by J. R. Ward
Not that getting tangled up with the law would be anything other than an inconvenience. But he prided himself on the smoothness of his operations.
Which was why he'd chosen the whores as bait. First, he figured if one or two turned up dead, it wouldn't cause an uproar. They were less likely to have family mourning them, so there wouldn't be added pressure on the police to nail a suspect. As for the inevitable investigation, there was a ready pool of suspects, thanks to the pimps and lowlifes who worked the back alleys. There were plenty for the police to chose from and chase after.
But that didn't mean he could get sloppy. Or overuse Whore Valley.
He went back in the barn, put his tools away, and headed for the house. He checked his messages before going to shower.
There were several.
The most important of which was from Billy Riddle. Evidently, the guy had had a disturbing interaction the night before and had called just after one A.M.
It was good that he was seeking comfort, Mr. X thought. And probably time that they had a conversation about his future.
An hour later, Mr. X drove to the academy, opened its doors, and left them unlocked.
The lessers he'd ordered to report in started to arrive shortly thereafter. He could hear them talking in the hall next to his office, their voices low. The moment he came up to them, they quieted down, looking at him. Dressed in black fatigues, their faces grim, there was only one whose coloring had yet to fade. Mr. O's brunette brush cut stood out, as did his dark brown eyes.
The longer a lesser stayed in the society, the more he lost his individual physical characteristics. The browns, the blacks, the reds of the hair turned to a pale ash; the tints of yellow or crimson or tan in the skin blanched out to a blushless white. The process typically took about a decade, although he had yet to see any strands of blond appear around O's face.
He did a quick head count. As all of the members of his two prime squadrons were there, he locked the academy's outside door and escorted the group into the basement. Their boots were loud and sharp on the metal stairwell, a drumroll of the power in their bodies.
Mr. X had set up the war room as nothing special, nothing unusual. Just a regular old classroom with twelve chairs, a chalkboard, a TV, and a podium in front.
The unremarkable decor wasn't just subterfuge. He didn't want any high-tech distractions. Group dynamics were the purpose and focus of these meetings.
"So tell me about last night," he said, eyeing the slayers. "How did it go?"
He listened to the reports, unimpressed with the excuses. There had been two kills the night before. He'd given them a quota of ten.
And it was a disgrace that O, who was so new, had been responsible for both deaths.
Mr. X crossed his arms over his chest. "What's the problem?"
"We couldn't find any," Mr. M said.
"I found one last night," Mr. X snapped. "Quite easily, I might add. And Mr. O found two."
"Well, the rest of us couldn't." M looked at the others. "The numbers in this area have thinned."
"The problem is not geography," a voice muttered from the back.
Mr. X's eyes shifted through the lessers, focusing on O's dark head in the back of the room. He was not surprised that the slayer had spoken up.
O was proving to be one of the best they had, even though he was a new recruit. With terrific reflexes and stamina, he was a great fighter, but like all powerful things, he was hard to control. Which was why Mr. X had put him in with others who had centuries of experience. O was liable to dominate any group made up of individuals even remotely inferior to himself.
"Would you care to elaborate, Mr. O?" Mr. X was not at all interested in the man's opinion. But he was very prepared to show up the new recruit in front of the others.
O shrugged carelessly, and his drawl was just short of insulting. "The problem is motivation. There are no consequences for failure."
"And what exactly would you suggest?" Mr. X asked.
O reached forward, grabbed M by the hair, and slit the other man's throat with a knife.
The other lessers leaped away, crouching into attack positions, even as O sat back down and calmly wiped his blade off with his fingers.
Mr. X bared his teeth. And then got himself under control.
He walked across the room to M. The lesser was still alive, gasping for breath, trying to stem the blood loss with his hands.
Mr. X knelt down. "The rest of you will leave. Now. We will reconvene tomorrow morning, when you will have better news for me. Mr. O, you stay."
When O defied the order and made a move to get up, Mr. X froze the man in the chair, stealing control of the large muscles in his body. O seemed momentarily shocked, clearly trying to fight the hold that was on his arms and legs.
It was a battle he wouldn't win. The Omega always provided a few extra benefits to the Fore-lesser. This kind of mental dominion over fellow slayers was one of them.
As soon as the room had emptied, Mr. X. took out a knife and stabbed M in the chest. There was flare of light and then a popping sound as the lesser disintegrated.
Mr. X glared up at O from the floor. "If you ever pull something like that again, I will turn you over to the Omega."
"No, you won't." In spite of his being at another's mercy, O's arrogance was unchecked. "You wouldn't want to look as if you can't control your own men."
Mr. X stood up.
"Careful, O. You underestimate the Omega's affection for sacrifices. If I were to give you to him as a gift, he would be most grateful." Mr. X walked over and ran a finger down O's cheek. "If I were to tie you down and call him to you, he would enjoy unwrapping you. And I would enjoy watching it."
O snapped his head back, more angry than frightened. "Don't touch me."
