Blood Kiss (15 page)

B
y sundown the following evening, Peyton had decided he didn't like any of them.

Look, it wasn't that he thought he was better than the other five trainees. There was just something off with each one.

Axe, that outlier with the punk/Goth, yeah-we-get-it-you're-a-hard-ass style? Obvious. The bastard was one kitchen knife away from being a serial killer. Boone, the Adonis with those muscles? Uh-huh, we know you can walk on your hands and throw your ass around like it's attached to your throat with a rope—but who cares. You're here to fight, not slap on a tutu and try to get into the Cirque du Soleil. Anslam? Nothing but an also-ran in the
glymera
, not even from a Founding Family. Irrelevant, and a shock that he'd made it as far as he had.

The one he really didn't like, though, was that Craeg guy—although that was actually more because of the way everybody, even Paradise, treated him like he was the anointed leader of the group.

Not that Peyton was looking for that job, but come on. Nobody had a lock on any of this yet. There was no reason to be getting out the pedestal so soon.

And that wasn't the only thing that bugged him about the guy. There was something else about the male, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. An instinct, maybe? A sense of some kind of threat?

He didn't know—but he was damn sure going to figure that one out.

And then there was that Novo female.

Stretching in his chair in the break room, Peyton surreptitiously glanced in her vague-ish direction. She was
laying out on the sofa to the left, her long, long, long legs crossed at the ankles, her hands clasped over her flat stomach like she was dead. Her hair was iris-black, stick straight, and plaited tight as a rope. Her skin was honey-brown, and he had never, ever in his fucking life seen a female built with that kind of muscle.

He'd spent most of the day trying to avoid measuring her breasts—mostly because he wasn't sure whether she'd cut his balls off if she noticed.

Rubbing his eyes, he wanted a blunt so badly he was shaking from it.

Maybe Paradise had a point about the drug use.

Then again, it had been one long frickin' night and one weird frickin' day. After he'd made sure Paradise was awake and eating, the rest of them—except for Craeg the Great Fanged One who was better than everybody else—had gone for a wander around the facilities, found a
doggen
and asked for more food. Then they'd come back here to find Paradise once again in the bunk room asleep, and Craeg sitting up in a chair with his eyes closed.

Probably contemplating how superior his belly lint was to everyone else's.

At that point, without a lot of conversation, they'd each picked a spot in the unadorned room and proceeded to not sleep very much or very well. Much as he hated to admit the weakness, he was still jumping at any sound that was out of place, his adrenal gland on hyper-alert even though the nurse who'd examined him had told him that the trial was over and nothing else of an electrical-shock/throat-punch nature was going to come at them—

Without warning, Paradise stuck her head out the bunk room door, like maybe she was expecting to find herself left behind.

As Peyton opened his mouth to say her name, he caught Craeg's eyes shifting over to her . . . and pulling
the classic head-to-toe males did when they were frickin' man-whore sonsabitches.

It was his own signature move, for fuck's sake.

Before he could bark at the guy to back off, the door to the outer hall opened wide, and two enormous males walked in like they owned the place.

Brothers.

Talk about coming to attention. All six of the loafer trainees were up and out of their whatevers like someone had goosed them in the ass. By the bunk room door, Paradise straightened and pulled her robe lapels even closer.

The Brother on the left was dressed in jeans and a black shirt—and he was quite possibly the largest living thing Peyton had ever seen outside of an elephant. He was also so good-looking, you had to wonder why the Scribe Virgin had dumped all that hotness on one guy—as opposed to spreading it more evenly over a cast of thousands.

And next to him was a slightly shorter male who was built like a bulldog, drinking a coffee, and wearing a Boston Red Sox sweatshirt.

“The beauty queen next to me is Rhage,” the guy in the sweatshirt said. “I'm Butch. And we already know who the fuck you are. The time is currently six o'clock in the evening. You will have one hour to shower in the locker rooms, dress in the uniforms that will be brought to you, and come back here to eat. After that, we want you lined up outside in the corridor. Anyone who is late is out of the program.”

