Blood Kiss

by J. R. Ward

  The image of that bossy little chef was the filter that worked best, blocking some of the sensation--or at least enough so he didn't come all over his shellan.

  Actually, his fear of that outcome worked even better.

  Fucking hell, the horror he'd feel if he ever climaxed in her mouth or, God, on her face . . .

  Nope, nope, not gonna happen.

  Unhinging his clawed hands from the back countertop, he reached down and gently pushed at her shoulders. "Stop . . ." he choked out. "You need to stop now."

  The sensations below his waist were getting loud as a detonation--until even with the distractions and the worry, they were about to take him over, submerging him under great waves of high-octane ecstasy.

  Gritting his teeth, he grimaced. "Time to stop--time to--"

  At the last possible moment, he forced her head away, jerked his hips to the side, and ejaculated all over the cabinets where the big boxes of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish were kept. As he came, she fought against his hold, like she wanted back at his erection, but he didn't let her go until his hips had stopped kicking and his body was going into a sag.

  "You should let me finish," she said quietly. "You never let me finish you."

  Refocusing on his mate, he drew her up his body, his still-hard cock bumping against her breasts, her stomach, her thighs--

  The sound of the vestibule's door chime brought their heads around--and Butch swallowed a curse. Jesus, how'd he let this happen in such a public damn room? It had seemed like a perfectly acceptable idea when he'd been lust-blind, but this was no place for a lady like her to blow some scrub like him, even if they were mated.

  Butch quickly smoothed Marissa's hair and then started doing up his fly. "We need to take this back home."

  "It was kind of fun."

  "No."

  As Fritz let Xhex and Trez in, Butch yanked himself back to reality.

  ". . . owes me one," Xhex was saying as she strode in.

  "I so do!" Butch called out to her. "Call the chit whenever you want."

  Xhex shot him a wave, then pegged him with a finger point. "I'm holding you to that."

  "You better."

  Butch had to smile, but then he refocused on his shellan. "Let me feed you. And then get you naked in our bed."

  "Good." She kissed him and then turned around to clean up what he had--

  "No." Butch stopped her hands on the paper towels. "That's for me to do."

  As he eased her out of the way, he could feel her staring at him, but he ignored it. Where he came from, there were two kinds of women, and his mate was in the worship category.

  He should know. He'd had more than his quota of skanks.

  The last thing he would ever do was disrespect his Marissa. It would be like burning down a church, taking a knife to the Mona Lisa, and driving a 918 off a cliff for no reason at all.

  So, no, she wasn't going to clean up the nasty he'd left behind.

  *

  Marissa had other fish to fry.

  As Butch insisted on paper toweling on his own, she got out of his way and shook her head. She had never understood his quirks about sex, but she accepted them. What else could she do? He wouldn't talk to her about it--whenever she brought up the subject of him pushing her mouth away anytime he was close to climaxing, he shut her down.

  Besides, right now that long-running stuff between the two of them was on her back burner.

  That horrifically injured female was barely alive after having been operated on--and Marissa had come home only because there was nothing to do but sit outside that ICU room and wait for word that her organs had failed. Or had started to work on their own. God, the surgery had seemed so complicated when the nurse had explained it to her, but fixing her internal injuries and removing her spleen hadn't taken more than an hour.

  Unfortunately, she had lost too much blood, and even after Havers giving her his vein, her vitals were jumping all around.

  When her brother had emerged from the OR, he had looked Marissa right in the eye and told her that he'd done the best he could.

  And their own personal issues aside, she believed him.

  The sad part to all of it, and indeed, there was almost too much tragedy to bear with this case, was that they still didn't have a name for the female, and no one had called looking for her--Abalone, the King's First Adviser, had checked the open e-mail box and audience house's voice mail at Marissa's request. There had also been no inquiries at the clinic or Safe Place.

  The girl was a figurative ghost . . . on her way to possibly becoming a literal one.

  "Shall we?" Butch drawled as he offered her his arm.

