Virgin, I didn’t mean…”
The doctor smiled up at him. “Nah, it’s okay. Boundaries are good. Just next time, tell me to back off first before you strong-arm me, and then if I don’t listen, go MMA on my ass. So are you ready for me to listen to your heart? This is not going to hurt you.”
The human held up a little metal disk, which appeared to be attached to a cord that…went into the doctor’s ears.
“Have you never been examined before?” Dr. Manello said softly.
Ruhn shook his head.
“Okay, this is a stethoscope. I put it here,” the male pointed to his own chest, a little off of center, “and I listen to the beat. It’s non-invasive—which means it doesn’t hurt or cut into you. I promise.”
Ruhn shuddered and then nodded—not because he wanted anything anywhere near him, but rather because he’d been unforgivably rude in hurting the man and wanted to make up for that somehow.
And it looked like submitting to whatever that was was his only chance.
“Can you sit up straighter for me?”
As he complied, pushing his spine higher, Rhage seemed to be encouraging the others who had come in to leave—and for that, Ruhn was grateful. What he needed right now was less sensory input, not more, and as someone who suffered from shyness, all those pairs of eyes staring at him, even if it was with compassion, were too much to handle.
“See? Nothing to worry about.”
Ruhn looked down. The disk end of the instrument was on his pecs and the doctor was staring off to the side, as if he were concentrating on whatever was being transmitted to his ears.
“Does it hurt to take a breath?” the doctor asked. “Yes? Can I take off your shirt so I can see what’s going on?”
Ruhn nodded before he could think better of it, and Dr. Manello and Rhage each took the bottom of his muscle shirt and peeled it slowly upward.
Like a young, Ruhn held his arms up for them—before he remembered why his shirt had to stay on.
Both of them gasped and froze.
And immediately, Ruhn wanted to curse. He’d forgotten about the markings on his back.
Damn it.
—
After Novo was finished feeding and had fallen into the restless sleep of the injured and healing, Peyton stumbled back to the classroom on numb feet, shaky legs, and a vertigo-scrambled inner ear. As he closed himself in, he wondered why the tables and the chairs, the desk and the blackboard, all looked completely unfamiliar, like he’d never been in the room before.
Made no sense. He’d been gone a half an hour, tops, and his short-term memory informed him that everything was exactly as he’d left it.
Then again, he was what had changed.
Turning the lights off and rolling onto the desk, he felt like he was nothing but bones in a loose sack, everything hard-edged and not well connected. Jesus Christ, what had just happened back there? Whatever, sure, on the surface, Novo had taken his vein, and that hadn’t been the first time a female had done that to him. And hello, she was in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines.
The experience, though? The feel of her lips on the skin of his wrist, the subtle pulls, the lick of her tongue when she was finished?
Fuck his drug addiction. Give him a lifetime of that and he was never going to need another line of coke again.
Closing his eyes, he relived every part of it, from when he had scored himself to that first drop that had landed on her lip. Sensations rippled through him, heating his blood, making him even harder.
He fought the arousal.
He lost.
When he had been at her bedside, he had managed to keep things under control, rearranging his cock discreetly and staying tight. Here by himself in the dark? He felt like a fucking man-whore, but he was never going to sleep again unless he took care of things.
With a rough shove, he pushed his palm down the front of his combats and the instant contact was made, an orgasm exploded out of him, memories of Novo from class, sparring, out in the field, flashing through his mind, keeping things going. He even went back to when he’d been inside her, her bare sex accepting his penetrations like she had been made for him and him alone.
Okay, that was not such a great image, given that she’d only lain there.
Staying away from that one, he stuck to the others as he gave himself more access, ripping open his fly with two brutal hands, shoving the waistband down over his ass. With a grunt, he twisted to the side, his torso torquing as he gripped his shaft and worked himself even harder, the desk cool under his hot cheek, his free hand curling around the edge and squeezing so hard, his forearm nearly snapped in half.
And still he kept coming.
When he was finally drained, he closed his eyes and just breathed for a while—until he realized he’d made a goddamn mess all over himself and the front of his pants and the goddamn desk.
Thank God it was the middle of the day. With any luck, he could sneak down to the locker room, grab some towels and a set of scrubs, and get back here without anyone seeing him.
So yup…it was time to get up.
Uh-huh.
Right now.
Instead, he stayed where he was and wondered what would it be like to feed from her and actually remember it…her blood down the back of his throat, her body underneath his as he rolled her over and went for her throat.
He needed to go there. And not because he was shot in the head and in a medical emergency.
Yet even as the conviction went through his mind and started to rewire things with all sorts of purpose-driven, results-oriented, get-naked-soon goals, he knew none of it was ever going to happen. She had made it clear all along that he wasn’t her type—hell, even if she said she wanted to fight with him again, she didn’t even like him. More to the point, their paths were going to stop crossing when he left the program.
&n
bsp; 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.