Butch? Peyton wondered. The Brother's name was
Butch
?

As in from the human world . . . ?

Wait a minute.

“You're the
Dhestroyer
,” Peyton heard himself say. “Holy shit, I know who you are. You're mated to Marissa, blooded daughter of—”

“Any questions?” Butch talked over him. “Good. I didn't think so. One hour. That's all you got.”

With that shutdown, the male turned and left.

The Brother Rhage gave them a smile. “Try the tenderloin. It's fucking awesome. And the lamb, too. Oh, and the mashed potatoes. Skip the salad. Waste of chewing. Later.”

At least he didn't seem to want to kill them, Peyton thought as the door closed once again.

“Wonder what the uniforms look like,” Paradise said.

“This isn't a fashion show,” Craeg bit out.

Peyton bared his fangs at the guy. “Do you want a problem, asshole? 'Cause I can arrange that.”

Craeg's head swiveled toward him. “I wasn't talking to you.”

Peyton had no clue what got his feet moving, but before he knew it, he was nose-to-nose with the SOB. “Let's get this straight. You don't look at her. You don't talk to her. And you really, totally
fucking
do not disrespect her. Are we clear.”

The male's eyes shifted to Paradise. “Think your boy over here is a little territorial. You mind calling him off before he gets hurt?”

Annnnnnnnd it was on.

Peyton had no conscious thought of going for the motherfucker, but next thing he knew, he was on the male like a coat of paint, fists punching, arms grappling, legs kicking.

He'd actually never been in a fight before, but for some reason his body seemed to know what to do—not that he didn't get his ass kicked. Craeg was taller and heavier, and his reach was like Stretch Armstrong, those punches coming from every direction, reaching his face, his gut, his chest.

People were shouting around them. Furniture got knocked over. He was slammed against the wall—and then paid that back by spinning Craeg around and pushing him into the door to the corridor so hard, he busted
the panels clean apart, wood splintering as the pair of them ended up brawling out in the hall.

And still they fought.

For being half-dead only twelve hours before, Peyton found himself with plenty of goddamn energy.

•   •   •

It was like watching something from
Maury
.

As Paradise followed the fight into the corridor, she was having an out-of-body experience. Half of her was in the drama, trying to grab onto a flying arm, or yell in the hopes of getting through to one of them. The other half was in the land of OMG!—because she could not believe this was happening in front of her, on account of her.

Peyton was a lot of things, but never violent.

And Craeg—well, she didn't know much about him, but he'd seemed so much more self-controlled than this.

“Come on!” she barked. “Just stop it!”

The male bodies careened into the concrete wall, some horrible crack suggesting something had gotten broken on one of them—no, actually, it was a cinder block. Meanwhile, blood went flying from Peyton's nose, splashing brilliant red on the white paint, and Craeg's shirt got ripped in half, falling free from his—

Okay, WOW. The guy was lean, but built, great fans of muscle flaring out from either side of his spine, his shoulders bunching up and releasing with every fist he threw, his incredibly tight waist—

Right, this was inappropriate.

But
damn
.

Shaking herself, she lunged forward in another attempt to catch hold and slow things down, and she aimed for Peyton's right arm, because all that nakey was way too much to handle—

Novo grabbed her and dragged her back just when she would have gotten hit in the face.

“Let 'em go,” the female said.

“Someone's going to get hurt!”

“Better them than you.” Novo rolled her eyes. “Males are idiots. They're just fighting for dominance. Personally, I'd rather save my energy for the real work, as opposed to this social-posturing bullshit.”

Paradise panted and cursed. “They're going to get themselves kicked out!”

“If they do, that's on them.”

Next to the combatants, Anslam laughed and clapped his palms. “Smack him like a bitch, Peyton!”