  Marissa shook herself back into focus and smiled at her mate. "Yes, please."

  Taking hold of him, she walked by his side out into the foyer and entered the formal dining room. After the privacy they'd just had, all the chatter, laughter and bustling was a different social time zone, and she found herself feeling a little overwhelmed. Talk about filled to capacity. Even though the muraled ceiling was high as a kite, and the floor space bigger than a bowling alley, with the forty-foot-long table down the center crammed with the Brothers, their shellans, and the other fighters and members of the household, there was a joyful congestion ot it all.

  Two seats were empty on the far side, and they went around to them, Butch settling her in her chair.

  As he sat down next to her, he leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. "Eat fast."

  "You'd better believe it," she said--even though she wasn't hungry.

  And, she was sad to admit, she wasn't necessarily in a big hurry to get back to the Pit, either. The truth was, she'd seduced him because she'd known it was the only way to get her mate to move on from worrying about her.

  When a plate of filet mignon was set in front of her by a doggen, Marissa moved things around, cutting up meat that she didn't try, messing the mashed potatoes, scattering bright green peas. And then she took her glass of cabernet sauvignon and sat back, watching the people, listening to the stories.

  ". . . gonna want me to do?"

  Focusing in on her mate as he spoke, she watched as he leaned around John Matthew to put the question to Xhex.

  The female fighter laughed. "You should fear me."

  "Anyone who doesn't is an asshat."

  "You say the sweetest things. And I'm in no hurry to call my chit in. It's a good thing to have a male like you in my debt."

  For no particular reason, Marissa took note of how powerful Xhex's body was, her shoulders and torso cut with muscle that was set off by the skintight Under Armour shirt she wore tucked into her black leathers. Between her dark hair that was cut short and her gunmetal gray eyes, she was definitely someone to take seriously.

  Meanwhile, Marissa was rocking her office-appropriate slacks and English school marm blouse routine.

  As Butch offered his palm for a high five, Xhex laid one on him and the clap was loud in the room even with all the background noise.

  "That's what I'm talkin' about," Butch said as he sat back in his chair. "Unbelievable."

  "What is?" Marissa asked.

  "Xhex was . . . well, actually, first, I was in an alley. . . . Ah, lemme back up. . . ." He swiped his hand through the air. "Actually, it's too much to explain. Bottom line, I was cornered with my pants down with two lessers, and Xhex had J.M.'s phone on her when I texted for backup. She came in a flash and--" Butch stopped short and shook his head. "Anyway."

  Marissa waited for him to go on. "Anyway . . . ? What happened?"

  Butch cleared his throat and took a sip from the Lagavulin in his glass. "It's not important. It's just, you know, stuff."

  "You were in trouble, weren't you."

  He drew again from his rim. "It all worked out."

  "Thanks to Xhex."

  "You haven't eaten anything."

  She glanced down at her plate. "Oh, yeah. No, I had a meal before I left Safe Place."

  Both of them fell silent.

  As the ribb
ing surged among the Brothers, Marissa felt herself receding, stepping behind an invisible screen that dimmed the sounds and the senses.

  "You ready to go?" Butch asked a little later as people started to get up from the table.

  "Sure. Yes. Thank you."

  On the way to the archway, Butch stopped to talk to V, the pair of them putting their heads together and murmuring. Meanwhile, Xhex walked off from the table with her mate, John's hand traveling down onto the tight ass in those pants, squeezing, pulling her toward him. He had eyes only for his mate, his warrior's body clearly needing to blow off steam.

  The response?

  Xhex let out a growl, the female's eyes locking on John Matthew's as she bared her fangs--like a lioness setting the stage for what was going to be a marathon sex session.

  Clearly, she had an edge she intended to file off with her hellren as well.

  "We're set for tomorrow, then, true?" V said as he offered his palm to Butch.

  "It's a go." Butch clapped hands with the Brother, their two heads getting close once more, their voices dropping so she heard only parts of the conversation: "Yeah. That's right. Uh-huh. See you back at the Pit?"

  "You got it."

