by J. R. Ward
“You want a taste?” he drawled, bringing his blood to her mouth. “Open for me.”
When her jaw flexed like she was clamping down on her molars, he rubbed her own thumb on her lower lip, banking on the temptation becoming too strong for her to resist—
Her pink tongue licked out and then she took over from there, sucking her finger in deep and making a show of rolling it around…until he nearly orgasmed in his pants.
But just as things were reaching taking off, she abruptly stepped back and looked away.
“Snowstorm, people.”
At the sound of a male voice, Peyton did some f-bomb reps in his head. And then he glared at Axe, who was coming out of the office.
“What do you mean?” Peyton muttered.
Their fellow trainee sauntered over. Axe was neo-Goth’d, half-tat’d, and a good guy—once you got past the fact that he looked like a serial killer. He’d just settled down with an aristocrat, one of Peyton’s cousins, so now he was in the family so to speak, and Peyton was glad. With everything the way it was going out in the world, at least he knew Elise was not just loved, but safe from the enemy.
“We’re stuck here.” Axe flexed his heavy arms like they were sore. “They can’t get us out. Bus is canceled.”
“What the hell?” Peyton pictured his weed stash in his bedroom like it was a long-lost relative. “I got plans.”
“Take it up with management, my man. I can’t help you.”
The problem was that they couldn’t just dematerialize off the mountain. The Brotherhood compound, which included this subterranean complex, was in a highly secured location: For one, the trainees were not privy to its whereabouts, and that was information you didn’t want to have, anyway. Who needed to know where the First Family stayed? All that got you was on the short list of torture targets if there was an assassination attempt. But even more to the point, the property was covered in mhis, something that both blurred the landscape visually and also made it virtually impossible for anyone who didn’t know the coordinates to dematerialize on or off the acreage.
So yeah, nobody in the class was going any-fucking-where.
Shit, he’d thought the ride back to Caldwell proper was going to be bad? This was a frickin’ nightmare. Trapped here, with Paradise and Craeg, until at least five or six o’clock the following night when it was dark enough to bus out? Assuming the blizzard quit by then?
Peyton looked over at Novo. She and Axe were talking about the IED stuff Paradise had been studying, and as he watched her lips move…he thought about all the places she could put them on his body.
Well, now, he decided, at least the Brotherhood let people booze up if they were off duty. And with the right kind of persuasion? It was beyond time for him and Novo to find some privacy and put it to good use—and that would do double duty keeping him away from the flying fists of one half of the Happiest Couple on the Fucking Planet.
This was an opportunity. Not a crisis.
—
Goddamn it. He tasted amazing.
As Novo kept a convo going with Axe, it was just a surface-level tennis match of words and terms they’d learned in class. Underneath all those conventional syllables, she was back in the moment when she had taken a part of Peyton into her…and liked it.
He was still staring at her, his body poised as if it were ready to take hers down to the floor, all kinds of heat and erotic intent rolling off of him like strokes she could actually feel on her bare skin.
The aggression and the hunger were a surprise considering his refined bloodline, but not a shock given who he was. For a rich boy, he had proven to be a cunning and tenacious fighter, strong and strangely fearless. Now…the question appeared to be whether she wanted to see what kind of lover he was—
“—Paradise’s birthday,” Axe was saying to him. “Elise told me you guys were going to meet to make sure shit was tight.”
Novo refocused as Peyton nodded. “I’ll call her tonight. I think we’re all set.”
“When is this?” Novo heard herself ask.
As date/time/location were shared and there was more gum-flapping around the whole celebration, she retreated into her head again.
Yeah, not her scene. Two or three hundred members of the glymera under the age of a century, doing a Stella McCartney/Tom Ford mix-and-mingle fueled by top-shelf liquor, finger foods on silver trays, and aristocratic privilege?
Just shoot me now, she thought.
And that was before you added Peyton staring at the birthday girl like she had stolen his soul and put it in her Chanel bag.
