by J. R. Ward
Which, all things considered, was a good thing. Damn him. He'd pushed her too far, too fast, and he'd almost cracked himself. While his mouth and hands were on her, that hum in his body had risen to a scream. Especially when she'd taken his palm and put it between her thighs.
"Hal?" Mary stared up at him in confusion. "What's going on?"
He felt god-awful as he looked into her wide eyes and finished burying the images in her mind. He'd scrubbed clean the memories of countless human females before and never thought twice about it. But with Mary, he felt like he was taking something from her. Invading her privacy. Betraying her.
He dragged a hand through his hair, grabbing onto a hunk and wanting to pull the stuff right out of his head. "So you'd rather skip dinner and go back to your place? That's fine with me. I could use some chill time."
"Good, but… I feel like there's something else we have to do." She looked down at herself and started brushing off grass. "Although considering what I did to this skirt as we left my house, I probably shouldn't be out in public anyway. You know, I thought I got all the lawn stuff off—Wait a minute, where's my purse?"
"Maybe you left it in the car."
"No, I—Oh, God." She began to shake uncontrollably, her breaths getting rapid, shallow. Her eyes became frantic. "Hal, I'm sorry, I… I need… Oh, hell."
It was the adrenaline racing through her system. Her mind might be calm, but her body was still flooded with fear.
"Come here," he said, taking her against his body. "Let me hold you until it passes."
As he murmured to her, he kept her hands in front so they didn't find the remaining dagger under his arm or the nine-millimeter Beretta at the small of his back. His eyes darted around, searching the shadows of the park to the right and the restaurant to the left. He was desperate to get her in the car.
"I'm so embarrassed," she said against his chest. "I haven't had a panic attack in a long time."
"You don't worry about that." When she stopped trembling, he pulled back. "Let's go."
He hurried her over to the GTO and felt better as he put the thing in gear and peeled out of the parking lot.
Mary looked all around the car.
"Shoot. My purse isn't here. I must have left it at home. I'm a forgetful mess today." She leaned back against the seat and searched her pockets. "Aha! At least I have my keys, though."
The trip out of town was fast, uneventful. As he brought the GTO to a stop in front of her house, Mary covered up a yawn and reached for the door. He put his hand on her arm.
"Let me be a gentleman and get that for you."
She smiled and dropped her eyes as if she wasn't used to men fussing over her.
Rhage got out. While he sniffed the air, he used his eyes and ears to penetrate the darkness. Nothing. A whole lot of nothing.
On his way around the back of the car, he popped the trunk, took out a large duffel bag, and paused again. Everything was quiet, including his hair-trigger senses.
As he opened Mary's door, she frowned at what was hanging off his shoulder.
He shook his head. "I don't think I'm spending the night or anything. I just noticed my trunk lock is broken and I don't want to leave this unattended. Or out in plain sight."
Goddamn, he hated lying to her. It literally turned his stomach.
Mary shrugged and walked to her front door. "Must be something important inside that thing."
Yeah, only enough firepower to level a ten-story office building. And it still didn't feel like enough to protect her.
She seemed awkward as she unlocked the front door and stepped inside. He let her roam from room to room, turning on lights and working off her nervousness, but he stuck right by her. As he followed, he visually checked the doors and windows. They were all locked. The place was secure, at least on the ground floor.
"Would you like something to eat?" she asked.
"Nah, I'm good."
"I'm not hungry either."
"What's upstairs?"
"Um… my bedroom."
"Will you show it to me?" He needed to go through the second story.
"Maybe later. I mean, do you really have to see it? Er… oh… hell." She stopped pacing and stared at him, hands on her hips. "I'm going to be up front with you. I've never had a man in this house. And I'm rusty at the hospitality thing."
He dropped the duffel. Even though he was battle-ready and tense as a cat, he had enough mental energy left over to get sapped out on her. The fact that another male hadn't been in her private space pleased him so much his chest sang.
