Lover Revealed

Chapter Forty-eight

The following evening, Marissa shook the hand of her new residence director. The female was perfect for the position. Smart. Kind. Soft of voice. Trained in public health at NYU—the night school, of course.

"When would you like me to start?" the female said.

"How's tonight sound?" Marissa replied wryly. When she got an enthusiastic nod in response, she smiled a little. "Great… Why don't I show you to your office."

When Marissa got back from the upstairs bedroom she'd assigned the director, she went to her laptop, logged in to Caldwell's multiple listing service, and started looking at some other properties for sale within the community.

It wasn't long before she saw nothing at all. Butch was a constant pressure on her chest, an invisible weight that made it hard to breathe. And if she wasn't busy, memories of him consumed her.

"Mistress?"

She looked up at Safe Place's doggen. "Yes, Phillipa?"

"Havers has referred a case to us. The female and her son are going to be driven here tomorrow after the young is stabilized, but the case history taken by the client's nurse is going to be e-mailed over to you within the hour."

"Thank you. Will you get a room ready for them downstairs?"

"Yes, mistress." The doggen bowed and left.

So, Havers was keeping his word, wasn't he.

Marissa frowned, that now perennial sense that she was missing something coming back to her. For some reason, an image of Havers came to mind and wouldn't leave… and that's what brought the shadowed thought to light.

From out of nowhere, she heard her own voice when she'd been talking to Butch: I will not sit back and watch you destroy yourself.

Good God. The exact words her brother had said to her when he'd kicked her out of the house. Oh, sweet Virgin Scribe, she was doing to Butch precisely what Havers had done to her: banishing him under the noble guise of prudent disapproval. Except wasn't the point really about saving herself from feeling scared and out of control because she loved him?

But what about his death wish?

The sight of him facing off against that lesser on the leahdyre's front lawn came to her: Butch had been cautious in that situation. Careful. Not reckless. And he'd moved with skill, not a berserker's messy flailing.

Oh… hell, she thought. What if she'd been wrong? What if Butch could fight? What if he should fight?

Except what about the Evil? The Omega?

Well, the Scribe Virgin had interceded to protect Butch. And he had still been… Butch after the Omega had vanished. What if—

A knock sounded and she jumped to her feet. "My queen!"

Beth smiled from the doorway, lifting a hand. "Hi."

All tangled in her head, Marissa fell into a curtsy, which made Beth shake her head with a chuckle.

"Am I ever going to get you to cut that out?"

"Likely not… It's the burden of my upbringing." Marissa tried to concentrate. "Have you… ah, have you come to see what we've done here in the last—"

Bella and Mary appeared behind the queen.

"We want to talk with you," Beth said. "It's about Butch."

Butch stirred in his bed. Cracked open an eye. Cursed as he saw the clock. He'd overslept, probably because of how hard he'd gone the night before. Were three lessers too much in one night? Or maybe it had been feeding—

Oh, hell, no. He was so not thinking of that. Not remembering that.

He rolled over onto his back—

And jacked right off the mattress. "Oh… fuck."

Five figures in black hooded robes surrounded his bed.

Wrath's voice came first in the Old Language, then in English: "There is no going back from the question that shall be posed to you this night. You shall be given it only once, and your answer will stand for the rest of the life you lead. Are you prepared to be asked?"

The Brotherhood. Holy Mary, Mother of God.

"Yes," Butch breathed, grabbing his cross.

"Then I shall say unto you now, Butch O'Neal descendant of mine own blood, and the blood of mine father, will you join us?"

Oh… shit. Was this real? A dream?

He looked at each one of the hooded figures. "Yes. Yes, I will join you."

A black robe was thrown at him. "Tender this to your skin, raising the hood unto your head. At all times, you shall say nothing unless spoken to. You shall keep your eyes on the ground. Your hands shall be clasped at the small of your back. Your bravery and the honor of the bloodline we share shall be measured in every action you take."

Butch stood up and pulled on the robe. Wished briefly he could hit the bathroom—

"You will be permitted to empty your body. Do it now."

When Butch came out, he made sure his head was down and his hands were linked behind him.

As a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, he knew it was Rhage's. No one else's palm weighed so much.

"Come with us now," Wrath said.

Butch was led out of the Pit and right into the Escalade, the SUV parked practically in the vestibule, as if they didn't want anyone to know what was happening.

