by J. R. Ward
Sniffling, she popped free another tissue and blew her nose. "I kept the cash. I still have those hundred-dollar bills. Sometimes, when I run into them in my drawer, I think, why do I keep them? Why am I--oh, for heaven's sake." She had to take a third tissue. "What is wrong with me? That girl is dead, and I can't find her family or who killed her--and I'm sitting here whining about my stupid-ass brother who's old news. This is ridiculous."
"This is past trauma," Mary pointed out evenly.
"I am annoying myself."
"Well, have you thought about what really happened last night?"
"Are you kidding me? There's nothing else on my damned mind."
"No, I mean have you thought about it."
"If your point is that I had to watch a young female die in front of me and that her loss is a tragic waste of life that I am apparently powerless to make right, yes, of course I have."
Mary shook her head. "With all due respect, you're missing my point. Last night, for the first time since Havers ended your relationship with the only blood you have, you were forced to rely on him for help. You couldn't save the girl, so you had to turn to your brother and hope and pray he did the right thing for her."
"He did, though." Marissa released a hard curse. "I mean, he was amazing with her."
"And how did that make you feel, considering how badly he treated you."
Annnnnd cue more tears. "I did think of that. When I went to see her just before she died."
"Here's what I know to be true. We can bury the past all we like. We can use a hundred thousand distractions, some of which are healthy, some of which are not, to keep it under the ground--but when something isn't processed, it will absolutely, positively come back and bite us on the ass. You had a hard life before you and Butch fell in love, and it was no doubt a huge relief to leave all of it behind and start fresh. But you can't outrun what came before. Remember, Marissa, we are every age we have ever been at each moment in our lives. We carry it all with us like luggage. Sooner or later, the stuff with your brother was going to come up again. That's just life."
Marissa performed another re-blot under her eyes. "I'm having trouble connecting with Butch right now."
"Of course you are. He's the one who caused the break."
Marissa recoiled. "Now, wait a minute, hold on--he has been nothing but good to me--"
"It's not an issue of fault, Marissa. You were on one path, he came into your life, now you're on another. I'm not judging him or even saying he did anything wrong--I'm just stating a fact."
For some reason, she remembered staying wide awake while she let Butch sleep. That never would have happened even a year ago. "What do I do?"
"You're not going to like what I have to say."
"It feels like it can't get worse."
"You're going to have to make peace with your brother."
Marissa closed her eyes. "I will never be able to forgive him."
"Making peace doesn't mean you absolve him of his wrongdoing. And honestly, he isn't the only one you need to come to terms with. The glymera treated you horribly, your position within the aristocracy was untenable, and Wrath was a royal shit--and I do mean that with love. You've got a tremendous amount of pain and rejection that you at first held in because it was the only way to survive, and then you put aside because you finally got a break and a chance to feel good in your own life." Mary nodded at all the paperwork on the desk. "If you want to get back to being productive, you're going to have to look under all those rocks, feel your feelings, and come out on the other side of that journey."
Tissue number four came out of the box with a snap, but she didn't end up using it. She just twisted the thing in her hands. "I don't want to forget the girl. I don't want this to be all about me."
"No one says you have to stop trying to find out who she is or do right by her. Just don't use that as an excuse to pack up all this dirty laundry and shove it back underground. That's a short-term coping strategy that will not hold--and the next time this all comes up again--and it will--it's going to be even harder, because you'll relive all this with the girl, too. See, this is how people get paralyzed. They stuff and stuff and stuff, and the triggers keep coming and the layers continue to build until the load becomes too heavy, and they fold."
Marissa kept twisting and untwisting the tissue. "You're right."
"I know."
After a deep breath, Marissa looked across the desk. "Can I give you a hug?"
"Please! Are you kidding me?"
They both stood up and Marissa came around to embrace the smaller female. The hug she got in return was so strong and steady, she teared up all over again.
"You're always there when I need you," Marissa choked out. "I love you too much for words."
