Lover Unveiled, page 17
The social worker went inside. Rhage went inside. Mary said something and indicated the way in.
Elyn nodded and started for the threshold.
As Nate watched her go, he knew he wasn’t going to see her again. After he finished painting the inside of the garage? He’d be moved on to a different project by his supervisor, and any possible connection between them would disappear.
He wasn’t going to have a chance to say goodbye. At least not in the way he wanted.
Not in the way where he got her phone number. Or she got his.
With a ringing pain in his chest, he thought it was weird to mourn the loss of someone he didn’t even know—
Elyn hesitated and then looked over her shoulder at him. “Will you not come in?”
“Oh, you’re in good hands now.”
“Please. I’m scared.”
Staring into her wide silver eyes, Nate felt a flush go through his entire body. After which he took a deep breath and puffed up his chest.
“I won’t leave until you tell me to go,” he said as he joined her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
So are you going to examine my wounds? Or you can just stare at me like that. Both are fine.”
As Sahvage eased back in the old wooden chair, there was a creaking under him, the spindly legs accommodating his weight with a lack of confidence. But if he ended up on the floor? Well, that was good with him. This female would offer him a hand up—because it was in her nature to help.
And maybe he could pull her on top of him.
“I am not staring at you like anything,” she snapped. “I’m worried about your health.”
“And I’m glad you are. My point is, worry about me anywhere you like with your hands.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered as she bent over his chest.
Sahvage focused on her face, with its frowning brows and laser-sharp eyes. He had a thought that if he just sat forward a little—not much at all—he could kiss her.
And finding out how her mouth tasted seemed like a very good use of his time.
“You know… these don’t look right.”
Or at least that’s what he thought she said. His attention was elsewhere—and as shades of her at his throat came back to him, his hips rolled inside his combat pants and the urgency in between his thighs got thicker. Especially as he imagined her hair free and spilling over his naked chest—
Her fingertips traced a stripe of raised skin that ran from his collarbone all the way down to his abs.
When he hissed, she looked worried. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you.”
Yeah, pain was not the reason I made that sound, Sahvage thought.
Although he was beginning to hurt from wanting her. Which was what happened when you noticed a female, then took your shirt off in front of her… and she touched your skin. Anywhere.
Backing off, she stared down at him. “Why in the world did you get that tattoo all over yourself.” Before he could respond, she put her hand out. “I’m sorry—that’s none of my business—”
“I want my enemies to know what’s coming for them when they see me.”
As he braced himself for another sanctimonious lecture on not killing things, he had to stop himself from grinning at her. And meanwhile, she was so focused on his chest, he was wondering if she would ever look away from him.
Fine with him if she didn’t—and it was a letdown when she shook herself back to attention.
“So this is all about advertising?” she said dryly. “Couldn’t you just pin a ‘Hello, My Name Is Badass’ on your shirt?”
“I never wear a shirt when I fight. And I would argue that name tags are antithetical to badassery.”
“If you ask me, I’d think the stealth approach is better.”
“Whatever you like.”
“I don’t like.”
“My tattoo? Really? Then why do you keep staring at it?”
“I’m not looking at the ink—”
As she went to turn away, Sahvage caught her hand. “So what are you looking at?”
When their eyes met, there was a sizzling moment of stillness, and he was surprised that the pair of them didn’t spontaneously combust. But she wasn’t having it—and he let her pull out of his hold.
“Oh, wait, my injuries, right?” he drawled. “You were just staring at my owies. And you don’t like that I got injured.”
“Owies.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you, five years old? And you need a doctor.”
“I want a nurse.”
The female put her hands on her hips. “Stop it.”
“Okay.”
Cursing under her breath, she glanced around like she was searching for something, anything to do—and ended up reaching across to a paring knife that had been left out with that strange collection of salad dressing supplies and teacups.
At the rate she was going, she was going to clear the table sometime next week. Which was kind of adorable.
“You’re normally not that agreeable,” she muttered. “Are you feeling faint?”
“When you’re looking at my body, yeah, I get light-headed. But do you really want me to talk about where the blood goes—”
“Ow!”
The knife fell from her hand, clattering to the floor as she made a fist and clutched her arm to her chest.
Sahvage bolted upright. “Let me see—”
“I’m fine—”
This time, he didn’t let her go. And she didn’t fight him as he opened her closed-tight hand.
She’d sliced her finger—and bright red blood was welling along the surgical-worthy cut.
Licking his lips—because how could he not?—Sahvage looked up into her eyes. She wasn’t staring at the cut. Not at all.
Her attention was on his mouth.
“Let me take care of it,” he whispered. “Return the favor. You know, just what you did for me last night—and no further.”
She seemed caught, straddling the yes and the no, torn between what she wanted and what she knew was good for her. And all the while, the blood was forming a slow river that eased down her forefinger, circling ’round.
Sahvage ground his molars. “I’m going to wait until you tell me yes. I take lives against the will, but never females.”
