by J. R. Ward
Annnnnnnnnd Axe blinked again.
Fuck. He hadn't expected her to get his boundary. Much less respect it.
At a loss, he sat down at the foot of her bed.
Running his hand through his hair, he put his elbows on his knees and thought, Yeah, he really needed to get out of here and away from her.
But instead of leaving, he said, "I've never known anyone who's gotten their doctorate before."
--
All things considered, Elise thought, Axwelle had been right to call her on her shit: The thing that she had forgotten--and this was especially true when it came to new people--was that you had to meet folks where they were. Arousal aside, he'd never given her any indication that he was an open book, and she had pushed him too far because she had ascribed her own characteristics to him.
But she was encouraged that he hadn't bolted out her door.
"Yes," she said, clearing her throat. "My studies have been years and years of work. That's why--well, that's why I got ahead of myself just now. It's been a huge investment of time and effort, and if I don't complete my dissertation, I feel like it's all been for nothing? And my father can be so hard for me to deal with. The fact that he's given me this opportunity is a miracle, and I guess...I just don't want to lose my shot."
As she fell silent, he cracked his knuckles one by one. "I can't help it."
"Being defensive? Why wouldn't you have been. I put you on the spot."
"No. Being attracted to you."
Elise tried to look calm as her heart skipped in her chest. But Lord help her, she nearly let out a giggle.
Straightening her spine, she decided to man up. "That's okay. I can't help being attracted to you." As his head whipped up, she rolled her eyes. "Come on. It's pretty damn obvious."
Axwelle cleared his throat. "So you're the psych pro. Don't you think that means we shouldn't work together?"
"At least we know what the issue will be instead of having to discover it." There was a pause. "Okay, that was a joke. You're supposed to laugh."
When he didn't even chuckle, she--
The snort he let out was probably one of the most unattractive sounds she'd ever heard in her life, part wounded gopher, part grizzly bear, part old car backfiring. And then he cursed and slapped a palm over his mouth.
"Oh, my God," she blurted, "that is frickin' adorable."
Across the way, on her girlie bed, with its pretty coral bedspread and the framing drapes of fabric that hung from a medallion on the ceiling, the fighter in his black clothes and bandaged face and his kill-ya-soon-as-look-at-ya affect turned the color of a stop sign.
"I burped. That's all." He stretched his back and rolled his shoulder as if he wanted to remind himself he was packed with muscle. "Look, I've never done this bodyguarding thing before, so I don't know what to expect with any of it. I think the question for you is, are you willing to bet your life on me? 'Cuz that's what it all comes down to. We could go a hundred nights without anything happening, but it just takes one where something does. And then you're not screwed--either in a sexual or a bad luck sense--you're fucking dead."
"Do you doubt yourself?"
He frowned. "You want the honest truth?"
"Always." She held up her forefinger. "I want to go on record right now and say this loud and clear. I always want the truth from you. That's more important to me than anything else--for reasons that you'll no doubt come to understand."
He cracked those knuckles again. Rolled his other shoulder.
"Personally, I think my attraction works for us--I mean, you. It increases my protective nature and will make me more lethal. I'm not bonded to you, and I won't ever be, but I am male, and in fact, I'm so much more raw than the overbred pansies you're used to dealing with. So, yeah, anyone tries to so much as brush the ends of your hair with their elbow, and I will kill them four times over before I light their corpse on fire."
"Well, isn't that something to put on a Valentine's Day card." Except he probably had a point. "And listen, I firmly believe we aren't what we think, we're what we do. You and I will keep things professional on a physical level and all will be well."
Axwelle got to his feet in a rush. "Okay, text me when you need me tomorrow. I can work until one a.m., but then I have training." He nodded, in a way that made it seem as if they had shaken hands, and then he went for her door. "I'll show myself out--"
"Wait, so my schedule--"
"Just let me know."
Boy, he'd had it with the conversating, hadn't he.
"We can do this, you know," she told his strong back. "It's all going to be okay."
