Lover Unleashed (36 page)

She laughed softly. “I wasn’t aware I had a question.”

“I’m not staying. I’ll get her up and walking, and then I’m going back.”

“That wasn’t on my mind, actually.” She frowned. “But you could hang around, you know. It’s happened before. Me. Butch. Beth. And I thought you liked her.”

“‘Like’ doesn’t begin to cover it,” he said under his breath.

“So don’t make any plans until this is over.”

He shook his head. “I have a career that’s going into the shitter—the cause of which, incidentally, is all the in-and-outing you guys have done to my brain. I have a mother who isn’t all that fond of me, but who will nonetheless wonder why she’s not hearing from me on major holidays. And I have a horse that is in bad shape. You mean to tell me that your boy and his ilk are going to be down with my having one foot in each world? I don’t think so. Besides, what the fuck would I do with myself? Servicing her is a pleasure, I assure you—but I wouldn’t want to make a profession out of it or have her end up with the likes of me.”

“What’s so wrong with you?” Jane crossed her arms over her chest. “Not for nothing, but you’re a great guy.”

“Nice dodge on the particulars.”

“Things could be worked out.”

“Okay, say they were. Then answer me this—how long do they live for.”

“Excuse me?”

“Life expectancy of vampires. How long.”

“It varies.”

“By decade or century?” When she didn’t reply, he nodded. “Just what I thought—I’m probably good for another, what, forty years? And the shriveling is going to start in about ten. I’ve already got aches and pains every morning and the beginnings of arthritis in both hips. She needs one of her own to fall in love with, not a human who’s going to be a geriatric patient in the blink of an eye.” He shook his head again. “Love can conquer everything but reality. Which will win every stinking time.”

Now her laugh was hard-edged. “Somehow I can’t argue with that one.”

He glanced down at the braces. “Thanks for these.”

“You’re welcome,” she said slowly. “And I’ll get word to V.”

“Good.”

Back at Payne’s room, he entered silently and stopped just inside the door. She was dead asleep in the dimness, the glow gone from her skin. Would she wake up paralyzed again? Or would the progress stay with her?

He guessed they would have to find out.

Leaning the crutches and braces against the wall, he went over to the hard chair by the bed and sat down, crossing his legs and trying to get comfortable. No way he was going to sleep. He just wanted to watch her—

“Join me,” she said into all the quiet. “Please. I need your warmth right now.”

As he remained where he was, he realized the stay-sitting routine wasn’t really about her brother. It was a coping mechanism to keep him separate from her whenever he could. They were absolutely going to be hooking up again—likely soon. And he would go down on her for hours if that was what it took. But he couldn’t afford to lose himself in some fantasy that this was going anywhere permanent for them.

Two different worlds.

He just didn’t belong with her.

Manny leaned forward, put his hand on hers and stroked her arm. “Shh . . . I’m right here.”

As she turned her head toward him, her eyes were shut, and he had a feeling she was talking in her sleep. “Do not leave me, healer.”

“My name is Manny,” he whispered. “Manuel Manello . . . M.D.”

THIRTY

T
he whistle was hard and sharp, and as it bulleted around the mansion’s foyer, Qhuinn knew the shrill demand had been made by John Matthew.

Fuck knew he’d heard it enough over the last three years.

Stopping with one foot on the grand staircase’s bottom step, he mopped up his sweaty face with his balled-up shirt and then caught his balance on the massive carved banister. His head was as light and fluffy as a pillow after his workout—which was in direct contrast to the rest of him: His legs and ass felt like they weighed as much as this goddamned mansion—

When the whistle came again, he thought, Oh, right, someone was talking to him. Pivoting around, he got an eyeful of John Matthew standing in between the ornate jambs of the dining room doorway.

What the hell did you do to yourself
, the guy signed before pointing at his own dome.

Well, check his shit out, Qhuinn thought. In the past, a question like that would have covered a fuck of a lot more than a change in hairstyle.

“It’s called a trim.”

You sure about that? I’m pretty sure it’s called a hot mess.

Qhuinn rubbed the fade he’d given himself. “It’s no big deal.”

