Lover Mine (37 page)

He wanted to pull her into his chest, but he didn’t know if she’d be into getting that clo—

Xhex eased back flush against him and arranged the towel, crossing the two halves over her front. “Let me guess. You hit up the good doctor.”

Moving himself around, he set his palms on the floor to support his torso and put his knees up so she was cradled on all sides by him. Not bad, he thought. The loo wasn’t right in her face, but if she needed it, all she had to do was sit up straight.

“I’m not sick,” she said, her voice hoarse. “From the operation or anything. Just ate too fast.”

Maybe, he thought. But then, there was no harm in Doc Jane’s checking her over. Besides, they needed clearance before they went out tonight, assuming that was even possible now.

“Xhex? John?”

John whistled at the sound of the doctor’s voice, and a moment later Vishous’s female put her head into the bathroom.

“A party? And I didn’t get invited,” she said, coming in.

“Well, technically, I think you were,” Xhex muttered. “I’m okay.”

Jane knelt down and though her smile was warm, her eyes were sharp as they went over Xhex’s face. “What’s going on here?”

“I got sick after I ate.”

“Mind if I take your temperature?”

“I’d prefer not to have anything near the back of my throat right now, if you don’t mind.”

Jane took a white instrument out of her bag. “I can do it by your ear.”

John was shocked when Xhex’s hand found his and squeezed hard as if she needed some support. To let her know he was there for whatever she needed, he squeezed back, and the instant he did, her shoulders eased up and she relaxed again.

“Knock yourself out, Doc.”

Xhex tilted her head and what do you know, it ended up right on his shoulder. So he really couldn’t help but put his cheek on the downy soft curls and breathe in deep.

As far as he was concerned, the good doctor worked much too quickly. Just in, a beep, and she was pulling back—which meant Xhex put her head up again.

“No fever. Would you mind if I looked at your incision?”

Xhex pulled a reveal, parting the towel and exposing her belly and the stripe that ran across her lower abdomen.

“Looks good. What did you eat?”

“Too much.”

“Fair enough. Any pain I should know about?”

Xhex shook her head. “I feel better. I really do. What I need is some clothes and shoes . . . and another shot at First Meal.”

“I’ve got scrubs you can put on and then up at the house we’ll take care of feeding you again.”

“Good. Thanks.” Xhex started to get to her feet and he helped her up, keeping the towel in place when it slipped. “Because we’re going out.”

“Not to fight, you aren’t.”

John nodded his head and signed at the doctor,
We’re just going to stretch our legs. Swear.

Doc Jane’s eyes narrowed. “I can only render a medical opinion. Which is that I think you”—she glanced at Xhex—“should eat something and hang around here for the rest of tonight. But you’re an adult, so you can make your own choices. Know this, though. You leave without Qhuinn and Wrath is going to have some serious issues with the pair of you.”

That’s fine,
John signed. He wasn’t psyched about the babysitter routine, but he wasn’t taking chances with Xhex.

He was under no illusions about the female he loved. She could decide to bolt at any moment and if shit came down to that, he was going to appreciate the backup.

L
ash came awake in the same position he’d passed out in: sitting on the floor in the ranch’s bathroom, arms linked on top of his knees, head down.

When he opened his eyes, he got a look-see at his hard-on.

He’d been dreaming of Xhex, the images so clear, the sensations so vivid it was a wonder he didn’t come in his slacks. They’d been back in that room together, fighting, biting, and then he’d taken her, forcing her down on the bed, making her accept him even though she hated it.

He was so totally in love with her.

The sound of a wet gurgle brought his head up. Plastic Fantastic was coming around, her fingers twitching, her lids flickering like blinds that were broken.

As his eyes focused on her matted hair and her bloodstained basque, he felt a stinging pain at his temples, a hangover that sure as shit wasn’t tied to a good time. The bitch disgusted him, lying all flopped around in her own filth.

She’d clearly been sick to her stomach, and thank God he’d slept through that commotion.

Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he felt his fangs elongate and knew it was time to put her to good use, but damn . . . she was about as appealing as spoiled meat.

More water. That’s what this nightmare needed. More water and—

As he leaned up to crank the shower on again, her eyes drifted over to him.

Her scream pealed out of her bloody mouth and echoed around the tile until his ears rang like church bells.

Goddamn fangs scaring the shit out of her. As his hair fell into his eyes again, he shoved it back and debated ripping her neck open just to kill the noise. But there was no way he was biting into her before she had a bath—

She wasn’t looking at his mouth. Her wide, crazy-ass eyes were locked on his forehead.

When his hair bugged him again, he swept it back—and something came off in his hand.

In slow motion, he looked down.

Nope, not his blond hair.

His skin.

Lash turned around to the mirror and heard himself shout. His reflection was incomprehensible, the patch of flesh that had let loose revealing a black oozing undercoat over his white skull. With his fingernail, he tested the edge of what was still attached and found that it was all slack; every square inch over his face was nothing but a sheet draped over the bone.

“No!” he screamed, trying to pat the shit back in place—

His hands . . . oh, God, not them, too. Flaps of skin were hanging off the backs of them, and as he yanked up the sleeves of his button-down, he wished he’d been more gentle, because his dermis came along with the fine silk.

What was happening to him?

Behind him, in the mirror, he saw the whore flash by at a dead run, looking like Sissy Spacek’s Carrie only without the prom dress.

With a surge of strength, he went after her, his body moving with none of the power and grace he was used to. As he pounded after his prey, he could feel the friction of his clothes against himself and could only imagine the tearing that was happening over every inch of him.

He caught the prostitute just as she got to the rear door and started fighting with the locks. Slamming into her from behind, he grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and bit hard, drawing her black blood into him.

He polished her off, drained her until his sucking pulls got him a whole lot of nothing in his mouth, and when he was done, he just let her go so that she crumpled down right on the carpet.

In a drunken shamble, he went back to the bathroom and turned on the lights that ran along both sides of the mirror.

With each piece of clothing he removed, he revealed more of the horror that was already showing on his face: His bones and muscles glistened with a black, oily sheen under the bulbs’ illumination.

He was a cadaver. An upright, walking, breathing cadaver, the eyes of which rolled around in their sockets without lid or lash, the mouth of which showed nothing but fangs and teeth.

The last of his skin was that which anchored his beautiful blond hair to his head, but even that was sliding off the back, like a wig that had lost its glue.

He took off the final piece and, with his skeletal hands, stroked that which he’d taken such pride in. Of course, he fucked the shit up that way, the black ooze congealing on the locks, staining them, matting them . . . so that they were no better than what was still attached to that whore’s head out by the door.

He let his scalp fall to the floor and stared at himself.

Through the cage of his ribs, he watched his own heart beat and wondered in numb horror what else was going to rot off him . . . and what he was going to be left with when this transformation was finished.

“Oh, God . . .” he said, his voice no longer sounding right, a displaced echo fleshing out the words in a way that was chillingly familiar.

 

 

Blay stood with his closet door open, his hanging clothes all on display. Absurdly, he wanted to call his mother for advice. Which was what he’d always done before when it came to getting dressed up.

But that wasn’t a conversation he was in a hurry to have. She’d assume it was a female and get all excited about the fact that he was going on a date and he’d be forced to lie to her . . . or come out of the closet.

His parents had never been judgmental. . . . But he was their only son and no female meant not only no grandbabies, but a hit from the aristocracy. Unsurprisingly, the
glymera
was okay with homosexuality provided you were mated to a female and you never, ever spoke about it or did anything overtly to confirm the way you were born. Appearances. All about appearances. And if you did come out? You got shut out.

And so did your family.

On some level, he couldn’t believe he was about to go meet up with a male. At a restaurant. And then head off to an after-hours bar with the guy.

His date was going to look amazing. Always did.

