“What happens if I pinch your ass next?” the angel called out.
“Try it and you’ll find that immortality, like time, is relative.”
“You know you love me!”
Vishous was shaking his head as he pushed his way back out into the corridor. Lassiter was like a head cold, contagious, annoying and nothing you ever looked forward to.
And yet he was glad the fucker was in there. Even if Xcor was little more than a piece of furniture.
TWENTY
Beth Randall, mated of the Blind King, Wrath son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, Queen of all vampires, headed back for the Pit’s front door even though Doc Jane was still taping up the bandage on her freshly stitched hand.
“This is great! Thanks—”
V’s mate was following along at a jog, the pair of them dodging a gym bag, a duffel . . . a blow-up doll that really, totally needed clothes. “You need to seriously stop!”
“It’ll be fine—”
“Beth!” Jane fumbled with her roll of white surgical tape and started laughing. “I can’t get this end—”
“I’ll do it—”
“What’s the hurry?”
Beth stopped. “I left L.W. with Rhage in the kitchen.”
Doc Jane blinked. “Oh, God—go!”
Beth was summarily shoved out of the Pit with the tape, and she finished the job while bolting across the courtyard, biting the strip off with her teeth and smoothing the sticky stuff onto the white gauze that had been wrapped around the heel of her palm. Taking the steps up to the mansion’s grand entrance on a oner, she peeled open the door to the vestibule and put her face into the camera.
“Come on . . . open,” she muttered as she transferred her weight back and forth on her feet.
Rhage wasn’t going to hurt the kid. At least, not intentionally. But holy crap, she was channeling visions of Annie Potts babysitting in Ghostbusters 2, feeding an infant French pizza.
When the lock finally was sprung from the inside, she pile-drove into the foyer, bolting past the maid who’d opened the way in for her.
“My Queen!” the doggen said as she bowed.
“Oh, jeez, sorry, I’m sorry! Thank you!”
No clue what exactly she was apologizing for as she hightailed it through the empty dining room and pushed her way into—
Beth skidded to a halt.
Rhage was seated by himself at the table and had L.W. up on his shoulder, the baby nestled in close to his neck, that huge arm cradling the infant with all the protectiveness any parent could have shown. The Brother was staring straight ahead over his half-eaten display of carbs and nearly-consumed pot of coffee.
Tears were rolling down his face.
“Rhage?” Beth said softly. “What’s wrong?”
Putting the tape roll on the counter, she padded over to the pair of them—and when he didn’t acknowledge her, she laid her fingertips on his shoulder. And still he didn’t respond.
She spoke a little louder. “Rhage—”
He jerked and looked at her in surprise. “Oh, hey. Is your hand okay?”
The male didn’t seem to be aware of his emotions. And for some very sad reason, it seemed appropriate that he was surrounded by the chaos of his meal, open sleeves of bagels and bread scattered across the rough, wooden table, sticks of butter and blocks of cream cheese and smeared napkins all around him.
He was, in this quiet moment, as undone as everything before him.
Kneeling down, she touched his arm. “Rhage, sweetheart, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.” The smile that hit that handsome face was empty. “I stopped him from crying.”
“Yes, you did. Thank you.”
Rhage nodded. And then shook his head. “Here, I should give him back now.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Hold him as long as you like. He really trusts you—I’ve never seen him settle for anyone but Wrath or me.”
“I, ah . . . I patted him on the back. You know. Just like you guys do.” Rhage cleared his throat. “I’ve been watching you with him. You and Wrath.”
Now he resumed staring across the empty kitchen.
“Not in a creepy way,” he tacked on.
“Of course not.”
“But I’ve been . . .” He swallowed hard. “I’m crying. Aren’t I.”
“Yes.” Reaching out, she took a paper napkin from a holder. “Here.”
Rising to her full height, she dried under his beautiful teal blue eyes—and thought of the first time she’d met him. It had been at her father, Darius’s, old house. Rhage had been stitching himself up at one of the bathroom sinks, working the thread and needle through his own skin as if it were no big deal.
This is nothing. It’s when you can use your lower intestine for a belt loop that you have to see the pros.
Or something to that effect.
And then she remembered later, after the beast had come out of him and he’d had to lie down in her father’s underground bedroom to recover. She had given him his Alka-Seltzer and soothed him in his blindness and discomfort as much as she could.
How far they had both come.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
She watched as his palm went in circles over L.W.’s little back.
“Nothing.” His lips stretched into what he clearly meant to be another smile. “Just enjoying a quiet time with your amazing son. You’re so lucky. You and Wrath are so lucky.”
