by J. R. Ward
"Settled somewhere—what the hell? This stuff with your brother is permanent!"
"It'll be fine. Listen, Rehvenge, I… need you. I need to try again to…" She put her head in her hand. She hated using him, but who else could she go to? And Butch… God, Butch… she felt like she was betraying him. Except what was her alternative?
Rehvenge growled, "When, tahlly? When do you want me?"
"Now."
"Just go to—ah, hell, I've got to meet the Princeps leahdyre. And then I've got some work-related issues I have to take care of."
She gripped the phone. Waiting was bad. "Tomorrow, then?"
"At nightfall. Unless you want to come and stay at my home. Then we could have… all day long."
"I'll see you first thing tomorrow evening."
"I can't wait, tahlly."
After she hung up, she stretched out on the bed and sank into utter exhaustion, her body becoming indistinguishable from the sheets and blankets and pillows, just another inanimate object on top of the mattress.
Oh hell… maybe waiting until tomorrow was better. She could rest up then talk to Butch and let him know what was going on. As long as she wasn't sexually charged, she should be able to control herself around him and this was one conversation that was better to have in person: If humans who were in love were anything like bonded male vampires, Butch wasn't going to handle the fact that she needed to be with someone else well.
With a sigh, she thought about Rehv. Then the Princeps Council. Then her sex in general.
God, even if that sehclusion motion was defeated by some miracle, there really was no safe place for females to go if they were threatened at home, was there? With the disintegration of vampire society and all the fighting with the lessers, there were no social services for the race. No safety net. No one to help females and their young if the hellren in their house was violent. Or if the family turned the female away.
Good Lord, what would have happened to her if Beth and Wrath hadn't taken her in? Or if she didn't have Rehvenge?
She might well have died.
* * *
Down in the compound's training center, John was the first in the locker room after the in-class session was done. He changed quickly into his jockstrap and his ji impatient for the fighting practice to begin.
"What's the hurry, John? Oh, wait, you like to get your ass kicked."
John looked over his shoulder. Lash was standing in front of an open locker, taking off a fancy silk shirt. His chest was no bigger than John's and his arms just as thin, but as the guy stared back, his eyes burned like he was the size of a bull.
John met that glare head-on, his body heating up. Man, he was jonesing for Lash to open his mouth and say something else. Just one more thing.
"You gonna pass out on us again, John? Like the pansy you are?"
Bingo.
John launched himself at the kid but didn't get far. Blaylock, the redhead, caught him and held him back, trying to derail the fight. But Lash didn't have any such deadweight. The bastard drew his fist back and threw a right hook so hard that John spun out of Blaylock's hold and hit the bank of lockers with a metal bang.
Stunned, breath knocked out of him, John reached out blindly.
Blaylock caught him again. "Jesus Christ, Lash—"
"What? He was coming at me."
"Because you were begging for it."
Lash's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"
"You don't have to be such an asshole."
As Lash pointed at Blaylock, his Jacob & Co. watch sparkled under the lights like it was a battery-powered twinkler.
"Careful, Blay. Playing on his team ain't such a hot idea." The guy shook out his hand and dropped his pants. "Man, that felt good. How was it on your end, John-boy?"
John let that one go and pushed himself free. As his face throbbed to the beat of his heart, he thought of a car blinker for some absurd reason.
Oh, Lord… how bad was the damage? He stumbled over to the row of sinks, and in the long mirror that ran down the length of the wall, he got a look at his puss. Great. Just great. His chin and lip were already swelling.
Blaylock appeared behind him with a cold bottle of water. "Put this on it."
John took the icy Aquafina and eased it onto his face. Then he closed his eyes to avoid seeing either himself or the redhead.
"You want me to tell Zsadist you're not training tonight?"
John shook his head.
"You sure?"
Ignoring the question, John gave the water back and walked out to the gym. The other guys followed in a tense group, stomping over the blue mats and lining up next to him.