“—coming, right?”
When there was a pause, she glanced at Axe. “What?”
“You have to come,” the guy muttered. “I need someone I can stand to talk to.”
“Why don’t we skip it and go to The Keys?”
“Those days are over for me.”
“Oh, that’s right. You got your happily ever after, so you’re too good for us sluts.”
And no, she didn’t give a shit that she sounded bitter…
Okay, maybe she was sorry she was being a bitch. But the guy had been a legend down at Caldwell’s infamous sex club. Why anybody would give that up for just one person, she couldn’t fathom. It was a buffet exchanged for a cupboard full of the same can of soup, decade in and decade out. Plus that whole eggs-in-one-basket thing? Not for her.
She’d only had to learn that lesson once.
“You go there on the regular?” Peyton asked her with a remote expression.
As he narrowed his stare on her, it was tempting to point out to Mr. Anachronism that females were *shocker* allowed to drive cars, own real property, wear pants. And civilization hadn’t crashed and burned into the mountain of Everything Was Better Before.
“I’m a member.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You got a problem with that.”
“So when are you taking me?”
She hid her surprise. “You couldn’t handle it.”
“How do you know?”
Novo looked him up and down. “I don’t, but you’re not interesting enough to me to find out.”
Axe whistled under his breath. “Ouch.”
Peyton ignored the guy, a cold light entering his eyes. “Challenge accepted. What night?”
Novo shook her head. “That wasn’t a challenge.”
“I think it was. And although you didn’t spare me any courtesy, I will rise above and refrain from pointing out that you’re lying. Just like you did a minute and a half ago when you told me you didn’t want to fuck me.” He put his hand over his mouth. “Oh. Whoops. Did that just come out?”
“Will you two cut the shit and get a room already,” Axe drawled. “No offense, but rom coms make me sick.”
“This is not a romantic comedy,” Novo ground out. “It’s a murder mystery with an obvious ending.”
“I have to agree with her on that one.” Peyton reached forward and ran his fingertips along Novo’s collarbone. “A good orgasm is known as the little death. And I’m more than willing to die for you. A little.”
Before she could slap his hand away—or break out the bodily harm—he sauntered off with a smile.
“Where’s some booze,” he said over his shoulder. “I need a drink if I’m going to make it through today stuck in here with all of your denial.”
Novo crossed her arms over her chest. “He is such an asshole.”
“Everyone needs a hobby.” Axe shrugged. “And he clearly likes pissing you off.”
“If you tell me to stop encouraging him, I’m going to punch you in the junk.”
Axe put his palms up. “Not it on that one. Besides, your presence alone is enough encouragement. What are you going to do, take your own skin off?”
“Yeah, right. Paradise is the one he wants, and don’t read any bitch into that. She is more than welcome to hold that exalted position. And likewise, if he wants to continue hitting that wall until he blacks out, have fun with that.”
A
xe regarded her for a long moment. Then he offered his palm. “A hundy says that you’re the one for him.”
“I don’t bet.”
“Coward.”
She jerked her hand forward and grabbed him hard. “Fuck you. And it’s on.”
“You can’t do anything to dissuade him.”
“That’s my S.O.P. with the bastard. I’m not stopping now.”
“Not what I meant.” Axe shook his head. “This is out of your control. And his.”
“Like you’re an expert.”
“I am.” The male shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Just been through it myself. That’s how I know how this is going to turn out.”
As the fighter walked away, he had all the calmness of someone who could see the future, and Novo hoped he enjoyed that superiority—while it lasted.
She was going to enjoy spending his Benji.
That much she was clear on.
As Saxton stood at a long window framed by green velvet drapes with golden tassels and embroidered sashes, he stared out into a blizzard and braced himself to go ice-bath. He had his briefcase in one hand, his Gucci scarf in the other—and his intense distaste of cold weather all around him.
