Lover Revealed

Chapter Thirteen

John shuffled his little body around and closed his eyes again. Wedged into the seat of a beat-up, ugly-ass, avocado green armchair, he smelled Tohr with every inhale he took: The decorator's nightmare had been the Brother's favorite possession and Wellsie's "seatus non grata." Exiled here to his office at the training center, Tohr had spent hours doing admin work in it while John studied.

John had used the thing as a bed since the killings.

Aggravated, he twisted himself around so his legs were draped over one arm and his head and shoulders were shoved back into the top half of the chair. He squeezed his eyes closed even harder and prayed for some rest. Trouble was, his blood was buzzing through his veins and his head was spinning with a whole lot of nothing specific, everything urgent bullshit.

God, class had ended two hours ago and he'd worked out even after the other trainees had left. Plus he hadn't slept well for a week. You'd think he'd be out like a light.

Then again, maybe he was still worked up over Lash. That SOB had been all over him about passing out in front of the whole class yesterday. Man, John hated that kid. He really did. That arrogant, rich, snarky—

"Open your eyes, boy, I know you're awake."

John went into a full-body jerk and nearly landed on the floor. As he hauled himself back up, he saw Zsadist in the doorway to the office, dressed in that uniform of skintight turtle-neck and loose sweats.

The expression on the warrior's face was as hard as his body. "Listen up, because I'm not going to say this again."

John gripped the arms of the chair. He had a feeling what this was about.

"You don't want to go to Havers's, fine. But cut the shit. You're skipping meals, you look like you haven't slept for days, and your attitude is beginning to irritate the fuck out of me."

Yeah, this wasn't like any parent/teacher conference John had ever had. And he wasn't taking the criticism well: Frustration swirled in his chest.

Z jabbed his forefinger across the room. "You stop marking Lash, we clear? Leave the fucker alone. And from now on, you come up to the house for meals."

John frowned, then reached for his pad so he'd be sure Z would understand what he wanted to say.

"Forget about a response, boy. I'm not interested." As John started to get downright pissed, Z smiled, revealing monstrous fangs. "And you know better than to get up in my grill, don't you."

John looked away, certain the Brother could break him in half without any effort at all. And resentful as hell about that fact.

"You will quit it with Lash, you feel me? Do not make me get involved with the two of you. Neither of you will like it. Nod so I know you understand."

John nodded, feeling ashamed. Angry. Exhausted.

Choking on all the aggression inside of him, he blew out a breath and rubbed his eyes. God, he'd been so calm all his life, maybe even timid. Why was everything setting him off lately?

"You're getting close to the change. That's the why of it."

John slowly lifted his head. He'd heard that right, hadn't he?

Am I? he signed.

"Yeah. That's why it is imperative that you learn how to control yourself. If you make it through the transition, you're going to come out the other side with a body capable of things that will floor you. I'm talking about raw physical strength. The brute kind. The kind that can kill. You think you got problems now? Wait'll you have to deal with handling that load. You need to learn your control now."

Zsadist turned away, but then paused and looked over his shoulder. Light fell on the scar that ran down his face and distorted his upper lip. "One last thing. Do you need someone to talk to? About… shit?"

Yeah, right, John thought. Over his dead body he was going back to Havers to see that therapist.

Which was why he refused to go get checked out. Last time he'd tangled with the race's physician, the guy had blackmailed him into a therapy session he hadn't wanted, and he had no intention of repeating the Dr. Phil hour. With everything going on recently, he wasn't getting into his past again, so the only way he was going back to that clinic now was if he was bleeding out.

"John? You want to talk to someone?" When he shook his head, Z's eyes narrowed. "Fine. But you get the message about you and Lash, right?"

John looked down and nodded.

"Good. Now drag your ass up to the house. Fritz has made you dinner and I'm going to watch you eat it. And you will eat all of it. You need to be strong for the change."

Butch walked closer to the slayers and they weren't threatened by him at all. If anything, they were annoyed, like he wasn't doing his job.

"Behind you, dumb ass," the one in the middle said. "Your target's behind you. Two Brothers."

Butch circled around the lessers, reading their imprints instinctively. He sensed that the tallest one had been inducted within the last year or so: There was some trace of human still in him, although Butch wasn't sure how he knew this. The other two were far older in the Society and he was certain of this not just because their hair and skin had paled out.