"You say that now." He opened the door wide. "Let's hope at the end of it, however long it lasts, you feel the same."
"Wait, I need your cell phone?"
He spoke the digits over his shoulder like an afterthought and then he kept on going through the jambs without seeming to care whether or not she caught them.
But he did care.
Underneath all that hard-as-nails exterior, he wasn't as blase as he wanted her to believe. Otherwise he wouldn't have sat down and talked to her at all.
Heading over to the bank of windows that overlooked the front of the mansion, she pulled back the lacy privacy curtain and waited. A moment later, Axwelle emerged from the grand entrance, marching off down the slate walkway.
"Look at me," she whispered. "Come on...you know you want to."
In the back of her mind, she was oh-so-aware that self-righteous speeches about professionalism and self-control to the contrary, a part of her really wanted the male to pull a John Cusack on the front lawn.
Which was nuts.
And not as in clinically insane.
More as in a road she shouldn't go down, given their circumstances.
The good news? As he continued to stride away from her house, he clearly wasn't going to--
Axwelle stopped about fifteen feet past the third lantern on the walkway...and he stayed where he was for the longest time. Years, it seemed. Just before she was going to either give up or go down to see if that head injury she'd asked about had finally decided to make an appearance...he pivoted on one boot and glanced back.
His chin lifted as if his eyes were traveling up to the second floor.
With a squeak, Elise jerked back out of sight and let the curtain fall into place once more.
Her heart thundered behind her sternum and a hot flush made her take off her cashmere sweater like it was a medieval hair shirt.
As she turned away, she looked over at the sunken impression in the duvet where he'd sat on her bed. From out of nowhere, she wanted to go over and run her hand over the spot.
"What the hell am I doing?" she said into the silence of her bedroom.
he funny thing about watching a movie marathon while you couldn't see anything was how much you could in fact picture.
Of course, in Rhage's case, he had essentially memorized Die Hard from the moment John McClane got the advice about taking off his shoes on the plane, all the way until his wife hit that obnoxious newsman right in the piehole.
"How you doing, Bit?" he said.
Hours before, he and Bitty and Mary had taken up res in the reclining leather ass palaces of the mansion's movie theater for two reasons: one, Bitty was more comfortable sitting up with her legs extending out; and two, the never-ending parade of cinematic distraction, which he'd curated from his repertoire of greatness, had been exactly what they'd all needed to cleanse their mental and emotional palates. They'd seen Deadpool first, of course.
One had to keep current, dontcha know.
And then it had been The Devil Wears Prada, out of deference to Mary, who, in spite of her preference for valid Palme d'Or stuff, loved Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestly. After that, they'd gone back to the ass-kicking with Guardians of the Galaxy--Bit loved Zoe Saldana in that one--and finally, Central Intelligence.
The Rock was probably one of the few humans who you'd want at your side in a fight.
&n
bsp; Rhage had had to end with an oldie but goodie, though. Plus it had been at least three weeks since he'd seen Hans Gruber fall off Nakatomi Plaza, and it was Christmas.
#seasonallyappropriate
"Bit? You okay?" When there was still no answer, Rhage turned his head in the other direction. "Is she out?" he asked Mary.
When there was no reply on that side either, he smiled and felt around. He found Mary's hand first, and as he took it, his mate snuffled and curled in his direction, one of her legs crossing over his, her sigh as she fell back into deep sleep one of total contentment. Then he located Bit's much smaller version of same, and just as with Mary, the little girl turned to him, her head coming to rest against his bicep, her hair falling forward to tickle his forearm.
Rhage smiled and resumed not watching the movie.
Even though he couldn't see anything, he felt strong as an ox, big as a mountain, deadly as a cobra--you name the he-man metaphor and he was rocking that shit.
It wasn't chauvinistic to want to protect your females. It was appropriate, and not because they couldn't be smart and protect themselves. Females were simply more important than males and always would be, and in the very deepest part of his marrow, he was proud to be in service as a mate and a father to them.