So Blay took out a Zegna suit that was gray with the palest pink pinstripe. A fine cotton button-down from Burberry was next, the shirt’s body a faint blush, with its French cuffs and collar a bright white. Shoes . . . shoes . . . shoes . . .

Bam
,
bam
,
bam
on the door. “Yo, Blay.”

Shit. He’d already laid the suit out on the bed and he was newly showered, in his bathrobe, with gel in his hair.

Gel: Dead frickin’ giveaway.

Going to the door, he cracked the sucker only an inch or two. Out in the hall, Qhuinn was ready for fighting, his chest holster of daggers hanging from his hand, his leathers on, his New Rocks buckled up.

Funny, though, the warrior routine didn’t make much of an impression. Blay was too busy remembering what the guy had looked like stretched out on the bed the night before, his eyes on Layla’s mouth.

Bad call to have had that feeding done in his own room, Blay thought. Because now he was stuck wondering how far things had gone on his mattress between those two.

Knowing Qhuinn, though, that would be all the way. You’re welcome.

“John texted me,” the guy said. “He and Xhex are going on a Caldie crawl and for once the motherfucker is—”

Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes went up and down and then he leaned to the side and looked over Blay’s shoulder. “What’s doing?”

Blay brought the lapels of his robe a little closer. “Nothing.”

“Your cologne is different—what did you do to your hair?”

“Nothing. What were you saying about John?”

There was a pause. “Yeah . . . okay. Well, he’s heading out and we’re going with him. We gotta lay low, though. They’re going to want their privacy. But we can—”

“I’m off tonight.”

That pierced brow dropped low. “So.”

“So . . . I’m off.”

“That’s never mattered before.”

“It does now.”

Qhuinn shifted to the side again and glanced around Blay’s head. “You putting on that suit just to impress the home team?”

“No.”

There was a long silence and then one word: “Who.”

Blay let the door go wide and stepped back into his room. If they were going to get into a thing, no sense doing it out in the corridor for people to see or hear.

“Does that really matter,” he said, on a surge of anger.

The door shut. Hard. “Yeah. It does.”

As a fuck-you to Qhuinn, Blay undid the sash of the robe and let it fall from his naked body. And he put the slacks on . . . commando.

“Just a friend.”

“Male or female.”

“Like I said, does it matter.”

Another long pause, during which Blay slipped his shirt on and buttoned it up.

“My cousin,” Qhuinn growled. “You’re going out with Saxton.”

“Maybe.” He went over to the bureau and opened his jewelry box. Inside, cuff links of all kinds gleamed. He chose a set that had rubies in it.

“Is this payback for Layla last night?”

Blay froze with his hand on his cuff. “Jesus Christ.”

“It is, right. That’s what—”

Blay turned around. “Did it ever occur to you that it has nothing to do with you? That a guy asked me out and I want to go? That this is normal? Or are you so self-involved that you filter everything and everybody through your narcissism.”

Qhuinn recoiled ever so slightly. “Saxton is a slut.”

“Well, I guess you would know what makes one.”

“He’s a slut, a very classy, very elegant slut.”

“Maybe all I want is some sex.” Blay cocked a brow. “It’s been a while for me, and those females I did in bars just to keep up with you weren’t all that good to begin with. I think it’s about time I got some, and in the right way.”

The bastard had the gall to pale. He honestly did. And goddamn it if he didn’t falter back and lean against the door.

“Where are you going?” he asked roughly.

“He’s taking me to Sal’s. And then we’re going to that cigar bar.” Blay did his other cuff up and went over to the dresser for his silk socks. “Afterward . . . who knows.”

A wave of dark spice wafted across the bedroom, and stunned him into silence. Of all the ways he’d thought this conversation would go . . . his triggering Qhuinn’s bonding scent was so not it.

Blay pivoted back around.

After a long, tense moment, he walked toward his best friend, drawn by the fragrance. And as he came closer, Qhuinn’s hot eyes tracked him with each step, the link between them, that had been buried on both sides, abruptly exploding into the room.