Blood Kiss (26 page)

T
alk about adding a layer of excitement to every single second.

As Paradise went through a sparring session in the gym, and then a truly eye-opening class on how to kill things with lotions and potions, she felt like she had the most amazing secret on the planet. With every punch and kick thrown, with each note taken, question asked, and answer given to her, she had to fight to keep a smile off her face.

And part of that was that she knew Craeg was exactly the same.

From time to time, she'd catch him looking over at her with hooded eyes that suggested whatever he was thinking of, it wasn't the lesson at hand.

Instead, he was obviously back in the dark, on the phone. With her.

And gee, it was no surprise that her body wanted more of him again—so badly, in fact, that she squirmed and cracked her back and had to readjust stances and sitting positions pretty much constantly.

Nobody else seemed to know, however—although maybe that was self-delusion. And if it wasn't? Screw it. Before she'd left her house to dematerialize to the bus, she'd reread the application forms and the disclosures—namely all the stuff she hadn't shown her father because she hadn't wanted to spook him—and there was no mention of a policy prohibiting relationships.

Or romantic attachments.

Or . . . whatever it was they were doing.

So they were legal as far as the regs went. They were also both of age, and yeah, sure, the idea of Peyton and
Anslam finding out presented a potential complication with the
glymera
, but 1) she had so much dirt on Peyton that she could blackmail him into silence if she had to, and 2) Anslam was your typical, self-involved son of privilege who wasn't going to notice a pink elephant in the room unless it in some way benefited him.

When the final leg of the evening arrived, she walked into the weight room with Craeg ahead of her, and she allowed herself a rare ogle, measuring the breadth of his shoulders, and his towering height, and the way he walked with such leashed power.

And yup, that spectacular ass of his.

Wow.

But then it was all business as the Brother Butch gave them their marching orders, assigning people to various machines and free weights.

“Paradise, you're running tonight,” he said, pointing over to the treadmills. “One hour. Break at twenty and forty for water. No incline during warm-up.”

Heading across the mats, she hopped up on the nearest machine, put the stop key in, and programmed the computer for sixty minutes at a stiff clip. As the band started to whiz along, she jumped on and fell into a rhythm that was rougher than usual—then again, her thighs were tired from her having crouched in the defensive position earlier in the evening. That got better soon, though, the platform bouncing and whining to the beat of her Brooks Glycerin 12s, her breathing becoming deeper and deeper.

Craeg ended up at the squat station.

Talk about a show of shows.

The amount of weight he could handle was so great, Butch and Tohr ended up spotting him, one on each side, just in case he lost control of what had to be six hundred pounds. Positioning himself under the supported bar, he put both hands up with the wrists out, puffed some air, and grunted as he freed the load and accepted it with his body. Instantly, his face turned red and his neck muscles
and veins popped as he backed up two feet to assume a stable stance.

Up . . .

...down.

Up . . .

...down.

In spite of the way he trembled on the surface of his skin, his large muscles and iron torso were rock-solid as he hefted the bar over and over again. Sweat began to run down his face, not that he appeared to notice, and there was no way she wasn't trying to imagine what his massive thigh muscles looked like under the uniform's supposedly loose pants: Those things went tight as a second skin as he dropped down because of how big his muscles got. In fact, he looked as if he were going to split them wide—

It happened so fast.

One minute, she was running with her stride, keeping up with the speed. The next, her right foot landed half on the band, half on the side rail.

She went down too quickly to catch herself, or at least catch herself with an arm or a hand. Instead, she hit the console hard, bounced, and nearly sanded her face off on the belt because the stop key she had so carefully put in the machine was not attached to her clothing.

So the treadmill just kept running.

For a second, she was too stunned to move—but then a shot of burning pain was enough to get her flipping over from wherever she'd landed. God, the nauseating stink of toasting flesh made her nose crinkle.

That was when she saw the shitkickers.

Right next to her face.

Abruptly, there were all kinds of people talking above her, and she tried to track what they were saying, but something was in her eyes. And her head hurt. Why did her head hurt?

“. . . Doc Jane, right away.”

“. . . stretcher?”

“Fast. Hurry!”

Flopping around with her hand, she tried to get the sweat out of her eyes so she could see better.

Not sweat. Blood: When she looked at the palm she'd passed over her face, it was smudged with bright red blood.

Oh, crap. She'd hurt herself fairly badly.

And all because she'd been being a chick.

Damn it.