He stopped when he was behind the three and stared through their big bodies at V and Rhage… who were looking like they'd watched a good friend die in their arms.

Butch knew exactly when the lessers were going to attack and he moved forward with them. Just as Rhage and V sank down into fighting stances, Butch grabbed the middle slayer around the neck and flipped him onto the ground.

The lesser hollered and Butch jumped on top of him, even though he knew he wasn't up to fighting. Sure enough, he was kicked off and the lesser took the driver's seat, sitting on him, choking him. The bastard was brutally strong and pissed off, nothing less than a sumo wrestler with rabies.

As Butch struggled to keep from getting his head ripped off his shoulders, he was dimly aware of a flash of light and a pop. And then another. Clearly, Rhage and V had cleaned house and Butch heard them pound it over. Thank God.

Except it was just as they arrived that the freak show started.

Butch looked deeply into the undead's eyes for the first time and something clicked into place, just locked the two of them up tight as if there were iron bars encircling their bodies. As the slayer went utterly still, Butch felt this overwhelming urge to… well, he didn't know what. But the instinct was strong enough to have him opening his lips to breathe.

And that was when the inhaling started. Before he knew what he was doing, his lungs began to fill in one long, steady draw.

"No…" the slayer whispered, trembling.

Something passed between their mouths, some cloud of blackness leaving the lesser and getting drawn into Butch—

The connection was broken with a brutal attack from above. Vishous grabbed the slayer and yanked the undead free, throwing the thing against a building headfirst. Before the bastard could recover, V fell upon it, black blade slicing down.

As the spark and sizzle faded, Butch's arms fell limp against the asphalt. Then he rolled over onto his side and curled in on himself, arms linking tight against his stomach. His gut was killing him, but more to the point, he felt nauseous as shit, a nasty echo of what he'd struggled with when he'd been at his sickest.

A pair of shitkickers came into his line of sight, but he couldn't bear to look up and see either one of the brothers. He didn't know what the hell he had done or what had happened.

All he knew was that he and the lessers were kin.

V's voice was as thin as Butch's skin. "Are you okay?" Butch squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Think it's best… that you get me out of here. And don't you dare take me home."

Vishous unlocked his penthouse and muscled Butch inside while Rhage held the door open. The three of them had taken the cargo elevator up the back of the building, which made sense. The cop was a dead load, weighing more than he looked like he did, as if the pull of gravity had singled him out for special attention.

They laid the cop flat on the bed and he eased over onto his side, bringing his knees up until they hit his chest.

There was a long stretch of silence, during which Butch seemed to pass out.

Like he was walking off anxiety, Rhage started pacing around, and shit, after that showdown, V was all up in his head, too. He lit up and inhaled hard.

Hollywood cleared his throat. "So, V… this is where you go with the females, huh." The brother went over and fingered a pair of chains bolted into the black wall. "We heard stories, of course. Guess they're all true."

"Whatever." V headed to his bar and poured a long/tall of Grey Goose. "We've got to hit those lessers' houses tonight."

Rhage nodded toward the bed. "What about him?"

Miracle of miracles, the cop lifted his head. "I'm not going anywhere right now. Trust me."

V narrowed his eyes on his roommate. Butch's face, which normally got all Irish ruddy if he exerted himself, was utterly blushless. And he smelled… faintly sweet. Like baby powder.

Jesus Christ. It was like being around those slayers had brought out something else in him—something Omega in him.

"V?" Rhage's voice was soft. Real close. "You want to stay here? Or maybe take him back to Havers?"

"I'm fine," Butch croaked.

A lie on so many levels, V thought.

He polished off his vodka and looked at Rhage. "I'm coming with you. Cop, we'll be back and I'll bring food, true?"

"No. No food. And don't come back tonight. Just lock me in so I can't get out and leave me."

Fuck. "Cop, if you hang yourself in the bathroom, I swear I will kill you all over again, ya herd me?"

Dull hazels opened up. "I want to know what was done to me more than I want to off my ass. So don't worry."

Butch squeezed his lids shut again and after a moment, Vishous and Rhage walked out to the balcony. As V locked the doors, he realized he was more worried about keeping Butch inside than protecting the guy.

"Where we going?" he asked Rhage. Even though he was usually the one with the plans.

"First wallet has an address of Four five nine Wichita Street, Apartment C-four."

"Let's hit it."