"I think you're doing just fine," he murmured. He reached out and stroked her cheek with his thumb, thinking about what he wanted to do with her up in that bedroom.
Immediately his body started cranking over, that weird inner burn condensing along his spine.
He forced his hand to fall to his side. "I have to make a quick phone call. Mind if I use the upstairs for privacy?"
"Of course. I'll… wait here."
"It won't take long."
As he jogged up to her bedroom, he took his cell phone out of his pocket. The case of the damn thing was cracked, probably from one of the lessers' side kicks, but it still dialed out. When he got Wrath's voice mail, he left a short message and prayed like hell he got a call back soon.
After doing a quick assessment of the upstairs, he came back down. Mary was on her couch, legs tucked under her.
"So what are we watching?" he asked, searching the doors and windows for pale faces.
"Why are you looking around this place like it's a back alley?"
"Sorry. Old habit."
"You must have been in one hell of a military unit."
"What do you want to watch?" He went over to the shelves where her DVDs were all lined up.
"You pick. I'm going to go change into something…" She flushed. "Well, to be honest, something more comfortable. And that doesn't have grass on it."
To make sure she was safe, he waited at the bottom of the stairs as she moved around her bedroom. When she started for the first floor again, he beat feet back over to the bookshelves.
One look at the movie collection and he knew he was in trouble. There were a lot of foreign titles, some deeply sincere American ones. A couple of golden oldies like An Affair to Remember. Casa-fucking-blanca.
Absolutely nothing by Sam Raimi or Roger Corman. Hadn't she heard of the Evil Dead series? Wait, there was a hope. He pulled a sheath out. Nosferatu, Eine Symphonie des Grauens. The 1922 classic German vampire movie.
"Found something you like?" she said.
"Yeah." He glanced over his shoulder.
Oh… man. She was dressed for love, as far as he was concerned: Flannel pajama bottoms with stars and moons on them. Little white T-shirt. Floppy suede moccasins.
She tugged at the shirt's hem, trying to pull it down farther. "I thought about putting on jeans, but I'm tired, and this is what I wear to bed… er, to relax in. You know, nothing fancy."
"I like you in all that," he said with a low voice. "You look comfortable."
Yeah, to hell with that. She looked edible.
Once he had the movie up and rolling, he grabbed the duffel bag, brought it over to the couch, and sat down at the end opposite from her. He stretched out, trying to pretend for her benefit that every muscle in his body wasn't tight. Truth was, he was strung out. Between waiting for a lesser to break in, praying that Wrath would call at any moment, and wanting to kiss his way up the inside of her thighs, he was a living, breathing steel cable.
"You can put your feet on the coffee table, if you want," she said.
"I'm cool." He reached over and turned off the lamp to his left, hoping she'd fall asleep. At least then he could move around and keep an eye on the exterior without getting her riled up.
Fifteen minutes into the movie, she said, "I'm sorry, but I'm fading over here."
He glanced at her. Her hair was fanned over her shoulders and she'd curled up into herself. Her skin was lumino
us and a little flushed in the flicker of the TV, her eyelids droopy.
This was how she would look when she woke up in the morning, he thought.
"Let yourself go, Mary. I'm going to stay a little longer, though, okay?"
She tugged a soft cream throw blanket over herself. "Yes, of course. But, um, Hal—"
"Wait. Would you please call me by my… other name?"
"Okay, what is it?"
"Rhage."
She frowned. "Rhage?"
"Yeah."
"Ah, sure. Is that like a nickname or something?"
He closed his eyes. "Yeah."
"Well, Rhage… Thank you for tonight. For being so flexible, I mean."
He cursed quietly, thinking she should slap him instead of feel grateful. He'd nearly gotten her killed. She was now a target for the lessers. And if she knew half the things he wanted to do to her body, she'd probably lock herself in the bathroom.
"It's okay, you know," she murmured.
"What is?"
"I know you just want to be friends."
Friends?
