by J. R. Ward
She hoped it hadn’t.
“Jane . . .”
In the dim quiet, she heard in the word all the sadness that V never would have let out in any other situation. And she felt the same way. The days without them talking much, the stress of Payne’s recovery, the distance . . . the goddamn distance . . . it was so damned sad.
Here in the candlelight, in their mated bed, though, all that faded some.
With a sigh, she turned into his warm, heavy body and the contact changed her: Without having to turn herself solid, she became corporeal, the heat flowing between them and magnifying and making her as real as he was. Looking up, she stared at his fierce, beautiful face with its tattoo at the temple and the black hair that he always shoved back and the slashing eyebrows and those icy pale eyes.
Over the past week, she’d played and replayed that night when things had gotten so rough. And though a lot of it was disappointing and anxious-making, there was one thing that just didn’t make sense.
When they’d met up in the tunnel, Vishous had been wearing a turtleneck. And he never wore turtlenecks. He hated them because he found them confining—which was ironic, given what sometimes got him off. Typically, he wore muscle shirts or went naked, and she wasn’t stupid. He might be a hard-core hard-ass, but his skin bruised as easily as anyone else’s did.
He’d said he’d gotten into a fight, but he was a master at hand-to-hand combat. So if he was pulling a head-to-toe black-and-blue it happened for only one reason: because he allowed it.
And she had to wonder who had done it to him.
“You all right?” V asked.
She reached up and put her palm on his cheek. “Are you?” Were they?
He didn’t blink. “What was the dream about?”
“We’re going to have to talk about things, V.”
His lips thinned out. And got even tighter as she waited. Finally, he said, “Payne is where she is. It’s only been a week and—”
“Not about her. About what happened that night you were out alone.”
Now he eased back, sinking into the pillows and linking his two hands over his tight abs. In the dim light, the tight bands of muscle and ropes of vein that ran up his neck threw sharp shadows.
“You accusing me of being with someone else? I thought we went through this.”
“Stop deflecting.” She stared at him steadily. “And if you want to pick a fight, go find some lessers.”
In any other male, her hitting back like that might have guaranteed a flat-out argument, with all the attendant dramatics.
Instead, Vishous turned to her and smiled. “Listen to you.”
“I’d rather you talked to me.”
The sexual light that she was so familiar with, but hadn’t seen in a week, boiled up in his eyes as he rolled over toward her. Then his lids lowered and he looked at her breasts underneath the simple Hanes T-shirt she’d fallen asleep in.
She put her face in the way, but she was smiling, too. Things had been so stiff and strained between them. This felt normal. “I’m not going to be distracted.”
As heat poured out of his big body in waves, her mate took his fingertip and trailed it along her shoulder. And then he opened his mouth, the white tips of his fangs making an appearance and getting even longer as he licked his lips.
Somehow, the sheet that was covering him got tugged down his ribbed abdomen. Lower. Lower still. It was his gloved hand doing the duty, and with every inch exposed, her eyes had more trouble going anywhere else. He stopped right before his massive erection was revealed, but he gave her a show: The tattoos around his groin stretched and righted themselves as his hips curled and relaxed, curled and relaxed.
“Vishous . . .”
“What.”
His gloved hand dipped under the black satin, and she didn’t have to see where it went to be well aware he’d gripped himself: The fact that he arched back told her everything she needed to know. That and the way he bit down on his lower lip.
“Jane . . .”
“What.”
“Are you just going to watch, true?”
God, she remembered the first time she’d seen him like this, all laid out on a bed, erect, ready. She’d been giving him a sponge bath, and he’d read her like a book: As much as she hadn’t wanted to admit it, she’d been desperate to watch him get off.
And she’d made sure he had.
Feeling heated herself, she leaned over to him, dropping her mouth so that it almost touched his. “You’re still deflecting—”
In a flash, his free hand snapped up and clasped the back of her neck, trapping her. And didn’t that power in him go straight down between her thighs.
“Yes. I am.” His tongue came out and flicked across her lip. “But we can always talk after we’re through. You know I never lie.”
“I thought the line was more like . . . you’re never wrong.”
“Well, that’s true, too.” A pumping growl came out of him. “And right now . . . you and I need this.”
That last part was said with none of the passion and all of the seriousness she needed to hear. And what do you know, he was right. The pair of them had been circling for the last seven days, stepping carefully, avoiding the land mine in the center of their relationship. Connecting like this, skin-to-skin, was going to help them get through to the words that had to be spoken.
“So what do you say?” he murmured.
“What are you waiting for?”
The laugh he let out was low and satisfied, and his forearm tightened and released as he started to stroke himself. “Pull the sheet back, Jane.”
The command was husky, but clear, and it got to her. As it always did.
“Do it, Jane. Watch me.”
She put her hand on his pec and drifted it downward, feeling the ribs of his chest and the hard ridges of his abdominals, hearing the hiss as he drew a sharp breath in through his teeth. Lifting the sheet, she had to swallow hard as the head of him breached the top of his fist, breaking free and offering itself with a single, crystal tear.