"That's what friends are for." Mary pulled back. "And you're going to do the same for me sometime."
Marissa snorted and rolled her eyes. "Doubt that."
"Trust me."
"I'm too much of a mess."
"No, you're human." Mary shook herself. "Sorry, term of art. You're alive and you're struggling and you're beautiful inside and out--and I love you, too."
"I'm still not sure what exactly to do next."
"Think on it. It'll come to you. Remember, forgiving doesn't mean forgetting, hiding isn't a long-term strategy, and distraction isn't your friend. Hit this head-on--and know that I've got your back, 'kay?"
After the female left, Marissa went around to her office chair and sat down again. For some reason, her eyes fixated on the phone--the desk one, not her cell.
The past. Her brother. Butch. The girl. The glymera.
Mary was right. There was a lot she wasn't dealing with.
And to start things off, she might as well tackle the one that seemed the least scary. Or . . . well, maybe the most doable, how about that.
Picking up the receiver, she riffled through the papers and found the pink While You Were Out slip that had been given to her two nights before. Dialing the local number, she took off her pearl earring and leaned back in her chair.
A maid answered the line, put her on hold . . . and then a haughty female voice said, "Oh, hello! So very glad you've called."
Marissa gritted her teeth. "I'll do it. I'll chair the festival."
"Oh! This is marvelous! What wonderful . . ."
As the platitudes droned on, Marissa closed her eyes and heard Mary's voice in her head: You're going to have to make peace with your brother.
Oh, God, she thought. She had no idea how that was going to happen--but she did know about parties, damn it.
Start small. Then get to the big stuff.
Chapter Eighteen
Paradise dislocated her finger when she blocked a heel-of-the-palm punch thrown at her by Rhage. She'd meant to duck and defend using her forearm as he'd taught her to, but her arms and legs didn't always follow directions correctly--the result being that she caught her hand spread wide on the punch.
"Fuck!" she barked as she spun away and tucked in around the injury.
"Lemme see," the Brother said.
"Owowowow." Okay, fine, she sounded like a girl, but how did this hurt so much? "God!"
"Parry, lemme see."
She put her arm out and his big hands, which were now gentle, examined what was an extraordinarily cockeyed version of her middle finger.
"What is wrong with it?" she said, even though she knew.
"Off to the clinic, come on."
As he led her out of the gym, she glanced over her shoulder. Anslam was giving Boone a helluva fight, and that surprised her. Peyton was sitting up and icing his shoulder, staring across at her like he wanted to know what the hell was going on. Novo and Axe were circling each other, the Brother Tohr offering instruction.
"You're going to be fine," Rhage said as he opened the heavy door for her. "Back at 'em in no time."
She made some kind of mmm-hmm as they hit the corridor--and she knew he was right. As long as she didn't look at the digit, the pai
n was actually okay.
"You guys have only got an hour left tonight, then we're going to let you go," the Brother said as they came up to one of the swinging doors of the medical clinic. "And tomorrow you're going to be in the classroom most of the time."
Cue another mmm-hmmm. "Has Craeg left already?"
"He's still being treated."
The exam room was tiled from floor to ceiling and filled with glass-fronted stainless-steel cabinets, medical equipment that was worth a fortune, and all kinds of computer screens. In the center was a massive table under a chandelier with enough globe lights to turn midnight into noontime over a surface area of several acres.
A tall, dark-haired human male turned from what looked like the image of a knee X-ray. Dressed in blue surgical scrubs and a white coat, he seemed very big, very broad . . . and very not-vampire. "Hey, what have we got here?"
Paradise took a step back. She couldn't help it.
"Yes, I'm one of those guys," the man said as he flashed teeth that lacked prominent canines. "But I'm all right, promise."
Rhage went over and gave the guy's shoulder a squeeze. "Great surgeon. Fantastic dude. Tragically proficient poker player, but at least he sucks at pool. Meet Manny Manello, MD."
