by J. R. Ward
“—that I haven’t taken this as seriously as I should.” She lowered her eyes from him. “You’re right. I don’t think I have any idea how bad this place is.”
After all, if they could break a male like him?
And that was what had happened. She didn’t need the details, like he said, the loss of spirit was enough, and the center of her chest ached for him—and for Janelle. Dear God, what had they done to Janelle?
“Would you like to take a bath?” he said roughly.
“Yes.” Anything to stop thinking.
He turned his back to her and sat down on the ground in a random place—and she was willing to bet he had no clue where he was in the cave. He was like a star in a strange orbit, outside of the galaxy. Outside of reality.
“I can give you more privacy,” he said. As if he were offering her something tangible, something he could hold in his palm and put out toward her. “I can leave.”
“Stay,” she replied. “So I know I have backup.”
His head nodded. “All right.”
She waited a moment, although she wasn’t sure what she expected to happen or change in the pause, and she spent the time looking at the ponytail that ran down his spine. It was very long. Then again, he’d been growing hair for a hundred years.
What would it look like, free of that tie, spilling over his naked chest?
On that Fabio note, she turned her back to his back and quickly got out of her clothes. Covering her breasts with one of her arms, she went to the water, her skin goose bumping both from an awareness of how naked she was and also from the temperature drop. Fortunately, as she stood over the pool, the rising heat eased the chill, although it did nothing for her sense of vulnerability—which, to be fair, wasn’t that big a deal.
Somehow, she knew she could trust him about that.
“Ohhhhh…”
As Nyx stepped down into the pool, the sensation of perfectly warm, gently moving water against her body was a revelation sure as if she’d never been in a bath before. It was all just so unexpected, though. The depth. The temperature—which she wouldn’t have adjusted up or down. The movement of the currents.
The fact that this was happening at all.
“Feel good?” Jack commented in a low voice.
“Yes.”
His head nodded. “It has saved me. Many a time.”
Splaying out her arms, Nyx cupped and released undulations within the pool.
Don’t do it, she thought. Don’t ask.
“From what,” she said.
* * *
The Jackal tried to imagine what she looked like submerged in what he thought of as his property, his domain. There were other pools in the prison, common-use ones that the confined dropped themselves into from time to time—or were thrown into—but this one was his. If his cohorts, such as Kane or the others, partook on occasion? He always regarded it as a courtesy extended by himself to them.
Her dark hair would be loose, the ends drifting over the gentle, churning surface of the pool, and he imagined that tendrils would begin to curl up around her face. Her cheeks would flush, although they’d already been colored by arousal. Her skin would become dew’d and dreamy.
Not that it wasn’t like that all by itself.
How much explanation do I owe a stranger? he thought as he contemplated her question.
“This prison is a dirty place.” He rubbed his face as he answered her inquiry not at all. “Very dirty. It’s hard to stay clean.”
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“I have no idea what you refer to.”
To give his words some credibility, he glanced over his shoulder at her. She was focused on him, and he’d been right about the curls that were forming around her face. Also about the blush. But her expression was not as relaxed as he’d pictured in his mind. She was intense, and he had the sense that he had opened a door before he had properly assessed whether he actually wanted to go through it.
Then again, that had happened way before now with her, hadn’t it.
“You will let me fuck you,” he asked in a low voice. “Really.”
Her eyes narrowed, but not because she was offended. And her lack of anticipated reaction made him realize he had phrased the question in a crude way because he had hoped that would be the case.
“The question is more whether you’ll let yourself fuck me,” she said. “Tell me, who is she.”
He whipped his head away from her. “There is no one for me.”
“Liar.” She laughed a little. “And you can be honest. It’s not like whatever you tell me is going anywhere. I don’t know anyone here and I’m not staying. Besides, we’re strangers.”
When he said nothing further, she cursed softly. “Come on, what else do we have to do but talk for the next eight hours? Or is it ten? Of course, I’d had other plans for how to spend the time.”
“Oh, really. And what were they?”
“Having sex with you seemed like a good way to pass the time.”
“Just some casual exercise,” he muttered. Then again, he should be used to that, right?
“Like it’s anything else on your side?”
“And that doesn’t bother you.”
“Oh, so we’re back to the virtuous female stuff, are we.” She exhaled long and slow. “I believe in living in the moment. That’s all I can say on that one.”
“I did not lie,” he said in the quiet between them. “There is no female for me.”
He watched her play with the water, moving her hands through it. “Did she die? Did you have a shellan and she died?”
“I have never been mated, and I never will be.”
“Why’s that?”
“I believe that is self-evident.” He motioned around. “We are in a prison, remember?”
“So how old were you when you came in. And how long until you—”
“It’s a lifetime sentence. For now, at any rate.”
“What did you do?”
“We don’t ask those questions down here.”
“Well, I’m a foreigner in these parts. As you like pointing out all the time.”
When she lowered her eyes to the water, he waited for her to say something, to challenge him. Instead, she remained silent, and it occurred to him that she needed to answer her own question for him.
