by J. R. Ward
Ruhn laughed. He couldn’t help it—and then he covered up his front teeth with his hand out of shyness. As Saxton grinned back at him, he had to look away. It was just too much beauty, too much excitement…too much everything.
“Have you eaten?” the solicitor asked as he reached down and pulled his slacks back into place.
“No, I have not.”
“Let me make us Last Meal.” Saxton passed a hand around the kitchen. “We are well stocked here. I will just excuse myself for a moment upstairs.”
As Ruhn hesitated, Saxton took his face in his hands, and urged him down to the male’s mouth. The kiss was as sweet as the sex had been possessive.
“I have to go to Mistress Miniahna’s,” Ruhn heard himself say. “To check on her before the dawn comes.”
“All right, I understand.” Saxton took a step back, a reserve tightening his features. “I shall see you at nightfall, then. We need to pay a visit to those real estate developers.”
“Good.”
There was an awkward silence. And then Ruhn blurted, “When?”
Saxton exhaled as if he were changing tracks in his head with effort. “Ah, let’s say five forty-five. End of business for them, dark enough for us. We’ll need to take your truck—”
“I mean us. When can we…do this again?”
Saxton’s smile was quick and sustaining. “Anytime you like.”
Ruhn reached up and brushed the male’s face with his knuckles…before running his forefinger across that lower lip. Flashes of what they had just done replayed with a soundtrack of their moans and gasps.
“Thank you,” he said.
Saxton shook his head. “I rather think I’m the one who should be saying that.”
No, Ruhn thought. Not at all.
He leaned in and kissed the male. As his blood began to stir, he knew he had to go—or he was liable to never, ever leave.
“It is I who am grateful to you,” he whispered against those lips.
“Who is Oskar?”
As the question was whispered in her ear, Novo came fully awake. At first, she had no idea whose chest she was lying all sprawled and warm on—but a quick inhale solved that problem. Peyton. She and Peyton were—
Yes, the hospital room. She was in the clinic, still recovering from surgery.
Lifting her head, she looked at the male she’d turned into a throw pillow. Peyton seemed perfectly content to be used in such a fashion, his naked body relaxed, his eyes heavily lidded, the mess at his throat already beginning to heal itself. Over on the floor, his tuxedo was all fallen-soldier-on-the-battlefield, scattered in pieces from having been cast aside.
His cock was much the same, resting flaccid and exhausted on one of his thighs.
She had the sense it would be back in working order at the drop of a hat.
“A lover?” he prompted.
“Who?”
“Oskar. You said his name in your sleep just now.”
“Oh, that’s no one.”
“Really? You seemed upset—or your voice did.”
“Must have been a nightmare for no good reason.”
“Yeah.” He brushed a wisp of hair back from her cheek. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You want to go on a date with me sometime?”
Novo cocked a brow at him. “A date.”
“Yup. Dinner. Dancing. This kind of thing.”
“Are you thinking there will be sex involved?”
“Hoping, sure.”
“Maybe.”
His smile went straight into the center of her chest, sure as that dagger had: slow, confident, sexy. “I love a challenge.”
“I’m not a challenge, though.”
“You are as far from easy as anyone I’ve ever met.”
“You can never win me. That’s why I’m not.”
“Isn’t that the very definition of a challenge?”
“No, it’s called a brick wall. You’re welcome to try me, though.”
“Somehow, someday,” he held his forefinger aloft, “I’m going to get through to you.”
“Ask yourself why you’re bothering to try. You’ll get far more out of that endeavor, I assure you—”
“She’s soooooooooooooo hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh, hiiigh above me—”
Novo recoiled and had to talk over all the off-key. “Why are you singing?”
“—she’s soooo looooovely—”
Novo had to laugh. “You are a total freak, you know that—”
“—liiiiiike Cleeeopatraaaa, Joooooooannn of Arrrrccc—”
“Oh, my God, you are tone deaf.”
As she covered her ears, he really turned up the volume. “—or Apppphroooodiiiiteeee—”
His arms wrapped around her and he kissed her and kissed her again. But it wasn’t about sex. He seemed to like the fact that she was laughing, and the mouth-to-mouth was his way of telling her that.
“Why are you such a whack job?” she said against his lips.
“ ’Cuz I will do just about anything to see that smile of yours.”
“Why do you care?”
“How can I not?”
Novo rolled her eyes. “Listen, you need to stop.”
“I did. I’m no longer singing. But if you want me to go through my repertoire of Wham!, I have that shit on deck right now for you. I also do a mean Flock of Seagulls, wassup.”
“I’m talking about being charming. I hate it. Just be yourself.”
“What if I am being myself.”
“Frustrated lounge singer?”
“Someone who wants to make you smile.”
She shoved herself off of him and sat up—at least until her IV lines stopped her. “I think you need to go.”
Peyton just put his hands behind his head and continued to lie there like a lion sunning himself. Except he was not king of the jungle and, hello, the light source was fluorescent and coming from the bathroom.
Damn it, that roughed-up blond hair and those sleepy blue eyes were too fucking attractive. Especially considering they were the cherry on top of one hell of a naked-ass sundae.