At least you know toupees are an option.
John’s blue eyes narrowed.
And where is all your metal?

“In my gun closet.”

Not your weapons, the shit that was on your face.

Qhuinn just shook his head and turned to go, uninterested in discussing all the piercings he’d taken out. His brain was tangled and his body was exhausted, so stiff and sore from his daily runs—

That whistle came again and nearly had him tossing a fuck-off over his shoulder. He cut the crap, though, because it would save time: John never let up when he was in this kind of mood.

Glancing back, he growled, “What.”

You need to eat more. Whether it’s at meals or on your own. You’re turning into a skeleton—

“I’m fine—”

—so either you start working the chow or I will have that gym locked and not give you the key. Your choice. And I called for Layla. She’s in your room waiting for you.

Qhuinn spun completely around. Bad idea; it turned the foyer into a Tilt-A-Whirl. Grabbing for the banister again, he bit out, “I could have done that.”

But you weren’t going to, so I did it for you—short of slaughtering a dozen
lessers
, it’s going to be my good deed for the week.

“You want to be Mother Teresa, you’ll have more luck practicing that shit on someone else.”

Sorry. I picked you, and you’d better shake a leg—don’t want to keep the lady waiting. Oh, and while Xhex and I were in the kitchen, I had Fritz make you a meal and take it up. Later.

As the guy walked off in the direction of the butler’s pantry, Qhuinn called out, “I’m not interested in being saved, asshole. I can take care of myself.”

John’s response was a middle finger flipped up and held over his head.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Qhuinn muttered.

He so didn’t want to deal with Layla right now.

Nothing against the Chosen, but the idea of being in an enclosed space with someone who was interested in sex just shut him right down. Which was ironic as shit. Up until now, fucking had not just been a part of his life; it had all but defined him. For the last week? The idea of being with someone left him nauseous.

Christ, this kept up, and the last person he was going to be with in his whole life was a redhead. Har-har, hardy-har-har: Clearly the Scribe Virgin had a nasty-ass sense of humor.

Forcing his deadweight up the stairs, he was ready to tell Layla as politely as he could that she needed to go on about her business—

The light-headedness that hit on the second landing stopped him in his tracks.

Over the past seven nights, he’d gotten used to the perma-float that came with running as much as he was and eating as little as he did, and he looked forward to the stoned disassociation. For godsakes, it was cheaper than drinking, and it never wore off—at least, not until he ate.

This was something different. He felt like someone had bulldozed him from behind and swept his legs out from under him—except his line of vision told him he was still standing. As did the fact that his hips were against the banister—

Without warning, one of his knees buckled and he went down like a book from the shelf.

Throwing out a hand, he pulled himself up over the damn rail, until he was all but hanging off it. Glaring at his leg, he kicked the thing a couple of times and breathed deeply, willing his body to get with the program.

Didn’t happen.

Instead, he slowly slid from the vertical and had to turn around so it looked like he was just copping a squat on the bloodred carpet. He couldn’t seem to breathe . . . or rather, he was breathing but it wasn’t doing shit.
God . . . damn . . . Pull it together. . . .

Fucking hell.

“Sire?” came a voice from above.

Make that a double hell.

As he squeezed his eyes shut, he thought Layla’s showing up right now was Murphy’s frickin’ Law alive and in color.

“Sire, may I help you?”

Then again, maybe there was a bright side to this: better her than one of the Brothers. “Yeah. My knee’s off. Hurt it running.”

He looked up as the Chosen floated down to him, her white robe a shock against the deep color of the carpet and the resonant golden glow of the foyer’s artwork.

Feeling like a right moron as she reached down for him, he tried to pull himself to his feet . . . only to get nowhere. “I, ah . . . I warn you, I weigh a lot.”

Her lovely hand took his and he was astonished to find that his fingers were shaking as he accepted her help. He was also surprised to get hauled to his feet on a oner.

“You’re strong,” he said as her arm hitched around his waist and hefted him to the vertical.

“We walk together.”

“Sorry I’m sweaty.”

“I do not mind.”

