by J. R. Ward
“Come on, Peyton. I can feel you staring at me in class, out in the field. It’s so damned obvious. And listen…I know where you’re coming from. I’m not naive.”
The tension in her was obvious, her shoulders tight, her mouth thinning out. And hey, what do you know, he hated the position he was putting them in, too. If he could stop it, he would, but feelings were like wild animals. They did what they wanted and to hell with what they trampled or bit or kicked in the process.
“As much as I try to ignore it”—she pushed her hair over her shoulder—“and as much as I’m sure you want to feel differently, it is what it is. I think we need to talk about it so we can clear the air, you know? Before it starts to affect us or the others out in the field.”
“I don’t think it’s resolvable.” Not unless you want to go on a two-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound diet and lose your mate. “And I don’t think it matters.”
“I disagree.” She threw up her hands. “Oh, come on. We’ve been through so much together. There’s nothing you and I can’t handle. Remember those hours on the phone? Talk to me.”
As Peyton wondered why in the hell he hadn’t brought a bong with him, he got to his feet and played trailblazer with the dorm furniture that had been arranged with the care and precision of a game of marbles: The various seats, couches, and tables were willy-nilly’d all over the place, the result of different study groups and some questionable betting over push-ups, sit-ups, and arm wrestling having fucked the arrangement.
When he finally stopped, he turned around. And they both spoke at the same time.
“Fine, I’m in love with you—”
“I know you still don’t approve of me—”
In another burst of synchronization, they shut up together.
“What did you say?” she breathed.
Gun. He needed a gun. So he could shoot himself in the foot in fact, as opposed to just in the hypothetical.
The door to the break room swung open and her male, Craeg, strode in like he owned the place. Big, heavily muscled, and one of the best fighters in the trainee class, he was the kind of guy who could use a rusty nail for a toothpick as he sutured up his own wounds in the middle of a burning warehouse with two lessers coming at him and a scared golden retriever puppy under his arm.
Craeg stopped and looked back and forth between them. “Am I interrupting something?”
—
Novo barely made it to the industrial-sized metal trash bin in time. As she bent in half and threw up, nothing but water made an appearance, and when the heaving passed, she rolled off the rim and let herself fall to the mats. Easing back against the cold concrete wall, she waited for the world to stop spinning around her.
Sweat fell like tears down her face, and her throat was on fire—although that was less about the vomiting than the sawing inhales she had been taking as she deadlifted. And don’t get her started on her lungs. She felt as though she had been trying to find oxygen in the middle of billowing hot smoke.
Clank. Clank. Clank…
When she was able to, she lifted her head and focused. Across the weight room, a massive male was doing leg presses in a slow, controlled fashion, his forearms bulging from where he was gripping the pegs by his hips, his thigh muscles carved in stone, veins popping out everywhere.
He was staring at her. But not in a creepy way.
More like in an okay-is-it-time-to-call-a-doctor manner.
“I’m all right,” she said, looking away from him. Although with his headphones on, it wasn’t like he could hear her.
I’mallright. I’mallright. NoreallyI’mallright—
Leaning to the side, she snagged a fresh white towel from a stack on one of the benches and mopped up. The Black Dagger Brotherhood’s training center was a case of state of the art, best of the best, professional grade all the way: From this iron dungeon of self-inflicted pain to the firing range, the classrooms, the Olympic pool, the gym, and then the medical clinic, PT facility, and surgery suites, no expense had been spared, and upkeep was just as meticulous and costly.
With a final clank, the male sat forward and did a pass of his own face. He had dark brown hair that had recently been cut, the sides so tight they were nearly shaved, the top left long and loose. His eyes were some kind of brown, and he had an all-American kind of look—well, except for the fangs, which were straight-up Bram Stoker, and the fact that he was not any more human or American than she was. The white muscle shirt he had on was stressed the fuck out trying to stretch over his enormous pecs, and his dark, hairless skin was just the same, taut nearly to the point of structural failure across his six-pack and lats.
He had no tattoos. No false airs. Unfancy clothes. And he rarely spoke—if he did open his mouth, it was always logistical, like, what machine was she going to use next, or was this her towel? He was unfailingly polite, distant as a horizon, and seemingly unaware she was a female.
In short, this stranger was her new best friend. Even though she didn’t know his name.
And they did spend a lot of time together. At the end of every in-house night for the trainees, the two of them were here alone, the Brothers working out during the day, the other trainees already exhausted from whatever they had been doing in class.
Novo always had juice left in the tank, though.
Fuck 5-hour Energy or Xenadrine. Personal demons were waaaaay better for getting your ass in gear.
Oh, and then there was the other reason she preferred to vom into a Hefty bag rather than hang with the others while they waited for their bus to take them down the mountain.
“You’re bleeding.”
Novo jerked her head up. The male was standing over her, and when she frowned, he pointed to her hands.
“Bleeding.”
Lifting one of her palms, she saw that, yup, she certainly was leaking. She had forgotten her gloves, and the bar that she had been holding the five hundred pounds with had cut into her.
“What’s your name?” she asked as she pressed the towel into the raw spots.