After Butch slid into the back, the Escalade's engine turned over and many doors were shut. With a lurch, they slowly progressed through what he assumed was the courtyard until they started to bump along like they were heading over the back lawn and into the woods. No one said a thing, and in the silence he couldn't help wondering what the hell they were going to do to him. For sure this was not going to be a cakewalk.

Eventually the SUV stopped and everyone got out. Trying to follow the rules, Butch stepped to the side and stared at the ground, waiting for someone to lead him. Someone did while the Escalade was driven away.

As Butch shuffled forward he was able to see moonlight on the ground, but then the source of light was abruptly cut off and it became utterly dark. Were they in a cave? Yes… they were. The smell of damp earth filled his nose and beneath his bare feet he could feel small stones taking bites out of his soles.

Some forty steps later he was jerked to a stop. There was a whispering sound and then more walking, now on a downward slope. Another stop. More quiet noises as if a well-oiled gate was being retracted.

Then warmth and light. A polished floor of… marble. Glossy black marble. As they continued along, he had the sense that they were processing through some high-ceilinged place because what little sounds they made reverberated upward and echoed. There was another pause, followed by lots of shifting of fabric… the brothers disrobing, he thought.

A hand clamped on the back of his neck and the deep growl of Wrath's voice shot into his ear. "You are unworthy to enter herein as you stand now. Nod your head."

Butch nodded.

"Say that you are unworthy."

"I am unworthy."

The Brotherhood's voices suddenly let out a loud, hard shout in the Old Language, as if in protest.

Wrath continued: "Though you are not worthy, you desire to become as such this night. Nod your head."

He nodded.

"Say that you wish to become worthy."

"I wish to become worthy."

Another shout in the Old Language, this time a cheer of support.

Wrath went on: "There is only one way to become worthy and it is the right and proper way. Flesh of our flesh. Nod your head."

He nodded.

"Say that you wish to become flesh of our flesh."

"I wish to become flesh of your flesh."

A low chanting started up, and Butch had the impression that a line had formed in front of and behind him. Without warning, they started to move, the back and forth surging motion mirrored by the cadence of powerful male voices. Butch struggled to get into the rhythm, bumping forward into what he suspected was Phury by the subtle scent of red smoke, then getting bumped from behind by what he knew was Vishous just because he knew. Shit, he was making a mess of the whole thing—

And then it happened. His body found the groove and he was moving with them… yes, they were all as one with the chanting and the movement, back… forth… swaying left… then right… the voices, not the muscles of their thighs, carrying their feet forward.

Suddenly, there was an acoustic explosion, the sounds of the chanting fracturing and re-forming in a thousand different directions: They had entered a vast space.

A hand on his shoulder told him when to halt.

The chanting stopped as if unplugged, the sounds ricocheting for a while, then floating away.

He was taken by the arm and led forward.

At his side, Vishous said in a low voice, "Stairs."

Butch stumbled a little, then took the steps. When he got to a plateau, he was positioned by V, his body put… wherever it needed to be. As he settled into his stance, he had the sense he was right in front of something big, his toes up against what seemed to be a wall.

In the silence that followed, a bead of sweat dripped off his nose and landed right between his feet on the glossy floor.

V squeezed his shoulder as if in reassurance. Then stepped away.

"Who proposes this male?" the Scribe Virgin demanded.

"I, Vishous, son of the Black Dagger warrior known as the Bloodletter, do."

"Who rejects this male?" There was quiet. Thank God.

Now the Scribe Virgin's voice took on epic proportions, filling the space around them and every inch between Butch's ears until all he knew was the sound of the words she spoke. "On the basis of testimony from Wrath son of Wrath, and upon the proposal by Vishous, son of the Black Dagger warrior known as the Bloodletter, I find this male before me, Butch O'Neal, descended of Wrath son of Wrath, an appropriate nomination unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood. As it is within my power and discretion to do so, and as it is suitable for the protection of the race, I have waived the requirement of the maternal line in this case. You may begin."

Wrath spoke. "Turn him. Unveil him."

Butch was repositioned so he faced out, and Vishous removed the black robe. Then the brother slipped the gold cross around so it hung down Butch's back, and walked away.

"Lift thine eyes," Wrath ordered.

Butch's breath sucked in as he looked up.

