Lover Mine (4 page)

Going back over to the window, she put her hand out toward the glass. The boundary that marked her prison was an energy field that felt like a prickling heat as she came into contact with it. The damn thing was like an invisi-fence for things bigger than dogs—with the added bene of no collar being required.

There was a little give in it . . . as she pressed forward, there was a hint of flexibility, but only up to a point. Then the molecules that were agitated pulled together and the burning sensation got so acute she had to shake her hand out and walk off the pain.

As she waited for Lash to come back to her, her mind drifted to the male she tried never to think of.

Especially if Lash was around. It was unclear how much her captor could get into her head, but she didn’t want to take chances. If the bastard got an itch that that mute soldier was her well-of-soul, as her people called it, he would use that against her . . . and John Matthew.

An image of the male came to her mind, his blue eyes resonating in her recollection so clearly, she could see the flecks of navy in them. God, those beautiful blue eyes.

She could remember when she first met him, back when he was a pretrans. He had looked at her with such awe and wonder, as if she were larger than life, a revelation. Of course, at that point, all she knew was that he was packing heat in ZeroSum, and as head of security for the club, she’d been hell-bent on disarming him and throwing him out into the street. But then she’d learned the Blind King was his
whard
and that had changed everything.

Following the happy little news flash about who was all up in his biz, John was not just welcome to be armed; he was a special guest, along with his two boys. After that, he’d come in regularly and had always watched her, those blue eyes on her wherever she was. And then he’d transitioned. Holy hell, had he turned into a big one, and abruptly that stare had something hot added to the gentle shyness.

It had taken a lot to kill that kindness. But true to her assassin’s nature, she’d managed to strangle the warmth out of—the way he looked at her.

Focusing on the street below, she thought of that time they had been together at her basement place. After the sex, when he’d tried to kiss her, when his blue eyes had glowed with the trademark vulnerability and compassion she’d come to associate with him, she’d pulled away and shut him down.

It was a case of lost nerve. She just couldn’t handle the pressure of all that hearts-and-flowers stuff . . . or the responsibility that came with being around someone who felt like that about her . . . or the reality that she had the capacity to love him back.

The payback had been the death of that special look.

The solace she took was that among the males who were likely to try to come after her—Rehvenge, iAm, and Trez . . . the Brotherhood—John was not on a crusade. If he was searching for her, it was because he had to as a soldier, not because he was compelled to as part of a personal suicide mission.

No, John Matthew wouldn’t be on the warpath because of how he felt about her.

And having already watched a male of worth destroy himself trying to rescue her, at least she didn’t have to do that again.

As the smell of fresh grilling steak permeated the brownstone, she shut off her thoughts and gathered her will around her like a suit of armor.

Her “lover” would be here any minute, so she needed to batten down her mental hatches and get ready for tonight’s battle. Pervasive exhaustion dragged at her, but her will ushered that deadweight out on its ass. She needed to feed, even more than she needed proper sleep, but neither of those was happening anytime soon.

It was a question of putting one foot in front of the other until something broke.

That and taking out the male who dared to hold her against her will.

C
hronologically speaking, Blaylock son of Rocke had known John Matthew for just over a year.

But that was not a true reflection of the bromance. There were two timelines to people’s lives: the absolute and the perceived. The absolute was the universal day-and-night cycle that for them added up to something like three hundred and sixty-five. Then there was the way that time period had gone, the events, the deaths, the destruction, the training, the fighting.

He figured all told . . . that pegged the two of them at about four hundred thousand years.

And counting, he thought, looking over at his buddy.

John Matthew was staring at the ink designs on the walls of the tat place, his eyes going over the skulls and daggers and American flags and Chinese symbols. With his size, he absolutely dwarfed the three- room shop—to the point where it was like he came from another planet. In contrast to his pretrans state, the guy now had the muscle mass of a pro wrestler, although because his skeleton was so big, the weight was stretched out on long bones, giving him a more elegant look than those swoll’d up humans in tights. He’d taken to buzz-cutting his dark hair and this made the lines of his face seem harsh rather than handsome—with the dark circles under his eyes giving the hard-ass look some serious backup.

Life had beaten the shit out of him, but instead of folding, each strike and blow had forged him harder and stronger and tougher. He was straight steel now, nothing lingering of the boy he’d once been.

But that was growing up for you. Not only your body changed; your head did, too.

Staring at his friend, the loss of innocence seemed a crime.

And on that note, the receptionist behind the counter caught Blay’s attention. She was leaning on the glass display of piercing supplies, her breasts swelling against the black bra and black muscle shirt she was wearing. She had two sleeves, one in black and white and one in black and red, and she had gunmetal gray hoops in her nose, her eyebrows, and both ears. Amid all the tat drawings on the walls, she was a living example of the work you could get if you wanted. A very sexy, hard-core example . . . who had lips the color of red wine and hair the color of night.

Everything about her matched Qhuinn. She was like a female him.

And what do you know. Qhuinn’s mixed eyes had already locked on her and he was smiling tightly in his trademark
gotcha
way.

Blay slipped a hand into his leather jacket and felt around for his pack of Dunhill reds. Man, nothing made him jones for a smoke more than Qhuinn’s love life.

And clearly he’d be lighting up another couple coffin nails tonight: Qhuinn sauntered over to the receptionist and drank her in like she was a long, tall beer fresh from the tap and he’d been working in the heat for hours. His eyes locked on her breasts as he traded names with her, and she helped him get a clearer picture of her assets by easing forward onto her forearms.

Good thing vampires didn’t get cancer.

Blay turned his back on the Spice Channel by the cash register and went over to stand next to John Matthew.

“That’s cool.” Blay pointed at a dagger sketch.

You going to get ink ever?
John signed.