"So what have we got going on?"
"Dislocated finger," the Brother said.
Both of the males--well, the male and the man--looked over at her.
Paradise cleared her throat--and intended to go with a "Yeah, my finger is . . ." Instead she blurted, "I've never seen a human up close before."
Dr. Manello smiled, put his arms out, and did a slow pivot. "Not that different from you. And I've been to the audience house a couple of times while you were working."
She hadn't noticed then, probably because she'd been so focused on her job--and surrounded by other vampires.
"I don't mean to be disrespectful," she whispered.
"I'm not offended. I had a worse reaction when I learned about you people, trust me." When she looked at him in surprise, he shrugged. "Bear in mind, in my culture, your kind are the bad guys. You know, fangs, bloodsucking, the whole Halloween thing."
She traced his features, and was surprised to find that he was handsome--and he seemed smart, too. Not like a rat without a tail at all.
"He's operated on me twelve times," Rhage cut in.
"Thirteen. We did your shoulder again last week."
"Forgot." When Paradise glanced up at the Brother, he shrugged. "I lose count. Shit happens."
Taking a deep breath, Paradise put her busted hand forward. "Is this going to hurt? What you need to do with it, that is."
Dr. Manello smiled again and took what she put out so lightly she could barely feel his touch. "Pleased to meet you, Paradise. Don't worry, I'm going to take really good care of you."
*
And what do you know, he did.
After Rhage left to go back to teach, Dr. Manello took an X-ray, showed her that nothing was broken, numbed the area up, and popped the middle knuckle back into place.
"You won't have to wear this splint for long," he said as he encased her finger in a padded metal sheath that he taped up with strips of sticky white cloth. "You guys heal so well--it still amazes me."
When he stepped back, she looked his work over. "Thank you so much."
"You're out of commission for the rest of tonight. You and Peyton can hang out in the gurney section."
There was a knock on a door over to the left.
"Come on in," he said as he went over to a red bin and snapped off his bright blue surgical gloves. "I know you've met Ehlena, our nurse." The man frowned at the female's tight expression. "Is he still refusing?"
The nurse shut the panel behind her before answering. "He sent the Chosen away."
Dr. Manello muttered a curse. "I'm not releasing him if he doesn't feed."
"Is this Craeg?" Paradise asked. "Is it--"
The man smiled and talked over her. "So we're done here. Why don't you head back to the gym? You guys must almost be done for the night."
"I'll feed him," she said roughly. "If he needs it, I'll feed him."
What. The hell. Was. She. Doing.
As the daughter of a Founding Family, she wasn't supposed to give anyone her vein. Ever. That was solely for her intended mate. And if she herself ever needed to feed, it had to be in the company of a male relative of hers and several witnesses.
If she did this for him, it was akin to her losing her virginity before her mating night.
"That's okay," Dr. Manello said. "We'll take care of it."
Paradise was escorted out into the corridor, and as the door shut behind her, she could hear the two of them talking in hushed voices.
Go back to the gym, she told herself. Go on, now. Just head back to class and . . .
Looking around, she found that she was alone in the corridor, nobody coming or going, no sounds of footfalls or voices.
She really should rejoin the others.
Except as soon as she had the thought, her feet turned her to the left and took her away from where the hand-to-hand was being taught. Going down to the next door, she pressed her ear to the closed panels and listened.
Breathing in deep, she caught the shadow of Craeg's scent.
He was in there.
Right, she really needed to go back to the--
Her hand pushed the door open a crack and she peered in--and there he was, lying on white sheets on an enormous hospital bed that he nevertheless managed to dwarf. His eyes were closed and his breathing shallow. His skin was . . . not much different from those bleached sheets--except for the incredible bruises on his face, his throat, his . . . everywhere. And then there was the patch-work of bandages that covered the worst of the blade strikes.
Stepping inside the room, she forced the door to close faster than it wanted, and waited for him to look over.
"What?" he said without opening his eyes.
