Lover At Last

SEVENTY-SEVEN

Trez won the lottery at around ten-thirty that night.

He and iAm had been given front-facing rooms on the third floor of the mansion, opposite the restricted-access suite that housed the First Family. The digs were super-sweet, with en suite baths and huge soft beds, and enough antiques and royalty-worthy accoutrements to give a museum a case of the oh-mans.

But what made the accommodations truly outstanding was the roof they were under.

And not because there was a quarry’s worth of slate keeping the elements out overhead.

Leaning into the mirror over the sink, Trez checked his black silk shirt. Smoothed his cheeks to make sure his careful shave job had been meticulous enough. Jacked up his black slacks.

Relatively satisfied, he resumed the dressing ritual. His holster was next. Black, so it wouldn’t show. And the pair of forties he wore under both arms were well hidden.

Usually he was a leather-jacket kind of guy, but for the last week he’d been breaking out the wool double-breasted overcoat iAm had given him years ago. Slipping it onto his shoulders, he tugged the sleeves sharply, and shook his shoulders back and forth so the folds of black settled correctly.

Stepping back, he regarded himself. No signs of the weapons. And in his fancy-ass dress, there were no clues that his business was booze and prostitutes, either.

Meeting his own eyes in the mirror, he wished he was in a better field. Something classier, like…political analyst or college professor or…nuclear physicist.

Of course, that was all human shit he didn’t give a crap about. But it sure beat what he actually did for a living.

Checking his Piaget watch—which was not the one he usually wore—he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He walked out into his bloodred room, with its heavy velvet drapery and its damask silk walls, his footfalls making no sound across the Bukhara that covered the floor.

Yup, given his most recent…predilection…he liked the way he felt in the decor, in these clothes, with this mind-set.

Of course, the illusion was going to be shattered as soon as he reached his club, but here was where the up-and-up mattered.

Or…might matter.

For fuck’s sake, he hoped to goddamn hell it would finally matter.

His Chosen, the one he’d met up north at Rehv’s Great Camp, and had seen that first night he’d arrived, hadn’t been around. So in a way, he thought as he walked out, all this wardrobe nonsense and appearances stuff had been for nothing much.

He was optimistic, though. Through a series of carefully orchestrated conversations with various household members, he’d learned that the Chosen Layla had been servicing the blood needs of folks who’d had them—but could no longer do so, thanks to her pregnancy.

Blessed event, indeed.

So the Chosen Selena…

Selena. What a great name that was….

Anywho, the Chosen Selena had been coming to take care of these things, and that meant, sooner or later, she had to be back. Vishous, Rhage, Blay, Qhuinn, and Saxton all had to feed regularly, and given the way those boys had been fighting for the past couple of nights, they were going to need a vein.

Which meant she had to come.

Although…damn. He couldn’t say he really appreciated the reason why. The idea of someone else at her vein kind of made him want to go Ginsu on whoever it was.

All things considered, his obsession was a little sad, particularly in its manifestations: Every night for the past week, he’d hung around after First Meal, waiting, looking casual, talking to the godforsaken Lassiter—who was actually not that bad a guy when you got to know him. Matter of fact, that angel was a font of information about the house, and so into his crap TV that he didn’t seem to notice how many questions were clustered around the subject of the females. The Primale. Whether there was any hooking up going on anywhere, with anybody outside of mated couples.

Pausing by his computer, he turned off The Howard Stern Show, cutting short another round of Baba Booey bashing; then he left his room, stalking past the vaulted wall that retracted whenever Wrath or Beth wanted to come or go from their quarters. Hitting the carpeted stairs, he emerged at the head of the hall of statues.

Or hall of buck-ass naked dudes, as he thought of it.

Rounding to the right, he went by the king’s study, which was closed, and descended the grand staircase into that incredible foyer. On the way down, he bitched about the time, wishing he didn’t have to go. Business was business, however, and—

He was halfway to the mosaic floor below when the female he had wanted to see emerged from the billiards room and headed in the direction of the library.

“Selena,” he called out, going across to the balcony and leaning on all that gold leaf.

As he looked over the drop, her head lifted, and her eyes rose to his own.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

His heart got loud as a war chant in his chest, and his hands automatically went to his coat, making sure that the front stayed closed. She was a female of worth, after all—and he didn’t want to frighten her with his weapons.

Oh, man, she was beautiful.

With her dark hair twisted high off her nape, and her diaphanous robe draping her body, she was far too precious and gentle to be around anything violent.

Or anything like him.

“Hello,” she said with a slight smile.

That voice. Sweet Jesus, that voice…

Trez went on full high-tail, doing a down-and-around at a dead run. “How are you?” he said as he all but skidded to a halt in front of her.

She bowed a little. “Very well.”

“That’s good. That’s real good. So…” Fuck. “Do you come here often?”

He wanted to smack himself in the head. What, like this was a bar? Shit—

“When I am called, yes.” Her head tilted to one side, her eyes narrowing. “You’re different, aren’t you?”

As he glanced at the dark skin of his hands, he knew she wasn’t talking about chromatics. “Not that different.”

He had fangs, for instance—that wanted to bite. And…other things. That happened to be getting aroused just being in her presence.

“What are you?” Her stare was steady and strong, as if she were assessing him on some level deeper than sight or hearing or scent. “I cannot…place it.”

That is not for you.

As his brother’s voice checked in, Trez pushed it aside. “I’m a friend of the Brotherhood’s.”