He was standing on a black marble dais, staring out at a subterranean cave lit by hundreds of black candles. In front of him there was an altar made of a huge stone lintel balanced on two squat posts… on top of which was an ancient skull. Beyond that, lined up before him, was the Brotherhood in all their glory, five males whose faces were solemn and whose bodies were strong.

Wrath broke ranks and came up to stand at the altar. "Step back against the wall and hold on to the pegs."

Butch did as he was told, feeling smooth, cool stone against his shoulders and his ass as his hands fell onto two sturdy grips.

Wrath brought up his hand and it was… shit, it was covered by an antique silver glove that sported barbs at the knuckles. Inside the fist he was making was the handle of a black dagger.

Extending his arm, the king scored himself down the wrist and held the wound over the skull, the dome of which had a silver cup mounted in it. What flowed from Wrath's vein was caught and held, a glossy red pool that caught the candlelight.

"My flesh," Wrath said. Then he licked his wound closed, put the blade down, and approached Butch.

Butch swallowed hard.

Wrath clapped his palm on Butch's jaw, shoved his head back and bit him in the neck, hard. Butch's whole body spasmed and he gritted his teeth to keep from yelling out, his hands squeezing at the pegs until his wrists felt like they were going to snap. Then Wrath stepped back and wiped his mouth.

He smiled fiercely. "Your flesh."

The king curled up a fist within the silver glove, hauled back his arm, and nailed Butch in the chest. The barbs sunk into his skin as air exploded out of his lungs, the raw sound leaping and bounding throughout the cave.

As he caught his breath, Rhage came up and took the glove. The brother performed the ritual just as Wrath had: cutting his wrist, holding it over the skull, speaking the same two words. After he sealed up his wound, he approached Butch. The next two words were mouthed and then Rhage's hard-core fangs were piercing Butch's throat, the bite positioned below Wrath's. Rhage's punch was fast and solid, right where Wrath had thrown his, on the left pec.

Next it was Phury. Followed by Zsadist.

By the time they were done, Butch's neck felt so loose he was convinced his head was going to roll off his shoulders and bounce down the steps. And he was dizzy from the poundings on his chest, blood running down his stomach onto his thigh from the wound.

Then it was V's turn.

Vishous came up onto the dais, his eyes down. He accepted the silver glove from Z and slipped it over the black leather he already wore on his hand. Then he scored himself with a quick flash of the black blade and stared at the skull as his blood dripped down into the basin, joining the others'.

"My flesh," he whispered.

He seemed to hesitate before turning to Butch. Then he pivoted and their eyes met. As candlelight flickered over V's hard face and got caught in his diamond irises, Butch felt his breath get tight: At that moment, his roommate looked as powerful as a god… and maybe even as beautiful.

Vishous stepped in close and slid his hand from Butch's shoulder to the back of his neck. "Your flesh," V breathed. Then he paused, as if asking for something.

Without thinking, Butch tilted his chin up, aware that he was offering himself, aware that he… oh, fuck. He stopped his thoughts, completely weirded out by the vibe that had sprung up from God only knew where.

In slow motion Vishous's dark head dropped down and there was a silken brush as his goatee moved against Butch's throat. With delicious precision, V's fangs pressed against the vein that ran up from Butch's heart, then slowly, inexorably, punched through skin. Their chests merged.

Butch closed his eyes and absorbed the feel of it all, the warmth of their bodies so close, the way V's hair felt soft on his jaw, the slide of a powerful male arm as it slipped around his waist. On their own accord, Butch's hands left the pegs and came to rest on V's hips, squeezing that hard flesh, bringing them together from head to foot. A tremor went through one of them. Or maybe… shit, it was more like they both shuddered.

And then it was done. Over with. Never to happen again.

Neither of them looked at the other as V broke away… and the parting was complete and irrevocable. A path that would not be walked. Ever.

V's hand snapped back and then connected with Butch's chest, the impact harder than all the others, even Rhage's. As Butch choked from the force of the punch, Vishous turned away and rejoined the Brotherhood's lineup.

After a moment, Wrath walked forward to the altar and picked up the skull, lifting it high, presenting it to the brothers. "This is the first of us. Hail to him, the warrior who birthed the Brotherhood."

As the brothers let out a war cry that filled the cave, Wrath turned to Butch.

"Drink and join us."

