J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4 - J. R. Ward [325]
“When did she go unto the Fade?” Wrath asked.
Rhage just shook his head and went over to one of the windows. He stared out of it even though the shutters were down and he couldn’t see anything.
Butch, who was floored by the death that had apparently come so fast, didn’t know whether to continue or not. He glanced at Wrath, who shook his head and then got to his feet.
“Rhage? My brother? What can we do for you?”
Rhage looked over his shoulder. He stared at each one of the males in the room, ending on Wrath. “I can’t go out tonight.”
“Of course not. And we will stay in and mourn with you.”
“No,” Rhage said sharply. “Bella’s out there. Find her. Don’t let her…go.”
“But is there anything we can do for you?”
“I can’t…I find that I can’t concentrate. On anything. I can’t really…” Rhage’s eyes drifted to Zsadist. “How do you live with it? All the anger. The pain. The…”
Z shifted uneasily and stared at the floor.
Rhage turned his back to the group.
The silence in the room stretched out.
And then with a slow, halting walk, Zsadist went over to Rhage. When he was standing next to the brother, he didn’t say a word, didn’t lift a hand, didn’t make a sound. He just crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his shoulder into Rhage’s.
Rhage jerked as if surprised. The two men looked at each other. And then both stared out the obscured window.
“Continue,” Rhage commanded in a dead voice.
Wrath sat back down behind the desk. And Butch started to speak again.
By eight o’clock that night, Zsadist was finished at Bella’s.
He poured the last bucket of suds out in the kitchen sink and then put the container and the mop away in the closet next to the garage door.
Her house was now clean and everything was back where it needed to be. When she came home, all she would see was a whole lot of normal.
He fingered the small chain with little diamonds in it that was at his throat. He’d found the thing on the floor the night before, and after he’d fixed the broken link he’d put it on. It barely went around his neck.
He scanned the kitchen one more time and then took the stairs down to her bedroom. He’d refolded her clothes neatly. Slid the dresser drawers back in place. Lined up her perfume bottles again on the vanity. Vacuumed.
Now he opened her closet and touched her blouses and sweaters and dresses. He leaned in and breathed deeply. He could smell her, and the scent made his chest burn.
Those fucking bastards were going to bleed for her. He was going to tear them apart with his bare hands until their black blood ran over him like a waterfall.
With vengeance throbbing in his veins, he went over to her bed and sat down. Moving slowly, as if he might crash the frame, he lay back and put his head on her pillows. There was a spiral-bound book on top of the duvet and he picked it up. Her handwriting filled the pages.
He was illiterate, so he couldn’t understand the words, but they were beautifully composed, her penmanship curling into a lovely pattern over the paper.
On a random page, he caught the one word that he could read.
Zsadist.
She’d written his name. He flipped through the journal, looking closely. She’d written his name a lot recently. He cringed as he imagined the content.
Closing the book, he returned it to the precise spot it had been in. Then he glanced to the right. There was a hair ribbon on the bed stand, as if she’d whipped the thing off before getting into bed. He picked it up and wound the black satin through his fingers.
Butch appeared at the base of the stairs.
Z shot up off the bed as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. Which, of course, he had been. He shouldn’t be all over Bella’s private space.
But at least Butch didn’t seem any more comfortable than he was at their meeting.
“What the hell are you doing here, cop?”
“I wanted to look at the scene again. But I see you’re handy with a paper towel.”
Zsadist glared across