by J. R. Ward
As he spoke, he was lethally serious and abidingly sincere . . . and the acceptance he offered was as generous as it was unique: She had never gotten it from anyone. Even her own brother wanted to deny her her choice of mate.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“It’s not a compliment. That’s just the way it is.” Manuel kissed her mouth softly, and lingered with the contact. “But the Goateed Hater is still right, Payne.”
“Goateed . . . Hater?”
“Sorry. Little nickname I dreamed up for your twin.” He shrugged. “But even still, I really think he does have your best interests at heart, and you do need someone other than me long-term—whether I can stay here or not is just part of the problem.”
“Not in my eyes.”
“Then you need to see more clearly. I’m going to be dead in another four decades. If I’m lucky. Do you really want to watch me age? Die?”
She had to close her eyes and turn her head away at the thought of him passing away. “Fates . . . no.”
In the quiet that followed, the energy between them changed, shifting from everything sexual . . . to a different kind of yearning. And as if he felt as she did, he tucked her in against his body, holding her tightly within his strong arms.
“If there’s one thing that I’ve learned as a doctor,” he said, “it’s that biology prevails. You and I can do all the deciding we want, but the biological differences are nothing that we can change. My life expectancy is a fraction of yours—at most, we’d get a ten-year window before I’m in Cialis land.”
“What’s that?”
“A very, very flat, gelded place,” he said drily.
“Well . . . I would go there with you, Manuel.” She pulled back so she could look into his beautiful brown eyes. “Wherever it is.”
There was a beat of silence. And then he smiled sadly. “I love the way you say my name.”
Sighing, she put her head on his shoulder. “And I love saying it.”
As they stood there, one against the other, she wondered whether it was for the very last time. And that made her think of her brother. She was worried about Vishous and needed to talk with him, but he had chosen to leave her with no way of finding him.
So be it. Difficult as it was, she would let Vishous go temporarily for now . . . and focus on the male who was with her.
“I have something to ask of you,” she said to her healer—Manuel, she corrected herself.
“Name it.”
“Take me into your world. Show me . . . if not everything, then something.”
Manuel stiffened. “I don’t know if that’s such a hot idea. You’ve been on your feet for just over twelve hours at this point.”
“But I feel strong, and I have ways of dealing with travel.” Worse came to worst, she could just dematerialize back here to the compound: She knew from the seeing bowls that her brother had surrounded this facility with mhis, and that was a beacon she could readily find. “Trust me, I shall be in no danger.”
“How would we get out together, though?”
Payne stepped from his hold. “You re-dress your body whilst I take care of everything.” When it looked like he was going to argue, she shook her head. “You say biology always wins? Fine. But I say to you, we have this night—why should we waste it.”
“More time together . . . is only going to make it harder to leave.”
Oh, how that hurt. “You said you would grant me a favor. I have put it upon you. Is your word not your bond?”
His lips thinned out. But then he inclined his head. “Fair enough. I’ll go change.”
As he headed back to their room, she returned to the office and picked up the phone, as Jane and Ehlena had shown her how to do. The dialing went well enough—and the butler doggen answered in a cheery voice.
This had to work, she told herself. This absolutely had to work.
In the Old Language, she said, “This is Payne, blooded sister of the Black Dagger Brother Vishous, son of the Bloodletter. I should wish to speak with the king, if he would grant me the courtesy.”
THIRTY-SIX
As Vishous burst into the Pit from the underground tunnel, he had to wipe his bloody face with his palm so he could keep going down to the bedrooms. He supposed it was a good thing that the mirror had mostly bull’s-eyed, because it meant there were few shards in him—but in truth, he didn’t really give a shit.
When he came up to Butch and Marissa’s door, he knocked. Hard.
“Gimme a minute.”
Butch didn’t take that long to open up, and he was still pulling his robe on when he did. “What is—” That was as far as he got. “Jesus Christ . . . V.”
Over the guy’s shoulder, Marissa sat up in their bed, her cheeks flushed, her long blond hair tangled, the covers pulled up to her breasts and held there. Drowsy satisfaction was quickly replaced with shock.
“I should have just called.” V was impressed at the calm tone of his voice, and he tasted copper as he spoke. “But I don’t know where my phone is.”
As his stare locked onto his best friend’s, he felt like a diabetic desperate for insulin. Or maybe it was more like a heroin addict pining for a needle. Whatever the metaphor, he had to get out of himself or he was going to lose his mind and do something criminally stupid.
Like get his blades on and turn that surgeon into so much hamburger meat.
“I caught them together,” he heard himself say. “But don’t worry. The human is still breathing.”
And then he just stood there, the question that he’d come to ask as plain as the blood on his face.
Butch glanced back at his shellan. Without hesitation, she nodded, her eyes sad and kind and so understanding that V was momentarily touched—even in his numbed-out state.
“Go,” she said. “Take care of him. I love you.”
Butch nodded at her. Probably mouthed an “I love you” back.