Paradise glared at the male. “This is not cockfighting, you know.”

“The hell it isn't.”

Adding his name to her growing Jackass List, Paradise looked up and down the corridor. No one had come out of anywhere, but given the number of closed doors, that was not going to last—

Suddenly, Craeg changed places, grabbing Peyton by the shoulders, spinning him around, and shoving him up against the wall like he intended to break through the concrete with the guy.

“This is nuts,” a male voice drawled.

Glancing behind her, she saw Axe leaning against the doorjamb of the break room, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression that of someone watching paint dry.

Paradise narrowed her eyes at him. “You've got to stop this!”

One of his jet-black brows lifted. “Do I.”

“Yes! They're going to get kicked out!”

“And that affects me how?”

She deliberately stopped herself from smacking that sardonic expression off his half-pierced face. “You'd want someone to help you.”

“I wouldn't have picked a fight over you. No offense, but fucking you would be like having sex with a department-store mannequin. You're beautiful, but going to be totally useless in the sack.”

Paradise's jaw dropped open. “That is the rudest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Then you've led as sheltered a life as I thought. And whether you're offended or not, the truth is what it is.”

Turning to Boone, she opened her mouth—but he shook his head, all nope-not-me. “What is wrong with you people?” she demanded.

At least the fight was slowing down—oh, yeah, no, it was still going strong: Craeg grabbed Peyton around the waist and took him to the floor, the males grappling now, bare feet squeaking on the polished stone, palms slapping.

And that was when Butch and Rhage came storming down at the group.

Putting her head in her hands, she waited for the yelling to start. If this was anything like the human army she had read about or seen in movies, they were probably all going to get punished for this. Maybe she would get thrown out for being a troublemaker, even though she had done nothing except make a nervous comment.

Maybe just Peyton and Craeg would get disciplined.

After either one or both of them were out of their body cast(s).

When the combat only continued, she glanced through her fingers at the Brothers. The pair of them were standing off to the side, watching the action, talking to each other. And then Rhage nodded . . . and they shook hands.

Paradise looked around at the other trainees—and found that everybody else had disappeared back into the sitting room.

It was sometime later that Peyton finally lost.

One misplanned head butt sent his forehead directly into the concrete floor. At which point there was a
horrible sound, like a bowling ball had been dropped onto a slab of stone—and the guy's body went lax as if his bones had been liquefied.

Craeg shoved him away and collapsed flat on his back, breathing hard, coughing, wiping blood out of his eyes.

“How much was it?” Rhage asked Butch.

“Fiver.”

“Damn, I thought my boy was going to do better than that.” Rhage shoved his hand into his pocket and took out a black wallet. Withdrawing a bill, he slapped it into Butch's palm. “We're going double or nothing the next time one starts.”

Paradise recoiled as they turned away and walked off like absolutely nothing had happened.

“Are you kidding me,” she said under her breath.

She wanted to call after them that Peyton was still passed out cold—no, wait. He was groaning and rolling over onto his back.

At least he was alive, she thought as she walked over to him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded. “You want to get kicked out?”

Granted, that threat would have had more teeth if their two professors had been doing something more stern than betting on the damn fight.

The two males looked up at her with lolling stares. God, they looked as bad as they had the night before—maybe even worse. Hell, they were both going to have black eyes, and Craeg's lip was split so deep, he probably needed stitches.

“I'm . . . fine,” Peyton mumbled before spitting blood.

“Yeah,” Craeg lisped. “Just fine.”

Which came out something like
Jusssth phine
.

“Tell me,” she barked, “how many fingers am I holding up.”

Putting out her middle one, she gave the pair of jackholes a chance to focus on the fact that she was flipping
them both off. And then she marched away to find somebody in a nurse's uniform . . . doctor's scrubs . . .

Goddamn janitor's uniform.

God knew the corridor was going to need to be cleaned up—and anyone with a broom could start with the two wastes of space that had made the mess.