by J. R. Ward
She opened her eyes.
Open was better.
No matter what the man said, that was no little scrape he was dealing with. He needed to go to the hospital. And she would have argued the point more strenuously, except she’d been a little busy trying to convince her pad thai to stay put.
Besides, that guy seemed pretty darned competent at fixing himself up.
He was also one hell of a looker. Even though the gore was distracting, she couldn’t help but notice his dazzling face and body. Short blond hair, iridescent blue eyes, a face that belonged on the big screen. He’d been dressed as Wrath was, in black leather pants and shitkickers, but his shirt had been cast aside. The muscles of his upper torso had stood out in sharp relief beneath the overhead light, an impressive display of strength. And the multicolored tattoo of a dragon that covered his whole back was a total stunner.
But then, it wasn’t as if Wrath were going to hang out with some scrawny tax accountant–looking nancy.
Drug dealers. They were clearly drug dealers. Guns, weapons, huge amounts of cash. And who else got into a knife fight and played doctor on themselves?
She recalled that the man had borne the same circular-shaped scar on his chest that Wrath did.
They must be in a gang, she thought. Or the mob.
She suddenly needed some space, and Wrath let her go as they walked into a lemon-colored room. Her feet slowed. The place looked like a museum or something she’d expect to see in Architectural Digest. Thick, pale drapery framed wide windows, rich oil paintings gleamed from the walls, objets d’art were tastefully arranged. She glanced down at the carpet. The thing was probably worth more than her apartment.
Maybe they didn’t just deal in crack, X, and heroin, she thought. Maybe they worked the antiques black market as well.
Now there was a combo you didn’t run across very often.
“This is nice,” she murmured, fingering an antique box. “Very nice.”
She eyed Wrath when she got no response. He was standing just inside the room, arms folded across his pecs, at the ready even though he was home.
But then, when did he ever relax? she thought.
“Have you always been a collector?” she asked, trying to buy some time so her nerves could settle. She walked over to a Hudson River School painting. Good lord, it was a Thomas Cole. Probably worth hundreds of thousands. “This is beautiful.”
She glanced over her shoulder. He was focused on her, paying no attention to the painting. And there was no expression of pride or ownership on his face.
Which was not the way someone looked when their things were admired.
“This is not your house,” she said.
“Your father lived here.”
Yeah, sure.
But what the hell. She’d come this far. She might as well play along.
“Then he obviously had plenty of money. What did he do for a living?”
Wrath walked across the room, toward an exquisite, full-length portrait of what looked like a king.
“Come with me.”
“What? You want me to walk through that wall—”
He pushed one side of the painting, and it swiveled outward to reveal a dark corridor.
“Oh,” she said.
He gestured with his arm. “After you.”
Beth approached carefully. The glow of gas lanterns flickered over black stone. She leaned in, seeing a set of stairs that disappeared around a turn far below.
“What’s down there?”
“A place where we can talk.”
“Why don’t we stay up here?”
“Because you’re going to want to do this privately. And my brothers are likely to show up soon.”
“Your brothers?”
“Yes.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Five, now. And you’re stalling. Go on. Nothing will hurt you down there, I promise.”
Uh-huh. Sure.
But she put her foot over the gilded edge of the frame. And stepped into the darkness.
Chapter Eighteen
Beth took a deep breath and hesitantly put her hands out to the stone walls. The air wasn’t musty; there was no creepy coating of moisture on anything; it was just very, very dark. She went down the stairs slowly, feeling her way. The lanterns were more like fireflies, lights unto themselves rather than illumination for someone using the stairwell.
And then she reached the bottom. To the right there was an open door, and she caught the warm glow of candlelight.
The room was just like the passageway: black walled, dimly lit, but clean. The candles were soothing as they flickered at their posts. While she put her purse down on the coffee table, she wondered if Wrath slept here.
God knew the bed was big enough for him.
And were those black satin sheets?
She figured he’d taken a lot of women down to this lair of his. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out what happened once he closed the door.
A lock clicked into place, and her heart seized up.
“So about my father,” she said briskly.
Wrath walked past her, taking off his jacket. He was wearing a muscle shirt under it, and she couldn’t ignore the raw power of his arms, his biceps and triceps rippling as he put the leather aside. The tattoos running down his inner forearms flashed as he peeled the empty holster from his shoulders.
He went into the bathroom and she heard water splashing. When he came back out, he was drying his face with a towel. He put his sunglasses on before looking at her.
“You’re father, Darius, was a worthy male.” Wrath casually tossed the towel back into the bathroom and walked over to the couch. He sat forward, elbows on his knees. “He was an aristocrat from the old country before he became a warrior. He’s…he was my friend. My brother in the work I do.”
Brother. He kept using that word.
They were in the Mafia. Definitely.