Then he looked at V and muttered gruffly, “You go wait in the courtyard. I’ll bring the Escalade around—and get a towel from the bathroom, would ya? You look like Freddy-frickin’-Krueger.”
As the cop peeled off for the closet and ditched his robe to get dressed, V looked at the male’s shellan.
“It’s all right, Vishous,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.”
“I do not crave this.” But he needed it before he became a danger to himself and others.
“I know. And I love you, too.”
“You are a blessing beyond measure,” he pronounced in the Old Language.
And then he bowed to her and turned away.
When the world came back into focus sometime later, V found himself sitting on the passenger side of the Escalade. Butch was behind the wheel, and the pedal-metal routine the cop was pulling meant some serious mileage had been covered: The lights of downtown Caldwell were not just in the distance; they were all around, glimmering through the front and side windows.
The silence in the SUV was as tense as a dagger hand and as dense as a brick. And even as they closed in on their destination, V had trouble comprehending this trip they were taking. There was no going back, however. Not for either of them.
Down into the Commodore’s parking garage.
Engine off.
Two doors opening . . . two doors closing.
And then the ride up in the elevator. Which was like the trip from the compound to the Commodore: nothing that stuck in V’s mind.
Next thing he knew, Butch was using the copper key to open the way into the penthouse.
V walked in first and he willed the black candles on their stanchions to light up. The instant the black walls and flooring were illuminated, he went from zombie to live wire, his senses coming alive to the point where his own footfalls sounded like bombs dropping, and the sound of the door shutting them both in was like the building falling in on itself.
Every breath he took was a gust of wind. Every beat of his heart was a boxer’s punch. Every swallow he took was a guzzle down h
is throat.
Was this how his subs had felt? This too-alive tingle?
He stopped by his table. No jacket to take off. Nothing but the now-bloody hospital johnny on his back.
Behind him, Butch’s presence loomed big as a mountain.
“Can I use your phone,” V asked roughly.
“Here.”
V spun around and caught the tossed BlackBerry with his gloved hand. Calling up a blank text, he chose Doc Jane out of the address book.
His fingers stilled at that point. His brain was clogged with emotion, the screams he needed to let out getting in the way and turning his normal reserve into a solid-steel set of bars that bolted him inside of himself.
But then, this was why they were here.
With a soft curse, he canceled the empty text.
When he went to pass the phone back, Butch was over by the bed, taking off one of his many fancy-dancy leather jackets. No biker’s spiky bullshit for the cop’s downtime—the coat was hip-length and had been fitted perfectly to his barrel chest, the material beyond butter and into cloud-soft. Which V knew because he’d handed the thing over a number of times.
This was not something the guy fought in.
And he was taking it off for the right reasons.
No reason to get blood on the likes of that.
As V put the phone down on the bed and backed away, Butch folded the jacket with careful, precise hands, and when he laid the leather down, it was as if he were settling a young on the black duvet. Then those strong, blunt fingers of his pulled up his belted black slacks and smoothed his black silk shirt.
Silence.
And not the comfy kind.
Vishous looked to the banks of plate glass that ran around the penthouse, and stared at his best friend’s reflection.
After a moment, the cop’s head turned.
Their eyes met in the glass.
“Are you going to leave that on?” Butch asked darkly.
Vishous reached up to the tie at the back of his neck and popped the bow that held the two halves of the johnny together. And then he did the same at his waist. As the shift fell from his body, the cop watched from across the room as it hit the floor.
“I need a fucking drink,” Butch said.
Over at the bar, the guy poured himself a shot of Lagavulin. And another. And then he pushed the squat glass away, picked up the bottle, and sucked hard.
Vishous stayed where he was, his mouth open, his breath shooting in and out of him as he remained focused on the image of his best friend.
Butch put the bottle down, but held on to it, his head falling forward as if he’d closed his eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” V said hoarsely.
“Yeah . . . I do.”
The cop’s dark head lifted and then he pivoted.
When he finally came forward, he left the booze at the bar, and he stopped when he was behind Vishous. He was close . . . close enough so that the heat from his body easily registered.
Or maybe that was V’s own blood beginning to boil.
“What are the rules,” the cop said.
“There are none.” Vishous spread his stance and braced himself. “Do whatever you want . . . but you have to break me. You’ve got to tear me apart.”
Back at the compound, Manny changed into yet another set of scrubs. Things kept going like this and he should buy stock in the goddamned garment company. Or in laundry machines.
Out in the hall, he took up res against the concrete wall and stared at his Nikes. He so did not think the soles should get excited—he had a feeling that he and Payne were not going anywhere. At least, not together.
Daughter of a deity.
Annnnnd . . . it didn’t matter to him. She could have been the offspring of an ostrich, for all he cared.
Rubbing his face, he couldn’t decide whether he was impressed with himself or terrified that he was so accepting of that news flash. Probably healthier to be shocked and disbelieving and all about the hell-no. His brain just rolled with it, though—which meant he was either getting really flexible with what he considered reality or his gray matter had fallen into a state of learned helplessness.