She laughed tightly. "I mean, I don't want you to think I misinterpreted that kiss when you picked me up. I know it wasn't… you know. Anyway, you don't have to worry about me getting the wrong idea."
"Why do you think I'm concerned you might?"
"You're sitting on the other end of this couch stiff as a board. Like you're afraid I'm going to jump you."
He heard a noise outside and his eyes shot to the window on the right. But it was just a leaf blowing up against the glass.
"I didn't mean to make you feel awkward," she blurted. "I just wanted to… you know, reassure you."
"Mary, I don't know what to say." Because the truth would terrify her. And he'd lied to her enough already.
"Don't say anything. I probably shouldn't have brought it up. All I meant was, I'm glad you're here. As a friend. I really liked that ride in your car. And I like just hanging out. I don't need more from you, honestly. You're really good friend material."
Rhage sucked in a breath. In all his adult life, no female had ever called him a friend. Or valued his company for something other than sex.
In the Old Language, he whispered, "I am barren of words, my female. For no sounds from my mouth are worthy of your hearing."
"What language is that?"
"The one I was born speaking."
She tilted her head, considering him. "It's almost French, but not quite. There's something Slavic in there. Is it Hungarian or something?"
He nodded. "Basically."
"What did you say?"
"I like being here with you, too."
She smiled and put her head down.
As soon as he knew she was out, he unzipped the duffel and double-checked that the guns inside of it were loaded. Then he walked through her house, turning off every light. When it was pitch-dark, his eyes adjusted and his senses heightened even further.
He scanned the woods behind her house. And the meadow to the right. And the big farmhouse in the distance. And the street out front.
He listened, tracking the footfalls of animals across the grass and noting the wind as it brushed against the barn's wooden clapboards. As the temperature dropped outside, he sifted through the creaks of the house, testing, probing for a break-in. He prowled around, going from room to room, until he thought he was going to explode.
He checked his cell phone. It was on, with the ringer activated. And the thing was receiving a signal.
He cursed. Walked around some more.
The movie ended. He started it over in case she woke up and wanted to know why he was still there. Then he took another trip around the first floor.
When he was back in the living room, he rubbed his brow and felt sweat. Her house was warmer than he was used to, or maybe he was just pumped. Either way, he was hot, so he took off his jacket and put his weapons and the cell phone just inside the duffel bag.
As he rolled up his sleeves, he stood over her and measured her slow, even breaths. She was so small on that couch, smaller still with those strong, gray warrior eyes hidden behind lids and lashes. He sat down next to her and gently shifted her body so she was nestled in the crook of his arm.
Next to his brawn, she was tiny.
She stirred, lifted her head. "Rhage?"
"Go back to sleep," he whispered, urging her against his chest. "Just let me hold you. That's all I'm going to do."
He absorbed her sigh through his skin and closed his eyes as her arm went around his waist, her hand tucking into his side.
Quiet.
Everything was so quiet. Quiet in the house. Quiet out of doors.
He had a stupid impulse to wake her up and reposition her just so he could feel her ease against him once more.
Instead, he focused on her breathing, matching the draw and push of his own lungs to hers.
So… peaceful.
And quiet.
CHAPTER 20
As John Matthew left Moe's Diner, where he worked as a busboy, he was worried about Mary. She'd missed her Thursday shift at the hotline, which was very unusual, and he hoped she was in tonight. As it was twelve thirty now, she had a half hour left before she took off, so he was sure to catch her. Assuming she'd showed.
Walking as fast as he could, he covered the six dirty blocks to his apartment in about ten minutes. And though the trip home was nothing special, his building was full of fun and games. When he came up to the front doorway, he heard some men arguing with the imprecision of drunks, their insults loose, colorful, and inconsistent. A woman yelled something over pounding music. The seething male response she got back was the kind he associated with folks who were armed.
John shot through the lobby and up the chipped stairs, locking himself in his studio with quick twists of his hands.
His place was small and probably five years away from being condemned. The floors were half linoleum and half carpet, and the two were trading identities. The linoleum was fraying to the point that it was developing a kind of nap, and the rug had stiffened into something close to hardwood.