Butch went for it with gusto, grabbing the skull, tilting his head back, pouring the blood right down his throat. The brothers chanted as he drank, their voices getting louder and louder, ringing out. He tasted each one of them. The raw power and majesty of Wrath. The vast strength of Rhage. The burning, protective loyalty of Phury. The cold savagery of Zsadist. The sharp cunning of Vishous.

The skull was taken from his hands and he was pushed back against the wall.

Wrath's lips lifted darkly. "Better hold on to those pegs."

Butch gripped them just as a wave of churning energy slammed into him. He bit down to keep from letting out a howl and was dimly aware of the brothers growling in approval. As the roar increased, his body began to buck against the pegs like he'd front-loaded his nose with a kilo of blow. Then everything whacked out on him, every neuron in his brain firing, every blood vessel and capillary filling. With heart pounding, head swimming, body straining, he—

Butch woke up on the altar, naked and curled on his side. There was a burning sensation on his chest, and when he put his hand to it, he felt something grainy. Salt?

As he blinked and looked around, he realized he was in front of a black marble wall etched with what must have been names in the Old Language. God, there were hundreds of them. Stunned by the sight, he sat up and pushed himself to his feet. When he stumbled forward, he somehow caught his balance before he would have touched what he knew was sacred.

Staring at the names, he was certain they had all been carved by the same hand, each one of them, because every symbol was of identical and loving quality.

Vishous had done this. Butch didn't know how he knew—no, he did. There were these echoes in his head now… echoes of the lives of his… brothers? Yes… and all these males whose names he read were his… brothers. He somehow knew each of them now.

With wide eyes, he followed the columns of writing until… there… there it was, down on the right. The one at the bottom of the line. The last one. Was it his?

He heard clapping and looked over his shoulder. The brothers were back in their robes, but the hoods were down. And they were beaming, positively beaming, even Z.

"That's you," Wrath said. "You shall be called the Black Dagger warrior Dhestroyer, descended of Wrath son of Wrath."

"But you'll always be Butch to us," Rhage cut in. "As well as hard-ass. Smart-ass. Royal pain in the ass. You know, whatever the situation calls for. I think as long as there's an ass in there, it'll be accurate."

"How about bastard?" Z suggested.

"Nice. I feel that."

They all started laughing and Butch's robe appeared in front of him, held by Vishous's gloved hand.

V did not meet his eyes as he said, "Here."

Butch took the robe, but he didn't want his roommate to run. He said with quiet, urgency, "V?" Vishous's brows arched, but his eyes stayed away. "Vishous? Come on, man. You're going to have to look at me sometime. V…?"

Vishous's chest, expanded… and his diamond stare slowly swung to Butch. There was a heartbeat of intensity. Then V reached out and repositioned the cross so it once again hung over Butch's heart. "You did well, cop. Congratulations, true?"

"Thanks for putting me up for it… trahyner." As V's eyes flared, Butch said, "Yeah, I looked up what the word meant. 'Beloved friend' fits you perfect as far as I'm concerned."

V flushed. Cleared his throat. "Good deal, cop. Good… deal."

As Vishous walked off, Butch drew the robe on and looked down at his chest. The circular scar over his left pec was burned into his skin, a permanent marking, just like the one each of the brothers's had. A symbol of the bond they shared.

He ran his fingertip over the sealed up scar and salt granules fell free to the glossy floor. Then he looked to the wall and went over there. Crouching down, he touched the air above his name. His new name.

Now I am truly born, he thought. Dhestroyer, descended of Wrath son of Wrath.

His vision got blurry and he blinked fast, but his lids couldn't keep up. As the tears rolled down his cheeks, he quickly brushed them aside on his sleeve, And that was when he felt the hands on his shoulders. The brothers—his brothers—had surrounded him and he could feel them now, could actually… sense them.

Flesh of his flesh. As he was flesh of theirs.

Wrath cleared his throat, but still, the king's voice was slightly hoarse. "You are the first inductee in seventy-five years. And you… you are worthy of the blood you and I share, Butch of mine blooded line."

Butch let his head fall loose on his shoulders and he wept openly… though not out of happiness, as they must have assumed.

He wept at the hollowness he felt.

Because however wonderful this all was, it seemed empty to him.

Without his mate to share his life with, he was but a screen for events and circumstances to pass through. He was not even empty, for he was no vessel to hold even the thinnest of air.

He lived, though was not truly alive.