When she reached out for him, he snapped a hold on her wrist and held her back.
“Look at me, Jane . . .” came the groan. “But don’t touch.”
Son of a bitch. She hated when he did this. Loved it, too.
Vishous didn’t let go of his hold on her as he worked his erection with his gloved hand, his body so beautiful as it found a rhythm with the pump of his palm. Candlelight turned the whole episode into something mysterious, but then . . . it was always like that with V. With him, she never knew what to expect, and not just because he was the son of a deity. He was sex on the edge all the time, hard-cornered and crafty, twisted and demanding.
And she knew that she merely got the watered-down version of him.
There were deeper caves in his underground maze, ones that she had never visited and could never go to.
“Jane,” he said roughly. “Whatever you’re thinking about, drop it. . . . Stay with me here and now and don’t go there.”
She closed her eyes. She’d known what she was mating and what she loved. Back when she’d committed to him for eternity, she’d been well aware of the men and the women and the way he’d had them. She’d just never have guessed that that past would come between them—
“I wasn’t with anyone else.” His voice was strong and sure. “That night. I swear to it.”
Her lids lifted. He’d stopped working himself out and was lying still.
Abruptly, the sight of him was obscured by tears. “I’m so sorry,” she croaked. “I just needed to hear that. I trust you, I honestly do, but I—”
“Shh . . . it’s okay.” His gloved hand reached out and brushed the tear from her cheek. “It’s all right. Why wouldn’t you question what’s doing with me?”
“It’s wrong.”
“No, I’m wrong.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve spent the last week trying to force things to come out of my mouth. I’ve hated this shit, but I didn’t know w
hat the hell to say that wouldn’t make it worse.”
On some level, she was surprised at the compassion and the understanding. The two of them were so very independent and that was why their relationship worked: He was reserved and she didn’t need much emotional support, and usually that math added up beautifully.
Not this week, however.
“I’m sorry, too,” he murmured. “And I wish I were a different kind of male.”
Somehow, she knew he was talking about so much more than his reserved nature. “There’s nothing you can’t talk to me about, V.” When all she got back was a “Hmm,” she said, “There’s a lot of stress right now for you. I know that. And I would do anything to help you.”
“I love you.”
“Then you’ve got to talk to me. The one thing guaranteed not to work is silence.”
“I know. But it’s like looking into a dark room. I want to tell you shit, but I can’t . . . I can’t see anything I feel.”
She believed that—and recognized it as something that victims of child abuse tended to struggle with in adulthood. The early survival mechanism that got them through everything was compartmentalization: When things got too much to handle, they fractured their inner selves and stashed their emotions far, far away.
The danger, of course, was the pressure that invariably built up.
At least the ice between them was broken, though. And they were in this quiet, semi-peaceful space now.
Of their own volition, her eyes drifted down to his arousal, which lay flat up his stomach, stretching even beyond his navel. Suddenly, she wanted him so badly she couldn’t speak.
“Take me, Jane,” he growled. “Do whatever the fuck you want to me.”
What she wanted to do was suck on him and so she did, bending over his hips, taking him into her mouth, drawing him down to the back of her throat. The sound he made was all animal, and his hips jerked up, pushing the hot length of him farther into her. Then one of his knees abruptly bent up so that he wasn’t just prone, but sprawled, as he gave himself over to her completely, cupping the back of her head while she found a rhythm that drove him—
The shift of her body was both fast and smooth.
With his tremendous strength, V repositioned her in the blink of an eye, pivoting her around and shoving the sheets out of the way so he could lift her hips up and over his torso. Her thighs were split over his face and—
“Vishous,” she said around his erection.
His mouth was slick and warm and right on target, fusing with her sex, latching on and sucking before his tongue snaked out and licked inside of her. Her brain didn’t so much turn off as explode, and with nothing left to think with, she was blissfully lost in what was happening and not what had gone before. She had a feeling V was the same. . . . He was all about the stroking, lapping at her and sucking on her, his hands digging into her thighs as he moaned her name against her core. And it was damn hard to concentrate on what he was doing to her at the same time she was doing it for him, but what a problem to have. His erection in her mouth was hot and hard, and he was pure velvet between her legs, and the sensations were proof that even though she was a ghost, her physical reactions were just the same as when she’d been “alive”—
“Fuck, I need you,” he cursed.
On another quick burst of power, Vishous lifted her as if she didn’t weigh more than the sheet did, and the shift was not a surprise. He always preferred to come inside her, deep inside of her, and he spread her legs before settling her on top of his hips, his blunt head nudging into her . . . and slamming home.
The invasion was not just about sex, but him staking his claim, and she loved it. This was the way it should be.
Falling forward and bracing herself against his shoulders, she stared into his eyes as they moved together, the rhythm pounding until they came at the same time, both of them going rigid as he jerked inside of her and her sex milked him. And then V flipped her onto her back and shot down her body, going back to where he’d been, his mouth fusing on her, his palms locking on her thighs as he ate at her.