•   •   •

When Paradise went down across the weight room, Craeg nearly threw the barbell off to the side to run over to her. But you didn't do that with six hundred and eighty pounds—not unless you wanted to hurt yourself, or hurt somebody else.

With as much control as he could spare, he moved forward one step and relied on the Brothers' help getting the load back on the supports. Then all three of them hightailed it over. Craeg went for the stop key, yanking it out—because she was way too close to that goddamn band, her crumpled body half on, half off the fucking piece of shit.

“Paradise?” he said.

As Butch knelt down beside her, Craeg nearly yanked the guy out of the way, but that was ridiculous. For one, the Brother was a teacher. For another, there was no bigger announcement that Paradise and he were up to something than if he went all territorial over her in an emergency fucking situation.

“Paradise?” Craeg repeated. “Paradise . . .”

She sat up when she heard him say her name, and
then she turned to look to him—oh, God. There was blood. So much . . . fucking hell, he was going to pass out.

The Brothers barked commands at each other and then Tohr left to get help. Which meant there was a space next to her to fill, and Craeg's body took advantage of that before he had a conscious thought to move.

“I'm fine,” she said, batting at hands and sitting up. “I just feel stupid. I don't need help.”

Ripping off his shirt, he wadded it into a ball and pressed the fabric to the leaker over her eye. “Shut up,” he muttered as she started to argue with him. “You're going to the clinic. You probably need stitches.”

“It's only a little cut.”

“What exactly do you think all this red stuff means.”

“No reason to get hysterical—”

“I'm not the one arguing with . . .”

They went back and forth, terse words crisscrossing and canceling one another out. It wasn't until they paused to take a breath that he realized everybody in the weight room was staring at them with a collective well-isn't-this-news.

Shit
.

Whatever, he needed to make sure she consented to treatment first. Then he'd worry about all the conclusions that were being jumped to.

And yes, he was the one who picked her up and put her on the gurney.

And yes, if any other male, including her little buddy Peyton over there, or either of the Brothers, had touched her, he would have bitten the male's arm off.

Out in the corridor, she was still fighting with him, and he knew it was because she had scared herself and was burning off the fear.

“Ridiculous.” But at least she was holding his shirt against her face. “I just need to rinse my face off and it'll stop.”

“Yeah, 'cause a little water's really going to help that two-inch slice up there.”

“This is overkill!”

“And you went to med school when?”

As they came up to the clinic door, he intended to go in there with her, but Butch stepped in front of him. “You need to go back to class.”

Craeg opened his mouth to argue—and that was when he knew he'd lost his damn mind. He'd properly met the female, what, four nights ago, tops? This was inappropriate.

Even so, his head shook back and forth. “I'm not leaving.”

“They're going to have to examine her,” Butch countered. “All of her, if you get my drift.”

Craeg cursed and took one last glance through the slowly closing door as Paradise transferred herself from the gurney to the exam table. As if sensing he was no longer with her, she glanced up in confusion, looking for him.

“I, ah . . .” Craeg cleared his throat. “I'd like to see her after she's finished.”

“If that's cool with her, you got it.”

Craeg nodded and commanded his feet to do an about-face and head back in the weight room's direction. It was a good half minute before they responded, and talk about sluggish—his legs took their damn sweet time getting him back where he needed to be.

And what do you know, Peyton was waiting outside the weight room for him.

Muttering under his breath, Craeg braced himself to fight the guy again.

“When did it happen?” the guy demanded.

“When did what happen.”

“You and her.”

The other male was staring up at him with a strange calmness that could have meant acceptance or preparation for attack. Funny, those perfect J.Crew looks and that aristocratic entitlement attitude, coupled with the
whole fancy background, made the guy a much better eHarmony candidate for a female.

And yet Paradise, for some reason, had chosen Craeg.

She had to be nuts.

“There's nothing going on between us,” Craeg said.

“Don't fucking bullshit me, okay? You've bonded with her.”

“The fuck I have.”

Peyton's blue stare made a trip around the world. Then he frowned. “Wait, you're serious.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You honestly don't recognize it. You're not aware that your bonding scent's been triggered—or of the fact that you bared your fangs at all of us when we went over to help her. You are honestly fucking unaware of all that.”

Craeg blinked like a cow for a little bit. Then he looked to the left of the guy and measured the distance between his own forehead and the concrete block wall. Maybe if he hit his skull hard enough, he could cause sufficient brain damage that his short-term memory would give him a break and he could forget he'd ever met that female.

Peyton started to laugh. “You know, I want to hate you, I really fucking do. She's one of the best females I've ever known. Instead, I feel bad for you.”

