J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4 - J. R. Ward [348]
The room he slept in was at the end of the corridor, and as he opened the door he hit a wall of cold. He never turned on the heat or the air-conditioning, just like he never slept in the bed or used the phone or put anything in the antique bureaus. The closet was the only thing he needed, and he went there to disarm. His weapons and ammo were kept in the fireproof cabinet in the back, and his four shirts and three sets of leathers hung closely together. With nothing much in the walk-in, he often thought of bones as he went inside, all the empty hangers and brass rods looking spindly and fragile.
He stripped and showered. He was hungry for food, but he liked to keep himself that way. The pang of starvation, the dry yearning of thirst…these denials that were within his control always eased him. Hell, if he could pull off not sleeping, he’d take that away from himself, too. And the goddamned bloodlust…
He wanted to be clean. On the inside.
When he got out of the shower he ran a buzz razor over his head to keep his hair tight to his skull and then did a quick shave. Naked, chilled, logy from the feeding, he went over to his pallet on the floor. As he stood above the two folded blankets that offered as much cushioning as a pair of Band-Aids, he thought of Bella’s bed. Hers had been queen-sized and all white. White pillowcases and sheets, big, white Wonder bread comforter, a white poodlelike throw at the foot of it.
He’d lain on her bed. Often. Had liked to think he could smell her in it. Sometimes he’d even rolled around on top, the softness giving way under his hard body. It was almost as if she had touched him then, and better than if she actually had. He couldn’t stand to have anyone put their hands to him…though he wished he’d let Bella find a piece of his flesh just once. With her, he might have been able to handle it.
His eyes shifted to the skull that sat on the floor next to the pallet. The eye sockets were black holes, and he pictured the iris-and-pupil combination that had once stared out at him. Between the teeth there was a strip of black leather about two inches wide. Traditionally words of devotion to the deceased were inscribed on it, but the strap these jaws bit down on was blank.
As he lay down, he put his head next to the thing and the past came back, the year 1802….
The slave came partially awake. He was flat on his back and he ached all over, though he couldn’t think of why…until he remembered going into his transition the night before. For hours he’d been crippled by the pain of his muscles sprouting, his bones thickening, his body transforming into something huge.
Strange…verily, his neck and his wrists hurt in a differing way.
He opened his eyes. The ceiling was far above him and marked with thin black bars inset into stone. When he turned his head, he saw an oak door with more bars running vertically down its thick planks. On the wall, too, there were strips of steel…In the dungeon. He was in the dungeon, but why? And he’d best get to his duties before…
He tried to sit up, but his forearms and shins were pinned down. Eyes going wide, he jerked—
“Mind y’self!” It was the blacksmith. And he was tattooing black bands on the slave’s drinking points.
Oh, dear Virgin in the Fade, no. Not this…
The slave fought against the holds, and the other male looked up, annoyed. “Settle! I’ll not be whipped for a fault that’d be not mine own.”
“I beg of you…” The slave’s voice didn’t sound right. It was too deep. “Have mercy.”
He heard a soft, female laugh. The Mistress of the household had entered the cell, her long gown of white silk trailing behind her on the stone floor, her blond hair down around her shoulders.
The slave dropped his eyes as was appropriate and realized he was wholly unclothed. Flushing, embarrassed, he wished he were covered.
“You wake,” she said, approaching