God, he felt so totally whole, his shellan and his daughter bookending him, giving him all his strength and purpose, stabilizing him even though he hadn't been aware of feeling wobbly.
Funny, the experience was a little like falling in love: a revelation that made everything more beautiful, more precious.
Right on cue, as if fate were determined to give him A Moment, his sight slowly returned, the flickering of the screen, the contours of the seats and the dark theater...his beautiful females...coming into a soft focus.
Like his view of life had taken on a Merchant Ivory filter.
And to think, without his Mary, he wouldn't even know what that was.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, though, it pained him to see those casts, the reminder of Bit's suffering and his spectacular flame-out taking him back to a place he didn't want to be. But he did smile. Bitty had insisted the leg casts be blue and the arm casts silver, for his bloodline's colors. And everyone in the house had written on them with a black Sharpie, the signatures and messages blurring together, the King's overlapped by a doggen's, brother sharing space with Nalla's scribble, even Boo and George adding a paw print thanks to an ink pad that had been brought up.
Bit was fine now, he told himself. Safe here with him and Mary and the other members of the household.
It was all going to be--
Just as Argyle was getting down in the back of the eighties-era limo, head nodding next to the teddy bear, Rhage saw that he and his family weren't alone.
Lassiter was over on the left, leaning back against the fabric-covered wall, the light from the film moving over his face like flame from a fire.
His blond-and-black hair was down around his shoulders, the simple muscle shirt and track pants the kind of thing that a normal person would wear--which meant they should have been completely outside of the fallen angel's wardrobe hangers.
Even from across the way, and in spite of both the dimness and Rhage's iffy eyesight, it was very obvious Lassiter's expression was grim.
He wasn't even looking at the movie.
And that made Rhage wish for the inconceivable.
"Tell me you're here because there's a Beaches joke you want to share," Rhage said roughly. "Or maybe 'cuz you got a Little Mermaid sleeping bag for me?"
Lassiter stayed silent for what felt like a year, but was probably little more than a heartbeat or two.
Which, considering Rhage's ticker was on a broken field run in his chest, was a helluva commentary on the whole time-is-relative thing.
"I want you to remember what I told you," the angel said...in a voice that made Walter Cronkite sound like a falsetto with his nuts in a vise. "Keep your faith. It's all going to work out."
Rhage's eyes snapped back to the casts. "Havers told us the reset bones would heal in about six weeks. And after that...I mean, the transition is scary for everybody, but her growth spurt should be tolerated. Even if there has to be some physical therapy afterward, or an operation, at that point, she has different anesthesia and painkiller options and--"
When he glanced back, the angel was gone.
Frowning, Rhage twisted himself around.
Lassiter wasn't walking to the exit; it was as if he'd never been in the theater.
"Rhage? You okay?"
As Mary spoke up in a groggy voice, he cranked back so he was facing the movie. Opening his mouth, he--
Shut it again. Shook his head. Tried once more. "Ah, yeah. I'm fine. Hey...ah, did you see Lassiter just now?"
"No? There's no one in here but us?"
Rhage blinked and pulled an optical sweep of the dark space. Was he even seeing this? Or had he imagined everything....
Was he still blind, and was he dreaming?
"Ah...okay. Yeah. Sure."
"Do you want me to get you something to eat?" His Mary Madonna leaned up his chest to smooth his hair back. "You don't look well. Should I get Doc Jane?"
All Rhage could do was stare at her beautiful face. In the history of the world, there might have been females who other people thought were extraordinary beauties, whose bone structure and curve of the lip, whose eyes and brows, equated in the minds of third parties to earth-shattering attractiveness.
Nefertiti had nothing on his shellan as far as he was concerned.
To him, Mary was the gold standard that made all others base metals.
"I'm getting Doc Jane right now--"
As she went to get off the recliner, he caught her hand and gently tugged her back to him. "I'm okay. Just been a long night and day. What time is it?"
The distraction worked as she looked at her watch--which was his yellow gold Rolex President and about the size of a car on her slender wrist. "It's seven o'clock. Are you sure you don't need help?"
