Lassiter, page 31
When they were finally still, he rolled onto his side and took her with him. As she curled into his chest, she was warm and drowsy. So was he. His eyes closed and he let himself drift, listening to the crackling of the fire, feeling the softness of her body conform to the hardness of his own, scenting her arousal, which still lingered, thick and heady, in the cave’s air.
He stroked her back. Murmured things, as if he were a poet, as if his words were worth anything more than the breath that carried them to her ear. In return, she replied in a similar way, her syllables too quiet to be heard, her meaning fully obvious to him.
“Will you stay the day with me?” he asked.
As he waited for her reply, he was aware of tension creeping up his spine and clawing him in the back of the head—
“There’s nowhere else I want to be.”
Lassiter smiled and opened his eyes. “Good.”
He wanted to remember everything about this moment, the cave he had been indifferent to but now revered as a landmark, the gentle glow of the flames, the quiet chatter of the logs being consumed, the quiet sound of her breathing, a symphony.
The female in his arms, his forever.
Twenty-four hours, he thought.
“Rahvyn?” When a hmm? came back at him, he drew his fingers through a length of her hair. “Will you go on a date with me tomorrow? After nightfall?”
Her head lifted and her eyes opened. “A date?”
Nodding, he touched her chin, urging her in for a kiss. As their lips met, he said against her mouth, “It’s where two people go somewhere, usually to eat and enjoy each other’s company.”
Her smile was innocent and sensual at the same time. “I rather am enjoying yours right now.”
Laughing, he caressed her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “Are you now?”
“I like it when you come inside of me—”
As he choked, she sat up in alarm. “Lassiter, are you well?”
“No, no—it’s fine,” he sputtered.
“Did I speak out of turn in some way?”
He slowly shook his head. “Nope, not at all. You just didn’t warn me ahead of time you were paying me that kind of compliment.”
“I am not being charming. It is the truth, I can feel you in me when you—” As he made the same noise again, she frowned and patted his arm. “You are sure I may speak as such?”
“Female, you talk like this all you want. I just have to be honest, it’s having an effect—”
“Oh, I want to feel it.”
Her hand burrowed between them, and he arched back as she wrapped a hold around his shaft.
“Is this too much?”
“No,” he moaned as his hips instinctively punched forward.
“May I be on top this time?”
Lassiter opened his mouth. Closed it. Laughed. “You are… amazing.”
By way of answer, he eased over on his back—and he was not prepared for the sight of her parting her glistening thighs across his hips and standing his erection up to her bare cleft. As she looked down at what she was doing, her hair fell forward in a gleaming platinum wave, and her breasts swayed, the nipples swollen from when he’d sucked on them, the creamy curves so full compared to her waist.
“Yes,” she said huskily as she paused. “I should very much like to go on a date with you tomorrow. I accept your very kind invitation.”
He stretched up and kissed her. “I am honored.”
Her smile was pure happiness, so radiant it overshadowed the fire. Hell, it overshadowed the sun, as far as he knew.
And then she got a serious look on her face, like she was going to get to work. Hissing in a deep breath, he locked his molars in preparation for the—
She sat right on him. No gradual descent.
Impaled would have been another word.
With a moan, she arched back, and as all the oxygen in his lungs exploded out of him, he marveled at the sight of him buried in her core. And the view got even better as she figured out how to move, her lower body starting to swivel as she set the rhythm, those breasts swinging back and forth, his gleaming shaft appearing and disappearing inside of her.
Her eyes stared ahead briefly.
But then they locked on his… as they began to orgasm again.
Together.
With no one and nothing else welcome in the sacred space.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
It was an earthquake.
That was what went through Beth’s mind as everything in the whole world seemed to go haywire. In a panic, she threw out a hand for the lamp beside her mated bed—
“Wrath! What’s going on?”
In the dim glow from the bathroom, she caught a pretty unforgettable image of her hellren springing out from under the covers, his enormous body contorted as if every muscle he had was charley-horse’ing at once. As he landed with absolutely no grace at all, the booming sound reverberated through the First Family’s quarters, the jewels on the walls going into a sparkle as if he had rocked the very foundations of the mansion.
For a second, he stayed in a crouch, like a monster under the bed was coming out to get them and he had to protect her. Then he wheeled around for the exit and took off.
Beth scrambled after him—and so did George, who bolted up out of his Orvis bed and four-paw’d at a dead run after his master.
“Where are you going? What’s happening!” she exclaimed.
“I’m fine, it’s fine, I’m fine—”
Wrath kept repeating the mantra as he broke out of their suite, hit the vault door like a wrecking ball, kept going down the staircase.
“You don’t have any clothes on!”
He didn’t seem to hear her or maybe he didn’t care. At the base of the steps, he exploded onto the second floor loggia across from the study. Skidding on the carpet, he tore off along the Hall of Statues, passing the ancient Greco-Roman sculptures of athletes and warriors like one of them come to life, his black hair streaming behind him, his naked ass a money shot that nobody was really looking for at this hour of the day—
Crap, she probably shouldn’t take note of how good his butt was, not in this situation.
