by Reinke, Sara
“Why don’t you think so now?” Karen asked.
“Because I tried it myself,” Tristan said. “Today. I took a massive dose to get it to therapeutic levels in my system. And I haven’t been able to use my telepathy or telekinesis ever since.”
Mason’s eyes flew wide. “Have you lost your mind?” he exclaimed.
Tristan laughed. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Why would you do something like that?” Karen asked. “You don’t know what kind of effect putting that much into you could have on your body.”
“I’m fine.” He awarded her a smile that she might have ordinarily been charmed by, but at the moment, she was preoccupied by marveling at how incredibly asinine he’d been.
“Except your powers don’t work,” she said drily.
“Yeah. I’m basically human. And yet somehow I’ve survived.” Tristan directed this last with a pointed look at his uncle. Then, scooting his chair back from the table, he started to rise. “Excuse me a moment. I’ll be right back.”
He walked away from the table, pausing only long enough to direct the server with a quick nod to refill their wineglasses.
“He’s crazy,” Karen said with a frown. “He could’ve suffered seizures, muscle spasms, tardive dyskinesia…”
“Do you want to know why he did it?” Mason interjected softly, little more than a murmur.
She turned to him and he chuckled. “To be around you.”
“What are you talking about?”
Mason smiled. “I told you on the plane. You’re his pair-bond. But he’s afraid of what that means, or rather, what yielding to his bloodlust and feeding from you would mean.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. What would it mean?”
Except that we were meant to be together, she thought.
“That Michel was right,” Mason replied. “And as you’re probably well aware, the boy would rather scrape out his own eye with a soup spoon than admit that possibility.” Leaning across the table toward her, he said in a low voice, “Has it ever occurred to you that it was more than just a coincidence how Michel tracked you down, offered you the clinic job?”
Karen shook her head. “What are you talking about? Tristan told him about me. That’s what Michel said. He remembered me from his oncology residency in Reno and recommended me.”
Mason shook his head, and she felt a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her gut. She’d never seen Tristan and Michel have much by way of a civil conversation together. The interactions between the two had historically been tension filled and strained. So why did I think they might have sat around and shot the shit one day about hiring a human nurse, that my name just casually popped up along the way?
It made such sense to her in that instant, she wondered why in the hell she’d ever believed otherwise.
“Tristan believes that Michel brought you to the clinic to try to force the pair-bonding between you.”
“And did he?” she whispered in dismay.
“I don’t know.” Mason tipped his head back, swallowing the last of his port. “I’m not my father. I’ve always thought that Michel brought you among us to try to make him happy. But Tristan has long held this ridiculous notion that Michel hates him, that he’s hell-bent not just on controlling his life, but ruining it as well. I can’t imagine Michel wanting that for anybody, least of all his own blood kin.” With a gentle smile, he said, “But Tristan is very young yet, and naive. Not to mention stubborn as hell.”
He stood, reaching beneath the lapel of his jacket for his cigarette case. “If you’ll excuse me, I feel the need for a spot of air and a smoke. I’ll be back in a moment.” He leaned over, kissing her cheek. “Don’t give up on the boy,” he whispered, his voice unexpectedly ragged, a hoarse, mournful plea. “He can’t fight what’s in his nature forever. Or his heart.”
****
I shouldn’t have told them about the clinic job.
In the men’s room, Tristan leaned over the marble sink basin, cupped his hands beneath the cold-water tap, and splashed his face. Sputtering, he shook his head once, then doused himself again. Blinking blindly against water droplets caught in his eyelashes, he looked up into the mirror just as the bathroom valet offered him a white terrycloth hand towel with which to mop himself dry.
“Thank you,” Tristan croaked, his voice muffled as he buried his face into it.
“My pleasure, sir,” the valet replied.
Even if they don’t say anything to Michel about it, it’s going to be in their minds. He’ll find out by reading their thoughts, whether they want him to or not.