Windows were opaque with grime, which was actually a good thing, because it meant he didn't need shades. The shower worked and so did the basin in the bathroom, but the kitchen sink had been clogged since the day he'd moved in. He'd tried to get the thing open with some Drano, but when that didn't work, he'd decided against getting into the pipes. He didn't want to know what had been shoved down that throat.
As he always did when he got home on Fridays, he wrenched open a window and looked across the street. The Suicide Prevention Hotline offices were glowing, but Mary wasn't at the desk she used.
John frowned. Maybe she wasn't feeling well. She'd seemed really exhausted when he'd gone to her house.
Tomorrow, he decided, he'd ride over to where she lived and check on her.
God, he was so glad he'd finally gotten the courage up to approach her. She was so nice, even nicer in person than over the phone. And the fact that she knew ASL? How was that for fate?
Shutting the window, he went over to the refrigerator and released the bungee cord that kept the door shut. Inside were four six-packs of vanilla Ensure. He took two cans out, then stretched the cord back into place. He figured his apartment was the only one in the building that wasn't infested with bugs, and it was only because he didn't keep any real food around. He just couldn't stomach the stuff.
Sitting down on his mattress, he leaned against the wall. The restaurant had been busy, and his shoulders were aching something awful.
Cautiously sipping from the first can, and hoping his belly gave him a break tonight, he picked up the newest issue of Muscle & Fitness. Which he'd already read twice.
He stared at the cover. The guy on the front was bulging in his tanned skin, a swollen, overstuffed package of biceps, triceps, pecs, and abs. To amplify the he-man look, he had a beautiful girl in a bright yellow bikini wrapped around him like a ribbon.
John had been re
ading up on weight lifters for years and had saved for months to buy a small iron set. He worked the metal six days a week. And had nothing to show for it. No matter how hard he pumped, or how desperately he wanted to get bigger, he hadn't put on any muscle.
Part of the problem was his diet. Those Ensures were about all he could handle without getting sick, and they didn't have a ton of calories in them. The trouble wasn't just food-related, though. His genetics were a bitch. At the age of twenty-three, he was five feet, six inches tail, 102 pounds. He didn't need to shave. Had no hair on his body. Had never had an erection.
Unmanly. Weak. Worst of all, unchanging. He'd been this size and this way for the past ten years.
The sameness of his existence wore him down, exhausted him, drained him. He'd lost hope he was ever going to turn into a man, and the acceptance of reality had aged him. He felt ancient in his little body, as if his head didn't belong stuck atop the rest of him.
But he did get some relief. He loved going to sleep. In his dreams he saw himself fighting and he was strong, he was sure, he was… a man. At night, while his eyes were closed, he was fearsome with a dagger in his hand, a killer who did what he was so very good at for a noble reason. And he wasn't alone in his work. He had the company of other men like himself, fighters and brothers, loyal to the death.
And in his visions, he made love to women, beautiful women who made strange sounds as he entered their bodies. Sometimes there were more than one with him, and he took them hard because they wanted it like that and that was what he wanted, too. His lovers would grab onto his back, scratching at his skin as they shuddered and bucked underneath his crashing hips. With roars of triumph, he would let himself go, his body contracting and spilling into the wet heat they offered him. And after he came, in shocking acts of depravity, he drank their blood and they drank from him and the wild frenzy left white sheets red. Finally, when the needs were spent and the fury and cravings were over, he held them gently and they looked up at him with glowing, adoring eyes. Peace and harmony came and were welcomed as benedictions.
Unfortunately, he kept waking up in the morning.
In real life, he couldn't hope to defeat or defend anyone, not the way he was built. And he'd never even kissed a woman. Never had the chance. The opposite sex had two reactions to him: The older ones wanted to treat him like a child and the younger ones looked right through him. Both responses hurt, the former for underscoring his weakness, the latter for stealing any hope that he would find someone to care for.