The Black Dagger Brotherhood’s mansion was on top of a mountain, and the wind gusts at this higher altitude were like an invading army bearing down against its great stone walls. The blasts came in waves and from different directions, and as he watched the snowflakes blow at their mercy, he was reminded of what schools of fish looked like, going this way and then that way, in delineated chaos.
I don’t want to do this anymore, he thought.
As the conviction struck, he told himself the ennui concerned merely the month of January—which, in upstate New York, was a miserable season unto itself, cold, dark, and dangerous if you got stuck outdoors for long. He feared, however, there was more than the dead zone between December and February in play.
“You going to try for home?”
He glanced through the archway of the billiards room. Wrath, son of Wrath, the great Blind King, had arrived in the foyer, and the male was just so huge, harsh, and aristocratic, a straight-up killer in black leather—with a beautiful, kind-faced golden retriever by his side.
Saxton cleared his throat. “I’m not sure, my Lord.”
“You got a bedroom here.”
“You are most gracious.” Saxton lifted up his briefcase even though the King could not see it. “But I have work to do.”
“When was the last night or day you took time off?”
“I have no need to.”
“Bullshit. And I know the answer and don’t like it.”
In truth, it had been forever. The King’s nightly audiences with members of the race required much follow-up and paperwork—and on top of all that valid work, there might also be a little self-medicating, distraction-seeking going on.
As if on cue, a pair of voices echoed throughout the grand open space and Saxton took a deep breath. Blay and Qhuinn were coming down the gracious staircase, each of them carrying an infant, the bonded couple laughing. When they got to the bottom step, Qhuinn put his hand on the small of Blay’s back and Blay looked over at the Brother, his eyes lingering as if he could have stared at that handsome face forever.
The shaft of pain that went through Saxton’s sternum was as familiar as the sinking feeling in his gut, the one–two punch of Blay’s no-it’s-him-I-want-not-you choice making the idea of battling the Nor’easter very appealing. After all, the other option was to take advantage of his unused room there and try to sleep under the same roof as the happy pair and their two beautiful young.
Sometimes, nothing made you feel older and more worn out than the happiness of others. And yes, that was uncharitable—but that was why it was good that inner thoughts were things one shared only with oneself.
“My Lord, do enjoy Last Meal.” Saxton pinned a smile to his face even though, again, the Blind King would not know it. “I believe I will—”
“Join us for Last Meal? Fucking awesome. Come on, we’ll go in together.”
Saxton cleared his throat and began to construct a false engagement, an imperative that could not be denied, an overriding principle—
“I’m waiting,” Wrath muttered. “And you know how much I love that shit.”
With a sag, Saxton recognized this was an argument lost before it began. And he also was more than aware that the King’s patience was as short as his temper.
After that little warning shot across the bow, Wrath’s next move could well be a draw-and-quarter out back in the snow.
“But of course, my Lord.” Saxton bowed and started to remove his favorite Marc Jacobs coat. “It will be my pleasure.”
Falling in line with his King, he walked across the foyer and entered the vast dining room, depositing his briefcase, scarf, and all that fine cashmere on a chair next to one of the sideboards. With any luck, one of the doggen wouldn’t “help” by putting his things away. In a mansion this size? They could end up a mile off in some closet.
And storm or no storm, as soon as this meal was over, he was leaving.
Using his peripheral vision, he located the delightful family of four and strategically picked a vacant Queen Anne chair on the same side of the enormous table but down at the other end. The result was a good fifteen people between them—or there would be, when everyone was settled into seats. In the meantime, he made a show of micromanaging his already perfectly arranged silverware—and then taking an ungodly amount of time explaining to a patient doggen exactly how much cranberry and how much seltzer he wanted for his libation.
No alcohol. Alcohol made him, for want of a better word, horny—and that was just going to leave him sexually frustrated. No one at home waiting for him. Nobody he really wanted to call in. Nothing to be done about that—
I don’t want to do this anymore.