“And you?” he said. “Mated?”
“Hell, no.” She threw her head back and laughed. “No.”
That was good. It meant he didn’t have to kill another male. Well, at least not because they were with her—
Groaning at his misplaced territoriality, he put a hand to his temple.
“If I ask you again if you’re all right,” she said, “do I get to listen to another defensive monologue on how great you’re feeling?”
“No. I think I’ll spice it up and describe the pounding headache you give me.”
“Oh, my God. You made a joke.”
Dropping his hand, he sent a glare her way—and promptly lost the surge of anger. From over in the pool, she was smiling at him, her lips lifted at the corners, her eyes twinkling. His heart stopped. And then redoubled its beat. She was sexy when she was mad. And infuriating the rest of the time. But like this?
Her brows lowered and she pursed her mouth. “What.”
When he didn’t reply, she frowned. “Why the hell are you looking at me like that?”
Lowering his eyes, he said softly, “I have not seen the sun since before my transition. Can you blame me for staring.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Twas an infection that ended up grounding Rhage, and he was woefully disappointed in his body’s failure of resolve when it came to the wound on his side. The other three places of lead invasion and operation had healed suitably well. The one under his ribs, however, insisted upon lingering, a houseguest with annoying habits and a pervasive lack of urgency about its departure.
And thus he lay upon Jabon’s guest bed, in the gentlemale’s guest room, a
nd was waited upon incessantly. All of his needs were looked after. Food, drink, ablutions, clothing. Sex and blood. He had the sense that had he required someone to breathe for him, that function would have been taken up readily by the staff. Indeed, it seemed churlish not to greet such attention with effusive gratitude, but dearest Virgin Scribe, he could not wait to return unto his humble abode and the resonant solitude therein.
How he craved an utter lack of company.
Plus it was not as if the staff had nothing else to do. There were plenty of opportunities for the household’s doggen to offer service unto other guests. There were quite a number of females and males tarrying under Jabon’s roof. Rhage could hear them walking the halls and catch their scents in the draft that came under his closed door. Further, there was much conversation on either side of his accommodations. The mansion seemed more hotel than home, and things were never quiet, never still. Not during daylight. Not during mealtime. Certainly, not during the parties that seemed to be held every eve.
One had to wonder the point of such a vacuous, consumptive existence. Then again, Jabon was unmated, and there had been some gossip, not that Rhage particularly cared, that the male’s sire and mahmen were dead. Therefore, it appeared as though the aristocrat was buying his family, his hospitality the currency he used to secure his purchase of affection, constancy, and support—
The knock was soft and respectful. And Rhage gritted his teeth. In the beginning, he’d assumed the staff were just ascertaining whether he breathed or not. Now, he believed they were providing him greater attention over any reasonable standard because they’d been instructed of his affiliation. Members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood were of higher social standing than even Founding Families. Jabon, well versed in the exigencies of hosting, clearly saw the accommodation of such a warrior as an enhancement unto his social standing, and therefore, someone to whom he intended on providing every possible courtesy.
With the aid of every single doggen on Earth.
“Aye,” Rhage said sharply. Because if he did not reply, they would return again and again.
The door cracked. And a face peered in that he did not expect.
“Darius, whate’er you do?” he said.
The brother stepped forth and closed himself in. ’Lo, what a sight for sore eyes. The brother’s familiar face was like moonlight after a long period of clouds, a beacon. Unsurprisingly, he was not dressed for war, but had taken care to be in fine civilian garb. However, there would be weapons all over him, hidden beneath the fine blue wool of his perfectly cut evening suit.
Rhage could not wait to hold a dagger once again.
“How fare thee?” Darius asked.
“Would you be so kind as to remove me of these premises?”
“Are the accommodations not to your liking?” Darius glanced around the luxurious room. “I have heard you are quite well tended to. Jabon sends me a missive each night detailing your care. He provides me with details I could well do without.”
“I would seek to free up this bed so that it may be promptly filled by another. Others should share this bounty.”
“How considerate of you,” Darius said with a chuckle. “But I have spoken with Havers.”
“Oh.” Rhage pulled the sheets higher on his bare chest. “However is he? Well, I hope.”
“You believe I wasted inquiry upon his life? Truly.”
“Fine. What did he say over my condition.”
“You are as yet unhealed of a sufficiency to be released of your burdens herein. I am afraid you must continue to stay abed and be waited on hand and foot.”
Rhage groaned as he sat up, but he did manage to take his torso higher upon the pillows. “I am finished with this, regardless of what the healer says—”
“Do you know what I most admire about you?”
“My absence in any given place?”
Darius frowned. “I do not have such a low view of your company.”
As the fighter seemed honestly hurt, Rhage relented. “I jest, my brother.”
“Well, allow me to say that what I admire most is your ability to follow cogent, sound advice. It’s one of your most distinguishing characteristics. Truly impressive.”
“I have never possessed that virtue and well you know it.”
