“We have to go through the whole house,” V said grimly.
Rhage nodded. “I’ll take care of the first floor.”
“We do it together.”
With careful steps, they headed into the front of the house, V sporting his gogs, Rhage’s skin prickling across his back as his beast joined the instinct parade.
The front room was clearly where the Bastards spent most of their time. There were a number of couches set at angles so they formed a circle, and the scents were the strongest in here—to the point that Rhage guessed the fighters had pulled the drapes and actually slept aboveground during daylight hours.
Detritus littered the floor: Empty ammo boxes that suggested they had both shotguns and forties. Dead-soldier bottles of Jack and Jim. Hannaford plastic bags filled with crushed protein-bar wrappers and Motrin bottles with the lids off and wads of surgical gauze marked with dried blood. An open Papa John’s box had a single slice left in it—that was cold, but not moldy.
“They do not live here anymore,” V said.
“And they up and left fast,” Rhage muttered as he poked at another Hannaford bag with the steel tip of his shitkicker.
There wasn’t a single backpack. Duffel. Piece of luggage. And although he wouldn’t have counted the Band of Bastards as any kind of Town & Country types with the personal effects, there wasn’t even a stray sock, backup set of combat boots, or a fucking comb left behind.
As Rhage came around to the base of the stairs, he felt his phone vibrate in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. No checking the thing, though. He wasn’t about to get goat-fucked in this shell of a house, and the farther he and his brother went in, the greater the chances that they’d run into something that could cost them an arm. A leg.
Their lives.
That was the reality of their jobs, and something he accepted, because one, he wasn’t about to let nobody push around his race or its King, whether it was a bunch of shitty-smelling slayers or Xcor’s circle of douches. And two, it wasn’t like he was suited to do anything else.
Well, other than eat and fuck, and God knew he took care of business on those two fronts very, very well during his time off.
Hell, even with all the high alert going on here, in the back of his mind, he was already counting down the hours until he could get his Mary really fucking naked.
Nights like tonight made him think fondly of going down on her for about seven hours straight.
Shaking himself back into focus, he approached the base of the stairs.
“I’m going up,” he told his brother.
“Wait for me.”
But of course, he didn’t. He just headed on up, one foot after the other after the other. Probably a stupid move, but he’d never been good at waiting.
Just not part of his nature.
SEVENTEEN
As Trez stood in the corner of Selena’s hospital room, he felt … shit, totally cornered.
He didn’t want to be angry with the female. For fuck’s sake, she’d nearly died in front of him.
“What?” she said. “What’s on your mind.”
The good news was that he had watched, over the last twenty minutes or so, as her coloring had returned in full, how her eyes were now sharp as tacks, as her body, though still stiff, was so much closer to normal.
The bad news was that her little dissertation there about the nature of his sex addiction and him trying to do right by her was not anything he was going to hear. And he prayed to God she didn’t keep pushing the subject.
“Selena, I think you need to rest.”
“Don’t tune me out, Trez.”
He shoved his hand across his head. Wished he had some long-ass hair like Wrath’s just so he had something to pull at. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you.”
“So tell me I’m wrong. Even though I don’t believe that. But say something. Anything.”
Trez grimaced and shook his head. “I’ma go now and—”
“Trez—”
“No, we’re not going to do this.”
“Why? If we have a thousand nights, what’s one awkward conversation.”
“This is a helluva lot more than awkward, sweetheart.” God, he could hear the sharpness in his own voice. Feel the ramp-up in his body. “Yeah, I think I’ll come back—”
“It’s still going to be here when you return.” She motioned between them with her hand, and for a moment, he was so damned grateful for the movement, he forgot what they were talking about. “Distance is not going to help this.”
His heart started to pound. Like he was afraid or some shit.
But that wasn’t what was happening.
Really. It wasn’t.
“What do you want me to say?” he muttered. “Give me the words and the inflection and I’ll do it. Anything to make this go away.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
Long pause. “All right,” she said with defeat.
Oh, great. That made him feel soooo much better.
How had they traveled the distance between relief at her survival to all this tension so fast?
He wasn’t about to tell her about the news from the s’Hisbe. She had more than enough to worry about on her own, and he didn’t want her concerned that the Queen’s executioner was going to put him in chains and drag him back to the Territory at any moment.
“Selena, listen…” He shook his head. “Am I embarrassed about what I did with all those humans? Absolutely. Do I have regrets? All the time. Do I believe that I’m tainted? According to my culture, I’m completely contaminated. But you need to know that sometimes, a slut is just a slut. A whore is nothing more than a whore. I had a drive and I had nowhere else to go with it.”
He looked away, tracing the floorboards with his eyes.
The silence grew louder than a scream.
“I think you’re right,” she said.
Trez exhaled in relief. Thank God she was buying it—
“You do need to go.”
“What?”
“Until you can be honest? I think you need to stay away. Because either you’re lying to yourself or you’re lying to me. Either way, you need to—as the Brothers would say—get your shit together.”
He shook his head. “Yeah. Wow. Not how I saw this going.”
“Me neither.”
“Okay. Then. So.”
As she just stared over at him, the room ran out of its air supply. At least as far as he was concerned.
Trez cleared his throat. “Fuck … I’ll go then.”
He stalked out, using the door that led into the corridor rather than run the risk of running across Doc Jane and Ehlena in that examination room.
Yeah, ’cuz he really felt like having an audience right now.
Thank fuck iAm had left and gone to check in at shAdoWs, The Iron Mask and Sal’s. His brother was the last person he wanted to be around at the moment.
Moving quickly, he stalked down the corridor and paused before stepping in front of the glass door of the office. When he didn’t hear any voices, he peered around. Empty.
Score.
He made it through the supply closet and out into the tunnel without a hitch, and he even jogged down to the staircase. Codes were entered. Steps were mounted. The door under the stairs was opened quietly.
The sound of a vacuum cleaner running in the library was not a surprise. But the lack of any Brothers anywhere was. Usually, at this time of night, the ones who were off rotation were chilling in the billiards room, watching tube. Playing pool. Drinking.
He took advantage of the ghost-town routine and headed for the bar. As he came up to the top shelf display, he paused for a moment to consider his options and then chose Woodford Reserve. And Grey Goose. And a bottle of chard that was sitting out, unchilled, on the granite counter.
Like he was really going to fucking care what he drank.
The grand staircase was a piece of cake, and he was not surprised to find the King’s study empty as Wrath spent most of his nights out meeting with his civilians. Making the turn toward the hall of statues, he pared off before all that marble and opened the door to the stairs that took him up to the third floor.
The First Family’s suite of rooms was hidden behind a bank vault, but his room and his brother’s were right out in the open, just two normal doors close together.
In spite of the argument with Selena, he wasn’t going to bolt to the Commodore. He wanted to be on site in case she …
Yeah.
Closing himself in, he put his three new best friends on the bedside table, and turned on the lamp. The velvet drapes were drawn, and he left them that way as he continued on to the bathroom, shedding his clothes. With a crank of the showerhead, he got the water rolling, and he was careful to leave the lights off.
No reason to meet his own eyes in the mirror.
He waited until things got steamy before stepping into the marble enclave. He’d had more than enough of things that were uncomfortable, thank you very much.
Soap—everywhere. Rinse—everywhere. Shampoo—on his head, followed by conditioner. Razor—on his jaw, his chin, his cheeks.
Then it was a case of out with the towel and naked into his bed.
He got under the covers from habit, his brain studiously checking out of absolutely all thought, only common practice driving him to a place and situation where he could get drunk horizontally.