Probably the former. Because all in all, he felt with-it. . . . Shit, he felt better than he had in ages: In spite of the fact that he’d operated for ten hours straight, and he’d slept in a chair for part of the night—or day, or whatever time it was—the body/mind combo of his was strong and healthy and sharp as a tack. Even as he stretched, there was no stiffness . . . or creaks or pops. It was as if he’d been on vacation for a month, getting massages and doing yoga in front of the ocean.
Not that he’d ever done the Downward Dog.
Annnnnnnnnnnnd on that note, a truly fabulous, utterly filthy image of Payne came to mind. As his cock raised its hand to be called on, he thought it would no doubt be a good idea not to take her on a guided tour of, say, his bedroom. Actually, given recent events, which had involved him on his knees . . . his bathroom was probably off-limits, too. Maybe he should avoid rooms with tile? So his kitchen was a no-go. His front hall, too—
Payne all but jumped out from the office, and she had his briefcase and other things with her. “We’re free!”
With all the grace of an athlete, she ran to him, her hair flowing out behind her, her stride just as fluid as those dark waves on her head.
“We’re free! We’re free!”
As she leaped into his arms, he caught her and spun her around. “They’re letting us go?” he said.
“Indeed! We have clearance to take your automobile out from here.” As she handed him his things, she smiled so widely her fangs flashed. “I thought you might need these. And the phone works now.”
“How did you know they’re mine?”
“They carried your scent. And Wrath told me about the card thingy that my twin removed.”
Phone-schmone. The fact she recognized him by smell turned him on, reminding him of exactly how close they had gotten—
Okay, time to stop that film reel.
She put her hand up to his face. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I like the way you look at me, Manuel.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“It makes me think of when your mouth was upon me.”
Manny groaned and nearly lost it. So to keep things from getting out of hand, he put his arm around her waist. “Come on. Let’s take off before we lose the chance.”
Her laugh was so carefree that for some reason it split his chest wide and exposed the beating heart behind his ribs. And that was before she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“You are aroused.”
He glanced over at her. “And you are playing with fire.”
“I like being hot.”
Manny barked out a laugh. “Well, don’t you worry—you are just that.”
When they came up to the fire door, he put his palm on the push bar. “This really going to open?”
“Try it and find out.”
He tilted in . . . and what do you know, the latch sprang free and the heavy metal panel went wide.
As vampires with guns and machetes didn’t come streaming down on them from every direction, he shook his head. “How in the hell did you manage this.”
“The king was not happy. But I am not a prisoner here, I am of age, and there is no reason I should not be able to leave the compound.”
“And at the end of the evening . . . what then?” As her joy diminished, he thought, Uh-huh, that was how she’d pulled it off. Technically, she was escorting him home. . . . This was their good-bye.
He smoothed her hair back. “It’s okay. It’s . . . all right, bambina.”
She seemed to swallow hard. “I shall not think of the future, and neither should you. There are hours and hours to be had.”
Hours. Not days or weeks or months . . . or years. Hours.
God, he didn’t feel free at all.
“Come on,” he said, stepping out and t
aking her hand. “Let’s make this count.”
His car was parked in the shadows on the right, and when he got over to it, he found the thing unlocked. But come on, like anyone was going to get at it?
He opened the passenger-side door. “Let me help you in.”
Taking her arm like a gentleman, he settled her and then stretched the seat belt across her breasts, clicking it into place.
As her eyes bounced around the interior and her hands stroked the sides of the bucket seat, he figured this could be her first car ride. And how cool was that?
“You ever been in one of these before?” he asked.
“Verily, I have not.”
“Well, I’ll take it slow.”
She caught his hand as he straightened. “Does this go fast?”
He laughed a little. “It’s a Porsche. Fast is what it does.”
“Then you shall take us upon the wind! It shall be as my days astride were!”
Manny took a mental snapshot of the wild happiness on her face: She was glowing—and not in the ethereal sense, but in the simple joy-of-life way.
He leaned in and kissed her. “You are so beautiful.”
She captured his face. “And I thank you for it.”
Oh, but it so wasn’t him. What was lighting her up was freedom and health and optimism—and she deserved nothing less out of life.
“I have someone I want you to meet,” he blurted.
Payne smiled at him. “Then drive on, Manuel. Take us into the night.”
After a moment more of staring at her . . . he did just that.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Standing naked in his penthouse, Vishous waited for something . . . anything.
Instead, Butch backed off and disappeared into the kitchen. As he was left to his lonesome, V closed his eyes and cursed. This was a bad idea. You didn’t ask a good Catholic boy to play with the kind of toys V—
The hit came from behind, fast and sure.
It was a modified body slam, and executed beautifully: Two huge arms wrapped him at the chest and the hips and he was slung around and spun out into the far wall by the worktable. Which was when the “slam” part came in: Every square inch of him made impact. No bounce-back, though. No ricocheting.