Lover Unleashed

THIRTY-FOUR

Back in the training center, Manny woke up on the hospital bed, not in the chair. After a momentary confusion, hazy memories brought it all back: After the butler had shown up with the food, Manny had eaten in the office, as Jane had told him to do—and that, as opposed to inside his car, was where he’d found his cell phone, wallet, keys, and briefcase. The little collection of Manellomentos had been right out in full view, just sitting on a chair, and the lack of security surprised him, given how locked-down everything else was.

Except then he’d turned his cell phone on and found that the SIM card was gone.

And he’d been willing to bet that he’d need an atomic bomb to get into or out of the garage without their permission. So his keys were immaterial.

Briefcase? Nothing but a PowerBar and some paperwork that had absolutely nothing to do with underground facilities, vampires, or Payne.

Guess all the why-bother explained the out-in-the-open.

He’d been ready to throw in the proverbial towel when it came to checking his voice mail, but then he’d taken a flyer and reached for the AT&T office phone at his elbow. Picking up the receiver, he’d hit 9 . . . and the dial tone had been a total shocker. Although, really, what were the chances that anyone would be left unattended down here? Slim to none.

Except on a day when ninety percent of them had been injured fighting, and the other ten percent were worried about their brothers.

In short order, Manny had run through three voice mail systems: home, cell, and office. The first had had two messages from his mother. Nothing specific—house repairs were needed and she’d bogeyed the dreaded ninth hole. The cell had had one from the vet that he’d had to listen to twice. And the office . . . had been just as depressing as the Glory shit: There had been seven messages from colleagues around the country and it was all so shatteringly normal. They wanted him to fly out and do consults or give papers at conferences or make spaces in his residency program for their kids or family friends.

The sad truth was, those run-of-the-mill requests lagged behind where his life was really at, kind of like he’d hung a tight louie and faked out the poor bastards who were calling him. And he had no idea, once these vampires worked on his brain again, whether there would be anything left to count to ten with, much less use to operate on a patient or run a surgical department. There was no way of knowing what condition he was going to be in when he came out of all this—

The sound of a toilet flushing had him bolting upright.

As the bathroom door opened, he saw Payne’s silhouette spotlit from behind, her johnny disappearing into nothing more than a filmy sheet.

Sweet . . . baby . . . Jesus . . .

His morning hard-on started to pound, and didn’t that make him wish he’d slept in the damn chair. Trouble was, when he’d finally come back to her, he hadn’t had the strength to say no when she’d asked him to join her.

“You wake,” she said in a husky voice.

“And you are up.” He smiled a little. “How’re the legs feeling?”

“Weak. But they work.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I should like a shower. . . .”

Shit, with the way that trailed off, she was looking for some help—and his mind went straight to the pair of them separated by nothing but soap.

“I think there’s a bench to sit on.” He got up on the far side of the bed so that he could tuck his erection into the waistband of the scrubs.

Going over to her, he tried to give her as much room as possible as he ducked into the bath. “Yeah, right here.”

He reached in and turned on the water, then angled the bench around. “I’ll set this up—”

Glancing over his shoulder, he froze solid. Payne had loosened the ties of her hospital gown and was slowly, inexorably . . . letting the front . . . fall from her shoulders.

As the spray hit his arm and started soaking the top of his scrubs, he swallowed hard—and found himself wanting to scream when her hands caught the very top and held it to her breasts.

She stayed like that, as if she were waiting to see what he was going to say, and as their eyes locked, his cock strained so hard, it was a wonder it didn’t bust open the front of his frickin’ pants.

“Let it go, bambina,” he heard himself say.

And she did.

Fucking hell, he’d never wanted to worship the law of gravity before, but he did now: He wanted to prostrate himself at Newton’s altar and weep with gratitude for the blessing that made all things fall to the goddamn ground.

“Look at you,” he growled, watching those pink tips get tight.

Without conscious thought or any warning, his wet arm reached out and grabbed her, pulling her to his mouth, holding her hard as he sucked her nipple in and tongued her. But he didn’t need to worry he’d offended her. Payne’s hands dove into his hair and she cradled him against her as he suckled on her, bending her back until he was holding her upright and she was all naked female ready to be devoured.

Maneuvering her around, he canned the light and took them both under the warm spray of the shower. As her body illuminated from within, he sank onto his knees, catching with his tongue the hot water that sluiced between her breasts and ran down her stomach.

As she threw her hand out to catch her balance, he was on it, guiding her down so that she was safely sitting on the bench. Arching up, he palmed her nape and kissed her deep as he went for the soap and got ready to make sure she was very, very clean. As her tongue met his own, he was so into the feel of her nipples brushing against his chest and her lips against his own that he didn’t notice or care that his hair was plastering onto his skull or that the scrubs had Saran Wrapped on him, clinging to his body.

“Healer . . .” she gasped as he started soaping her skin.