Man, that stung.
When he didn’t answer, she looked up again. And it was at that point that he placed his hand over his sternum and bowed.
“I am Ruhn.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She folded the terrycloth in half and re-wiped her brow. “The bow thing. I’m not a member of the glymera.”
“You are a female.”
“So?” When he seemed honestly confused, she felt like a bitch. “Anyway, I’m Novo. And I’d shake your hand, but yeah.”
As she flashed him what he had pointed out was injured, he cleared his throat. “It is nice to meet you.”
His accent was like hers, without the haughty, long vowels of the aristocracy, and she instantly liked him even more. As her father had always said, rich people could afford to talk slow ’cuz they didn’t have to work for a living.
Which made that group of entitled lightweights really hard to respect or take seriously.
“Are you joining the program?” she asked.
“For?”
“The training program?”
“No. I am just here to work out.”
He offered her a smile—as if that encompassed his entire life story as well as all his plans for the future—and then he went over to the chin-up bar. The reps he did were unbelievable. Fast, but controlled, over and over again, until she lost count. And still he kept at it.
When he finally stopped, he was breathing deeply, but hardly taxed.
“So why don’t you?”
“What?” he said with surprise. Like maybe he had forgotten she was still sitting there.
“The training program. Why don’t you join us?”
He shook his head sharply. “I’m not a fighter.”
“You should be. You’re really strong.”
“I am just used to manual labor. That is where it comes from.” He paused. “You’re in the program?”
“Yeah.”
“You fight?�
�
“Oh, yeah. And I like it. I like to win and I like to inflict pain on others. Particularly slayers.” As his eyes popped, she rolled her eyes. “Yes, females can be like that. We don’t need permission to be aggressive or strong. Or to kill.”
When he turned away, re-gripped the chin-up bar, and resumed his workout, she cursed at herself.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “That wasn’t directed at you.”
“Is there someone else here?” he said between reps.
“No.” She got to her feet and gave her head a shake. “Like I said, sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Up. And down. “But…” Up. And down. “…why aren’t you…” Up. And down. “…with them?”
“The other trainees?” She looked at the clock on the wall. “They’re happy to chill before the bus comes. I hate loitering around. Time to go, actually. See ya.”
She was just at the door when he spoke up. “You shouldn’t do that.”
Novo glanced over her shoulder. “Excuse me?”
Ruhn nodded to the trash bin. “You throw up a lot when you exercise. It’s not healthy. You push too hard.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I don’t have to.”
She opened her mouth to tell him to keep his God complex to himself, but he just turned away and resumed those chin-ups of his.
Oh, right, she thought. Fucking fine. Why don’t I just go watch Tasty vids on BuzzFeed and take selfies in yoga poses.
#nothrowupzone
With her temper surging, she so wanted to pick a fight with him. Even though she was tired to the point of butt-hurt, and he might have a point about the barfies, fuck that. Live and let live, you know?
Or, live and let self-destruct.
Potato, potahto.
But whatever. No reason to argue with a stranger about something she had no intention of doing any differently.
Out in the corridor, the air was cooler—or maybe that was just a case of perception, the long concrete-walled chute to the parking area making it seem like there was a whole lot more air available for the taking. Forcing herself to walk forward, she headed to the locker room she and Paradise used as the only two females in the program. And the second she pushed her way in, she closed her eyes and considered going home sweaty and disgusting.
Sonofabitch.
That goddamn fragrance.
Paradise’s shampoo was like spray paint on the walls, carpeting on the floor, ceiling fans whirling at a thousand miles an hour, strobe lights and a disco ball: In the cramped room, it took up every square inch of space.
What was worse? It wasn’t like the female was hateful or incompetent or a Barbie doll that could be written off as Taylor Swift in a Nirvana world. Paradise had been the one who’d lasted the longest during that hellish orientation, and she was a crackerjack in the field, with shockingly fast reflexes and a dead-on shot that had to be seen to be believed.
But there was another thing she was good at.
And even though Novo had no right to care and no reason to notice and zero fucks to give, it was sublimely annoying to watch Peyton sneak those looks and linger in those doorways and pull those double takes whenever the female laughed.
The only thing that was even more irritating? That the shit was on Novo’s radar at all.
Peyton, son of Peythone, was nothing she was interested in. After all, some things, like not volunteering for a major limb amputation, were self-evident.
Plus hello, personal history.
Not with him specifically. But still.
So the fact that she’d even noticed the guy’s addiction to that other female was enough to make Novo want to beat her own ass.
As she turned to head for the shower stalls, she caught sight of herself in a full-length mirror—a fixture she was very sure wasn’t in the males’ locker room.
Which was really just so damned sexist—
Her thoughts dropped the mic on that familiar rant as her reflection registered. Her eyes had become hollow pits, and her stomach, left bare between her sports bra and her leggings, was concave, and her legs were swollen with muscle except for the tight bony knots of her kneecaps.
No hips, no tits, no female identifiers…even her long hair was bolted in a braid that hung as if in retreat down the powerful fans on either side of her spine.
Novo nodded at herself in approval.
