by J. R. Ward
“Yeah.”
Leading her into the dining room and over to the table, he gallantly pulled her chair out for her, and then he sat to her left so that she was at his dagger hand.
As talk took root in the air, and people set to their plates, and his Jane laughed at something Rhage had said, Vishous looked across to see Butch and Marissa smiling at each other, and holding hands.
You know what, he thought . . . life was pretty fucking good right now.
It truly was.
FIFTY-SIX
Upstairs, Manny kicked the door shut behind him and his woman, and then he walked her over to a bed the size of a football field.
No reason to lock them in. Only an idiot would disturb them.
The glow from the now unshuttered windows gave him enough light to see by, and damn if he didn’t like what was before his eyes: his woman, safe and sound, laid out on . . . Well, okay, this wasn’t their bed, but he was damn well going to turn it into that before morning came.
As he sat down beside her, he discreetly tried to hide the raging hard-on he’d had ever since he’d seen her walk through that door. And though there was a lot they had to talk about, all he could do was stare at her.
Except then the physician in him came out. “You were injured?”
Her lovely hands went down to her robe, and the higher her hem came up, the lower her lids drifted. “I think you’ll find I’m healed. It was but a grazing wound way . . . up here.”
He swallowed hard. Fuck . . . yeah, she was fine. The skin of her upper thigh was as smooth as porcelain.
“Mayhap you should examine me closely, however,” she drawled.
His lips parted as his lungs got tight. “Are you sure you’re okay—and they didn’t . . . hurt you.”
He would never get over that.
Payne sat up and met him straight in the eye. “What has always been meant for you remains yours for the taking.”
He closed his eyes briefly. Then he didn’t want her to get the wrong impression. “It’s not like it would matter to me if you weren’t . . . I mean, it’s not a propriety thing—” Hell’s bells, he couldn’t seem to talk tonight. “I just can’t bear for you to be hurt.”
Her smile made him grateful for the mattress under his ass. Because if he’d been standing, she’d have knocked him out.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I made a mistake—”
She put her hand to his mouth. “We are where we are now. That is all I care about.”
“And I have something I need to tell you.”
“Are you leaving me?”
“Never.”
“Good. Then let us be together first and then we shall talk.” Easing upright even farther, she replaced her fingers with her mouth, kissing him deep and long. “Mmmm . . . yes, much better than speech, I should think.”
“Are you sure you want—” That was as far as he got before her tongue robbed him of thought.
Groaning, he got up on the bed, holding himself above her. And then meeting her eyes, he slowly lowered his body on top of hers . . . with the last contact being his erection between her legs.
“No going back if I kiss you now.” Shit, his voice was so guttural, he was practically growling at her. But he meant the words. There was some other force driving him—this was not about sex, although the mechanics of the act were involved. In taking her virginity, he was marking her in a way he didn’t understand, but didn’t question.
“I want you thus,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for centuries for what only you can give to me.”
Mine, he thought.
Before he kissed her again, he turned to the side and released her hair from its braid. Spreading the dark waves out over the satin bedspread, he ran his fingers through the length.
Then he curled his hips into her core, pushing and retreating, and repeating the move . . . as his hand swept up to below her breast and gripped the fragile fabric of the robing.
Frankly, he was shocked at what he wanted to do.
“I wish to be naked before you,” she commanded. “Make it so, Manuel.”
That frickin’ robe didn’t stand a chance. Jacking up, he grabbed onto both the lapels and split it right down the front, ripping the material clean apart, baring her breasts to his hot eyes and the cool air. In response, she arched and moaned—and that was it: He was on her tightening nipples with his mouth and down to her core with his hands. He was all over her, driving her to an orgasm by sucking on her and rubbing her carefully, and when her fast, desperate release came, he swallowed her cry.
He wanted to give her more—and he had every intention of doing so—but his body wasn’t going to wait. His hands fumbled with his pants, cracking his belt and downing his zipper to spring his cock.
She was ready for him, slick and open—and aching, given the way her legs sawed against him.
“I’ll go slow,” he said against her mouth.
“I am not afraid of pain. Not with you.”
Shit, so maybe in this they worked physically as human women did. Which meant the first time was not going to be easy on his woman.
“Shhh,” she whispered. “Do not worry. Take me.”
Reaching down, he positioned himself, and—oh, fuck . . . he nearly came. She was hot and wet and—
She moved so fast, he couldn’t have stopped her if he’d wanted to. Her hands reached down and clamped on his ass, her nails digging into him and then—
Payne thrust up with her hips and at the same time pulled him down and he went in all the way to the hilt, the penetration utterly and irrevocably complete. As he cursed, she went rigid and hissed from the strike—which was just too damn unfair, because, fucking hell, she felt good. But he wasn’t moving—not until she recovered from the invasion.
And then it dawned on him.
Snaking a hand around the back of her neck, he drew her lips close to his throat. “Take me.”
The sound she made had him orgasming inside of her—it was too fucking hot for him to hold back. And as his cock spasmed, her fangs struck deep into his vein.