She went across to the bed--and wondered idly if she was ever going to be around the male without her heart pounding.
"Why aren't you feeding?" she demanded.
"Why are you bothering me?"
"You turned down a Chosen?"
"Why aren't you in class?"
"I got hurt. I'm not allowed."
That brought his head around and his lids up. "Are you okay?"
"I'd show you, but it would mean I'm flipping you off."
"You kicked me in the balls, remember? You think I'm worried about your finger?"
"And it wouldn't be the first time, either. I think I flipped you and Peyton off in the corridor."
"After the nut shot, my memory is fuzzy."
She wanted to sit on the edge of the bed, but she was scared of what she was proposing. "You can take my vein, you really can."
Craeg stared at her for a moment. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Please."
"Were you born to a family of saviors? Is it in your blood or something? Because I have never met a pain in the ass like you before, and this Mother Teresa stuff can't be learned behavior. The world is too nasty a place for it."
"They aren't going to let you go home."
"They can't keep me here."
She laughed. "It's the Brotherhood. I'm very certain that nobody is getting out of this place without their permission."
He grunted and fell silent.
"Come on, it'll make you feel better." She put up her left wrist. "And it'll help me feel less guilty about the . . . um, yeah."
"I turned down a Chosen, you know."
Paradise rolled her eyes. "You have the strangest way of being a prick when you feel threatened. Did you come from a family of pricks or did the nasty world just teach you to protect yourself like that?"
"The nasty world killed all of my family. Two of them in front of me. So yeah, you could say it's learned behavior."
Paradise dropped her arm and looked down. "I'm sorry. I didn't--"
"And besides, aren't you afraid that I'll d
o something I shouldn't?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You saw what happened when you pushed me in the gym. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
Paradise felt her body start to warm--and it was then that she owned up, at least to herself, that she had come in here to offer her vein because she wanted more of that . . . whatever it was . . . with him. That connection. That . . . electrical charge.
That sexual burn.
And if there was one sure way of getting it? It was offering a starving male her vein: She might be a virgin, but she wasn't that naive.
"Do you like playing with fire, girl?" he growled. "Because if you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to burn you to the ground."
She knew without opening her lips that her voice was lost. So in reply, she simply, and mutely, offered her wrist.
When he didn't take it, she upped the ante by bringing it to her mouth and scoring her flesh with her own fangs.
That did the trick.
As the scent of her blood hit the air, his eyes rolled back in his head and his body surged under the thin blankets that covered him, his hips rolling, his legs sawing.
"Take my wrist," she said in a low voice. "It will help you."
His hand shot out and grabbed a rough hold of her forearm, jerking her vein to him. But before he struck, he looked up at her with wild eyes. "You're going to need to yell for help."
"Why?" she breathed.
"Right now. Do it."
Except he didn't wait for her to respond. He yanked her toward him--then with a ferocious growl, he struck at her skin even though she had already opened up access for him. As he began sucking with great pulls, she felt an erotic charge all over her body. Opening her mouth so she could breathe, she braced her hand on the bed and held herself up, balancing on the precipice of falling over on top of him. Her mind gone, she was nothing but instinct, and her body knew exactly what it wanted--naked skin on naked skin, the malest part of him in her core, pumping . . . coming.
Screw her virginity.
Literally.
And he was thinking the same thing. As he fed, his eyes roamed over her face, her throat, her breasts--and something was going on under the sheets, his hips moving, his torso arching, his expression one of pain as if he hurt from the wanting.
No, she was not calling for help.
It was, of course, totally insane, but that didn't seem to matter--and dimly, in the very back of her mind, she had a thought that this was why feeding was so closely monitored for females of her class: There was going to be absolutely no crying for help. She didn't want any because she had no interest in stopping anything that was going to happen next--this hot, wild moment was not about her being from a Founding Family. It wasn't about the mansion she lived in with her father or the money in all those bank accounts. It had nothing to do with social position or posturing.