Lover Unleashed - J. R. Ward [139]
When he came up to Butch and Marissa’s door, he knocked. Hard.
“Gimme a minute.”
Butch didn’t take that long to open up, and he was still pulling his robe on when he did. “What is—” That was as far as he got. “Jesus Christ . . . V.”
Over the guy’s shoulder, Marissa sat up in their bed, her cheeks flushed, her long blond hair tangled, the covers pulled up to her breasts and held there. Drowsy satisfaction was quickly replaced with shock.
“I should have just called.” V was impressed at the calm tone of his voice, and he tasted copper as he spoke. “But I don’t know where my phone is.”
As his stare locked onto his best friend’s, he felt like a diabetic desperate for insulin. Or maybe it was more like a heroin addict pining for a needle. Whatever the metaphor, he had to get out of himself or he was going to lose his mind and do something criminally stupid.
Like get his blades on and turn that surgeon into so much hamburger meat.
“I caught them together,” he heard himself say. “But don’t worry. The human is still breathing.”
And then he just stood there, the question that he’d come to ask as plain as the blood on his face.
Butch glanced back at his shellan. Without hesitation, she nodded, her eyes sad and kind and so understanding that V was momentarily touched—even in his numbed-out state.
“Go,” she said. “Take care of him. I love you.”
Butch nodded at her. Probably mouthed an “I love you” back.
Then he looked at V and muttered gruffly, “You go wait in the courtyard. I’ll bring the Escalade around—and get a towel from the bathroom, would ya? You look like Freddy-frickin’-Krueger.”
As the cop peeled off for the closet and ditched his robe to get dressed, V looked at the male’s shellan.
“It’s all right, Vishous,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.”
“I do not crave this.” But he needed it before he became a danger to himself and others.
“I know. And I love you, too.”
“You are a blessing beyond measure,” he pronounced in the Old Language.
And then he bowed to her and turned away.
When the world came back into focus sometime later, V found himself sitting on the passenger side of the Escalade. Butch was behind the wheel, and the pedal-metal routine the cop was pulling meant some serious mileage had been covered: The lights of downtown Caldwell were not just in the distance; they were all around, glimmering through the front and side windows.
The silence in the SUV was as tense as a dagger hand and as dense as a brick. And even as they closed in on their destination, V had trouble comprehending this trip they were taking. There was no going back, however. Not for either of them.
Down into the Commodore’s parking garage.
Engine off.
Two doors opening . . . two doors closing.
And then the ride up in the elevator. Which was like the trip from the compound to the Commodore: nothing that stuck in V’s mind.
Next thing he knew, Butch was using the copper key to open the way into the penthouse.
V walked in first and he willed the black candles on their stanchions to light up. The instant the black walls and flooring were illuminated, he went from zombie to live wire, his senses coming alive to the point where his own footfalls sounded like bombs dropping, and the sound of the door shutting them both in was like the building falling in on itself.
Every breath he took was a gust of wind. Every beat of his heart was a boxer’s punch. Every swallow he took was a guzzle down his throat.
Was this how his subs had felt? This too-alive tingle?
He stopped by his table. No jacket to take off. Nothing but the now-bloody hospital johnny on his back.
Behind him, Butch’s presence loomed big as a mountain.
“Can I use your phone,” V asked roughly.
“Here.”
V spun around and caught the tossed BlackBerry with his gloved hand. Calling up a blank text, he chose Doc Jane out of the address book.
His fingers stilled at that point. His brain was clogged with emotion,