Wrath smiled a little, as if remembering something that pleased him. “D had skills. He was fast on his feet, smart as hell, good with a knife. But he was cultured. A gentleman. He spoke eight languages. Studied everything from world religions to art history to philosophy. He could talk your ear off about Wall Street and then tell you why the Sistine Chapel ceiling is actually a Mannerist work, not from the Renaissance.”
Wrath leaned back, running a hefty arm across the top of the sofa. His knees fell out to the sides, his thighs spreading.
He looked damn comfortable as he pushed his long black hair back.
Sexy as hell.
“Darius never lost his temper, no matter how nasty things got. He just stuck to the job at hand until it was finished. He died with the full respect of his brothers.”
Wrath actually seemed to miss her father. Or whatever man he was channeling for the purpose of…
What exactly was he trying to pull here? she wondered. Where did it get him to throw out this crap?
Well, she was in his bedroom, wasn’t she?
“And Fritz tells me he loved you very deeply.”
Beth pursed her lips. “Assuming I even buy any of this, I’ve got to wonder. If my father cared so much, why didn’t he bother to introduce himself to me?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Yeah, it’s really hard to walk up to your daughter, stick your hand out, and say your name. Real tough stuff.” She walked across the room, only to find herself next to the bed. She quickly paced elsewhere. “And what’s up with the warrior rhetoric? Was he in the mob, too?”
“Mob? We’re not the mob, Beth.”
“So you’re just freelance killers as well as drug dealers? Hmmm…Come to think of it, diversification is probably a good business strategy. And you need a lot of cash to keep up a house like this. As well as fill it full of art that belongs in the Met.”
“Darius inherited his money and he was very good at taking care of it.” Wrath leaned his head back, as if he were looking up at the house. “As his daughter,
all of this is yours now.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, really.”
He nodded.
What a crock, she thought.
“So where’s the will? Where’s some executor ready to pass papers? Wait, let me guess, the estate’s been in probate. For the last thirty years.” She rubbed her aching eyes. “You know, Wrath, you don’t have to lie to get me in bed. As much as I’m ashamed of myself, all you have to do is ask.”
She took a deep, sad breath. Until now she hadn’t realized that a small part of her had believed she’d get some answers. Finally.
Then again, desperation could make a fool out of anyone.
“Look, I’m going to take off. This was just—”
Wrath was in front of her faster than she could blink. “I can’t let you go.”
Fear licked her heart, but she put up a good front. “You can’t make me stay.”
His hands lifted to her face. She jerked back, but he wouldn’t let go.
The pad of his thumb stroked her cheek. Whenever he got too close, she became spellbound and it happened again. She felt her body swaying toward his.
“I’m not lying to you,” he said. “Your father sent me to you because you’re going to need my help. Trust me.”
She yanked away. “I don’t want to hear that word on your lips.”
Here he was, a criminal who’d almost killed a cop in front of her, and he was expecting her to buy a line of bull that she knew was false.
While he was stroking her face like a lover.
He must think she was a moron.
“Look, I’ve seen my records.” Her voice didn’t waver. “My birth certificate lists my father as unknown, but there was a note in the file. My mother told a nurse in the delivery room that he’d passed away. She was unable to disclose a name because she went into shock from blood loss thereafter and died herself.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s just not what happened.”
“You’re sorry. Yeah, I bet you are.”
“I’m not playing games—”
“The hell you aren’t! God, to think for even a moment that I might know one of them, even secondhand…” She stared at him with disgust. “You are so cruel.”
He swore, a nasty, frustrated sound. “I don’t know how to get you to believe me.”
“Don’t bother trying. You have no credibility.” She grabbed her purse. “Hell, it’s probably better this way. I would almost rather he’d died than know that he was a criminal. Or that we’d lived in the same town all my life but he never came to see me, wasn’t even curious enough to know what I looked like.”
“He knew.” Wrath’s voice was very near again. “He knew you.”
She spun around. He was so close he overwhelmed her with his size.
Beth leaped away. “Stop this right now.”
“He knew you.”
“Stop saying that!”
“Your father knew you,” Wrath shouted.
“Then why didn’t he want me?” she yelled back.
Wrath winced. “He did. He watched over you. All your life he was never far away.”
She closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around herself. She couldn’t believe she was tempted to fall under his spell again.
“Beth, look at me. Please.”
She lifted her lids.
“Give me your hand,” he said. “Give it to me.”
When she didn’t respond, he placed her palm on his chest, over his heart.
“On my honor. I have not lied to you.”
He became utterly still, as if giving her a chance to read every nuance of his face and his body.
Could this be the truth? she wondered.
“He loved you, Beth.”
Don’t believe this. Don’t believe this. Don’t—
“Then why didn’t he come for me?” she whispered.
“He hoped you wouldn’t have to know him. That you’d be spared the kind of life he lived.” Wrath stared down at her. “And he ran out of time.”
There was a long silence.
“Who was my father?” she breathed.