The sex went wild. She moved against him, her tight core fisting him up and milking him as he came again . . . and then he started to pump his hips hard. The drinking and the crazy rhythm swept them both away into a heady pounding of bodies that he knew they were each going to feel in the morning: There was nothing civilized to this; it was male and female distilled down to the most primal core.
And it was the very best of anything he had ever had.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Thomas DelVecchio knew exactly where his killer was going next.
There was no question in his mind. Even as Detective de la Cruz was back at HQ, working with the other boys on theories and leads—all of which were smart enough—Veck knew where to go.
And as he approached the parking lot of the Monroe Motel & Suites with his lights off and his motorcycle in an idle, he thought it was probably a good idea to call de la Cruz and let the guy know where he was.
Ultimately, however, he left his phone where it was in his pocket.
Halting the BMW in the trees to the right of the parking lot, he kicked out the stand, dismounted, and hung his helmet on the handlebars. His gun was in its holster under his armpit, and he told himself it was going to stay there if anyone showed.
Mostly believed the lie, too.
The terrible truth, however, was that he was animated by something that had been dormant for a long, long time. De la Cruz was right to be wary about him as a partner—and correct to question where the father’s sins ended and the son’s began.
Because Veck was a sinner. And he’d joined the police force to try to drain that out of himself.
It was probably better to get that shit exorcised, however. Because sometimes he felt like there was a demon inside of him, he really did.
Still, he wasn’t here to kill anyone. He was here to take a killer into custody before the bastard got back to work.
Ho
nest.
As Veck approached the motel, he stuck to the darkness of the trees and focused on the room where that latest girl had been found. Everything was as the CPD had left it: There was still crime scene tape in a triangle around the door and the portion of the sidewalk right in front—also a seal in place at the jamb, which theoretically could be broken only on official business. No lights on inside the room or out in front of it. Nobody around.
Settling behind a thick-trunked evergreen, he used his blackgloved hands to pull his black wool hat down closer to his black turtleneck.
He was very good at staying so still that he all but disappeared. He was also very good at channeling his energy into a pervasive calm that conserved resources while leaving him hyperalert.
His prey was going to show up. That murdering madman had lost all his trophies—his collection was now in the hands of the authorities, and the CSIers were scrambling to tie him to multiple unsolved murders across the nation. But the sick bastard wouldn’t come here in hopes of getting some or all of it back. The return would be about revisiting and mourning the loss of what he had put so much effort into acquiring.
Would it be reckless on his part? Absolutely, but then, that was part of the gorging cycle. The killer wouldn’t be thinking clearly, and he would be desperate from his losses. And Veck would just cool his heels over the next couple of nights until the appearance was made.
As time passed and he waited, and waited, and waited some more . . . he was as patient as any good stalker. Although it did dawn on him that this could be disastrous, him being here alone. With a knife holstered on the back of his waist. And that damn gun—
The snap of a twig drew his eyes to the right, although not his head. He did not move or change his breathing or even so much as twitch.
And there he was. A surprisingly slight man weaving his way cautiously through the forest’s crinoline of fluffy bushes. The expression on the man’s face was nearly religious as he approached the flank of the motel, but that wasn’t the only part of what identified him as the killer. His clothes were covered with dried blood, his shoes, too. He was limping, as if he had a leg injury, and his face had streaks gouged in it—from fingernails.
Gotcha, Veck thought.
And now that he was staring at the killer . . . his hand crept down to his hips and went around to the back. To his knife.
Even as he told himself to leave the weapon where it was and go for his cuffs, he didn’t change course. There had always been two halves of him, two people in one skin, and in moments like this, he felt as though he were watching himself act, sure as if he were a passenger in a cab and whatever destination he was bound for was not going to be a result of his own efforts.
He began to close in on the man, tracking him silently as a shadow, shortening the distance until he was a mere five feet from the bastard. The knife had found its way into Veck’s palm, and he really didn’t want it there, but it was too late to resheathe. Too late to derail. Too late to listen to the voice that told him this was a crime that was going to land him in jail. The other side of him had taken over and he was lost to it, on the verge of killing—
The third man came from out of nowhere.
A mammoth man dressed in leather jumped into the killer’s path, blocking his way. And as David Kroner leaped back in alarm, a hiss seethed through the air.
God, that didn’t even sound human. And . . . were those . . . fangs?
What the fuck—?
The attack was so brutal that with just the first strike at the serial killer’s neck, the guy’s head nearly came off. And it kept going from there, blood flying so far and wide that it speckled Veck’s heavy black pants and turtleneck and hat.
Except there was no knife or dagger involved.
Teeth. The motherfucker was ripping shit apart with his teeth.
Veck tried to scramble back, but he slammed into a tree, and the impact sent him careening to the ground waaaay closer than he needed to be. And he should have run for his bike, or just plain run away, but he was transfixed by the violence . . . and the conviction that whatever he was watching was most certainly not human.
When it was over, the monster dropped the massacred remains of the serial killer to the ground . . . and then it looked at Veck.