She wouldn’t want things any other way.
Paradise could keep the chick shit and all the sidelong stares in the world. Far better to be strong as opposed to sensual. The latter got you admired…
The former kept you safe.
“Nope,” Peyton said. “Not interrupting anything at all.”
As he smiled at Craeg, he thought, Yuuuuup, it’s totally cool. I just told your girl I loved her while she thought I was still stuck on not wanting her to be in the training program. So yeah, conversationally speaking, we just faced off in a duel, where she had a gun and I had two paper clips and a rubber band. But it’s fine.
Although, hey, while we’re on the subject, maybe you want to slice my nut sac off and put my two veg in your back pocket? ’Cuz I won’t be needing them anymore after this.
Beelining for the door, he didn’t look at Paradise. In fact, there was a good possibility he was never looking at her again. But he was careful to guy-it-up with Craeg as he passed the male, giving him a clap on the shoulder.
“Can’t wait for tomorrow out in the field.” Unless he hung himself in the bathroom at home. In which case he was gonna be a no-show. “Good workout tonight. Fan-fucking-tastic.”
Especially if you counted the body slam he just did to his own ego. That little bitch wasn’t getting up again. Probably needed reconstructive surgery and a prosthesis.
Out in the corridor, he stopped and cursed. He’d left his fucking duffel in the break room, but he was not going back in there. Nope. No reason to catch the drift of the Paradise/Craeg Reunion Kiss #45,896, which would be followed by the OMG-guess-what-Peyton-just-said’s. The good news? Craeg was so into the program, and team leadership, and fighting the true enemy, that there was a strong possibility his bonded male wouldn’t be reaching for a dagger right now.
Still, it was probably a good idea to head down to the parking area. If only to buy himself some lead time on the run-away.
Even he wasn’t dumb enough to take on a bonded male. Especially one who was trained to kill things.
As Peyton checked his watch and started striding off to the reinforced steel door at the very far end, he pulled a thank-fuck. Fifteen minutes and the bulletproof bus would be ready in the parking area to take them back to the drop point. If Craeg went apeshit on the ride into town, surely someone would help a guy out. Boone was a straight shooter and would intercede, and maybe—
Instantly, Peyton’s entire body went on high alert, his skin flushing with heat, the hair at the back of his neck triggering up, his blood pumping as hard as if he were on a sprint.
He stopped again and turned around slowly.
Novo was emerging from the female locker room, her hard body in leathers and a leather jacket, her Nike duffel over one shoulder, her black hair slicked back and braided down her spine.
“Hey,” he murmured as she came up to him. “You looked good tonight.”
She always did. And not just with her hand-to-hand form, either.
“What you mean”—she kept going past him—“is that I beat you.”
“Not how I remember it.”
“Huh. Guess my putting you flat on your back caused a little brain damage, then.”
As an arousal punched at the fly of his slacks, Peyton discreetly rearranged himself and fell into her wake. Out in front of him, she moved like the boss she was, all attitude and competence, and yes, he totally looked at her ass—and wanted his hands all over it.
His mouth, too.
Something about her brought out the animal in him, ever since the first night he’d seen her. He didn’t want to make love to he
r. He wasn’t even interested in sex from her. He wanted straight-out fucking, the kind that left marks on skin, and ruined furniture, and broke lamps.
“I won in the end,” he drawled.
Now she was the one pulling a halt-and-pivot, that long rope of hair swinging around and hitting her on the hip. “Because I slipped while I was submitting you. My foot slipped. That’s how you got your advantage.”
“I still pinned you in the end.”
“I took you down.”
“And I won.”
As fire lit up her teal-blue eyes and her fangs descended, he focused on her mouth. In his mind, he shoved her back against the hard concrete wall and she fought him and they kissed like they were going to die after they were done banging. Raw. Furious. With orgasms that altered their brain chemistry for nights afterward.
“You didn’t win,” she gritted. “I slipped. And if the ball of my foot hadn’t gone out from under me, you would still be on that mat like a carpet.”
Peyton moved in closer and lowered his voice. “Excuses, excuses.”
With the way she glared at him, it was clear she wanted to hit him. Break his legs. Stab him.
And he wanted all of that, too. It was punishment for his dropping that bomb back in the break room. It was self-harm done by someone else, a vital, painful distraction that took his mind off the fact that he gotten way too real with the wrong person, at the very wrong time.
Shit, had he really just told Paradise he loved her?
“So when are we going to fuck,” he said in a guttural voice. “I’m ready to stop ignoring this.”
Novo narrowed that stare even harder. “Never. How’s never sound to you?”
“You want it.”
“Not from you.”
“Liar.” He leaned in a little closer. “Coward. What are you afraid of—”
Her free hand whipped out and locked on his throat, her thumbnail pressing into his jugular and pinching off the blood supply. “Watch yourself, pretty boy. Or I might do some aesthetic damage they can’t fix.”
Peyton closed his eyes and swayed. “I want you to.”
Covering her grip with his own, he forced her nail further into his skin until blood welled. And as her eyes flared, he removed her hold and looked at the red smudge on her thumb.