Her upper body grew slick and hot as his palms went all over her, from her neck to the tops of her hip bones. And then he started in on her legs, working her delicate feet and ankles and moving ever upward, over her calves and the backs of her knees.

Water was all around them, falling between them, washing her off as soon as he sudsed her up, and the sound of it falling on the tile was drowned out only by her moans.

Shit was only going to get louder, too.

Sucking on her neck, he spread her knees wider and wider, pushing himself between them. “I told you”—he bit her a little—“you would like bathtime.”

In response, her hands speared into his shoulders, her nails digging in and making him wonder if it wasn’t time to start thinking about baseball stats, zip codes . . . car prices.

Eleanor Roosevelt.

“You were correct, healer,” she said, panting. “I love it—but you are too well clothed.”

Manny closed his eyes as he shuddered. And then he got enough control over himself so he could speak. “Nah . . . I’m good the way I am. You just lean back and let me take care of this.”

Before she could respond, he sealed his mouth on hers and pushed her against the wall with his chest. To get her to stay away from the subject of his getting naked, he slid both hands up the insides of her thighs and ran his fingertips across her sex.

As he felt how wet she was—and it was the kind of wet that had nothing to do with water and everything to do with what he wanted all over his tongue—he pulled back a little and looked down.

Fucking . . . hell . . . she was so ready for him. And, man, what she looked like, all bent back, the water making her breasts glisten, her lips parted and a little bruised from him kissing her, her legs spread apart.

“Will you take me now?” she moaned, her eyes flashing, her fangs elongating.

“Yes . . .”

He gripped her knees and went down, putting his mouth where his eyes had locked. As she cried out, he went for it hard and fast, engulfing her sex, driving her hard, making no excuses for how much he wanted her. When she blew apart, his tongue went into her and he felt it all, the pulses, the way she jerked against his chin and nose, the hard grip of her hands on his head.

No reason to stop there.

With her, he had endless stamina, and he knew, as long as his scrubs stayed on him, he could keep going like this with her . . . forever.

Vishous woke up in a bed that was not his own, but it didn’t take him more than a nanosecond to know where he was: the clinic. In one of the recovery rooms.

After giving his eyes a good rub, he glanced around. The light was on in the bathroom and its door was cracked, so there was plenty to see by . . . and the first thing that stood out was the duffel bag across the way on the floor.

It was one of his. Specifically, the one he’d given Jane.

She wasn’t here, however. Not in this room, at least.

As he sat up, he felt as if he’d been in a car accident, aches and pains blooming all over his body like he was an antenna and every single radio signal in the world was channeling into his nervous system. With a groan, he shifted around so that his legs dangled off the bed—and then he had to take a little breather.

Couple of minutes later, it was a case of push and pray: He shoved his weight off the mattress and hoped—

Bingo. Legs held.

The side that had been worked on by Manello was not exactly ready to run a marathon, but as V ripped off the bandages and did some flexing, he had to be impressed. The scars from the knee surgery were almost completely healed already, nothing except a pale pink line left behind. But more importantly, what was underneath was straight-up magic: The joint felt fantastic. Even with the stiffness that remained, he could tell it was functioning perfectly.

Hip felt good as new, too.

Goddamn human surgeon was a miracle worker.

On his way to the loo, his eyes passed over that duffel bag. Memories from his morphine trip filtered back and were far clearer than the actual experience had been. God, Jane was a spectacular doctor. In the night-to-night running of life, he hadn’t so much forgotten that as not experienced it in a while. She always went the extra mile with her patients. Always. And she didn’t treat his brothers so well because they were tied to him. It had nothing to do with his ass—those people were hers in those moments. She would have treated civilians, members of the glymera . . . even humans in exactly the same way.

Inside the bathroom, he got into the shower, and man, it was crowded in the stall. As he thought about Jane and his sister, he had a terrible feeling he’d oversimplified what he’d walked in on the night before yesterday. He hadn’t stopped to consider that there was some other relationship at work between the two females. It had been all about him and his sister . . . nothing about the doctor/patient bond.

Scratch that. It had been all about him; nothing about Payne and what she wanted out of her life. Or what Jane had done or not done for her patient.

Standing with his head down and the water hitting the back of his neck, he stared at the drain between his feet.

He wasn’t good with apologies. Or talking.

But he was not a pussy, either.

Ten minutes later, he threw on a hospital johnny and limped out into the corridor for the office. If his Jane was down here, he figured she’d be asleep at the desk, given how many of the recovery beds were no doubt filled with Brothers she’d treated.

He still had no clue what to say to her about The Leathers, but he could at least give it a shot about Payne.

Except the office was empty.

Sitting down at the computer, it took him less than fifteen seconds to find his shellan. When he’d hardwired the security system for the mansion, the Pit, and this facility, he’d put cameras in every single room there was—except for the First Family’s suite. Naturally, the equipment could be disconnected easily with an unplug, and what do you know, the bedrooms of his brothers all showed black on the computer screen.