"I'm your leader. I can do anything I want with you." Mr. X clamped a hand on O's jaw and forced his thumb in between the man's lips and teeth. He jerked the lesser's face forward. So mind your manners, don't ever take another society member out without my express permission, and we'll get along fine."
O's brown eyes burned.
"Now what do you say to me?" Mr. X murmured, reaching out and stroking the man's hair back. The color was a deep, rich chocolate.
O mumbled.
"I didn't hear you." Mr. X pressed his thumb into the soft, fleshy plot under O's tongue, digging in until tears formed in the other man's eyes. When he removed his grip, he ran a quick, wet caress over O's lower lip. "I said, I didn't hear you."
"Yes, sensei."
"Good boy."
* * *
Chapter Thirty-one
Marissa could not get comfortable in her bed. No matter which way she turned or where she put the pillows, she was irritated.
Somehow, her mattress had been filled with rocks, and her sheets had turned into sandpaper.
Throwing back the covers, she went over to the bank of windows that were shuttered and covered in thick satin drapery. She wanted some fresh air, but there would be no opening them. It was morning.
As she settled onto her chaise longue, she covered her bare feet with the hem of her silk nightgown.
Wrath.
She couldn't stop thinking about him. And every time another image of them together came to mind, she wanted to curse. Which was shocking.
She was the docile one. The lovely one. All female perfection and gentleness. Anger went totally against her nature.
Except the more she thought of Wrath, the more she wanted to punch something.
Assuming she could make a fist.
She glanced down at her hand. Yup, she could. Though it was pathetically small.
Especially compared to his.
God, she'd endured so much. And he had no appreciation of how difficult her life had been.
Being the untouched spinster shellan of the most powerful vampire of them all was hell on earth. Her failures as a female had burned out any sense of self-worth she'd had. The isolation had preyed on her sanity. The embarr
assment at living with her brother because she had no home of her own had stung.
And she'd been horrified to be stared at by others and talked about behind her back. She was very aware that she was a constant topic of conversation, envied, pitied, spied upon, the stuff of fable. She knew young females were told of her story, although whether it was as warning or inducement, she didn't want to know.
Wrath was totally unaware of how she'd suffered.
Part of that fault she had to lay at her own feet. Playing the good little female had felt like the right thing to do, the only way to be worthy, the only chance at finally sharing a life with him.
Except how had it turned out?
With him finding a dark-haired human he cared about more.
God, the payoff for all her efforts went beyond not fair and right into cruel.
And she wasn't the only one who'd suffered. Havers had been worried sick about her for centuries.
Wrath, on the other hand, had always been just fine. And he was no doubt doing just fine right now. In all likelihood he was. at this very moment, lying naked with that female. Putting that hard length at his hips to good use.
Marissa closed her eyes.
She thought about being pulled against his body, held in those crushing arms, consumed by him. She'd been too shocked to feel much heat. There'd been so much of him, all over her, his hands tangling in her hair, his mouth sucking hard at her throat. And that thick rod of his had scared her a little.
Which was ironic.
She'd dreamed about what it would be like for so long. To be taken by him. To leave her virginal state behind and know what it was to have a male inside.
Whenever she'd imagined them together, her body had always warmed, her skin had tingled. But the reality had been overwhelming. She'd been totally unprepared, and she wished it had lasted longer and been a little less intense. She had a feeling she would have liked it if he'd gone more slowly.
But then, he hadn't been thinking of her.
Marissa recurled her hand, making that fist again.
She didn't want him back. What she wanted was for him to have a taste of the pain she'd been through.
Wrath put his arms around Beth and drew her close, looking at Rhage over the top of her head. Watching her ease the male's suffering had broken down all sorts of barriers.
Care for his brothers, care for him, he thought. It was the oldest code in the warrior class.
"Come to my bed," he whispered in her ear.
She let him take her hand and lead her to his room. Once inside, he shut and locked the door and extinguished all the candles but one. Then he pulled the sash of the robe she wore free and stripped the satin from her shoulders. Her naked skin gleamed in the light of the single wick that burned.
He took his leather pants off. And then they were lying together.
He didn't want sex from her. Not now. He just wanted to share some comfort. He wanted her warm skin against his, her breath brushing lightly over his chest, her heart beating mere inches from his own. And he wanted to give her the same kind of peace back.
He stroked her long, silky hair and breathed deeply.
"Wrath?" Her voice was lovely in the dim quiet, and he liked the vibration of her throat against his pecs.
"Yeah." He kissed the top of her head.
"Who did you lose?" She shifted, putting her chin on his chest.
"Lose?"
"Who did the lessers take from you?"
The question seemed out of the blue. And then it didn't. She'd seen the aftereffects of a fight. Somehow knew that he fought not only for his race, but for himself.
It was a long time before he could answer. "My parents."
He felt her emotions shift from curiosity to sorrow. "I'm sorry."
There was a long silence.
"What happened?"
