J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [321]
See? He was fine. He really was.
When steam began to waft up all around him, he forced himself to take off his coat and his Versace suit and his Pink shirt. The clothes were utterly trashed, and his sable hadn’t fared much better. He put them in a pile for dry cleaning and mending.
On the way to the hot water, he walked by the long mirror over the bank of glass sinks. Turning toward his reflection, he ran his hands down the five-pointed red stars on his chest. Then he went lower and cupped his cock.
Would have been nice to have some sex after all that, or at least cleanse his body’s palate with a good hand job. Or three.
As he hefted himself in his palms, he couldn’t ignore the fact that his left forearm looked like it had been put through a meat grinder from all his injections.
Side effects just sucked.
He stepped under the water and knew that it was hot only because of the milky, humid air around him and the way his core temperature let out a huge sigh of relief. His skin told him nothing, not how hard the spray was hitting his shoulders, not that the bar of soap he passed over himself was smooth and slippery, not that his palm was broad and warm as it followed the suds and swept them off to the drain below.
He kept it up with the soap routine longer than was necessary. Thing was he couldn’t stand to go to bed with any kind of dirt on him, but more than that, he needed the excuse to stay in the shower. This was one of the few times he was warm enough, and the shock of stepping out was always a bitch.
Ten minutes later, he was naked between the sheets of his king-sized bed and had his thick mink blanket up to his chin like a child. As the inner chill from having toweled off faded, he closed his eyes and willed the lights off.
His club on the other side of the steel-paneled walls would be empty by now. His girls would be home for the day, as most of them had kids. His bartenders and bookies would be grabbing a bite and unwinding somewhere. His backroom scale staff of geeks would be watching Star Trek: TNG reruns. And his twenty-person cleaning crew would be finished with the floors and the tables and the bathrooms and the banquettes and be ditching their uniforms and heading off to their next job.
He liked the idea that he was here alone. It didn’t happen often.
As his phone went off, he cursed and was reminded that even if he was by himself, there were always people yapping at him.
He sneaked his arm out to answer the thing. “Xhex, if you want to keep arguing, let’s TO until tomorrow—”
“Not Xhex, symphath.” Zsadist’s voice was tight as a fist. “And I’m calling about your sister.”
Rehv sat up, not caring that the blankets dropped from his body. “What.”
When he hung up with Zsadist, he lay back down, thinking this had to be what you felt like when you thought you were having a heart attack, but it turned out just to be indigestion: relieved, but still sick to your stomach.
Bella was okay. For now. The Brother had called because he was keeping to the deal they’d struck. Rehv had promised he wouldn’t interfere, but he wanted to be in the loop about how she was doing.
Man, this pregnancy thing was awful.
He pulled the covers up to his chin again. He needed to call his mother and give her the update, but he’d do that later. She would just be retiring for bed, and there was no reason to keep her up all day long worrying.
God, Bella . . . his darling Bella, no longer his baby sister, now a Brother’s shellan.
The two of them had always had a deep, complicated relationship. In part, it was their personalities, but it was also because she had no idea what he was. No clue either about their mother’s past or what had killed her father.
Or who, was more like it.
Rehv had murdered to protect his sister, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. For as long as he could remember, Bella had been the only innocence in his life, the only purity. He’d wanted to keep her like