Which was a good thing. He didn’t need to see all that banging.

The blue toile guest room up at the big house, however, was still being monitored, and in the light of the bedside lamp that had been left on, he saw the curled figure of his mate. Jane was dead to the world, but it was damn clear she wasn’t resting comfortably: Her brows were clenched as if her brain were desperately trying to hold on to the sleep she was getting. Or maybe she was dreaming of things that prickled instead of pleasured her.

His first instinct was to march right over there, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the kindest thing he could do was leave her where she lay and let her rest. She and Manello had gone for hours straight, all morning long. Besides, he was staying in tonight: Wrath had taken everyone off rotation in light of all the injuries.

Christ . . . that Lessening Society. He hadn’t seen so many slayers in years—and he wasn’t thinking about just the dozen that had shown up last night. Over the previous two weeks, he was willing to bet the Omega had turned a hundred of those fuckers—and he had a feeling they were like cockroaches. For every one you saw, there were another ten that you didn’t.

Good thing the Brothers were lethal as fuck. And Butch healed relatively easily after doing his Dhestroyer business—hell, Vishous had even been able to take care of the cop after the operation. Not that he remembered much about doing it, but still.

Stifled by so much, he patted his pockets for his rolling paper and tobacco . . . and realized he was wearing a johnny: no merch for a smoke.

Out of the chair. Back in the hall. Heading down to where he’d crashed.

The door to Payne’s room was closed, and he didn’t hesitate before he opened the way in. Chances were good that the human surgeon was in there with her, but there was no way the guy wasn’t out like a light. He’d worked his ass off.

As Vishous stepped inside, the scent in the air probably should have registered more clearly. And he maybe should have paid a little more attention to the fact that the shower was running. But he was just so shocked to see the bed was empty . . . and that there were braces and crutches over in the corner.

Patient was paralyzed? You needed a wheelchair, not equipment that aided mobility. So . . . was she walking?

“Payne?”

He raised his voice. “Payne?”

The response he got back was a moan. A very deep, satisfied moan...

Which was not the kind of thing evoked even by the best shower anyone ever had.

V shot across and nearly broke the door down as he burst into the hot, humid bathroom. And holy shit, the scene before him was so much worse than he’d thought.

The irony, however, was that what they were—oh, God, he couldn’t even put into words what was doing—saved the surgeon’s life: V was so horrified, he had to look away, and the ostrich routine kept him from tearing a hole the size of a sewer pipe in Manello’s neck.

As Vishous stumbled back out, he heard all kinds of scrambling from the bath. And then it was a case of him going asswipe-AWOL: He slammed into the bed, rebounded, knocked over a chair, bounced into a wall.

At this rate, he’d find his way out in a week. Or so.

“Vishous . . .”

As Payne came up to him, he kept his eyes on the floor, and ended up with a clear shot of his twin’s bare feet. So she’d regained feeling in her legs.

Yay.

“Please spare me an explanation,” he bit out before glaring over at Manello. The bastard was soaking wet, hair slicked to his head, scrubs sucked into his body. “And do not get used to her. You’re here only until I don’t need you anymore—and given how well she’s doing? It ain’t for much longer—”

“How dare you—it is for me to choose with whom I mate.”

He shook his head at his sister. “Then pick something other than a human half your size and a quarter your strength. Life down here is not what it’s like in the clouds, sweetheart—and the Lessening Society’s slapped a bull’s-eye on your chest just like the rest of us wear. He’s weak, he’s a security risk, and he needs to go back where he belongs—and stay there.”

Well, didn’t that make his twin furious: Her icy eyes went nuclear, her black brows slamming down. “Get. Out.”

“Ask him what he did all morning long,” V demanded. “Wait—I’ll tell you. He sewed me and the Brotherhood up because we were trying to defend our females and our race. That human? He’s a lesser waiting to happen, in my opinion—nothing less, nothing more.”

“How dare you! You know naught of him.”

V leaned in to her. “And neither do you. Which is my fucking point.”

Before shit got really out of control, he spun around to leave, only to catch sight of them all in the mirror on the wall. What a fucking tableau they were: his sister, naked and unashamed; the human, wet and grim; himself, wild eyed and ready to kill something.

Rage built up so fast and so high, it broke free before he even recognized the emotion.

Vishous took two steps over, reared back his head, and slammed his face into the glass, shattering the reflection to fuck and gone.

As his sister screamed and the surgeon shouted, he left them to their own devices and stalked off.

Out in the hall, he knew precisely where he was going.

Out in the tunnel, he was oh, so very aware of what he was about to do.

As he went, the blood dripped down his cheeks and off his chin, the red tears falling onto his chest and his abs.

He didn’t feel any pain at all.

But with any luck, he would. Very soon.