"There'll be time enough for serious when I'm dead." Truth. His father had ruled for two hundred years, concerned only with his reputation, bound by the opinion of others. And his father had died, not a laugh line on his face, mourning all that he'd missed, all that he could have had.
On the flip side, his mother had lived for her own happiness, no one else's, and she had died with a smile on her face, her merriment imprinted on every wall in the palace.
At that time, Devyn had been more like his father. Joy had had no place in his life. Only duty. Only honor. He'd wed the female that had been chosen for him. He'd attended meetings and ceremonies, on time and dressed as benefiting his station. He'd led the army but had never fought with them, his precious, stainless life too important to risk injury. He'd sat on his throne and issued judgment for
crimes, deciding who would live and who would die when he'd never truly lived himself.
He hadn't played games, and after all the punishments he'd endured, he hadn't so much as looked at another woman after his marriage. Not even when said wife viewed sex as the same filthy pastime his father had. She'd vomited the first and only time he'd placed his ugly "thing" inside her. So he'd kept his desires in his pants, thinking, what kind of example would I set, pledging my life to one yet lusting after another?
When he'd seen the regret in his father's eyes as the once rigid, sanctimonious man gasped his final breath, saying, "Everything I could have done ... ," Devyn's entire outlook had changed. He'd severed ties with his frigid queen. Divorce, it was called here. He'd begun training with his men and truly leading them. Sometimes, when his dick had hardened, he'd stroked it. Sometimes he'd even lain with the servants—however filthy that made him.
Occasionally shame had come gunning for him, for the things he'd done to himself, for the things he'd done to his lovers, but he'd come to see that shame as his enemy and had fought against it with all his might.
The more things he'd done and the more women he'd taken, the more he had realized the bliss of diversity. A desire to sample anything and everything had overtaken him.
Now the shame no longer plagued him. Not even a little. He did what he wanted, when he wanted it. Bed two sisters at the same time? Why not? String a female up and whip her as she begged for orgasm? Sure. Go at it in public? Any time, any where. He would not die with a single regret.
"You reek of determination," Dallas said, cutting into his musings. "What the hell are you thinking about?"
"The past."
"That's never good."
No, it wasn't. "Gonna make me stand here all night?" He loved human slang and used it every chance he got. Made him feel more like a man, his royal parentage a distant memory.
"Maybe. You'd deserve it."
Being late because you were enjoying a three-way wasn't a crime. It was a reason to celebrate. Perhaps Dallas the Somber needed a three-way of his own.
"I predicted you'd be here," Dallas said, "and here you are. There was nothing in my vision about you lingering. I can shut the door in your face and not change the future in some terrible way."
"Really, it doesn't get any better than predicting my presence. Your luck must be changing." Usually the agent's visions were bleak. Like the time he'd seen a woman—a half-human, half-machine cyborg—killing their friend Jaxon. When he tried to change the outcome, it had been Dallas who'd almost killed him.
Since then, Dallas's mood had been harsh, black, the man hard as shit to please. The only silver lining was that Devyn had found something new to bed: a cyborg. Mental note: be on the lookout for a black-haired, green-eyed, half-machine woman. Even a brown-haired, hazel-eyed one would do, killing two female birds with one long, hard stone.
"You're doing it again," Dallas said on a sigh. "Winking in and out of the conversation. Only this time you're smiling like an idiot."
"You would be, too, if you were imagining what I am."
Dallas rolled his eyes. "I don't want to know what's in your head. If I hadn't seen the dirty, downright nasty way you fight, I'd think the only things you were capable of doing were having sex and thinking about sex. Now, I want to know why you were late."
"I was tied up." Again, truth. He'd allowed his partners to anchor his wrists and ankles to the bedpost. They'd liked the thought of having him at their mercy, and he'd liked the girls doing all the work. Not that he'd been helpless. That, he would never allow. But he'd let them think he was vulnerable, and they had pleased him for it.
The agent studied him and shook his head in exasperation. "You might as well return to your women. Like I said, the girls have already left."
They'd agreed to meet today and discuss the latest threat to New Chicago. Damn if there wasn't always a threat. "You know I never return to a woman once I've had her. So let me in and tell me what was decided during the meeting. Meanwhile, I'll entertain you, there's no denying that, and you'll stop acting pissy. It's win-win."
Another sigh. "You don't deserve it, but fine. Come in." Dallas moved to the side. "You're as vengeful as a woman, you know that?" Devyn said as he passed him. There was a growl, and Devyn's lips twitched. So easy to provoke, his friend was.
The apartment was as messy as always. Well, except for the time Devyn had paid two hookers to clean it. Naked. But the spotlessness hadn't lasted long. Wrappers and beer bottles were scattered throughout, along with dirty clothes and weapons. The leather couch Devyn had bought Dallas could barely be seen under the chaos.
Grimacing, Devyn kicked his way to the kitchen and grabbed a beer. He didn't pop it open until after he'd plopped into the recliner. Something hard dug into his back, but he didn't bother to move it. He'd only encounter something else, he was sure.
Dallas fell into the seat across from him and propped his ankles on the small stone table, dislodging a computer notebook and sending it to the floor with a thwack. He didn't bend down and pick it up.
Messy as he was, Dallas usually took more care with his equipment. Something more than simple anger at Devyn's tardiness was at work here. Had to be. Devyn's gaze sharpened on him. There were lines of strain around Dallas's eyes and mouth, and his T-shirt and jeans were wrinkled, stained, and cut. He'd lost a little weight. His hair hadn't been brushed in a week. Maybe a month.
Guilt joined the beer, swimming laps inside Devyn's veins as he gulped back a few swigs. While he'd spent the last two hours f**king himself stupid, his closest friend had been stressing about something. "Tell me what's going on, and I'll fix it," he said. It was a vow.