Zsadist came out of the Equipment Room, took one look at John's face and got good and pissed off. "Everyone put their hands out, palms down." He walked past each trainee until he stopped in front of Lash. "Nice knuckles. Over against the wall."
Lash sauntered across the gym, looking self-satisfied that he wasn't going to have to work out.
Zsadist stopped in front of John's hands. "Turn 'em over."
John did. There was a heartbeat of silence. Then Zsadist gripped John's chin and forced his head up. "Seeing double?"
John shook his head.
"Nauseous?"
John shook his head.
"This hurt?" Zsadist prodded the jaw a little.
John winced. Shook his head.
"Liar. But that's what I want to hear." Z stepped away and addressed the trainees. "Laps. Twenty. And each time you get to your classmate over there, you drop in front of him and do twenty push-ups. Marine style. Move it."
The groans were loud.
"Do I look like I care?" Zsadist whistled through his teeth. "Move it."
John started off with the rest of them, thinking this was going to be a really long night. But at least Lash wasn't looking quite so pleased with himself…
Four hours later, it turned out John was right.
By the end of the session, they were all exhausted. Z not only ground them into the mats, he kept them longer than usual. Like, centuries longer than usual. The damn training was so grueling that not even John had the energy to keep practicing after they broke for the night. Instead, he went directly to Tohr's office and collapsed in the chair without even showering.
Curling his legs up tight, he figured he would just rest a minute, then go rinse off—
The door swung open. "You okay?" Zsadist demanded.
John didn't look over, just nodded.
"I'm recommending that Lash get kicked out of the program."
John jerked upright and started shaking his head.
"Whatever, John. That's the second time he's gone after you. Or do I have to remind you of the nunchakus thing a few months back?"
No, John remembered. Shit, though.
With too much to say to be able to sign and have Z catch everything, he reached for his pad and wrote with extra neatness: If he gets kicked out, I look weak to the others. I want to fight with these guys someday. How can they trust me if they think I'm a lightweight?
He handed the pad to Zsadist, who held the pages with care in his big hands. The Brother's head dropped low and his brows crunched together, his distorted mouth moving a little as if he were sounding out each word.
When Z was finished, he tossed the pad on the desk. "I won't have that little shit beating on you, John. Just won't have it. But you got a point. I'll slap Lash with some serious probation. But one more of these happy little episodes, and he's out."
Zsadist walked over to the closet where the tunnel access was hidden, then looked over his shoulder. "Listen up, John. I don't want a free-for-all during training. So no going after the bastard even though he deserves it. You just keep your head down and your hands to yourself. Phury and I'll watch him for you, okay?"
John looked away, thinking of how badly he'd wanted to clock Lash. How badly he still wanted to do that.
"John? We clear? No brawling."
After a long moment, John nodded sl
owly.
And hoped he'd be able to keep his word.
Chapter Twenty-three
Hours and hours and hours later, Butch's ass was so numb he couldn't tell where the floor ended and his butt began. All day long, he'd been sitting in this hallway outside of Marissa's bedroom door. Like the dog he was.
He couldn't say it had been wasted time. He'd done a lot of thinking.
And had made a phone call that had been the right thing to do, though a cringer to get through: He'd bitten the bullet and called his sister Joyce.
Nothing had changed at home. Evidently his family back in South Boston still had no interest in having anything to do with him. And that didn't really bother him because it was the status quo. But it did make him feel bad for Marissa. She and her brother had been tight, so getting turned out by him must have been a truly nasty surprise.
"Master?"
Butch looked up. "Hey, Fritz."
"I have what you asked for." The doggen bowed low and held out a black velvet bag. "I believe it matches your specifications, but if it does not, I can find another."
"I'm sure it's perfect." Butch took the heavy satchel, split it open at the mouth, and poured the contents into his hand. The solid gold cross was three inches long and two inches wide, thick as a finger. Suspended at the end of a long, gold chain, it was exactly what he'd wanted and he put it around his neck with satisfaction.
