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As he dematerialized back to the mansion to report in, it dawned on him that even if his mother had said no, he still would have picked Jane over the Scribe Virgin. No matter what it cost him.

And the Scribe Virgin had known that all along, hadn’t she. Which was why she’d forsaken him.

Whatever. All he really cared about was getting to Jane. Things were looking up, but he was so not out of the woods yet. She could, after all, still say no. She could very well choose the life she knew over a dangerous half existence with a vampire.

Damn it, though, he wanted her to pick him.

V was taking shape in his bedroom and thinking of the way it had been with Jane the night before…when it dawned on him he’d done the unforgivable: He’d finished inside of her. Goddamn it. He’d been so in his head, he’d forgotten that he’d left some of himself behind. She must be going mad by now.

He was such a bastard. A thoughtless, selfish bastard.

And he actually thought he had something to offer her?

Chapter Forty

As night fell, Phury pulled on the white silks for the Primale ceremony. He didn’t feel them on his skin, and not because they were made of such delicate cloth. He’d been smoking blunts for the last two hours straight, so he was pretty well numbed-out.

Though not so faced that when the knock came on his door, he didn’t know exactly who it was.

“Come in,” he said, without turning away from the mirror over his dresser. “And what are you doing out of bed?”

Bella let out a laugh. Or maybe it was a sob. “One hour a day, remember. I have fifty-two minutes left.”

He picked up the gold Primale medallion and put it around his neck. The weight of it settled onto his chest like someone had a palm between his pecs and was leaning into him. Hard.

“Are you sure about this?” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“I guess Z’s going with you?”

“He’s my witness.” Phury stabbed out his hand-rolled. Picked up another. Lit it.

“When will you be back?”

He shook his head as he exhaled. “The Primale lives on the Other Side.”

“Vishous wasn’t going to.”

“Special arrangement. I’ll still fight, but I want to stay over there.”

As she gasped, he stared at his reflection in the mirror’s antique glass. His hair was damp and tangled at the ends, so he grabbed a brush and started yanking it through.

“Phury, what are you…You can’t go to the ceremony bald—Stop. God, you’re ripping your hair out.” She came up behind him, took the brush from his hand, and pointed to the chaise next to the window. “Sit. Let me do it.”

“No, thanks. I can—”

“You’re too hard on yourself. Go on now.” She gave him a little shove to the left. “Let me do it.”

For no good reason, and a lot of bad ones, he went over and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest and bracing himself. Bella started at the bottom of his mane, the brush clipping the ends first, then working its way up until he felt it come down on the crown of his head and slowly get drawn all the way out. Her free palm followed the strokes, smoothing, soothing. The sound of the bristles going through his hair and the tug on his forehead and her scent in his nose were bittersweet pleasures that left him defenseless.

Tears matted his lashes. It seemed so cruel to have met her, to see what he wanted but never be able to have it. Although that was fitting, wasn’t it. He’d always lived his life with things out of his reach. First he’d spent decades searching for his twin, sensing that Zsadist was alive in the world but being unable to rescue him. Then he’d freed his brother, only to find that the male was still far from in hand. The century that had followed their escape from Z’s Mistress had been a different kind of hell, with him always waiting for Z to lose it, interceding when the brother did, and worrying when the next round of drama would get started.

Then Bella had come and they’d both fallen in love with her.

Bella was the old torture in a new guise, wasn’t she. Because his was a destiny of yearning, of being outside