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The payback had been the death of that special look.

The solace she took was that among the males who were likely to try to come after her—Rehvenge, iAm, and Trez . . . the Brotherhood—John was not on a crusade. If he was searching for her, it was because he had to as a soldier, not because he was compelled to as part of a personal suicide mission.

No, John Matthew wouldn’t be on the warpath because of how he felt about her.

And having already watched a male of worth destroy himself trying to rescue her, at least she didn’t have to do that again.

As the smell of fresh grilling steak permeated the brownstone, she shut off her thoughts and gathered her will around her like a suit of armor.

Her “lover” would be here any minute, so she needed to batten down her mental hatches and get ready for tonight’s battle. Pervasive exhaustion dragged at her, but her will ushered that deadweight out on its ass. She needed to feed, even more than she needed proper sleep, but neither of those was happening anytime soon.

It was a question of putting one foot in front of the other until something broke.

That and taking out the male who dared to hold her against her will.

TWO

Chronologically speaking, Blaylock son of Rocke had known John Matthew for just over a year.

But that was not a true reflection of the bromance. There were two timelines to people’s lives: the absolute and the perceived. The absolute was the universal day-and-night cycle that for them added up to something like three hundred and sixty-five. Then there was the way that time period had gone, the events, the deaths, the destruction, the training, the fighting.

He figured all told . . . that pegged the two of them at about four hundred thousand years.

And counting, he thought, looking over at his buddy.

John Matthew was staring at the ink designs on the walls of the tat place, his eyes going over the skulls and daggers and American flags and Chinese symbols. With his size, he absolutely dwarfed the three-room shop—to the point where it was like he came from another planet. In contrast to his pretrans state, the guy now had the muscle mass of a pro wrestler, although because his skeleton was so big, the weight was stretched out on long bones, giving him a more elegant look than those swoll’d up humans in tights. He’d taken to buzz-cutting his dark hair and this made the lines of his face seem harsh rather than handsome—with the dark circles under his eyes giving the hard-ass look some serious backup.

Life had beaten the shit out of him, but instead of folding, each strike and blow had forged him harder and stronger and tougher. He was straight steel now, nothing lingering of the boy he’d once been.

But that was growing up for you. Not only your body changed; your head did, too.

Staring at his friend, the loss of innocence seemed a crime.

And on that note, the receptionist behind the counter caught Blay’s attention. She was leaning on the glass display of piercing supplies, her breasts swelling against the black bra and black muscle shirt she was wearing. She had two sleeves, one in black and white and one in black and red, and she had gunmetal gray hoops in her nose, her eyebrows, and both ears. Amid all the tat drawings on the walls, she was a living example of the work you could get if you wanted. A very sexy, hard-core example . . . who had lips the color of red wine and hair the color of night.

Everything about her matched Qhuinn. She was like a female him.

And what do you know. Qhuinn’s mixed eyes had already locked on her and he was smiling tightly in his trademark gotcha way.

Blay slipped a hand into his leather jacket and felt around for his pack of Dunhill reds. Man, nothing made him jones for a smoke more than Qhuinn’s love life.

And clearly he’d be lighting up another couple coffin nails tonight: Qhuinn sauntered over to the receptionist and drank her in like she was a long, tall beer fresh from the tap and he’d been working in the heat for hours. His eyes locked on her breasts as he traded names with her, and she helped him get a clearer