“I can’t,” he drawled.
Wait, what had they been talking about? Oh, right. The Peyton charm. “You sure as hell can cut the shit.”
“By the way, it’s two in the afternoon.” He nodded at the clock over on the wall. “Daylight is a real buzzkill, so you can’t tell me to go. As annoying as you find me, I’m very sure you don’t want my death on your conscience.”
“Do not underestimate how irritating you can be.” Novo pointed to the door. “And no matter what time of day or night, you can always leave this room.”
“Make me.”
She blinked. “What…?”
“You heard me, hard-ass. Unplug yourself, pick me up, and toss me out there like litter. Otherwise, I’m just sooooo comfortable right here. I mean, this two-inch pillow—that’s basically like putting my head on a Frosted Mini-Wheat—is diiiiivine. And don’t get me started on these sheets. I mean, hello, I’m throwing my Porthault out as soon as I get home and replacing it with this sandpaper. My ass is getting buffed to a high shine with me just breathing.”
Novo mostly kept the laugh to herself. Mostly. “Stop. You’re not funny.”
“No? Not even a little?” He winked at her. “How about I do my best joke ever.”
She crossed her arms over her chest—and then abruptly froze. As she looked down at herself, she took a ragged breath.
Instantly, Peyton was all serious and sitting up. “What’s wrong. I’ll get the doctor—”
“No, I’m okay.”
With hands that shook, she reached up to the hospital johnny’s ties. Loosening the top one, she gently parted the two halves…and stared down.
In a barely audible voice, she whispered, “It’s gone. The scar…is gone. It’s healed. My heart…has healed. There’s no pain.”
Peyton leaned in. And then he reached out and brushed his finger
down the perfectly regenerated skin. There wasn’t even a mark.
“I didn’t want to die.” She cleared her throat, but she was still hoarse. “Out there. When it happened…I didn’t want to die.”
“You sound surprised.”
Novo closed her eyes. “I am.”
“I’m sorry.”
Trying to snap out of it, she shut his sympathy down. “You already apologized for the mistake.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry there was a time when you wanted to die.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.”
Before she could try to slam that door closed, he did the strangest thing.
Peyton took her hands, drew them away from the ties, and then turned them over. Dipping his head, he kissed her on both wrists, his lips the softest of brushes. And afterward, he gathered the ties she had been holding…and executed a perfect bow, the two loops exactly the same, the pair of ends of equal length, the johnny now re-closed.
Placing his hand over her heart, he whispered, “I am so glad you’re okay.”
Without another word, he wrapped his arms around her and urged her back down onto his chest.
She resisted. For a little bit.
But then she stopped fighting.
—
As the hours of daylight passed, Peyton did not sleep. He just stroked Novo’s back with a slow hand, the contours of her spine and muscles a landscape he learned better with each pass.
He had often recognized her strength. How could he not? There was a lot of pain underneath all of that, though—and he was struck by a need to find out her secrets, get in and help her conquer those demons. But come on, what could he really do for her? He was more boat-with-a-hole-in-it than competent-rescuer-on-the-high-seas.
At some point, he must have drifted off, because the wailing of that patient with the mental breakdown woke him up. Listening to the howling, he wondered how much longer anyone could last in that condition.
A quick check of the clock on the wall and he cursed. Five o’clock.
Damn it, he didn’t want to leave her and he most certainly did not want to go where he was expected at five-thirty. But he was used to doing shit he had no interest in.
With slow, careful movements, he repositioned Novo—and prayed that she stayed asleep. She looked like she was really making the turn, what with that scar healing up already and her brows relaxed now, not furrowed in pain. When he was standing on his own two feet and she had curled onto her side, he eased the blankets into place and realized that they had never been skin to skin. She hadn’t taken her johnny off, and he hadn’t even gotten in under the covers.
Seemed like a metaphor for all the things she was keeping to herself.
As he pulled on his tuxedo slacks, he had some notion that he should leave well enough alone. Sexual attraction did not a relationship make, and neither did it justify demands for emotional connection. And hell, he knew firsthand from those hours on the phone with Paradise that people talked about themselves on their own timeline and no one else’s.
Just leave her be, he told himself. Those defenses of hers were in place for a reason.
His tuxedo shirt was a wrinkled mess and he hated that as he pulled it on, but it wasn’t like the thing was going to stay on him for longer than the walk down to the males’ locker room. He’d take his shower there and throw on a set of scrubs.
Over at the door, he stared back at Novo sleeping on that hospital bed. She was in the position of a young, her knees tucked up tight, her arms, too, those hands of hers that were so good with weapons curled into innocent rolls under her chin. Black lashes rested on cheeks that were no longer so pale, and that heavy black braid was like a rope as it lay along the archer’s bow of her back.
He had some thought that he was never going to see her like this again.
This moment, right here, was a one-off, an artificially constructed instant limited to the final phase of her recovery. The next time he saw her, she was going to be up and at him and everyone else, her body whole and fully functioning, her mind sharp, her faculties no longer dimmed, but firing on all cylinders.
