Lover Unleashed - J. R. Ward [62]
“Where did you go tonight,” she said, not expecting an answer.
And she didn’t get one. But he’d halted right under a ceiling fixture, so even from a distance she could see his shoulders tightening up.
“Why aren’t you turning around, Vishous.”
Dear God . . . what had he done at the Commodore? Oh, Jesus . . .
Funny, there was a reason that people “built” lives together. Although the choices you made as husband and wife were not bricks, and time was not mortar, you were still constructing something tangible and real. And right now, as her hellren refused to come over to her—hell, even show her his face—an earthquake was rumbling under what she had thought was solid ground.
“What did you do tonight,” she choked out.
At that, he pivoted on his heel and took two long steps toward her. But it wasn’t to get close. It was to step out of the direct light. Even still . . .
“Your face,” she gasped.
“I got into a fight with some lessers.” As she went to move forward, he held up his palm. “I’m fine. I just need some space right now.”
Something about this was off, she thought. And she hated the question that jumped into her mind—to the point where she refused to let it out.
Except then all they had was silence.
“How’s my sister?” he said abruptly.
Through a closed throat, she replied, “She’s resting comfortably still. Ehlena’s with her.”
“You should take some time off and have a rest.”
“I will.” Uh-huh, right. With things like this between them, she was never going to sleep again.
V dragged his gloved hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say right now.”
“Were you with someone else?”
He didn’t even hesitate: “No.”
Jane stared at him . . . and then slowly exhaled. One thing that was true about her hellren, one thing you could always take to the bank, was that Vishous didn’t lie. For all the faults he had, that was not one of them.
“All right,” she said. “You know where to find me. I’ll be in our bed.”
She was the one who turned away and started walking in the opposite direction. Even though the distance between them broke her heart, she wasn’t going to badger him into something he wasn’t capable of, and if he needed space . . . well, she would give it to him.
But not forever, that was for sure.
Sooner or later, that male was going to talk to her. He had to or she was going to . . . God, she didn’t know what.
Her love wasn’t going to survive forever in this vacuum, though. It just couldn’t.
FIFTEEN
The fact that José de la Cruz hit a Dunkin’ Donuts drivethrough on the way into downtown Caldwell was one hell of a cliché. Collective wisdom had all homicide detectives drinking coffee and eating doughnuts, but that wasn’t always the truth.
Sometimes there wasn’t time to stop.
And man, screw the television shows and the detective novels, the reality was, he functioned better on caffeine and with a little sugar in his bloodstream.
Plus he lived for the honey dips. So sue him.
The call that had woken him and his wife up had come in at close to six a.m., which considering the number of nighttime ring-a-dings he got was almost civilized: Dead bodies, like live ones with medical problems, didn’t play by nine-to-five rules—so the nearly decent hour had been a novel benediction.
And that wasn’t the only thing going his way. Courtesy of it being a Sunday morning, the roads and highway were bowling-alley empty, and his unmarked made excellent time in from the burbs—so his coffee was still pipin’ hot as he piloted himself down into the warehouse district, pulling rolling stops at the red lights.
The lineup of squad cars announced the location where the body had been found even better than the yellow warning tape that had been wound around everywhere like ribbon on some fucked-up Christmas present. With a curse, he parked parallel to the brick wall of the alley and got out, sipping and walking his way over to the knot of grim-looking blue unis.
“Hey, Detective.