Now that was an interesting question, he thought. Because there were two versions. In vampire lore, that bloody night had taken on all sorts of heroic implications, being heralded as the birth of a great warrior. The fiction wasn't his doing. His people needed to believe in him, so they created that which sustained their misplaced faith.
He alone knew the truth.
"Wrath?"
His eyes went to the hazy beauty of her face. It was difficult to deny the gentle tone she used. She wanted to offer him compassion, and for some godforsaken reason, he wanted it from her.
"It was before my transition," he murmured. "A long time ago."
His hand paused on her hair, the memories coming back gruesome and vivid.
"We thought as the First Family we were safe from the lessers. Our homes were well defended, well hidden in the forests, and we moved all the time."
He found that if he continued to smooth her hair, he could keep talking.
"It was winter. A cold night in February. One of our servants betrayed our location. The lessers came in a pack of fifteen or twenty and slaughtered their way through our estate before breaching our stone battlements. I'll never forget the sound when they pounded on the door to our private quarters. My father shouted for his weapons while forcing me into a crawl space. He locked me inside just before they broke through the door with a battering ram. He was good with a sword, but there were so many of them."
Beth's hands came to his face. He dimly heard soft words falling from her lips.
Wrath closed his eyes, seeing the ghastly images that still had the power to rip him from sleep. "They massacred the servants before killing my parents. I saw it all through a knothole in the wood. As I said, my eyes were better back then."
"Wrath—"
"While it was happening, they made so much noise, no one heard me screaming." He shuddered. "And I fought to get free. I pushed against the latch, but it was solid and I was weak. I tore at the wood, scratched at it until my fingernails splintered and bled. I kicked with my feet…" His body responded to the remembered horror of being confined, his breath growing ragged, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat. "After they left, my father tried to drag himself over to me. They had stabbed him in the heart, and he was… He gave out two feet from the crawl space, reaching for me. I kept calling his name over and over again until I lost my voice. I begged for him to live even as I watched the light in his eyes dim and then go out. I was trapped there for hours with their bodies, watching the pools of blood get bigger. Some civilian vampires came the following night and let me out."
He felt a soothing stroke down his shoulder, and he brought Beth's hand to his mouth, kissing the skin of her palm.
"Before the lessers left, they pulled back all the tapestries from the windows. The moment the sun rose and came into the room, all the bodies burned up. I had nothing to bury."
He felt something hit his face. A tear. Beth's.
He reached out and stroked her cheek. "No crying."
Though he cherished her for her sympathy.
"Why not?"
"It changes nothing. I cried while I watched, and still they all died." He turned on his side and gathered her close. "If only I could have… I still have dreams about that night. I was such a coward. I should have been out there with my father, fighting."
"But you would have been killed."
"As a male should. Protecting his own. That's honorable. Instead I was sniveling in a crawl space." He hissed with disgust.
"How old were you?"
"Twenty-two."
She frowned, as if she'd assumed he'd been much younger. "You said it was before your transition?"
"Yeah."
"So what were you like then?" She smoothed his hair back. "It's hard to imagine you fitting in a crawl space, the size you are now."
"I was different."
"You said you were weak."
"I was."
"So maybe you needed to be protected."
"No." His temper flared. "A male protects. Never the other way around."
Abruptly, she backed off.
As the silence stretched between them, he knew
she was thinking through his actions. Shame made him remove his hands from her body. He rolled away, onto his back.
He never should have said a thing.
He could just imagine what she thought of him now. After all, how could she not be revolted by his failure? By the reality that he'd been weak when his family had needed him most?
With a shrinking feeling, he wondered if she'd still want him. If she'd still welcome him into her slick heat. Or would that be gone for her? Now that she knew?
He waited for her to put her clothes on and leave.
She stayed in the bed.
But of course she did, he thought. She understood that her transition was coming no matter what, and she needed his blood. It was a matter of necessity.
He heard her sigh in the darkness. As if she were giving up on something up.
He wasn't sure how long they lay together, side by side but not touching. It must have been hours. He fell asleep briefly, only to wake up when Beth shifted against him, her bare leg moving over his.
A jolt of lust went through him, but he beat it back savagely.
Her hand brushed over his chest. Drifted down his stomach and across his hip. He held his breath as he got hard in a rush, his erection achingly close to where she was touching him.
Her body moved nearer to his, her breasts caressing his ribs, her core rubbing on his thigh.
Maybe she was still asleep.
And then she took him into her hand.
Wrath moaned, arching his back.
Her fingers were steady as she stroked him.
He went for her instinctively, craving what she seemed to be offering, but she stopped him. Rising to her knees, she pressed him down to the mattress with her palms on his shoulders.
"This time is for you," she whispered, kissing him softly.
He could barely speak. "You still want… me?"
Confusion spiked her brows. "Why wouldn't I?"
With a pathetic groan of relief and gratitude, Wrath lurched for her again. Except she didn't let him get anywhere near her body. She pushed him back down and gripped his wrists, bringing his arms over his head.