"Everything I need is right here." He moved in and kissed her lips. "And good, that means in another twelve hours, I should be ready for First Meal."
"It's happening right now. That would be seven at night. So, really, how about food?"
"Nah. I'm tight."
"Rhage, what's wrong?"
He resettled into the recliner. "Nothing. Just a bad dream."
Yup. It had to be a dream.
Lassiter without neon zebra stripes and an Olivia Newton-John "Let's Get Physical" headband in silver and hot pink?
Figment of his imagination. Abso.
"Are you sure?" Mary asked softly.
As he nodded, he was relieved when she eased back with him and put her head on his shoulder once again. Across his pecs, she looked at Bit, checking on the little girl and brushing a lock of that deep brown hair back.
"So brave," she murmured.
"The bravest."
"God, that was awful last night at the clinic."
"You mean before or after they broke our daughter's arms and legs again. Or...wait, when I put a sunroof in something that was underground?" He scrubbed his face, and then took her hand. "I can't believe we got through that."
"Neither can I." But then she smiled at him. "That's what makes a family, though. We persevere. We come out the other side of whatever it is stronger. The laughter and the fun, the good times, are wonderful and part of life's great joys. But the hard stuff...the challenges you just squeak by, the reentry into normal life that shakes your capsule and steals your oxygen and makes you think it's all going to be over in a flaming wreck? That's how you get the ties that bind."
Rhage thought about his brothers. His King. The other people in this house.
Then of his Mary and Bit.
Blinking quick, he kissed the top of her head. "You always know just what to say."
She rubbed her cheek against him and pressed her lips to his sternum. Then she looked at the big-as-a-drive-in screen in front of
them. "So...is Die Hard your favorite movie?"
"Yeah, I think so." He squeezed her hand. "Either this or The Godfather. Shoot...I really like The Wrath of Khan. And then there's Ryan Reynolds setting the new standard. I don't know. It's like ice cream flavors--too many to choose from and depends on my mood, right?"
"Mmm-hmm. Are you sure you don't want to eat?"
"I like sitting here more."
As she yawned, he trained his eyes on the movie and tried to find his way back to where he had been. He couldn't get there.
Like a glass shattered, he couldn't put the feeling of safety and security back together again.
Lassiter loomed even though he wasn't anywhere to be seen.
n the dream, Axe was back in Elise's bedroom. He was in the clothes he'd been wearing when he'd gone up there, and he was sitting where he'd actually parked it at the end of her bed. The double doors into that bath of hers were wide open, and everything was as it had been in terms of furniture and decor--but it was all so hazy, like there was a smoke machine in the corner coughing out wafts of white fog.
He couldn't see Elise, but he could hear her voice. She was talking to him from her bath, her voice coming and going out of earshot as if somebody was adjusting the volume on the world and had a bad hand tremor.
He was aware of being seriously aroused.
Really. Fucking. Hard.
And that was before she came into the jambs of the arched doorway.
Elise was incredibly, spectacularly naked, not one stitch of clothing keeping his eyes from her skin--and yet the specifics of her body were lost to him, that haze airbrushing out her breasts, the plane of her stomach, her clefted sex.
"Do you want me?" she said in a distorted voice.
"God, yes, fuck yes...I ache...."
"Tell me you want me."
Spreading his knees wide, he put his hand on his sex and squeezed. "So bad...I'm dying...."
"Say the words."
"I want you...," he breathed.
Elise came to him like a summer breeze, walking across the fancy rug with a graceful stride that had him moaning in the back of his throat. And then she was in front of him, and he was reaching out to touch her, to caress her warm, vital skin. As he pulled her in between his legs, her scent filled his nose and his cock roared, his fangs descending in his mouth.
"Elise..."
Looking up at her, he moved his hands to her upper arms, urging her to kiss him. But the more he tried to get her to lean down and let him take her lips, the more she slipped from his grasp, her body becoming ether as she disappeared before his very eyes--