Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 11-15 - Laurell K. Hamilton [807]
“If you’re mad about something, say so. If you’re not, then stop the whole angry teasing routine.”
Damian’s grip on my hand tightened. Maybe he was just feeling stronger, or maybe he was trying to remind me not to get angry. One of his jobs as my vampire servant was to help me fight off those angry impulses. His own iron self-control had been forged by she-who-made-him. Any strong emotion was eventually punished, horribly punished. I’d shared enough of Damian’s memories to know that his creator made Belle Morte seem the heart of kindness by comparison. Damian had learned to control all his emotions, his urges, because to do otherwise had been disaster.
He gripped my hand, not as tight as normal. He wasn’t well, by any means, but I felt calm flow from him to me. That calm not of gentle meditation and the modern ideal of peace of mind, but of the older ideal, when control was carved from pain and hardship, and painted in scars across your flesh.
“Is Damian whispering peaceful things in your head, Anita?” Asher asked. His tone was still teasing and light, but underneath was a razor’s edge of spite.
“You know how wanting total honesty is just another way for me to be a pain in the ass,” I said.
Asher looked at me, his eyes like winter sky. “Yes.”
“What you’re doing now is your way of being angry without being angry. Teasing with a bite to it.”
He wrapped his arms around the post, letting his hair slide forward to hide the scarred side of his face. It was an old trick, one he rarely did when it was just Jean-Claude and me. He gazed at the room with the perfection of his profile framed by his glittering froth of hair.
“Am I angry?” He made the question winsome.
“Yes,” I said, and it was a statement. “Question is, what are you angry about?”
“I have not admitted to being angry.” But he kept that perfect profile, that shine of hair, so that he showed himself to what he considered his best advantage. He was breathtaking, but I’d begun to value the full-face view, imperfections and all, more than this angry coyness. This show meant he was uncomfortable, or trying to persuade us to do something. Asher seldom flirted without an agenda. Sometimes it was foreplay, or just to make us smile, but other times…well, I did not trust his mood.
“Asher wants me to know who you fed on, and you don’t want me to know.” Richard had summed it up nicely.
I hung my head. Damian laid his lips against my knuckles, not quite a kiss. I only had to open my eyes to stare down into his face, where he lay on the bed. He gazed up at me, and his eyes held not sympathy, but strength, control. You can do this, his eyes seemed to say, you can do this, because you must. He was right.
I looked up at Richard. I thought about raising the sheet and hiding my breasts, but everyone left in the room had seen them before. Modesty wouldn’t get me out of Richard’s reaction to my newest conquest.
“Who was it?” he asked.
I turned to Asher, and said, “You told me earlier today that you were sorry, that you were putting your hurt feelings ahead of my disaster. You apologized, and tried to make amends. Is that all your apology is worth, Asher? An hour of remorse, and you go back to being a bastard?”
His eyes flashed with anger, and his power trailed over my body like a cold wind. Then he swallowed it, the power, the anger. He turned a mild, if empty, face to me. “I can only apologize once more, ma cherie, you are absolutely right. I am throwing a fit.” He stepped away from the bed, and did a low, sweeping bow that trailed the edge of his hair on the floor. He rose up with a flourish, as if he were moving a cape with one hand.
“Why are you throwing a fit?” I asked.
“Truth?” He made it a question.
I nodded, not truly certain I wanted this particular truth.
“Because he will never be my lover. He will be your lover, but never ours together.”
For a moment I wasn’t sure which he he was talking about it.