J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [741]
Funny, his back felt now as his skin had then: tight and prickly, especially as the tattoo artist hit the raw spots with the wet cloth and made circles over the fresh ink.
Man, John could remember dreading that annual ordeal at the lake. He’d wanted so badly to be with the others . . . although if he was honest, that had been less about what they were doing, and more because he was desperate simply to fit in. For fuck’s sake, they could have been chewing on glass shards and bleeding down the front of their shirts and he still would have been all sign-me-up.
Those six hours on that porch with nothing but a comic book or maybe a fallen bird’s nest to inspect and reinspect had seemed as long as months. Too much time to think and yearn. He’d always hoped to be adopted and in lonely moments like that the drive had consumed him: Even more than being among the other little boys, he’d wanted a family, a real mother and a father, not just guardians who were paid to raise him.
He’d wanted to be owned. He’d wanted someone to say, You’re mine.
Of course, now that he knew what he was . . . now that he lived as a vampire among vampires, he understood that “owning” thing much more clearly. Sure, humans had a concept of family units and marriage and all that shit, but his true kind were more like pack animals. Blood ties and matings were far more visceral and all-consuming.
As he thought about his younger, sadder self, his chest ached—although not because he wished he could reach back in time and tell that little kid that his parents were coming for him. Nope, he ached because the very thing he’d wanted had nearly destroyed him. His adoption had indeed come, but the “owning” hadn’t stuck. Wellsie and Tohr had waltzed into his life, told him what he was, and shown him a brief glimpse of home . . . and then disappeared.
So he could say categorically that it was far worse to have had and lost parents, than not to have had them at all.
Yeah, sure, Tohr was technically back in the Brotherhood’s mansion, but to John he was ever away: Even though he was now saying the right things, too many takeoffs had occurred such that now that a landing might actually have happened, it was too late.
John was through with that whole Tohr thing.
“Here’s a mirror. Check ’er out, my man.”
John nodded a thank-you and went over to a full-lengther in the corner. As Blay returned from his extended cigarette break and Qhuinn emerged from behind the side room’s curtain, John turned around and got a look-see at what was on his back.
Oh, God. It was exactly what he wanted. And the scrollwork was boss. He nodded as he moved the hand mirror around, checking out every angle. Man, it was kind of a shame that no one other than his boys were ever going to see this. The tat was spectacular.
And more to the point, no matter what happened next, whether he found Xhex dead or alive, she would always be with him.
Damn him to hell, these last four weeks since her abduction had been the longest of his life. And he’d had some pretty fucking long days before this shit. To not know where she was. To not know what had happened to her. To have lost her . . . He felt as if he’d been mortally injured, though his skin was intact and his arms and legs unbroken and his chest unpenetrated by bullet or blade.
But then again, in his heart, she was his. And even if he got her back just so she could live a life that didn’t include him, that was okay. He only wanted her safe and alive.
John looked at the artist, put his hand over his heart, and bowed deeply. As he rose from his position of gratitude, the guy stuck his palm out.
“You’re welcome, man. Means a lot that you approve. Let me cover it up now with