“Try it and you’ll find that immortality, like time, is relative.”
“You know you love me!”
Vishous was shaking his head as he pushed his way back out into the corridor. Lassiter was like a head cold, contagious, annoying and nothing you ever looked forward to.
And yet he was glad the fucker was in there. Even if Xcor was little more than a piece of furniture.
TWENTY
Beth Randall, mated of the Blind King, Wrath son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, Queen of all vampires, headed back for the Pit’s front door even though Doc Jane was still taping up the bandage on her freshly stitched hand.
“This is great! Thanks—”
V’s mate was following along at a jog, the pair of them dodging a gym bag, a duffel . . . a blow-up doll that really, totally needed clothes. “You need to seriously stop!”
“It’ll be fine—”
“Beth!” Jane fumbled with her roll of white surgical tape and started laughing. “I can’t get this end—”
“I’ll do it—”
“What’s the hurry?”
Beth stopped. “I left L.W. with Rhage in the kitchen.”
Doc Jane blinked. “Oh, God—go!”
Beth was summarily shoved out of the Pit with the tape, and she finished the job while bolting across the courtyard, biting the strip off with her teeth and smoothing the sticky stuff onto the white gauze that had been wrapped around the heel of her palm. Taking the steps up to the mansion’s grand entrance on a oner, she peeled open the door to the vestibule and put her face into the camera.
“Come on . . . open,” she muttered as she transferred her weight back and forth on her feet.
Rhage wasn’t going to hurt the kid. At least, not intentionally. But holy crap, she was channeling visions of Annie Potts babysitting in Ghostbusters 2, feeding an infant French pizza.
When the lock finally was sprung from the inside, she pile-drove into the foyer, bolting past the maid who’d opened the way in for her.
“My Queen!” the doggen said as she bowed.
“Oh, jeez, sorry, I’m sorry! Thank you!”
No clue what exactly she was apologizing for as she hightailed it through the empty dining room and pushed her way into—
Beth skidded to a halt.
Rhage was seated by himself at the table and had L.W. up on his shoulder, the baby nestled in close to his neck, that huge arm cradling the infant with all the protectiveness any parent could have shown. The Brother was staring straight ahead over his half-eaten display of carbs and nearly-consumed pot of coffee.
Tears were rolling down his face.
“Rhage?” Beth said softly. “What’s wrong?”
Putting the tape roll on the counter, she padded over to the pair of them—and when he didn’t acknowledge her, she laid her fingertips on his shoulder. And still he didn’t respond.
She spoke a little louder. “Rhage—”
He jerked and looked at her in surprise. “Oh, hey. Is your hand okay?”
The male didn’t seem to be aware of his emotions. And for some very sad reason, it seemed appropriate that he was surrounded by the chaos of his meal, open sleeves of bagels and bread scattered across the rough, wooden table, sticks of butter and blocks of cream cheese and smeared napkins all around him.
He was, in this quiet moment, as undone as everything before him.
Kneeling down, she touched his arm. “Rhage, sweetheart, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.” The smile that hit that handsome face was empty. “I stopped him from crying.”
“Yes, you did. Thank you.”
Rhage nodded. And then shook his head. “Here, I should give him back now.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Hold him as long as you like. He really trusts you—I’ve never seen him settle for anyone but Wrath or me.”
“I, ah . . . I patted him on the back. You know. Just like you guys do.” Rhage cleared his throat. “I’ve been watching you with him. You and Wrath.”
Now he resumed staring across the empty kitchen.
“Not in a creepy way,” he tacked on.
“Of course not.”
“But I’ve been . . .” He swallowed hard. “I’m crying. Aren’t I.”
“Yes.” Reaching out, she took a paper napkin from a holder. “Here.”
Rising to her full height, she dried under his beautiful teal blue eyes—and thought of the first time she’d met him. It had been at her father, Darius’s, old house. Rhage had been stitching himself up at one of the bathroom sinks, working the thread and needle through his own skin as if it were no big deal.
This is nothing. It’s when you can use your lower intestine for a belt loop that you have to see the pros.
Or something to that effect.
And then she remembered later, after the beast had come out of him and he’d had to lie down in her father’s underground bedroom to recover. She had given him his Alka-Seltzer and soothed him in his blindness and discomfort as much as she could.
How far they had both come.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
She watched as his palm went in circles over L.W.’s little back.
“Nothing.” His lips stretched into what he clearly meant to be another smile. “Just enjoying a quiet time with your amazing son. You’re so lucky. You and Wrath are so lucky.”