As she came hard, there was no break or pause. He surged forward, stretching up both her legs and swording in, entering her on a solid stroke and taking over. His body was a massive, pistoning machine on top of her, his bonding scent roaring in the room as he orgasmed hard, the week of abstinence getting dusted in one glorious session.
While his orgasm rocked through him, she watched him as he came, loving all parts of him, even the ones that she sometimes struggled to understand.
And then he kept going. More sex. And still more.
Nearly an hour later, they were finally sated, lying still and breathing deep in the candlelight.
Vishous rolled them over, keeping them joined, and his eyes roamed her face for a long moment. “I have no words. Sixteen languages, but no words.”
There was both love and despair in his voice. He was truly handicapped when it came to emotions, and falling in love hadn’t changed that . . . at least, not when things were as stressful as they were right now. But that was okay—after this time together it was okay.
“It’s all right.” She kissed his pec. “I understand you.”
“I just wish you didn’t have to.”
“You get me.”
“Yeah, but you’re easy.”
Jane propped herself up. “I’m a frickin’ ghost. In case you haven’t noticed. Not something a lot of men would be psyched about.”
V pulled her to his mouth for a quick, hard kiss. “But I get you for the rest of my life.”
“That you do.” Humans, after all, didn’t last a tenth of what vampires did.
When the alarm went off beside them, V glared at the thing. “Now I know why I sleep with a gun under my pillow.”
As he reached out to silence the clock, she had to agree. “You know, you could just shoot it.”
“Nah, Butch would get his ass in here, and I don’t want a weapon in my palm if he ever sees you naked.”
Jane smiled and then lay back as he got out of bed and walked over to the bathroom. At the door, he paused and looked over his shoulder. “I came to you, Jane. Every night this week, I came to you. I didn’t want you to be alone. And I didn’t want to sleep without you.”
On that note, he ducked into the bath, and a moment later she heard the shower come on.
He was better at words than he thought.
With a satisfied stretch, she knew she had to get up and moving, too—time to relieve Ehlena from her day shift in the clinic. But man, she would love to lie here all night. Maybe just a little longer . . .
Vishous left ten minutes later to go to meet with Wrath and the Brotherhood, and he kissed her on the way to the exit. Twice.
Getting out of bed, she hit the bathroom for a while, and then went to their closet and opened the double doors. Hanging from the rod there were leathers—his; plain white T-shirts—hers; white coats—hers; biker jackets—his. The weapons were all locked up in a fire safe; shoes were down on the floor.
Her life was in many ways incomprehensible. Ghost married to a vampire? Come on.
But looking at this closet, so nice and arranged with their crazy lives at rest among these carefully placed clothes and footwear, she felt good about where they were. “Normal” was not a bad thing in this lunatic world; it really wasn’t.
No matter how it happened to be defined.
EIGHTEEN
Down in the training center’s clinic, Payne was doing her exercises, as she’d come to think of them.
Lying in the hospital bed with the pillows pushed to the side, she crossed her arms over her chest and tightened her stomach, pulling her torso upright on a slow rise. When she was perpendicular to the mattress, she extended her arms straight out and held them there while she eased back down. After even one round, her heart was pounding and her breath was short, but she gave herself only a brief recovery and repeated. And repeated. And repeated.
Each time the effort grew
progressively more strenuous, until sweat beaded on her forehead and her stomach muscles strained into pain. Jane had shown her how to do this, and she supposed it was a benefit—although compared to what she had been capable of, it was a spark measured against a bonfire.
Indeed, Jane had tried to get her to do so much more . . . had even wheeled in a chair for her to sit in and ambulate, but Payne couldn’t bear the sight of the thing, or the idea of spending her life rolling from place to place.
In the past week, she had summarily closed off all avenues of accommodation in the hopes of a singular miracle . . . that had never materialized.
It felt like centuries since she’d fought with Wrath . . . since she had known the coordination and strength of her limbs. She had taken so much for granted, and now she missed who she had once been with a grief that she’d assumed one had only for the dead.
Then again, she supposed she had died. Her body just wasn’t smart enough to stop working.
With a curse in the Old Language, she collapsed back and left herself lying there. When she was able, she found the leather strap that she had cranked down over her thighs. The thing was so tight, she knew it was cutting off circulation, but she felt neither the constriction of the binding nor any sweet release as she sprang the clasp and the leather popped loose.
It had been thus since the night she had returned herein.
No change.
Closing her eyes, she reentered into an inner war whereupon her fears drew swords against her mind, and the results were e’er more tragic. After seven cycles of night and day, her army of rationality was suffering from a sorry lack of ammunition and deep fatigue amongst its troops. Thus, the tide was turning. First, she had been buoyed by optimism, but that had faded, and then there had been a period of resolved patience, which had not lasted long. Since then, she had tarried along this barren road of baseless hope.
Alone.
Verily, the loneliness was the worst part of the ordeal: For all the people who were free to come and go, in and out of her room, she was utterly separate even when they sat and talked to her or attended to her very basic needs. Confined to this bed, she was on another plane of reality from them, separated by a vast, invisible desert that she could see clearly o’er, but was unable to cross.