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She kept going, tracing over more spines and more names.

VISHOUS

SON OF THE BLOODLETTER

428

There was only one volume, and it was thinner than her finger. As she slid it free, she smoothed her palm over the cover, her heart pounding. The binding was stiff as she opened it, as if the book had been rarely breached. Which indeed it had not been. There was no portrait nor carefully penned tribute to his fighting skills, only a birth date that indicated he’d be three hundred and three years old soon, and a notation of when he was inducted into the Brotherhood. She turned the page. There was no mention of his lineage save for the Bloodletter, and the rest of the book was blank.

Replacing it, she returned to the father’s volumes and pulled out the third in the set. She read about the sire in hopes of learning something about the son that might allay her fears, but what she found was a level of cruelty that made her pray the Primale took after his mother, whoever that might be. The Bloodletter was indeed the right name for the warrior, for he was brutal on vampires and lessers alike.

Flipping to the back, she found on the last page a recording of his death date, though no mention of the manner. She took out the first volume and opened it to see the portrait. The father had had jet-black hair and a full beard and eyes that made her want to put the book away and never open it again.

After replacing the tome, she sat down on the floor. At the conclusion of the Scribe Virgin’s sequester the Bloodletter’s son would come for Cormia, and he would take her body as his rightful possession. She couldn’t imagine what the act entailed or what the male did, and dreaded the sexual lessons.

At least as Primale he would lay with others, she told herself. Many others, some of whom who had been trained to pleasure males. No doubt he would prefer them. If she had any luck at all, she would be rarely visited.

Chapter Thirteen

As Butch stretched out on Vishous’s bed, V was ashamed to admit it, but he’d spent a lot of days wondering what this would be like. Feel like. Smell like. Now that it was reality, he was glad he had to concentrate on healing Butch. Otherwise he had a feeling it would be too intense and he’d have to pull away.

As his chest brushed against Butch’s, he tried to tell himself he didn’t need this. He tried to pretend that he didn’t need this feel of someone beside him, that he wasn’t eased as he lay head-to-toe with another person, that he didn’t care about the warmth and the weight against his body.

That the healing of the cop didn’t heal him.

But that was, of course, all bullshit. As V wrapped his arms around Butch and opened himself up to take in the Omega’s evil, he needed it all. With the visit from his mother and the shooting, he craved the closeness of another, needed to feel arms that returned his embrace. He had to have the beat of a heart against his own.

He spent so much time keeping his hand away from others, keeping himself apart from others. To let down his guard with the one person he truly trusted made his eyes sting.

Good thing he never cried or his cheeks would be wet as stones in a river.

As Butch shuddered in relief, Vishous felt the trembling in the male’s shoulders and hips. Knowing it was illicit, but unable to stop himself, V took his tattooed hand and buried it deep into Butch’s nape. While the cop let out another groan and moved closer, V shifted his eyes over to his surgeon.

She was over by the chair, watching them, her eyes wide, her mouth open slightly.

The only reason V didn’t feel awkward as hell was because he knew that when she left she would have no memories of this private moment. Otherwise he couldn’t have handled it. Shit like this didn’t happen often in his life—mostly because he didn’t let it. And he was damned if he’d have some stranger remembering his private biz.

Except…she didn’t really feel like a stranger.

His surgeon’s hand went to her throat, and she sank down into the seat of the chair. As time stretched out languidly, uncurling like