Time stretched out, lengthening like a cord with give in it, becoming longer and longer. And in the electric quiet between them, he became acutely aware of her breathing. It was getting deeper. And that pulse at her throat? It was getting faster.
“I won’t hurt you,” he vowed.
“Yes, you will.”
She took her hand from him and turned away. Over at the sink, she ran water and put her finger under the rush with a gasp. Meanwhile, he stayed right where he was, a frown yanking his brows together.
When she cut the faucet and snapped a paper towel out of a roll, he said, “What the hell kind of male do you think I am?”
Pivoting back to him, she wrapped the wound up. “You’re a killer. Right? You seem to have to prove that not only to me but to everybody you meet. And killers hurt people.”
“You think you’re in danger around me. Seriously.”
“If life has taught me anything, it’s that I am not due any special exceptions. So yes, I think you are dangerous to me.”
He pointed to the front of the house. “I saved your fucking life out there.”
“Well, then we’re even, aren’t we. And you can leave with a free conscience.”
Sahvage looked at the shirt he’d taken off. Snatching the thing back, he pulled it over his head and got to his feet. As he loomed across the kitchen at the female, she met him right in the eye, not giving an inch.
“You’re going to die,” he said baldly. “Maybe with me around, but definitely without me. What’s out there? You don’t know where it went, and it’s stupid to assume that any kind of grave was involved. But I can’t make you save yourself or that old female downstairs.”
“Thank you.”
“Excuse me?”
“For the prognostication. Are you done, or do you want to try your hand at lottery numbers? Maybe who’s going to win the Super Bowl next year?”
“Have fun picking out a matched set of coffins. God knows you always make the right decisions, don’t you.”
On that note, he picked up his jacket and his weapons, and walked to the front door. Moving the massive piece of oak furniture aside, he let himself out.
Pity there wasn’t someone in the cottage strong enough to put the barricade back. But as that female had so often pointed out to him… not his problem.
* * *
Mae watched Sahvage disappear through the front door. He didn’t slam the thing shut. He didn’t have to.
When she was sure that he was gone, she rushed across to the parlor and threw the copper lock into place. Then she put her back against the stout panels of the hutch and tried to shove it into the door. When all she got was a lot of slipping shoes and hard breathing, she clamped her mouth closed on the curses in her throat—
A groan from the floorboards overhead had her whipping her attention to the ceiling.
Heart pounding in her ears, she swallowed hard and wondered where she had left her mace. Then she remembered she’d emptied the canister trying to gas that… whatever it was.
Staring at the ceiling, she heard nothing further. No doubt the old cottage was just reacting to the night’s drop in temperature—
Mae jumped and looked to the left. Was that something moving in between the legs of a side table?
Rubbing her eyes, she thought of Rhoger and melting ice.
And Tallah downstairs, all but passed out from exhaustion.
“We’re fine. This is all fine.”
Unable to stay still, she went into the kitchen—and stalled out. Not for long, though. Seized by an urgency utterly unrelated to the reality that she had all but kicked out her best shot at fighting anything that might show up at the cottage, she grabbed a bucket from under the sink and filled it full of hot soapy water. There was only a single sponge in the house, and it was going to have to take one for the team.
Getting down on her knees, she scrubbed the grimy square where the fridge had been. And scrubbed. And scrubbed.
Her arm went numb, her shoulder joint burned, her palms and fingers got raw.
But goddamn it, when she was finished? That floor sparkled.
Of course, the bright, sunshiny square made the rest of the old linoleum look like it had been laid back before the Punic Wars. And she was out of gas. Out of sponge, too.
Inspecting the thing’s frayed corners and the nearly black bed, she decided it looked like she felt: all used up, worn down, shredded.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, she did some math. Then she measured the refrigerator that blocked the back door and all the shutters that were in place—
“Shoot. Extension cord.”
It took some rifling around for her to find a three-pronged, mud-brown, ancient version of one, and as she plugged it in, she hoped it wasn’t going to burn the cottage down.
Okay, fine, the kitchen. Whatever.
She was looking around at the counters and the stove, and the misplaced fridge, and the table and chairs—and imagining it all covered in bright orange and yellow flames… when something registered in the back of her mind.
Mae frowned and went over to the sink. The silver dish that she and Tallah had used for the summoning spell was all clean and dry, and she picked it up to look at the scalloped ridges that rode down into the belly of the basin.
“What is it?” she asked no one in particular.
Yet something was definitely catching somewhere deep in her consciousness, the tug persistent, but nonspecific. And the harder she tried to divine what it was, the more elusive the preoccupation became.
“Whatever,” she muttered as she put the dish back down.
Given all the other things that were clamoring for mental attention and energy, she canceled the useless game of hide-and-seek.
“I have to go.”
Okay, who exactly was she talking to, she wondered as she glanced to the basement door. After a moment of indecision, she got a notepad out of a drawer and used the stub of a pencil to write a quick message for Tallah. She left the pad in the center of the table, grabbed her bag—and doubled back to add her cell phone number just in case the elderly female forgot what it was.
