J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [52]
Her lids popped wide.
The guy in the Red Sox hat came in with an astonishingly beautiful blond woman at his side. He stood close to her, and though they weren’t touching, it was clear that they were a couple. They just belonged together.
The patient spoke up in a rasp. “No.”
“You’ve got to,” Red Sox said.
“You told me…you’d kill me if I ever—”
“Extenuating circumstances.”
“Layla—”
“Fed Rhage this afternoon, and we can’t get another Chosen here without tangoing with the Directrix. Which would take time you don’t have.”
The blond woman approached the patient’s bed and sat down slowly. Dressed in a black suit with tailored pants, she seemed like a lawyer or a businessperson, and yet she was wildly feminine with her long, luxurious hair.
“Use me.” She extended her wrist over the patient’s mouth, hovering it just above his lips. “If only because we need you strong so you can take care of him.”
There was no question who the “him” was. Red Sox looked sicker than he had when Jane had first seen him, and the clinician in her wondered exactly what the “taking care of” involved.
Meanwhile, Red Sox stepped back until he hit the opposite wall. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he held on to himself.
In a soft voice, the blonde said, “He and I talked about it. You’ve done so much for us—”
“Not…for you.”
“He’s alive because of you. So that’s everything.” The blonde reached out as if she were going to smooth the patient’s hair, but then took her hand back as he flinched. “Let us care for you. Just this once.”
The patient looked across the room at Red Sox. When Red Sox nodded, the patient cursed and closed his eyes. Then opened his mouth….
Holy shit. His pronounced canines had elongated. Sharply pointed before, now they were positively fanglike.
Okay, clearly this was a dream. Yup. Because that just didn’t happen to cosmetically enhanced teeth. Ever.
As the patient bared his “fangs,” the man with the multicolored hair stepped in front of Red Sox, braced both hands on the wall, and leaned in until their chests almost touched.
But then the patient shook his head and turned away from the wrist. “Can’t.”
“I need you,” Red Sox whispered. “I’m sick from what I do. I need you.”
The patient fixated on Red Sox, a powerful yearning flashing in his diamond eyes. “Only for…you…not me.”
“For both of us.”
“All of us,” the blond woman interjected.
The patient took a deep breath, then—Christ!—bit into the blonde’s wrist. The strike was fast and decisive as a cobra’s, and as he locked on, the woman jumped, then exhaled with what seemed like relief. Across the room, Red Sox trembled all over, looking bereft and desperate while the one with the multicolored hair blocked his way without coming into contact with him.
The patient’s head started to move in a rhythm, as if he were a baby nursing at a breast. But he couldn’t be drinking from there, could he?
Yeah, the hell he couldn’t.
Dream. This was all a dream. A loony-bin dream. Wasn’t it? Oh, God, she hoped it was. Otherwise she was stuck in some kind of Gothic nightmare.
When it was done, her patient eased back onto the pillows, and the woman licked herself where his mouth had been.
“Rest now,” she said, before turning to Red Sox. “Are you okay?”
He shook his head back and forth. “I want to touch you, but I can’t. I want in you, but…I can’t.”
The patient spoke up. “Lie with me. Now.”
“You can’t handle it,” Red Sox said in a reedy, hoarse voice.
“You need it now. I’m ready.”
“The hell you are. And I have to lie down. I’ll be back later after I have a rest—”
The door flew open again, light spilling in from what looked like a hallway, and a huge man with black hair down to his waist and wraparound sunglasses on stalked in. This was trouble. His cruel face suggested he might get off on torturing people, and the glare in his eyes made her wonder