“Indeed? Because I have found it to be among your most chief and laudable qualities.”
As Darius cocked a brow and regarded with steady expectation the naked, wounded, piece of meat before him who, even the now, was feeling dizzy at having his head off a stack of pillows, it was rather hard to argue a contrary position.
“You bore me with your character analysis,” Rhage muttered.
“Yet you cannot disagree, brother.” Darius smiled. “And see? Regard you being so utterly reasonable—”
“If you start to applaud me, I will get out of this bed to give you a very bad result.”
Darius inclined his head. “Duly noted.”
Allowing himself to recline once more, Rhage eyed his brother. “Did you just come here to mock the loss of my sense of peace and well-being?”
“I am doing no such thing. And staying here truly drains you so much?”
“Being attended to constantly does,” Rhage said dryly. “I am not one for extended courtesy, evidently.”
“Then you are working with the right sort of males in the Brotherhood.” Darius removed from his waistcoat a gold pocket watch and consulted the time. “And in addition to assessing your health, I am meeting with that master of works of whom I spoke.”
“About your house?”
“He is a guest here as well, as it turns out—wait, what are you doing?”
“I believe it is obvious.” Rhage pushed himself off the pillows and swung his legs out from under the sheeting. “Bring me that robe, will you?”
Darius looked across at the silk fall that had been laid upon the chair by the writing desk. His stone-faced expression was as if he were unfamiliar with what sort of garment it was—and he was worried that perhaps it was poisonous in some manner.
“My brother,” Rhage prompted. “Do bring me it, or would you prefer I join you naked?”
“If you are no well enough to procure your own dressing, you should not be upon your feet downstairs.”
“Oh, I am plenty strong to retrieve the robe. I am just trying to spare you the inevitable comparisons between our malehoods. Your disappointment would be legion. I am quite phearsom.”
“You are full of it.” But his brother smiled as he went over to the chair. “And I am only acquiescing to your demand because I fear you will attempt the stairs yourself in your nakedness. It has naught to do with girth or length.”
“As you believe.” Rhage swallowed a groan as he pushed himself to his feet. To avoid toppling over, he planted a hand on the carved headboard—and attempted to look as if he did not in fact need the support to stay upright. “I should not wish to disabuse you of your delusions. Often, they are all we have—”
“My brother, you are unwell.”
Rhage opened eyes that he was unaware of shutting. Darius had come to stand before him, and the brother seemed to be taking note of every weakness shown.
“I would beg to differ.” Rhage looked the other male dead in the eye. “And I am coming downstairs, if only to be propped up on a sofa to listen in on your conversation.”
Darius seemed sad. “You must be desperately lonely, my brother.”
“No, I just don’t want someone to ask me if I need another goddamn thing.”
And that was the extent of it. Even though Darius had to help with the draping of the silk over Rhage’s flesh, even as aid was required for full verticality to be enjoyed, even when the trip to the staircase was slow and arduous, nothing more was spoken on the issue of health and relative wellness.
Or the lack thereof.
To distract himself from his infirmity, Rhage looked around Jabon’s home as he descended the stairs. He’d had no impression of the environs on his trip in
, and he was not surprised that it was all very grand, with rich tapestries of ruby and sapphire and emerald on the walls and a full painting of cherubs and goddesses on the ceiling above the imperial stairway. However, in the very impressive front-hall receiving area, there were too many crystals twinkling off of fixtures and candelabra, and too closely set were the gilt-framed oil paintings and the sculpture.
In the end, the decor was like the host’s guests, too many and too gaudy.
By the time Rhage made it onto the marble floor of the foyer, he decided that Jabon’s need to prove himself had turned the mansion into a display case for both objects and people. And in a way, the proliferation of… everything… made Rhage feel better about his forced convalescence. He would certainly not have chosen Jabon for a host, and with so many others likewise availing themselves, it made it less personal.
“What is the male’s name again?” he asked his brother as they entered a drawing room. “I find I cannot recall.”
Before Darius could answer, a male across the overly appointed space rose to his feet. As Rhage looked unto the “master of works,” he was struck by a flare of recognition. He could not place where he had seen the vampire before, however.
The male likewise did a double take. “Ah…”
But evidently his was for another reason. When the stranger’s stare went down and then promptly traveled elsewhere, Rhage looked at himself. Well, this was something he had not considered. The robe was sufficient to provide a certain modesty, but it was wholly incapable of fulfilling its job when it came to arm and leg, and it struggled likewise as things pertained to the torso, the V created by the lapels so deep, most of his chest was on display. Including the sacred star-shape scar of the Brotherhood.
But what of it, Rhage thought.
“It is so hot herein,” he drawled as he did a little spin, “that I find this refreshing.”
The male inclined his head, as if he were dealing with someone who struggled with reality. “But of course. It is rather warm out this eve.”
“Yes.” Rhage smiled. “You understand.”
Darius provided introductions, and Rhage proffered his dagger hand unto “the Jackal.” “A pleasure.”