As Wrath led the panic parade, with her and George bringing up the rear—natch—people’s heads poked out of bedroom doors. Rhage. Qhuinn and Blay. Zsadist.
“It’s fine,” she said over her shoulder. In a strangled voice. “Everything is fine.”
Wrath hit the double doors at the end of the corridor, and kept on going—to the unadorned hall of rooms on the left. Unlike the rest of the mansion, there were no paintings, no bouquets of fresh flowers on period console tables, not even any rugs, along its straight shot.
He stopped at the first set of quarters, and before he could knock, things opened up.
In his Charles Dickens nightshirt and cap, Fritz was alarmed to begin with, no doubt on account of all the noise, but when he saw his master, unclothed and disheveled as a wild man, his shock transformed into full-blown terror.
“Master! Whate’er—”
Wrath paid no attention to that. His hands started patting all around the doggen, going over Fritz’s thin arms, his wrinkly neck, his sunken chest. Then Wrath popped that cap right off and tossed it, touching the butler’s head as if he were searching for structural deficiencies, before moving on to the wrinkly face.
As he searched for God only knew what, the great black diamond he wore flickered in the low lighting—
Fritz gasped and covered his mouth with both hands.
At first, Beth had no idea what he’d seen in her hellren’s face, but then she realized… no wraparounds. Wrath never showed his eyes, ever, but in his rush, he had not stopped to put on the blacked-out sunglasses.
“Sire…?” Fritz breathed, transfixed.
“Fuck.” Wrath’s body wobbled. “Fuck… you’re okay. Shit.”
That was when the collapse happened, the great Blind King falling to his knees at the feet of his most loyal servant, his massive muscles bunching up as he bent over and struggled to keep his emotions—and maybe his stomach—in check.
“Sire…”
Fritz bowed down so he could see that harsh face, and when Wrath put his palms up and covered his features, the old doggen looked around as if searching for a rescue. He had plenty of spectators, all of the staff now out of their rooms and approaching cautiously, their distress obvious—and meanwhile, behind Beth, the Brothers were gathering, most of them in boxers, a couple in flannel PJ bottoms.
But there were no saviors.
Everybody was frozen, with no clue what was going on.
So Fritz did what a butler should. He dealt with the mess that was before him.
Though doggen eschewed physical contact with their superiors, for they deemed themselves—irrationally—as unworthy of such affection, Fritz brought forth shaking hands and gently placed them on the enormous bare shoulders of his King. Wrath clearly sensed the contact because heavy arms, tattooed on the inside with his ancient royal lineage, shot out and locked around Fritz’s waist.
As the other servants came a little farther forward, Fritz nodded curtly.
On cue, the doggen of the household closed in, linking arms, forming a circle around their King, and there were so many of them, Beth had to inch back to give them space.
“George,” she said, patting her thigh. “C’mere, baby boy. Come on.”
The golden looked back and forth, clearly concerned he was needed in the mix, but when she shook her head, he obeyed the command, walking over and planting his butt on her bare foot as he faced out and kept an eye on his master.
All of the doggen wore the same white shifts, but the males had those caps and the females wore bonnets on their heads. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they formed an aura of adoration, insulation… and protection around Wrath.
Beth glanced back at the Brothers. A couple of them were wiping their eyes with quick swipes of their thumbs, all nah-I-ain’t-cryin’, it’s-just-dust.
Even though Fritz, with all his high standards, would never allow such a thing, even in the servant wing of his house.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
As night fell on Caldwell, Shuli sat on the foot of his bed in his room at his parents’ mansion and watched the shutters retract. With no lights on around him, the details of his chamber were muted to the point of disappearing, and his eyes sought the shapes and shadows of the gardens outside. Funny, how the familiar could look so different, so foreign.
There had been no sleep for him during the day. An endless reel of everything that had happened behind Dandelion—lesserattacktryingtointervenefightingforcontrolofthegunpop!Theoxinjureddying… death—had been a relentless battering, mental in origin, physical in effect. He felt sore all over.
Then again, maybe some of that was from wrestling with that slayer.
As yet another image of Theox going down at the back of the club speared through his brain, he covered his eyes. Which was stupid. What he was seeing was not in front of him—
The sound of a text hitting his phone was the last thing he was interested in. He’d been getting all kinds of DMs and shit throughout the day as word of what had happened spread. Everyone was touting him as some sort of hero, which was fucked up. Theox was gone, and the idea that Shuli now had some kind of war cred was obscene.
Flipping his phone over, he just wanted to clear the screen so he didn’t have to look—
It was Nate.
Frowning, he went into his phone… and he had to read the message twice. And a third time.
The knock on his door was soft, and he twisted around. “Come in.”
Probably a doggen with a tray from First Meal, not that he had any appetite—
It wasn’t a doggen. Shuli’s sire stood in the jambs, the illumination from the crystal-strung ceiling fixture behind Arcshuliae turning him into nothing more than a dense black hole that conformed to his body’s distinguished outline.