“Why's that,” Craeg snapped.

“Because you're so far gone and you're still fighting it. This is going to be fun to watch.”

“So glad I can amuse you.”

Peyton had the gall to clap him on the shoulder. “You'd better take care of her properly—or I will hunt you down and kill you. Slowly.”

Craeg stepped back. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure you don't.”

Peyton was still laughing as he turned away to open the door.

Craeg caught hold of the guy. “How do you know her?”

There was a pause. “She works at the audience house.”

“That's how I met her, too.”

“Just so we're clear, sometimes I think I'm in love with her, too.” Peyton rolled his eyes again. “God, will you stop with that?”

“With what.”

“You're snarling at me.”

Huh. What do you know. His fangs had dropped and his upper lip had curled back. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, you're not bonded. Not at all.” Peyton crossed his arms over his chest. “Anyway, before you go Cujo on my ass, I've never even kissed her. It's not there for her. Toward me, at any rate. Just as well—I'm a total fucking asshole—and she's right, I got a couple of bad habits. Anyway, remember what I said.”

“And here I was, hoping we could both forget this conversation.”

“Never going to happen, my man.” Abruptly, Peyton's eyes narrowed and pure aggression shone out of them. “Anyone who hurts that female is an enemy of mine. And I might be an aristocrat, but I am capable of going straight-up animal to protect what's mine. Got it?”

Craeg measured the guy. “I can't promise anything.”

“What's that supposed to mean.”

“I have . . . things . . . I need to do after this, and they don't include settling down and taking a mate. Bonding or no bonding, nothing is going to change that reality. Not even her—and she knows this.”

Peyton's voice dropped until it was so deep, it was barely audible. “Then you are a fool. You are a dumb motherfucking fool.” Except then the guy shrugged. “But hey, that's good news. It means I might still have a chance with her. And before I have to give you a distemper shot, fuck you. You walk away, it's on you, asshole—and I promise you, I will make a play for her serious, like.”

As Craeg's inner beast stood up and roared, it was probably best that the male walked back into the weight room at that point.

Yup.

They already had one trainee in the clinic. The class didn't need two.

Especially if that second one had to be brought there in pieces.

M
arissa talked to Butch all night long.

Even as she conducted her staff meeting, interviewed a mental health caseworker for a job, and had a little visit with Mary, in the back of her mind, she was talking to Butch.

The imaginary scenes of her going all righteous on his omissioning ass were marked with a sound track of him agreeing with her that he was a douche bag who needed twelve kinds of therapy. The fact that, over the course of the hours, he called her three times and texted her twice didn't help his cause—then again, he could have had Perry Mason pleading his case and he would still have ended up in prison for life without the possibility of ever getting laid by his
shellan
again.

She hadn't returned any of his fingers-doing-the-walking, and she told herself she was shutting him out because she wanted to choose her words carefully first. The reality was far less laudible: She felt hurt by him, rejected by him, set aside by him, and she wanted him to get a sense firsthand for how that felt.

Which was not attractive at all.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she'd never been a spiteful person, and she hated that the very thing she treasured most in the world, her relationship with her mate, had made her go sour.

And it was that sticky wicket that got her to leave work early, text him that she'd be waiting for him after training got out, and resolve to have the hard conversation they needed to.

When she arrived back at the mansion and got a gander at the grand foyer, all she could think of was the
number of people who walked through that space on a regular basis. As privacy was required, she decided to go sit down in the training center. For one thing, having made the decision to talk, she wanted to get going with Butch as soon as possible; for another, the Pit was too claustrophobic and she wasn't sure whether V or Jane had the night off.

God knew she didn't want anyone to overhear anything.

Leaving her coat and briefcase by the hidden door under the grand staircase, she entered the proper code, 1914, and jogged down the shallow steps. After putting in the same series of numbers again, she emerged into the underground tunnel and started off in the direction of the training center. From time to time, she had to wipe sweaty palms on the seat of her dress slacks, and she fussed with her hair, which she'd left down for once.

By the time she went through the supply closet and came out into the office, her heart was pounding, her mouth was dry and her stomach rolling.

After years of having suffered from panic attacks, she prayed her nerves weren't going to take her into that stretch of hell.

Checking the slim Cartier watch Butch had given her on their first anniversary, she figured she had a while to wait. An hour, at least.

Great, now she felt trapped in the glass fishbowl.