“He was as I am.”
And then Wrath opened his mouth.
Fangs. He had fangs.
Her skin shrank in horror. She shoved him away. “You bastard!”
“Beth, listen to me—”
“So you can tell me you’re a fucking vampire?” She lunged at him, punching his chest with her hands. “You sick bastard! You sick…bastard! If you want to role-play your fantasies, do it with someone else.”
“Your father—”
She slapped him, hard. Right across the face.
“Do not go there. Don’t even try it.” Her hand stung, and she tucked it in against her belly. She wanted to cry. Because she was hurting. Because she’d tried to hurt him back and he seemed utterly unaffected by the fact that she’d hit him.
“God, you almost had me, you really did,” she moaned. “But then you had to take it one step too far and flash those fake teeth.”
“They’re real. Look closely.”
More candles came on in the room, lit by no one.
Her breath left her in a rush. Abruptly, she had the sense that nothing was as it seemed. The rules were off. Reality was sliding into a different realm.
She raced across the room.
He met her at the door and she crouched, as if she had a prayer of keeping him away from her.
“Don’t come near me.” She grabbed for the handle. Threw her whole body into it. The thing wouldn’t budge.
Panic ran like gasoline through her veins.
“Beth—”
“Let me go!” The door handle cut into the skin of her palms as she wrenched it.
When his hand came down on her shoulder, she screamed. “Don’t touch me!”
She leaped away from him. Careened around the room. He tracked her, coming at her slowly, inexorably.
“I’m going to help you.”
“Leave me alone!”
She dashed around him and dove for the door. This time it opened before she even got to the handle.
As if he’d willed it so.
She looked back at him in horror. “This isn’t real.”
She bolted up the stairs, tripping only once. When she tried to work the latch on the painting, she broke a nail, but eventually got it open. She ran through the drawing room. Burst out of the house and—
Wrath was there, standing on the front lawn.
Beth skidded to a halt.
Terror flooded her body, fright and disbelief seizing her heart in a fist. Her mind slipped into madness.
“No!” She took off, running in any direction as long as it was away from him.
She felt him following her, and she threw her legs out harder and faster. She ran until she couldn’t breathe, until she was blinded by exhaustion and her thighs were screaming. She ran flat-out and still he followed.
She fell down onto grass, sobbing.
Curling into a ball, as if to shield herself from blows, she wept.
When he picked her up she didn’t fight him.
What was the use? If this was a dream, she would wake up eventually. And if it was the truth…
She was going to need him to explain a hell of a lot more than just her father’s life.
As Wrath carried Beth back down to the chamber, fear and confusion poured out of her in waves of distress. He laid her down on the bed and yanked the top sheet free so he could wrap her up. Then he went to the couch and sat down, thinking she’d appreciate the space.
Eventually she shifted around, and he felt her eyes on him.
“I’m waiting to wake up. To have the alarm go off,” she said hoarsely. “But it’s not going to, is it?”
He shook his head.
“How is this possible? How…” She cleared her throat. “Vampires?”
“We’re just a different species.”
“Bloodsuckers. Killers.”
“Try persecuted minority. Which was
why your father was hoping you wouldn’t go through the change.”
“Change?”
He nodded grimly.
“Oh, God.” She clamped her hand over her mouth as if she were going to be sick. “Don’t tell me I’m going to…”
A shock wave of panic came out of her, creating a breeze through the room that reached him in a cool rush. He couldn’t bear her anguish and wanted to do something to ease her. Except compassion wasn’t among his strengths.
If only there were something he could fight for her.
Yeah, well, there was nothing at the moment. Nothing. The truth wasn’t a target he could eliminate. And it wasn’t her enemy, even though it hurt her. It just…was.
He stood up and approached the bed. When she didn’t shrink away from him, he sat down. The tears she shed smelled like spring rain.
“What’s going to happen to me?” she murmured.
The desperation in her voice suggested she was talking to God, not him. But he answered anyway.
“Your change is coming fast. It hits all of us sometime around our twenty-fifth birthday. I’ll teach you how to take care of yourself. I’ll show you what to do.”
“Good God…”
“After you go through it, you’re going to need to drink.”
She choked and jerked upright. “I’m not killing anyone!”
“It’s not like that. You need the blood of a male vampire. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” she repeated in a dead tone.
“We don’t prey on humans. That’s an old wives’ tale.”
“You’ve never taken a…human?”
“Not to drink from them,” he hedged. “There are some vampires who do, but the strength doesn’t last long. To thrive, we need to feed off our own race.”
“You make it all sound so normal.”
“It is.”
She fell silent. And then, as if it just dawned on her, “You’re going to let me—”
“You’re going to drink from me. When it’s time.”
She let out a strangled sound, like she’d wanted to cry out, but her gag reflex had kicked in.
“Beth, I know this is hard—”
“You do not.”