As if that wasn’t stressful enough for him to consider, there was also the matter of Karen’s legs to weigh on his mind.
Goddamn it, why does she have to be wearing garters?
For the better part of the last hour, Tristan had been stealing sideways glances beneath the edge of the white linen tablecloth, admiring the unintentional view of Karen’s thigh—or more specifically, the black satin strap of her garter and the uppermost band of her stockings—as tantalizingly revealed by the drape of her skirt.
Nothing turned him on harder or faster than a woman in garters. That had long been his Achilles’ heel, his absolute weakness. And Mason knows it too, he thought, lowering the towel so he could again peer at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Which is, I’m sure, exactly why he bought them for her.
His hair was now damp and askew. He tried to rake it back into place with his fingers, and grimaced at the results. Wordlessly, the valet stepped to the rescue again, offering him a comb that had, to that point, been floating in a large jar of blue Barbicide solution.
“Thanks.” Feeling sheepish, Tristan accepted it.
The valet nodded demurely. “My pleasure, sir,” he said again.
He’d let it slip about his work at the Reno clinic in part because the wine had loosened his tongue, but also because he’d been completely floored by how amazing Karen looked. She was a beautiful woman; of that, he’d never had any doubt. But that night was different; that night, she was practically aglow. Her eyes, skin, hair, smile—all of it radiant and mesmerizing. He’d been floored at the sight of her, damn near struck speechless for likely the first time in his entire life.
And the garters.
Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, slow sigh. At the sight of those straps, all sorts of ideas had played in his mind, images of the two of them from the night before, memories of what it had felt like inside her—hot, wet, wondrous—of how she’d sounded, how she’d tightened against him when she’d climaxed. Just the idea of easing her dress skirt slowly up, exploring the origins of those slim black satin ribbons laying tautly flush against her thighs had left him sporting a hard-on insistent enough to be painful.
But it’s more than that.
He opened his eyes and blinked in surprise to find the valet offering him a packet of ibuprofen in one hand, a sample of Excedrin in the other.
“No, thanks,” he said, managing a smile. “I’m good.”
The valet nodded again. “As you wish, sir.”
Do you honestly expect me to believe that the two of you never interacted except to care for Lisette? Mason had asked him of Karen on the flight from Reno. You never talk to her? Never ask about the weather, offer to buy her a cup of coffee, for God’s sake?
The truth was, while working together, Tristan and Karen had talked. Long and often. On more than one occasion, he’d found himself sharing things with her that he’d never confided to anyone else. He’d talked to her about his mother, his helpless grief at her illness and his inability to offer more to her than palliative care. He’d talked to her about Michel and the tumultuous, antagonistic relationship the two of them shared. He’d told her of his hopes, dreams, and aspirations for a future beyond the compound—away from Michel.
He’d shared a lot of these same things with Tessa Noble one week earlier, because he’d been desperate for a connecti
on with her, but it had been a forced bond between them, one born out of despondency on both of their parts over things that they could not influence or control.
You don’t want this, she’d said to him as they’d stood together at the quickie wedding chapel in Reno, preparing to elope. He’d been filling out a marriage license application, when she’d touched his hand, stopping him. Your heart isn’t in this. It’s miles away, back in Lake Tahoe. Just like mine.
He and Karen had talked that night over dinner just as they always had, just as he’d always loved, when he could bullshit himself into thinking that it was because the clinical setting kept his bloodlust at bay, kept him from wanting her. The truth was, it hadn’t. He could see that clearly now. It hadn’t kept protected him from her at all.
Because I fell in love with her. And I’m still in love with her now. Last night had nothing to do with the bloodlust, nothing to do with grief. It was all about me, my feelings for her, things I’ve hidden away and denied for too long.
“I’m in love with Karen,” he said softly.
The valet, having overheard this, quickly stepped forward again, a foil-wrapped condom in one hand, a peppermint in the other.