“And the king’s, or you would not be here.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you fight with them?”

“If they call on me.”

Now her eyes shone with respect. “That is right and proper.” She bowed again. “Your service is laudable.”

Silence cropped up between them, and as he racked his brain for something, anything, he was reminded of all that fucking he’d been doing. Now, that shit he was able to tee up at a moment’s notice. Polite conversation, on the other hand? Talk about your foreign languages.

God, he hated thinking of any of that around her.

“Are you all right?” the Chosen asked.

And that was when she touched him. Reaching out, she put her hand on his forearm—and even though there was no skin-to-skin contact, his body felt the connection all over, his arms and legs stilling, his mind going into a kind of blankness, as if he were in a trance.

“You are…incredibly beautiful,” he heard himself say.

The Chosen’s eyebrows shot up.

“Just being honest,” he murmured. “And I’ve got to tell you…I’ve been waiting to see you all week.”

Her hand, the one that touched him, retracted and rose to the collar of her robing, closing the lapels. “I…”

That is not for you.

As her awkwardness tore through him, Trez dropped his lids, a sense of what-the-hell-was-he-thinking hitting him hard: From what he understood about the Scribe Virgin’s Chosen, they were the purest and most virtuous variety of female on the planet. The polar opposite of his “partners” of late.

What did he think was going to happen if he started laying lines on her? She was going to hop up and throw her legs around his hips?

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, listen, you don’t have to apologize.” He took a step away, because although she was tall, she was a quarter of his size, and the last thing he wanted was for her to feel crowded. “I just wanted you to know.”

“I…”

Great. Anytime a female had to search her mind for appropriate words? You knew you’d really put your foot in it.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“No, it’s okay. It’s cool.” He lifted his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s just that I—”

I’m in love with someone else. I’m taken. I’m not interested in you on any level.

“No.” He cut her off, not wanting to hear the specifics. They were just vocabulary for the inevitable. “It’s all right. I understand—”

“Selena?” came a voice from over on the left.

It was Rhage’s. Shit.

As her head turned in that direction, the light hit her cheeks and lips from a different angle, and they looked every bit as good, of course. He could so stare at her forever….

Hollywood leaned out from the arches of the library. “We’re ready for you—oh, hey, man.”

“Hey,” Trez shot back. “How you been?”

“Good. Little business to take care of.”

Fucker. Cocksucker. Bas—

Trez rubbed his face. Right. Okay. There was no room in this five-bajillion-square-foot house for that kind of aggression, particularly when it was about a female who he’d met twice. Who didn’t want to know him. While she was doing her job.

“I’m heading out,” he said to the Brother. “I’ll catch you before dawn.”

“Roger that, big guy.”

Trez nodded at Selena and strode off, proceding through the vestibule and dematerializing off to downtown—where the hell he belonged.

He couldn’t believe he’d waited a week for that; and he should have guessed how it was going to go.

Feeling like a fool, he reassumed form behind the Iron Mask, in the shadows of the parking lot. Even out in the back, he could hear the bass beat of the music, and as he approached the rear door, with its scraped paint and well-worn handle, he knew his foul mood was a complication that was going to have to be managed carefully for the next six or eight hours.

Humans + alcohol x urge to kill = body count.

Not what he or his business interests needed.

Inside, he went directly to his office and ditched his dumb-ass Halloween costume of legitimacy, removing his fancy coat, as well as the silk shirt, so that all he had on was his black wifebeater and those fine slacks.

Xhex wasn’t in her office, so he waved a greeting at the working girls who were getting ready for their shifts in the locker room and went out into the land of the great unwashed.

The club already had a critical mass of people, all of whom were wearing dark, stringy clothes and cultivated expressions of boredom—both of which would be lost for many of them as time wore on and their livers broke down the chemical makeup of the booze they were drinking and the drugs they were taking.

“Hi, Daddy,” someone said to him.

Looking over, he found a short, curvy something-or-other staring up at him. With eyes lined with so much black she might as well have had sunglasses on, and a bustier cinched up tight as a fist, she was like an anime character come to life.

Snooze.

“I’m blah-blah-blah. Do you come here often?” She took a sip from the red straw in her drink. “Blah-blah-blah college student blah-blah psychology. Blah-blah-blah?”

In the corner of his eye, he saw the crowd part, as if they were getting out of the way of a bouncer or maybe a wrecking ball.

It was Qhuinn.

Looking as grim as Trez felt.

Trez nodded to the guy, and the fighter nodded back as he kept going toward the bar.

“Wow, do you know him?” College Student asked. “Who is he? Blah-blah threesome maybe blah-blah?”

As she tee-hee-hee’d like she was a Very Naughty Girl, Trez swung his eyes back and downward.

On so many levels, the plate of hors d’oeuvres being offered was totally unappetizing.

“Blah-blah-blahblahblah.” Giggle. Hip shake. “Blah?”

Dimly, Trez was aware of his head nodding, and then they were moving into a dark corner. With every step he took, another part of him shut down, turned off, went into hibernation. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was the junkie hoping that his next hit would be as good as the first had been—and finally bring that relief he was fucking desperate for.

Even though he knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Not tonight. Not with her.

Not anywhere in his life.

Probably never, ever.

But sometimes you just had to do something…or go insane.

“Tell me that you love me?” the chick said to him, as she pressed herself against his body. “Pleeeeeeeeease.”

“Yeah,” he said numbly. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Whatever.