The substantial weight was just as he'd hoped it would be, a tangible protection.
"Master, how is it?"
Butch smiled up at the doggen's wrinkled face, while unbuttoning his shirt and dropping the necklace inside. He felt the cross slide down his skin until it lay right over his heart. "Like I said, perfect."
Fritz beamed, bowed, and took off, just as the grandfather clock started chiming down at the other end of the corridor. Once, twice… six times.
The bedroom door in front of him swung open.
Marissa appeared before him as an apparition. After so many hours of thinking about her, his eyes were momentarily snowed, seeing her not as real but as a figment of his desperation, her dress ether not cloth, her hair a glorious golden aura, her face a haunting well of beauty. As he stared up at her, his heart transformed her into an icon from his Catholic childhood, the Madonna of salvation and love… and him her unworthy servant.
He dragged himself off the floor, his spine cracking as it supported his weight. "Marissa."
Ah, shit, his emotions were all right there in his rusted-out voice, the pain, the sadness, the regret.
She held her hand up. "I meant what I said in that message last night. I loved being with you. Every moment. That wasn't why you had to leave and I wish I could have explained myself better at the time. Butch, we need to talk."
"Yeah, I know. But do you mind if we go down the hall for this?" Because he had no intention of having an audience, and no matter what she said, he figured she'd prefer not to be in a bedroom alone with him. She was tense as hell.
When she nodded, they headed to the sitting room at the end of the corridor, and on the way, he was stunned by how weak she was. She moved slowly, as if she couldn't feel her legs, and she was terribly pale, nearly transparent from a lack of energy.
Once inside the peach and yellow room, she went over to the windows, away from him.
Her words were thin as breath as she spoke. "Butch, I don't know how to say this…"
"I know what's doing."
"You do?"
"Yes." He started toward her, arms out. "Don't you know I would do anything—"
"Don't come any closer." She stepped back. "You've got to stay away from me."
He dropped his hands. "You need to feed, don't you?"
Her eyes widened. "How did you—"
"It's all right, baby." He smiled a little. "It's very all right. I talked with V."
"So you know what I've got to do? And you don't… mind?"
He shook his head. "I'm fine with it. More than fine."
"Oh, thank the Scribe Virgin." She lurched over to a sofa and sat down as if her knees had buckled. "I was so afraid you'd be offended. It'll be hard on me as well, but it's the only safe way. And I can't wait any longer. It has to be tonight."
When she patted the couch seat, he went over with relief and sat beside her, taking her hands in his. God, she was so cold.
"I'm really ready for this," he said, with thick anticipation. Man, he was suddenly dying to head back to her bedroom. "Let's go."
A curious expression crossed her face. "You want to watch?"
He stopped breathing. "Watch?"
"I, ah… I'm not sure that's a good idea."
As her words hit him, Butch became aware of a sinking feeling in his gut. Like someone had popped the stoppers on a number of his internal organs. "What are you talking about, watch?"
"When I'm with the male who lets me take his vein."
Abruptly, Marissa recoiled, giving him a good idea of what the expression on his face must be like.
Yeah, or maybe she was reacting to the fact that he'd started to growl.
"The other male," he said slowly, as he put it all together. "The one you told me you've been seeing. You've fed from him."
She nodded slowly. "Yes."
Butch jacked up to his feet. "Often?"
"Ah… four or five times."
"And he's an aristocrat, of course."
"Well, yes."
"And he'd make a socially acceptable mate for you, wouldn't he." Unlike a POS human. "Wouldn't he?"
"Butch, it isn't romantic. I swear."
Yeah, maybe on her side it wasn't. But it was damn hard to imagine any male not sexing her. The bastard would have to be impotent or some shit. "He's into you, isn't he. Answer the question, Marissa. Flyboy with the superhero plasma… he wants you, doesn't he? Doesn't he?"