“No, thanks,” Tristan said again, and this time his smile was less forced. He felt like he’d just hefted a massive weight from his shoulders with the quiet admittance. Now there was only one thing left to do.
I have to tell her how I feel. I have to tell her the truth.
“As you wish, sir,” the valet said, walking away, returning the candy and condom to individual baskets on his countertop service tray. Tristan dropped a fifty-dollar bill into his tip jar on his way out of the room, and the valet gawked at the sight of it, clearly flabbergasted. “Thank you, sir,” he exclaimed.
Reaching for the door, Tristan dropped him a wink. “My pleasure.”
Then he frowned, as he noticed the same statically charged sensation tingling his skin that he’d felt earlier that day in the elevator. It came almost directly from the other side of the door.
Mason, he thought with a wry smirk. Probably coming to try to trick me into escorting Karen back to her room in the hopes we’ll hook up on the way.
“You’re too late,” he said, pushing the door open, his mouth already stretching into a grin. “I’ve already decided to do this my way and…”
His voice faltered, and he blinked in bewildered surprise at the empty foyer outside the door. There was no sign of Mason; only a man at a nearby wi-fi hot spot with his laptop in hand, a pair of girls in cocktail gowns checking voice mail messages on their cells, and an older woman making her way from the main dining area to the lavatory.
That’s weird, he thought, walking down the corridor until it dead-ended roughly twenty feet down the line. Backtracking, he followed it the other way, peering around columns and corners. Still no sign of his uncle.
With a frown, he returned to the restrooms, and once again, that uncanny, crawling sensation returned, so strong now, it left him flinching reflexively, cutting his eyes this way and that, his brows narrowed.
What the fuck is going on? Again, he damned himself for taking so many of the Wellbutrin, because he couldn’t open his mind and better scan his surroundings, the psyches of anyone in his immediate vicinity.
Tristan.
He heard a man’s voice, low, nearly a purr, resonate in his mind. Whirling, wide-eyed and startled, he looked behind him, but there was no one except the man with the laptop, who noticed his sudden, harried movement and glanced at him, momentarily curious.
That’s your name, isn’t it, poppet? It’s a lovely one too.
Again, Tristan whirled, stumbling in surprise.
Just like you are, he heard this unfamiliar voice croon. Quite lovely.
Who the hell is this? Tristan’s brows furrowed and he closed his hands into fists. He couldn’t actively project his thoughts with his telepathy out of commission, but if the son of a bitch was already in his head, he’d be privy to it nonetheless. Where are you?
How handsome you look in your brand-new suit. It fits you well. You’re…what? Six-one? Six-two? Maybe one hundred seventy-five pounds?
Where are you hiding? Tristan turned in a circle, scanning everything and everyone, searching. He was close by, then, whoever was taunting him, near enough to get a good look at Tristan, to size him up. Come out and face me, you chickenshit son of a bitch.
And that cologne you’re wearing… Inside Tristan’s mind, the man made an exaggerated sniffing sound that made him cringe reflexively, shrugging as if someone had just breathed too closely to his ear uninvited. Ah. Armani Code. Very nice.
Show yourself! Tristan snapped, his knuckles blanching white from the force with which he clenched his fists. In his mind, he heard a quiet chuckle but nothing else. Spinning in another frantic, clumsy O, he stared all around him. The man with the computer got up and walked toward the bathroom, tucking the laptop beneath his arm. The cell-phone girls noticed his anxious attention and looked away, whispering to each other and shooting suspicious glances in his direction. The matronly woman walked briskly away from the ladies room, a scrap of toilet paper caught in her shoe heel trailing behind her.
Goddamn it, answer me, Tristan snapped in his mind, but there was no response. The tingling sensation of another Brethren close at hand began to fade. As it did, a new thought occurred to him, one that left his heart shuddering in bright, new, and sudden alarm.
They think he’d been hiding out for at least a day in the woods near her house, Mason had warned him of Jean Luc Davenant and his potential interest in Karen.