“I don’t know.”

God knew he liked it on skin. . . .

His stare shifted back over to Qhuinn. The guy’s huge body was arching into the human woman, his broad shoulders and his tight hips and his long, powerful legs guaranteeing her one hell of a ride.

He was amazing at sex.

Not that Blay would know firsthand. He’d seen it and he’d heard it . . . and he’d imagined what it would be like. But when the opportunity had arisen, he’d been relegated to a small, special class: denied.

Actually, it was more of a category than a class . . . because he was the only one who Qhuinn would not have sex with.

“Um . . . is it going to sting like this forever?” a female voice asked.

As a deep male rumble replied, Blay glanced over to the tat chair. The blond who’d just been worked on was gingerly tucking her shirt in over her cellophane bandage and staring at the guy who’d inked her like he was a doctor telling her the odds of surviving rabies.

The pair of girls then went over to the receptionist, where the uninked one who’d changed her mind got a refund and both of them checked out Qhuinn.

It was like that wherever the guy went and it used to be the kind of thing that made Blay worship his best friend. Now, it was a never-ending rejection: every time Qhuinn said yes, it made that one single no louder.

“I’m ready if you guys are,” the tattoo artist called out.

John and Blay headed to the rear of the shop and Qhuinn dropped the receptionist like a bad habit and followed. One good thing about him was the seriousness with which he took his role as John’s
ahstrux nohtrum
: he was supposed to be around the guy twenty-four/seven, and that was a responsibility he took more seriously even than sex.

As John sat in the padded chair in the center of the workspace, he took out a piece of paper and unfolded it on the artist’s counter.

The man frowned and looked over what John had sketched out. “So it’s these four symbols across your upper shoulders?”

John nodded and signed,
You can embellish them any way you want, but they have to be clear.

After Qhuinn translated, the artist nodded. “Cool.” He grabbed a black pen and started making a picture box of elegant swirls around the simple design. “What are these things, by the way?”

“Just symbols,” Qhuinn answered.

The artist nodded again and kept sketching. “How’s this?”

All three of them leaned in.

“Man,” Qhuinn said softly. “That’s vicious.”

It was. It was absolutely perfect, the kind of thing John would wear on his skin with pride—not that anyone would see the Old Language characters or all that spectacular swirl work. What was spelled out was not something he wanted widely known, but that was the thing with tats: they didn’t have to be public, and God knew the guy had plenty of T-shirts to cover up with.

When John nodded, the artist stood up. “Let me get the transfer paper. Copying it onto you won’t take long and then we’ll get to work.”

As John put a crystal jar of ink on the counter and started to take off his jacket, Blay sat on a stool and held out his arms. Given the number of weapons John was packing in his pockets, it wouldn’t do anyone any good for him to just hang his shit up on a hook.

When he was shirtless, John settled into a forward lean position, his heavy arms resting on a padded bar stand. After the tattoo artist got the image on the transfer paper, the guy smoothed the sheet over John’s upper back, then peeled it off.

The design formed a perfect arch across the span of muscles, taking up all of John’s considerable acreage.

The Old Language really was beautiful, Blay thought.

Staring at the symbols, for one brief, ridiculous moment he imagined his own name across Qhuinn’s shoulders, carved into that smooth skin in the manner of the mating ritual.

Never going to happen. They were destined to be best friends . . . which, compared to strangers, was something huge. Compared to lovers? It was the cold side of a locked door.

He glanced over at Qhuinn. The guy had one eye on John and one eye on the receptionist—who had locked the front door and come to stand by his side.

Behind the fly of his leathers, the bulge he was sporting was obvious.

Blay looked down at the mess of clothes in his lap. One by one, he carefully folded the undershirt, the long-sleeve, and then John’s jacket. When he glanced up, Qhuinn was running his forefinger slowly down the woman’s arm.

They were going to end up ducking behind that curtain over to the left. The front door to the shop was secured, the curtain was fairly thin, and Qhuinn would do the woman with his weapons on. So John would be safe at all times . . . and that itch would get scratched.

Which meant Blay would only have to suffer hearing them.

Better than the full bifta. Especially because Qhuinn was beautiful to watch when he had sex. Just . . . beautiful.

Back when Blay had tried to do the hetero thing, the two had tag-teamed a number of human females—not that he could have recalled any of the women’s faces, bodies, or names.

It had always been about Qhuinn for him. Always.

 

 

The nibbling pain of the tattoo needle was a pleasure.

As John shut his eyes and breathed deep and slow, he thought about the intersection of metal and skin, how the sharp entered the soft, how the blood flowed . . . how you knew exactly where the penetration was.

Like right now, the tattoo artist was directly over the top of his spine.

John had a lot of experience with the whole slice-and-dice shit—only on a much larger scale, and more as a giver rather than a receiver. Sure, he’d been cut up out in the field a couple of times, but he’d left more than his fair share of holes behind, and like the tattoo artist, he always took his equipment to work with him: His jacket carried all kinds of daggers and switches, even a length of chain. Also a matched set of just-in-case guns.

Well . . . all that and a pair of barbed cilices.

Not that he ever used those on the enemy.

No, those weren’t weapons. And although they hadn’t been cinched on anyone’s thigh for almost four weeks now, they weren’t useless. Currently, they functioned as a kind of fucked-up security blanket. Without them, he felt naked.

Thing was, those brutal ties were the only tie he had to the one he loved. Which, considering the way things had been left between them, made cosmic sense.

They didn’t go far enough for him, however. What Xhex had worn around her legs to tame her
symphath
side didn’t offer the kind of permanence he was looking for, and that was what had led him to his own metal-on-skin convention. When he was through here, she would always be with him. In his skin as well as under it. On his shoulders as well as his mind.