God, where the hell was this wild jealousy coming from?
"But he knows I don't feel that way about him."
"Has he kissed you?"
When she didn't reply, Butch was very glad he didn't know the Joe's name and address. "You're not using him anymore. You have me."
"Butch, I can't feed from you. I'll take too—where are you going?"
He stalked across the room, shut the double doors, and locked them in together. As he came back at her, he tossed his black suit jacket on the floor and ripped open his shirt, the buttons popping off and flying everywhere. Falling to his knees in front of her, he tilted back his head and offered his throat, himself, to her.
"You will use me."
There was a long silence. Then her scent, that gorgeous clean fragrance, intensified until it flooded the room. Her body began to shake, her mouth opening.
As her fangs unsheathed, he got an instant erection.
"Oh… yeah," he said in a dark voice. "Take me. I need to feed you."
"No," she moaned, tears glowing in her cornflower blue eyes.
She made a move to get up, but he jumped at her, taking her by the shoulders, holding her down on the couch. He moved himself between her legs, bringing their bodies together, getting all up in her. While she trembled against him and pushed at him, he kept her close, nuzzling her, nipping her ear, sucking on her jaw. Before long, she stopped fighting to get away. And started gripping the two halves of his shirt to pull him in tighter.
"That's right, baby," he growled. "You grab on to me. Let me feel those fangs get into me deep. I want it."
He palmed the back of her head and brought her mouth to his throat. As an arc of pure sexual power exploded between them, they both began to pant, her breath and tears hot on his skin.
But then she seemed to come to her senses. She struggled hard and he did his best to keep her in place, even though they were both going to end up with bruises. And even though he was ultimately going to lose the fight against her. As he was just a human, she was stronger, even though he outweighed her by well over a hundred pounds.
But hopefully she would give in and use him before his ene
rgy flagged.
"Marissa, please, take me," he groaned, his voice hoarse from the struggle and now the begging.
"No…"
His heart broke as she sobbed, but he didn't let her go. He couldn't. "Take what's inside of me. I know I'm not good-enough, but take me anyway—"
"Don't make me do this—"
"I have to." God, he felt like crying with her.
"Butch…" Her body bucked and strained against his, their clothes flapping as they struggled. "I can't hold back… for much longer… let me go… before I hurt you."
"Never."
It happened so fast. His name shot out of her on a yell and then he felt a searing blaze of pain at the side of his throat.
Her fangs sinking into his jugular.
"Oh…fuck… yes …!" He loosened his grip and cradled her as she latched on to his neck. He barked her name at the first erotic draw, the first hard suck on his vein, the first swallow for her. As she repositioned for a better angle, pleasure swamped him, sparks flowing all through his body as if he were orgasming. This was so the way it had to be. He needed her to take from him in order to live—
Marissa broke the contact and dematerialized, right out of his arms.
Butch fell headfirst into the empty air where she'd been, face-planting into the sofa cushions. In a messy scramble, he shoved himself to his feet and spun around. "Marissa! Marissa!"
He threw himself at the doors and clawed at the lock, but couldn't get free.
Then he heard her broken, desperate voice on the other side. "I'll kill you… God help me, but I'll kill you… I want you too much."
He pounded on the door. "Let me out!"
"I'm sorry—" Her voice cracked, then grew strong. And he feared her resolve more than anything else. "I'm so sorry. I'll come to you afterward. After it is done."
"Marissa, don't do this—"
"I love you."
He beat the wood with his fists. "I don't care if I die! Don't go to him!"
When the lock finally gave way, he burst into the hall and ran flat out for the staircase.
But by the time he threw open the mansion's front door she was gone.
Across town, in the underground parking garage where the brokered fights took place, Van hopped into the chicken-wire cage and bounced on the balls of his feet. The drumbeat of him warming up echoed through the concrete levels, cutting off the silence.