  Butch gave Vishous's enormous shoulder a squeeze before turning to Marissa. "You good?"

  "Mm-hmm," she said.

  When Marissa went to walk along with him, she realized she still had her wineglass in her hand. "Let me put this back, hold on."

  Going against the tide, she smiled at Autumn and Tohr, nodded to Payne and Manny--waved across the way at Bella and Nalla. Leaning over her still-full but completely disorganized plate, she put the glass back and wished Fritz and the staff would let anyone help them clear the table.

  When she turned back around, she paused.

  Butch was standing in the archway, legs braced in his leathers, brows down tight. None of that was unusual. But he'd taken the enormous gold cross he always wore out from under his shirt and was playing with it, winding the heavy weight in and out of his fingertips.

  An odd sense of foreboding came over her.

  "Marissa?" a female voice said.

  Jumping to attention, she smiled at Bella. "Hey. I was watching you two across the table. Are you a cutie?" She gave Nalla's cheek a little stroke. "I think you are, yes, I do."

  "She's too much to carry now." Bella bent down and put the young on her now-steady legs. "And I'm investing in running shoes."

  "For you or her?"

  Nalla took off at a dead run, but across the way, her father was on her, striding tight on those little heels. Even though he looked like a looming monster with his scarred face, skull-trimmed hair and slave tattoos, Nalla giggled in delight, glancing back and smiling up at her daddy as she ran, ran, ran around the table and dodged in and out of the doggen who were clearing.

  "I need Nikes for the both of us." Bella smiled. "Listen, I wanted to ask you. I heard a rumor you're going to be chairing the Twelfth Month Festival Ball--"

  "What?"

  Bella frowned. "Wait, I thought . . . did I get this wrong?"

  "No, it's okay." Great. "What were you going to say?"

  "I just wanted to tell you that I'd like to help in any way I can. I was surprised to hear that you took it on, but I get why you would. We need . . . I don't know, I think it's time for the race to reestablish the traditions that worked. There was a lot that didn't, but the festivals are important--"

  An unhappy wail lit off in the now-empty room as Nalla lurched and was caught by her father just in time.

  "Crap, I gotta go," Bella said. "She's having growing pains. It's been a long couple of days, I'll tell you. Just remember I'm here for you, okay?"

  Bella hightailed off for her family, reaching out for Nalla, who in turn put out one arm for her mahmen. The other stayed with Dad . . . so that the three of them were united.

  Yes, Marissa, thought. Growing pains were a hard time, at least from what she had heard. For some reason, vampire young struggled with spurts of intense growth, as opposed to the long, slow, steady route to adult height that humans enjoyed.

  Just one more fun part to the species.

  Like their festivals.

  Marissa rubbed her temples as she went back over to Butch. "God, my head is pounding."

  "Is it?" he said. "Let's get you into bed."

  "Good idea. I think I need some sleep."

  "Yeah. Yeah, you look tired."

  "I am."

  Annnnnnd that was pretty much the end of her night: Ten minutes later she was in bed, eyes closing, images of the last few hours flashing like strobe lights through her head.

  While Butch headed back out to sit in the Pit's living room.

  Alone.

  Chapter Four

  The following evening, Paradise took the bus to school.

  So to speak.

  There were actually two "buses," each holding about thirty people, and any similarities between the ubiquitous yellow mini-human transporters ended with the shared name. The vehicles the Brotherhood used to pick up the training center candidates were like something out of White House Down, all black inside and out, with thick, darkened windows that had to be bulletproof, tires like snowplows, and grilles that reminded her of a T. rex.

  Like everyone else, she had dematerialized to a tract of vacant land out to the west of Caldwell's suburbs. Her father had wanted to go with her, but it had seemed important to start as she meant to go on. This was her independent decision; she needed to do what everyone else did--and she was pretty certain no one else would bring a chaperone.

  Especially not a chaperone who happened to be the King's First Adviser.