As the thought struck again, he decided maybe his King was right. Maybe he should take a night off, if only so he could find a release or two with some stranger. It would never be more than that. His heart was somewhere else, never to return, and sometimes, an anonymous body used as gym equipment was all that destiny offered—
Directly across the table, a large male figure pulled out a chair and sat down. And Saxton found himself sitting up a bit straighter.
It was Ruhn. Blooded uncle to Rhage and Mary’s adopted daughter, Bitty. New member of the household. All around very decent, very…spectacular…male.
Strange, how someone that big could move in such a controlled, compact way. It was as if he commanded not just his arms and legs, but every cell, down to the molecule, on a series of separate, but coordinated, calls to action.
Amazing.
And yes, his simple clothes suited him. No tailored tweed suits with handmade shirts, a cravat, and ostrich shoes going on—which was Saxton’s typical work dress. No, Ruhn was wearing a Hanes T-shirt under a navy blue knit sweater on top of Levi’s. The male had pulled the sleeves of that knitted top up on both sides, and the tendons and veins of his forearms were a testament to both his strength and how lean he was. His callused hands were clean, with unbuffed, clipped-to-the-quick nails, and his chest was so broad that the poor sweater was—
“Hello, Uncle!”
As Bitty came skipping around the table to the male, Saxton shook himself out of his assessment. And yet his eyes quickly returned to where they had been.
“Hello, Bitty.” Ruhn’s voice was very nice, low and resonant, and the accent was that of a civilian of Southern extraction. “How are you?”
Nothing loud. And as the girl gave him a hug, those big hands were gentle and slow, the embrace careful as if he were afraid he might crush her.
And with the way he was built? He absolutely could.
“I’m good! Your hair is wet.”
Indeed it was, the deep brown waves were combed back and already curling up thanks to the dry, furnace-warmed winter air.
“Did you just work out?” the gi
rl asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re getting as big as my dad.”
“Oh, not nearly.”
Saxton smiled a little. The male most certainly was putting on weight, the however-many hours he spent pumping iron in the training center adding pounds to his pecs, shoulders…those arms. But he clearly was as self-effacing as he was careful with how he threw his body around.
As the girl sat down and continued to make conversation, Ruhn nodded and smiled a little more and answered in few words a veritable barrage of inquiry. Unfortunately, the forty-foot table was soon filled to capacity, and Saxton could hear no more.
That did not mean he stopped looking. While Marissa sat on one side of him, and Tohrment the other, and food was served on silver platters and in deep porcelain bowls, Saxton kept up a pleasant conversation while allowing his eyes to scan from time to time the opposite flank of the table.
Ruhn ate with his brows down tight, as if he were concentrating on every slice of his knife and each piercing tine of his fork. Whether this was because he was starving and determined not to scarf his food or because he was scared of dropping something, it was hard to say, but Saxton could extrapolate it was the latter.
Ever since Ruhn had come into the household, he had been nothing short of polite and quiet, and one had to feel for him. It was as if he were worried he would be asked to leave at the slightest infraction, but that was far from the truth. He was family now, because Bitty was family now—and, indeed, the way that male had behaved with respect to the welfare of his niece was truly extraordinary. With the passing of Bitty’s mother, and Ruhn as the girl’s next of kin, he’d had every right in the world to swoop in and take her away from Rhage and Mary.
Who had been fostering the young and desperate to adopt her.
But instead of being territorial, Ruhn had been selfless—and recognized the deep abiding love that the little family had found together. The male had insisted that the adoption go through and had signed away all his legal rights without any expectations for himself.
If that wasn’t love, Saxton didn’t know what was.
And in return for that compassionate act, Ruhn had been embraced by the whole household—not that the adjustment to Caldwell and the mansion still wasn’t a struggle for the male. But he had nothing to worry about when it came to his future under the Brotherhood’s roof; for as long as he wanted it, he had a home here.