As Mae went to leave through the front door, she made sure she had her car key ready, and she said a quick prayer before she—
Ripped open the heavy weight. Spun around and closed it. Relocked things and ran for her Honda.
At the driver’s side, her car key refused to find home inside its lock, the metal slip-skipping around the hole. And the longer it took, the more she looked around frantically, all kinds of shadows pulling up from the ground, from the twisted vines, from the trunks of trees, everything coming to attack her—
The key finally went into the slot, and she nearly snapped it off as she cranked things free, fumbled with the handle, and threw herself into the driver’s seat. Slamming things shut and locking everything back up, her heart was pounding in her ears as she played the same ring-around-the-rosie with the ignition.
Before anything landed on the hood, punched a hole in the sunroof, and dragged her out by her hair, she managed to start the engine and put the car in drive. Except then she had to throw things into reverse—because for once she hadn’t followed her father’s very wise advice about being prepared to leave in a hurry. Stomping on the gas, the tires spun up mud and got her nowhere.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it—”
The whole time, she searched the windows and braced for one of those… things… to come at her, cross the beams of the headlights, tear her door off, grab her, take her to her grave.
But there was nothing.
Nothing moving. Nothing coming for her. Nothing that was out of place.
Easing up on her lead foot, she panted. And then tried to coax the car backward, giving only a little gas—and as the tires finally grabbed, she resisted the urge to Danica Patrick. Inch by inch, or so it seemed, she moved down Tallah’s little driveway so she could turn around, all the while keeping her hands locked on the wheel as her eyes bounced between the front windshield and the rearview mirror.
Mae hated the idea of leaving the elderly female alone in the cottage.
But she had no choice. Rhoger needed fresh ice.
And besides, it had been her blood that had gone into that silver dish. Whatever was out there, whatever they’d called out of Dhunhd?
It was after her, and no one else.
Tallah would be safe… even if Mae was not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As a symphath, Rehv had never minded dropping drama bombs. When you took a person by surprise or better yet, a whole room full of them got a shot of WTF!?! from something you’d said, you ended up with all kinds of fun emotions roiling around, grids lighting up, people talking over each other.
Chaos. Dissention. Disagreement. All fueled by a delicious underlying anxiety that proved mortals with hypo-deductive reasoning could get wound at the drop of a hat.
Symphaths fed off that shit. Ate it like cake.
That was not the case right now, however.
Well, okay, yes, the Brotherhood’s current raft of buzzy aggression was all on him and his little news flash from that parking garage. But as he sat in one of the silk chairs in the King’s study and listened to all his nearest-and-dearest bubble over with aggression, he was not happy about the angst he’d caused.
See? Symphaths weren’t all bad.
Just mostly. And he was half vampire, thanks to his mahmen.
Of course, the first meeting they’d had about the Book thing and that female had gone okay. Last night, people had kept their cool. Listened. Been content for more information. Now, though, they’d had nearly twenty-four hours to think about the implications of it all, so this “simple status update” had turned into Dramaggedon.
“… all bullshit,” someone was saying. “It was just rumors. Fucking gossip—”
“My grandmahmen told me about the magic in the Old Country—are you calling her a liar? Are you saying my grandmahmen is a fucking liar—”
Oh, great. The only thing worse than someone calling a Brother’s mahmen out was if the offender went up a generation in the bloodline and tossed his granny on the bonfire of disgrace.
Rehv checked his rose gold Royal Oak. Christ, they’d been in here for an hour and a half. And with the way things were going? This bunch of hotheads was going to be trading rythes for the rest of the night.
At least Fritz, the mansion’s butler, would be happy. That doggen loved to clean blood out of expensive carpets. If the male’s gig running this household full of killers ever went tits-up, he had a future at Stanley Steemer—
Boom!
As Wrath’s fist slammed into the great wooden desk, everybody shut up, but no one jumped in surprise. Frankly, Rehv had been waiting for the kibosh. He was willing to bet they all had.
“Enough of this bullshit,” Wrath ground out while he stroked George’s chin to calm the golden’s nerves. “We’re done debating whether magic exists or it doesn’t. You want to jerk yourselves off on that subject—or all over each other’s fucking relatives—you can do it on your own fucking time.”
Ah, yes. Nothing like a leader with the interpersonal skills of a chain saw.
Those black wraparounds swung to V, who was smoking a hand-rolled by the fireplace. “You haven’t found the female yet.”
“No, I mean, I tracked the car registration and the address tied to that license plate, but that’s just what she fronts to the human world. I checked out the house in question, but there were no vampires anywhere in it. I haven’t found anything else on her, but if she and her bloodline haven’t volunteered to be in a database, it’s going to be needle-and-a-haystack time. But whatever, I’ll go deeper, true?”
“That’s what he said,” someone muttered on reflex.