With a glance over her shoulder, she eyed the closet door and wondered if she shouldn't just walk the tunnel a couple dozen times under the exercise-clears-the-mind theory, but that didn't appeal. Besides, sooner or later, even if Butch didn't get her text, he'd have to go to the big house for Last Meal, and this was her best bet for catching him.

Looking over at the desk, she went across and sat in the office chair. Her log-in was accepted by the computer, and then she signed into the Gmail account she'd created for RSVPs to the Twelfth Month Festival Ball.

“Wow.” She leaned in toward the screen. There were countless replies waiting. “Unless you're all declines, that is.”

For godsakes, there were easily a hundred unread messages, and as she started at the top, she found . . . all yeses.

We accept with pleasure your kind invitation. . . .

But of course, both my
hellren
and I shall . . .

With great anticipation, we do humbly accept. . . .

Before she got too far into it, she opened a side drawer and took out a yellow legal pad. With a blue ink pen, she created a table with
Name
,
Reply
, and
Number
at the top. Going between the computer list and the paper, she marked the names and replies, and she was about halfway down the former when she got to her brother's name.

Double-clicking the bolded entry, she held her breath. And then exhaled.

He was not coming. With three polite sentences, he indicated that he would need to be at the clinic, but he certainly appreciated being included.

Funny, it was both a relief and strangely deflating. She'd expected him to come, especially after that initial female had mentioned that Havers had been the one to recommend her as event chair.

Sitting back, she thought about her whole confront-the-past goal. Wrath had long ago apologized to her, and the way he had so freely and warmly embraced Butch and their mating had meant so much. She'd never really dwelled on what had happened between her and the King, but as she considered their doomed betrothal, and then everything that had come afterward, she found that she had fully forgiven him. She bore him only love—and knew that he would speak with her if she wanted or needed him to. She truly was at peace with him, however.

The
glymera
, on the other hand? She remained incensed to the point of rage about them and their standards, but it wasn't like she could line up that judgmental
bunch of bullshit artists and yell at them. Living independently from all that had been a far more healthy and successful strategy.

And as for Havers? She had been planning on talking to her brother at the ball—but that would not have been a good plan, really. Talk about needing privacy—and maybe notecards. She wasn't even sure what she would say to him.

This was the problem with resolutions. You couldn't force something until you were ready for it. And her emotions were still so volatile.

Yes, she thought. Him not attending was actually going to make her life easier. And less of a spectacle for the
glymera
peanut gallery.

The answer for speaking with him was probably a little more time and maybe . . . shoot, maybe she would sit down with him and Mary—if he'd be willing? Who knew.

Butch was her main problem. And that female who had been killed, of course.

Refocusing, she finished her tallying, closed out of the account and made an estimate of the numbers. If this nearly one-hundred-percent acceptance rate kept up, they were going to have four hundred people at Abalone's. Which was twice what she'd assumed when she'd run the food and booze costs—something that, of course, as head of the event, she was expected to cover.

Guess she'd underestimated how much they wanted to see and be seen.

Sitting back, she rechecked her watch. At least she'd blown through a good thirty minutes.

Antsy, twitchy, nervous, crampy, she fussed around with the mouse, watching the little white arrow go in circles on the screen.

Man, she was still pretty angry at Butch. Even though she'd calmed down a lot, she remained hurt and—

She frowned and stopped her arrow from wandering.

At the bottom of the line-up of icons, there was a tiny
picture, a little representation of what seemed like . . . the back of her
hellren
's head?

But that couldn't be right.

Double-clicking on the image, a sign-in popped up. The username slot was already filled in with
BUTCH DHES
, and the password was blank.

There was no title anywhere, nothing to let her know what kind of file it was. And it made her sad, but given where they were at, she was suspicious of whatever it was.

Then again, when you kept certain things from your mate, the other party was likely to start questioning pretty much everything.

Putting her fingertips back to the keyboard, she entered the password he usually used:
1MARISSA1!

Sure enough, it got her into . . .

It was a video image, frozen and ready to be played, of Butch sitting at the desk, with the camera behind his head.

Hitting the play arrow, she triggered the mechanism and watched as her mate stared at that black key with the red tassel. There was no sound, so she couldn't hear anything, but she imagined the plopping noise the thing made every time it dropped on the blotter.

A young male came in the room.

Had to be one of the trainees.

And the pair of them started talking. Clearly, this had to be an interview with regard to the program—and it was not going well, if the other male's face was anything to go by.

When Butch held up the key, it became obvious they were talking about it.