  To see nearly sixty people she didn't recognize had been a surprise. Then again, the application had made it clear that anyone was allowed to join the program, so there were a lot of civilians. Actually, it looked as if it was all civilians and the male/female ratio was, like, ten to one.

  But at least her sex was allowed.

  Refocusing, Paradise shifted in her seat and made sure her elbow didn't disturb the male who was sitting next to her. Other than exchanging names--his was Axe--they hadn't said anything, and his brooding silence fit his image completely: The male had killer written all over him, with his black spiked hair, those black piercings on one side of his face, and that tattoo of something evil running vertically up half of his neck.

  If her father knew she was thisclose to a male like that? They'd have to put Abalone on life support.

  And this was exactly why she'd wanted to do the program. It was time to break out of the restrictions of her station--and cut the hothouse flower crap. If working around the King had taught her anything, it was that no matter what class you were in, tragedy didn't discriminate, justice could always be served, and nobody got out of this life alive.

  "So, you're really going to take it this far."

  Paradise looked into the black glass of the window beside her. Reflected in the mirror-like surface, Princeps Peyton, first blooded son of Peythone, was just as she remembered: classically handsome, with those intense blue eyes and his thick blond hair brushed straight back from his forehead. He was wearing his signature rimless, sapphire-tinted sunglasses to hide the fact that he was probably high, and his right-off-the-yacht clothes were tailor-made for his muscled body. With an aristocratic voice that had a rasp, and a brain that was somehow able to counter-act all that THC, he was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the glymera, part Great Gatsby, part Jack Sparrow.

  As she breathed in, she could smell his cologne and a hint of smoke.

  "How are you, Peyton," she muttered.

  "You'd know if you answered your damn phone."

  Paradise rolled her eyes. Even though the pair of them had only ever been friends, the bastard was wholly irresistible to females. And one of his problems, among many, was the fact that he knew it.

  "Hello?" he demanded.

  Paradise turned and faced him. "I don't have a lot to say to you. Which, consi
dering you reduced me to nothing but a pair of ovaries for breeding, shouldn't be a big surprise. I don't have much to offer other than that, right?"

  "Will you excuse us?" he said to the male sitting next to her.

  "Abso-fucking-lutely." Axe, the tough guy, slipped out as if he were getting away from a stink bomb. Or a squeaky female dressed in pink ribbons and bows.

  Peyton sat down. "I've apologized. At least to your phone. What more do you want me to do?"

  She shook her head, thinking of that first year after the raids. So many of her kind had been killed by the Lessening Society during that horrible assault on the race, and those who had been lucky enough to survive had left Caldwell, retreating to safe houses outside of town, out of state, out of New England.

  Peyton had gone south with his blood. She'd gone west with her father. And the two of them had spent countless, sleepless days talking on the phone just to keep sane and process the fear, the sadness, the horror, the losses. Over time, he had become someone she touched base with not just once a night, but all throughout the endless twenty-four-hour cycles of days, weeks, months.

  He had become her family.

  Of course, if times had been remotely normal, they wouldn't have gotten so close--especially not if the contact had been in person. As an unmated female from a Founding Family, she wouldn't have been allowed to fraternize so freely with any unmated male without a chaperone.

  "You know all those hours we spent on the phone?" she said.

  "Yeah."

  "I felt like you had my back. You didn't judge me if I was scared or weak or nervous. You were just . . . this voice on the other end of the connection that kept me sane. You were sometimes the only reason I made it to nightfall." She shook her head. "And then this comes up, and you body-slam me with the glymera bullcrap--"

  "Now hold on--"

  "You did. You laughed at me and told me I couldn't do this." She clamped a hold on his mouth, shutting him up. "Just stop talking, okay? Let me get this all out. Now, you might be right: I might fail out of the program. Fine, I'll fall on my butt--but I'm allowed to be here on this bus, and I have the same shot that everyone else does. And you of all people, who's made fun of every one of the idiot society females your family's tried to set you up with, who's told me you think the festivals are stupid, who's rejected the business expectations your father put on you--you were the last person I thought would ever go old-school on me."