He had been granted a gift the now. Not by her, though. She never would want anyone to see her like this.
Stepping out of the room, he took off the piece of paper that had been taped to the door and folded it a couple of times so that Dr. Manello’s shitty handwriting was no longer visible. Then he put the thing in his pocket and hustled down to the locker room.
A quick shower, shave, and change of clothes, and he was ready for what was ahead, another hurdle to be jumped, a hoop to go through, a “t” to cross, an “i” to dot—and then things were done here. He left his tux in one of the lockers and was stuck wearing his formal patent leathers, the little grosgrain bows and glossy pointed toes looking absolutely ridiculous sticking out from underneath the hems of the scrub pants.
Back in the hall, he paused by Novo’s room. Then kept on going. No one was out and about. Dr. Manello was probably sleeping off his toked-up version of a rager, and Doc Jane and Ehlena were no doubt getting ready for First Meal at what they called “the big house.” There were no Brothers around, and certainly no trainees.
There were going to be soon enough, though.
They were supposed to be having a meeting at eight. That was why this particular appointment of his had to happen so early.
Peyton stopped at the glass door of the office. Peering in, he almost hoped there would be no one at that desk. But of course, that was a not-happening.
The Brother Rhage’s shellan, Mary, was sitting at the computer, her head down, her eyes trained on the screen. As if sensing his presence, she looked up and waved for him to come in.
Run, Forrest…run! was all he could think of as he pushed his way inside.
“Hey.” She got to her feet. “How are you?”
“I’m great. Thanks.”
“Good. You ready to have a little chat?”
As far as he knew, Mary was a human—or had been one—until the Scribe Virgin had interceded and, for some reason, taken the female out of the continuum of time. He didn’t know much more about it, but she certainly seemed as serene as an angel or a deity or whatever she was. And she was very different from Rhage. She was small, especially compared to her hellren, and she had an unassuming beauty, her brown hair cut practically, her face always free of makeup, her clothes simple, functional. The only jewelry he’d ever noticed on her—not that he paid much attention—was an enormous gold Rolex, which had to have belonged to her mate, and maybe a pair of pearl studs.
She was wearing both tonight.
Bottom line, she was just what you’d think a shrink would be like: calm, sharp as a tack, and bonus for him, she didn’t seem judgmental in the slightest.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered as he went to take a seat in the chair across from her.
“Oh, not here.”
He looked around at the office. “Why not?”
“It’s not private.”
“I don’t have anything to hide,” he said dryly. “If that were the case, I would have stopped streaking at human concerts years ago.”
“No, let’s go.”
“Where?”
Mary came around the desk. “There’s an old interrogation room down the hall—no, this is not being filmed, and before you ask, I will not divulge to anyone what you say. It’s just that if we’re in there, no one will interrupt us.”
“Wait, if you won’t tell anybody anything, why are we doing this?”
“I’ll be making an assessment. But I will not be sharing specific details.”
“About whether or not I’m sane?”
“Let’s go this way.”
As she smiled, it was calm, but he had the sense she wasn’t going to go into any further detail.
Whatever, he thought. This was all just a formality before they kicked him out.
As Peyton followed her into t
he corridor, he shrugged. “FYI, you can tell the world as far as I’m concerned. I made the bad call out in the alley and I know I’m leaving the program. So we could save a lot of time and just have you check that box on the form.”
She stopped and looked up at him. “No one’s made that determination yet.”
“You mean telling me to leave? Come on, we both know that’s where we are. And it’s fine.”
“Do you not like what you’re doing here?”
The question was not phrased in an offensive way, as if she were criticizing him for his lack of commitment or something. It was more an invitation to talk.
He should be ready for a lot of that tone from her, he thought.
“No, it’s fine. Whatever happens, happens.”
After she made some kind of an mmm-hmm sound, they started walking side by side. As they went along, only one set of footfalls, his, echoed around. Mary glanced down at his feet.
“Those shoes look awfully fancy,” she said with a smile.
“I wanted to impress you.”
“That’s not your job or mine.” More with that smile. “But they’re a very nice pair of tuxedo shoes. I’ve learned all about men’s fashion from Butch.”
“He and I use the same tailor now.”
“I believe that.”
When they got to an unmarked steel door with no window in it, she knocked, waited a moment, and opened the way into an anonymous room with gray walls, a table in the center, and only two chairs.
“I’m sorry this is so dour,” she murmured as they entered and she closed them in together.
As she sat down, he realized she’d brought a yellow pad and a pen with her. Huh. He hadn’t even noticed she’d taken anything from the desk.
“Join me,” she prompted as she motioned to a chair.
“This won’t take long,” he muttered as he sat down. “Not long at all.”
As Ruhn pulled the truck over in front of the Commodore’s impressive front entrance, he was thinking about cologne—something that was not on his normal list of musings. Which was the point.
Leaning forward so he could regard the skyscraper’s towering steel-and-glass facade, he found himself finally understanding why people used the stuff. Previously, with no one to impress, the idea that you would deliberately scent yourself with something formulated by a bunch of humans and marketed to great expense seemed a ludicrous exercise in lost wages.