“Shit.” Tristan gasped, darting for the restaurant again, nearly crashing into a waitress carrying a tray filled with drinks along the way. Karen!
CHAPTER TEN
Karen sat alone at the table, cradling what remained of her glass of port in her hand.
Don’t give up on the boy. Mason’s words kept turning over inside her mind, over and over. He can’t fight what’s in his nature forever. Or his heart.
Could he be right? she wondered. But why would Tristan want to fight it if it’s something he really feels, like Mason said?
“Where’s Mason?” Tristan came rushing back to the table, shoving his way past a waitress.
“Outside,” Karen said, confused and more than a little alarmed by his appearance. Gone was the relaxed young man who had sat beside her less than fifteen minutes earlier. He looked out of breath, as if he’d sprinted all the way back from the restroom, his eyes wide, his face ashen, his forehead glistening with a light sheen of anxious perspiration. “He went to smoke a cigarette.” Hesitant to ask but unwilling not to, she ventured, “Is something wrong?”
“Yes.” Marching smartly toward her, Tristan caught her by the wrist, yanking her forcibly to her feet. Surprised, she tottered unsteadily on her tiptoes for a moment, then yelped as he hauled her in stumbling tow for the front of the restaurant.
“What is it?” she asked, and when he didn’t answer, she frowned. Planting her stilettos, she tried to shrug away from his grasp. “Tristan, stop. What’s going on?”
“Leaving so soon, mon lapin?” All smiles as he returned, Mason nearly plowed into them headlong.
“We’re all leaving,” Tristan replied sharply, grabbing his uncle by the sleeve and spinning him around. When next he spoke, it was through gritted teeth, his voice deliberately low, but Karen was close enough to overhear. “You were wrong. There is someone here, another Brethren.”
“What?” Karen gasped, her eyes flying wide.
“I told you earlier…” Mason began, his smile fading, his expression growing stern.
“I know what you told me, and I’m telling you now—you were wrong. He’s here. I don’t know how he found us, but he did. I heard him in my head. He knows my goddamn name, Mason.”
“Who?” Karen asked, and when neither of them men averted their gaze from each other and acknowledged nor answered her, she frowned. “Who? You said another Brethren. Is it
the one Michel and Naima found in the woods, the Davenant?”
At first, she didn’t think she’d get a response. The three of them stood in a tight cluster for a moment. Then, with a heavy sigh as he pushed his fingers through the heavy crown of his dark hair, Mason said quietly, “Yes, ma chérie. I believe there’s a very strong likelihood that it’s him, indeed. His name is Jean Luc.”
“Why would he have followed us here?” Tristan asked. “You told me he hated Michel, blamed him for his brother’s death. But Michel’s back in Tahoe. Why would Davenant be here?” His brows narrowed and he tightened his grip on Mason’s jacket sleeve, leaning toward him. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” Mason replied with a frown and a forceful shrug to break loose of Tristan’s grasp. “How the hell should I know what motivates someone like that? The man is a delusional psychopath. His entire clan is. I’d just as soon be able to stop the sunrise with my bare hands as figure out what makes one of the Davenants tick.”
“What should we do?” Karen asked, her quiet voice breaking the tension that had grown nearly palpable and strained between the two men. When both Mason and Tristan glanced her way, their severe expressions softened.
“We’ll pay for our dinner, then go back to our rooms,” Mason said at length, managing a gentle smile as he reached for her, brushing his fingers against her cheek. “I’ll call my father and make him aware, see what he wants us to do.”
“Great.” Tristan rolled his eyes. “That’s your answer? Call Michel, let him call the shots, just like always?”
“Yes, unless you’ve some better alternative in mind,” Mason said drily.
“You bet your ass I do. I say you and me, we search this building floor by floor—room by goddamn room, if we have to—and when we find him, we break every bone in his body from about the third cervical vertebra down.”
“That won’t work,” Mason said with a stern glare.
