J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [159]
Of course she’d be terrified of him.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, drawing hard on his hand-rolled, then tapping on it. He was ashing on the amphitheater’s marble stage, but he didn’t give a fuck. “I totally underestimated how hard this would be for you. I assumed…”
He’d assumed she’d be hot to trot for him or some shit. Instead, she was no better off than he was.
“Yeah, I’m damn sorry.”
As her lids peeled back in surprise, the jade color of her eyes gleamed.
In what he hoped passed for a gentler tone, he said, “Do you want this…?” He moved the hand that held the cigarette back and forth between them. “This mating?” When she stayed quiet, he shook his head. “Look, I can see it in your eyes. You want to run from me, and not just because you’re scared. You want to run from what we’re going to have to do, right?”
She brought her hands to her face, the heavy folds of the robe riding down her thin arms and choking the crooks of her elbows. In a small voice she said, “I couldn’t bear to let down the Chosen. I…I will do what I must for the good of the whole.”
Well, wasn’t that the theme song for the both of them.
“As will I,” he murmured.
Neither of them said another word and he didn’t know what to do. He was no good with females to begin with, and he was even worse now that he was damaged goods from letting Jane go.
Abruptly he whipped his head around, aware that they were not alone. “You, behind the column. Come out. Now.”
A Chosen stepped into view, head bowed, body tense beneath her traditional white wrap. “Sire.”
“What are you doing here?”
As the Chosen stared meekly at the marble floor, he thought, Lord save him from the subservience. Funny, during sex he’d demanded it. Now the shit annoyed the hell out of him.
“You’d better have come to comfort her,” he growled. “If it’s anything other than that, you need to get the hell out of here.”
“It is for comfort,” the Chosen said softly. “I worry for her.”
“What’s your name?”
“Chosen.”
“For fuck’s sake!” As both she and Cormia jumped, he forced his temper deep into his gut. “What is your name?”
“Amalya.”
“Okay, then, Amalya. I want you to take care of her until I get back. That’s an order.” As the Chosen did some bowing and vowing, he took a last drag on the hand-rolled, then licked two of his fingers and pressed them to the tip. As he put the butt in the pocket of his robe, he wondered for no good reason why in the hell everyone had to wear fucking pajamas on the other side.
He glanced at Cormia. “See you in two days.”
V left without looking back, walking up the white grass of the hill, avoiding the white silk path that had been laid out. When he came to the Scribe Virgin’s courtyard, he prayed like hell he didn’t run into her, and thanked God she wasn’t around. The last thing he needed was a postgame wrap-up with the likes of Momzilla.
Under the watchful eyes of all those songbirds, he launched himself back to the real world, but he didn’t go to the mansion.
He went exactly where he didn’t need to be: He took form across the street from Jane’s condo. It was a bad fucking idea on a skyscraper scale, but he was half-dead from sorrow and not thinking right, and besides, he didn’t give a shit about anything. Not even the lines that couldn’t be crossed between humans and his kind.
The night was cold, and he was barely dressed in the fakata ceremony clothes, but he didn’t care. He was so numbed-out and wrecked in the head, he could have been naked in a sleet storm and not noticed—
What the hell.
There was a car in her driveway. A Porsche Carrera 4S. Same one Z had, only Z’s was iron gray and this number was silver.
V hadn’t intended to get closer than across the street, but that plan was blown out of the water as he inhaled and caught the scent of a male emanating from the convertible. It was that doctor, the one who’d pulled the lothario shit