Time for sound, she thought, fumbling around with various buttons. Talk about nowhere fast. After all kinds of F-whatevers not doing the job, she discovered that the speakers themselves required a turn-on—and still she got nothing. It took her for-frickin'-ever before she discovered that someone had unplugged the speakers from the tower for some reason.

“. . . what is it like?” the male asked.

Straightening, she focused on Butch's head, and he took a moment to answer the question. “Depends on how old it is and how it happened. The new stuff . . . especially if it was violent . . . can be messy.”

“What are you talking about?” she said out loud.

“Body parts really don't like to be cut, stabbed or hacked into sections, and they express their anger by leaking all over the fuck. Jesus, we're, like, seventy percent water or something? And you learn that's so fucking true when you go to a fresh scene. Pools of it. Drips of it. Speckles of it. Then you got the stained clothes, rugs, bedsheets, walls, flooring—or if it's outside, the ground cover, the concrete, the asphalt. And then there's the smell . . .”

Dear . . . God, she thought as a wave of sadness overtook her.

Butch continued. “The older cases . . . the smell is worse than the mess. Water deaths, with the bloating, are just ugly-looking—and if that gas that's built up gets out? The stench will knock you on your ass. And I wasn't too crazy for the burn deaths, either.” There was another pause. “You want to know what I always hated the most?” He motioned over his head. “The hair. The hair . . . God, the fucking hair, especially if it was a woman. Matted with blood, dirt, little rocks . . . tangled and twisted . . . laying on gray skin. When I can't sleep at night, that's what I see. I see the hair.” He began to rub his hands together. “You always wore these gloves, you know . . . so you didn't get fingerprints on anything, didn't leave any of yourself behind. Early days they used
to be latex—later they were nitrile. And sometimes, when I'd handle a body, the hair would get on the gloves . . . and it was like it wanted to get into me? Like . . . you could catch death by murder somehow.” Butch shook his head. “Those gloves were so fucking thin. And they didn't work.”

The trainee frowned. “Why did you have to wear them then?”

“No, no, they worked with fingerprints, you know. But I left something of myself behind in those dead bodies. Every one of them . . . has a piece of me in them.”

Marissa turned off the sound. Stopped the video.

Put her head in her hands.

•   •   •

“You'll be good as new in the morning.”

As Doc Jane handed over a mirror, Paradise braced herself for her reflection—but actually, it wasn't that bad. “How many stitches is that?”

“Twelve. But you'll heal with no scar whatsoever.”

Reaching up, she touched just under the line of tiny black knots that was next to her eyebrow. “I bled so much, you would have sworn I needed a hundred.”

Doc Jane put a little white bandage over her handi – work and then the snapping sound of examination gloves being taken off echoed in the tiled room. “That area has a high degree of vascularization. You might want to feed if it's been a while—it's not an emergency at all, but you did lose some blood and you guys are working awfully hard in there.”

Or, in her case, losing her concentration and making an ass out of herself.

“You can wait for the bus to take you back, or if you don't want to hang around, I can have one of the
doggen
take you out to a secure place to dematerialize from.”

Dropping the mirror, Paradise tried to imagine what her father would say if he saw her face. “Can I stay here for the day? I can't . . . I don't want to go home looking like this.”

V's mate smiled, her forest-green eyes kind as she pushed a hand through her cropped blond hair. “I was thinking the same thing, actually—but I'm not about to make anyone stay here unless it is medically necessary. And in your case, it's not. It's just maybe . . . a little easier on your dad.”

“Is it okay if I go call him on my cell?”

“Sure. If you can't get a signal—and some people cannot—there's a landline in the cafeteria you can use.”

“Thank you so much,” she said as she shifted her legs off the table. “I didn't feel a thing while you were putting the stitches in.”

“You're doing great, Paradise. Everybody's so proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

She looked down as she landed on her feet and grimaced. There were specks of blood on her Brooks—which was not a big deal as long as she didn't wear the sneakers around her father.

Yup, she definitely needed to crash here, she thought as she emerged into the corridor.

It wasn't until she'd gone down the hall and pushed open the door to the break room that she realized . . .

She and Craeg were going to be in the same facility.

For the entire day.

As her body did that math and came up with a totally buck-naked answer, she figured, What the hell, if she had to get put together with a needle and thread, she might as well take advantage of someone kissing her to make it feel better.

Mmmm.

Going over to where she'd left her satchel on the floor with some of the others' bags, she picked the thing up and put it on the nearest table. Unzipping the top, she rifled through, searching for her phone. She didn't find it.