“Holy . . . fuck . . .” Veck breathed.
The face had a very humanlike bone structure, but the fangs were all wrong and so was the size and that vengeful stare. God, blood was actually dripping from its mouth.
“Look into my eyes,” an accented voice said.
A gurgling sound rose up from what was left of the serial killer. But Veck didn’t glance over. He was transfixed by a stunning set of peepers . . . so very blue . . . glowing....
“Shit . . .” he choked out, a sudden headache cutting out everything he saw or heard. Collapsing sideways, he went fetal from the pain and stayed there.
Blink.
Why was he on the ground?
Blink.
He smelled blood. But why?
Blink. Blink.
With a groan, he lifted his head and—“Shit!”
Leaping to his feet in shock, he stared down at the bloody mess that was in front of him.
“Oh . . . fuck,” he cursed. He’d done it. He’d finally killed someone—
Except then he looked at the knife in his fist. No blood: Not on the blade. Not on his hands. And only specks on his clothes.
Looking around, he had no clue what had just rolled out. He remembered driving here . . . and parking his motorcycle . . . and tracking the man who was now dying on the ground.
If he was brutally honest with himself, he’d had the intent to kill. All along. But going by the physical evidence? It hadn’t been him.
The problem was, all he had was a black hole of no info.
A moan from the serial killer snapped his head to the right. The man was reaching for him. Mutely asking for help as he leaked all over the place. How was he still alive?
With shaking hands, Veck grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911. “Yeah, Detective DelVecchio, CPD Homicide. I need an ambulance out at the Monroe Motel & Suites now.”
After the report was logged and the medics were on their way, he yanked off his jacket, wadded it up into a ball, and knelt down by the man. Pressing his coat into the guy’s throat wounds, he prayed the fucker survived. And then had to wonder whether that was a good thing or not.
“I didn’t kill you,” he said. “Did I?”
Oh, God . . . what the hell had happened here?
FIFTY-EIGHT
“ Be came to see you.”
From Blaylock’s vantage point on the bed, Saxton son of Tyme was showing him his very best side. Which, no, was not his ass. The male was shaving in the mirror in the bathroom, and his perfect profile was bathed in the soft overhead light.
God, he was a beautiful male.
On so many levels, this lover he had taken on was everything he could want.
“Who,” Blay said softly.
The eyes that shifted over to meet his were all about the oh-puhlease.
“Oh.” To dodge any further conversation, Blay looked down at the duvet that was pulled up to his bare chest. He was naked under the satin weight. As Saxton had been until he’d put his robe on.
“He wanted to know if you were okay,” Sax continued.
Since oh had already been used as a reply, Blay spiced it up with, “Really.”
“It was out on the terrace. He didn’t want to come in and disturb us.”
Funny, when he’d been on the verge of passing out after his stomach had been stitched up, he’d dimly wondered what Saxton had been doing out there. But he’d been in so much pain at the time, it had been hard to think too much about anything.
Now, though, he felt a terrible thrill go through him.
Praise the Scribe Virgin, it had been a while since he’d had this old familiar tingle—although the time lapse didn’t diminish the sensation. And the rush that followed to ask wha
t had been said was nothing he could act on. It was disrespectful to Saxton, for one thing. And it was pointless, for another.
Good thing he had plenty of ammunition to shut himself up with: All he had to do was think of Qhuinn coming home a week or so ago, his hair a mess, his scent clouded by some man’s cologne, his swagger all about the satisfaction he’d grabbed on the run.
The idea that Blay had thrown himself at the male not once, but twice—and gotten shut down? He just couldn’t bear to think of it.
“You don’t want to know what he said?” Saxton murmured as he drew the sharp blade up his throat, skillfully avoiding the bite mark Blay had given him a half hour ago.
Blay closed his eyes and wondered if he was ever going to get away from the reality that Qhuinn would fuck anyone and anything except him.
“No?” Saxton asked.
As the bed moved, Blay popped his lids. Saxton had come over to sit on the edge of the mattress, the male blotting his jaw and cheeks with a bloodred towel.
“No?” he repeated.
“May I ask you something?” Blay said. “And now would not be a good time to be your charming, sarcastic self.”
Instantly, Saxton’s stunning face grew grave. “Ask away.”
Blay smoothed the duvet over his chest. A couple of times. “Do I . . . please you.”
From out of the corner of his eye, he saw Saxton recoil and just about died of embarrassment.
“You mean in bed?” Sax demanded.
Blay flattened his lips out as he nodded, and he thought maybe he might explain a little more, but as it turned out, his mouth was dry.
“Why would you ask that in a million years?” Saxton said softly.
Well, because there had to be something wrong with him.
Blay shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Saxton folded the towel and put it aside. Then he stretched an arm over Blay’s hips and leaned up until they were face-to-face.
“Yes.” With that, he put his mouth to Blay’s throat and sucked. “Always.”
Blay ran his hand across the male’s nape, finding the soft, curling hair at the base of his neck. “Thank God.”