Years of careful training came back as Shuli jumped up and made sure his hands were down at his sides.
“Sit, my son.”
Collapsing his spine, Shuli fell back down onto the bed. As his father entered, he had a thought that he couldn’t remember the last time the male had been in his room.
There was an awkward pause. “I am… checking upon you.”
“Thank you, Father. I am well enough.”
It was a glymera answer to a glymera question. And his sire acknowledged the response in the aristocratic fashion, inclining his head.
Then there was a clearing of the throat, but it was not a reprimand for once. “If you think you perhaps shall eschew First Meal, that would not be inappropriate.”
Shuli inclined his head. “Thank you, Father.”
His father inclined himself again. And wasn’t this proof that Princeps families could have full-on conversations about tragic things using nothing but eyebrows and the occasional hand gesture.
“Very well, then.” On that note, his sire turned away—
“Father,” Shuli said as he burst up again.
As the male pivoted back around, Shuli slapped his hand on his phone and surged forward before he was aware of moving.
“Father,” he repeated.
“Yes?”
Now it was his turn to go silent. Off in the distance, he heard strings playing and pictured the quartet that came in regularly for the hour before First Meal all set up in the corner of the red parlor downstairs. His mahmen and brother, his sister-in-law, and his three cousins would be there, all dressed formally, but not in tuxedos or gowns. That only came at the end of the night, at Last Meal.
Shuli lifted up his cell, even though the lock screen was showing. “I want to go into the Black Dagger Brotherhood training program. I just got a text from Nate. They want to talk to us about… coming in and learning. Things.”
His sire tilted his head. “What manner of ‘things.’ ”
Glancing down, Shuli blinked and was instantly there again, behind the club. “I want to learn how to fight, Father. In the war.”
His sire’s torso shifted back ever so slightly, which was the equivalent of anybody else screaming, WHAT THE FUCK!
“I know that you and I have always had our differences.” Shuli noted his father’s handmade alligator shoes for no good reason. “And until last night, I don’t think I appreciated the message you’ve been trying to give me all along. I don’t want to waste my life. I have everything I could ever need, and more than that, I have everything I could ever want. But I’ve been pissing it all away, haven’t I. And too busy arguing with you to see the merit in what you were saying. I didn’t sleep all day. I can’t…” He grabbed the front of his monogrammed silk bathrobe. “I can’t hold this feeling inside me. I need to let it out by doing something… worthwhile. Finally. And I want to fight in the war.”
He exhaled long and slow and got ready for all kinds of frustration and resistance, the cash-and-carry of the way he and his father had been interacting for how long now? Years. He hadn’t been quite as recalcitrant as the male believed, but he hadn’t been anywhere near as justified as he himself had believed—and in any event, neither extreme mattered because they just couldn’t relate. Even when they met in the middle. And so the cycle had ground on, separating them even further, relegating them into roles, him the ne’er-do-well, spoiled disappointment of a son, his sire the out-of-touch, demanding father, and never the twain should meet.
As his father opened his mouth, Shuli interrupted him. “Actually, wait.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’m not asking you for permission to do this. I’m telling you, this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to learn how to defend people who can’t defend themselves… against the enemy. And I’m going to be good at it, even if it kills me.”
Long silence now. Or at least it felt that way.
Then his sire put out his palm.
For a moment, Shuli just stared at the thing, having no clue what it meant or why that arm was just hanging out there.
“Oh,” he said with surprise.
Extending his own palm, he clasped what was offered.
“I am proud of you, son.” His sire bent at the waist in a bow and spoke in the Old Language: “You bring honor upon this bloodline, and pride within my breast. May you go forth and know that your family awaits your safe return. Always.”
Shuli’s throat got tight, and he bowed in return. “I shall endeavor to deserve your faith, Sire mine. I shall do my level best.”
“Just be of care, my son,” his father said urgently. “Be safe.”
The embrace happened spontaneously, and as Shuli closed his eyes, he did not see the blood and death anymore. He saw the image of his father’s palm extended across the divide between them, an accord offered… and an accord struck when he put forth his own.
“I’ll do my best, Sire,” he murmured over his father’s shoulder. “My very best.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
A shower, Rahvyn thought as she returned to the training center upon nightfall.
How lovely.
As she walked across a tiled floor, she was rather interested to find three separate berths, the trio kitted out with identical overhead faucets and crank handles—and in front of each was a small ante-area that, given the benches and the curtains that had been shuffled to the side, was obviously for changing one’s clothes.
Glancing to the opposite wall, she noted the three sinks with shelves over them, perhaps for one’s toothbrush. Overhead, the ceiling fixture had a cage around it, as if the builder had been concerned someone would be throwing a ball about and did not wish to risk the bulb getting broken; the walls were likewise in a hearty tile that would withstand much wear.
Everything was a dark gray and white.
“Here, I have some fresh clothes for you.”
At the sound of Lassiter’s voice, she pivoted and departed from the showering alcove. Out in the larger room of the facility, he had propped open the entry with his foot and thrust something through the crack, only his muscled arm showing.