On that note, they were off. Moving slowly, they inched up the stairs and headed down the second-floor corridor, gimping by all kinds of blissfully closed doors: Wrath’s study. Tohrment’s room. Blay’s—not looking at that. Saxton’s—not busting that down and boot-licking his cousin out the window. John Matthew and Xhex’s.

“I shall open the way,” the Chosen said as they stopped at his own.

They had to turn sideways to get through the jambs because of his size, and he was grateful as shit when she closed them in together and took him to the bed. No one needed to know what was doing, and chances were good the Chosen would buy his just-an-owie excuse.

Sitting upright was the plan. Except the second she let go of him, he flopped back onto the mattress and made like a welcome mat. Looking down his body toward his running shoes, he wondered why he couldn’t see the car that was parked on top of him. Definitely wasn’t a Prius. More like a Chevy-fucking-Tahoe.

Whatever, try Suburban.

“Ah . . . listen, can you go into my leather coat? I’ve got a protein bar in there.”

Abruptly, there was a shift of metal on porcelain from over by the door. And then a whiff of something dinner-ish. “Perhaps you would like this roast beef, sire?”

His stomach clenched hard as a fist. “God . . . no . . .”

“There is rice.”

“Just . . . one of those bars . . .”

A subtle squeaking sound suggested she was rolling a tray over, and a second later, he got so much more than a mere sniff of whatever Fritz had prepared.

“Stop—stop, fuck—” He lurched over and dry-heaved into a wastebasket. “Not . . . the food . . .”

“You need to eat,” came the surprisingly strong reply. “And I shall feed you.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Here.” Instead of the meat or the rice, a small piece of bread was presented to him. “Open. You need food, sire. Your John Matthew said so.”

Sinking back against the pillows, he put his arm over his face. His heart was all hopscotch behind his sternum, and on some dim level, he realized he could actually kill himself if he kept going like this.

Funny, the idea struck him as not all that bad. Especially as Blay’s face came to mind.

So beautiful. So very, very beautiful. It seemed silly and emasculating to call the guy that, but he was. Those damn lips were the problem . . . nice and cushioned on the bottom. Or maybe the eyes? So fucking blue.

He’d kissed that mouth and loved it. Seen those eyes go wild.

He could have had Blay first—and only. But instead? His cousin . . .

“Oh, God . . .” he groaned.

“Sire. Eat.”

Out of energy to fight anything, he did as he was told, opening up, chewing mechanically, swallowing down his dry throat. And then he did it again. And again. Turned out that the carbs quieted the earthquake zone in his stomach, and faster than he would have thought possible, he was actually looking forward to something a little more substantial. Next up on the menu, though, was just some bottled water, which Layla held while he took small sips.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he said, holding off on another bread run just in case the tide turned.

As he rolled over onto his side, he felt the bones in his legs knock together and realized his arm was hanging differently across his chest—less pecs to get in the way. His Nike running shorts were likewise baggy at the waistband.

He’d done all this damage in seven days.

At this rate, he wasn’t going to look like himself for much longer.

Screw that, he already didn’t. As John Matthew had frickin’ noticed, not only had he buzzed his head, he’d taken his eyebrow piercing out as well as the one on his lower lip and the dozen or so up his ears. Gone too were his nipple rings. He still had his tongue stud and the shit below, but the visi stuff was gone, gone, gone.

He was through with himself on so many levels. Sick and tired of being the odd man out on purpose. Exhausted with his slut reputation.

And uninterested in rebelling against a bunch of dead stiffs anymore. For fuck’s sake, he didn’t need some shrink to explain the psychology that had shaped him: His family had been all picture perfect,
glymera
-conservative—and payback had been a bisexual, metal-headed whore with a Goth wardrobe and a needle fetish. But how much of that shit was him and how much was a mismatched-eye-based mutiny?

Who the fuck was he really?

“More now?” Layla asked.

Wasn’t that the question.

As the Chosen went front and center again with the baguette, Qhuinn decided to cut the shit. Opening his mouth, he pulled a baby bird and ate the damn stuff. And some more. And then like she read his mind, Layla brought a sterling-silver fork with a piece of roast beef on it to his lips.