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She shook her head, and Butch pursed his lips. "Wishful thinking, probably, but I'll do my best to keep it there. His focus is likely only to be on the vampire side of the equation. By the time he figures out Quinn's your servant, it will be a done deal. Plus the ranch isn't yet making a wide profit margin. The bar's more lucrative."
She nodded, pushing past her desire to howl at all of it. She'd bled for Laurent, literally and financially, and he'd more than earned his money off her. "How about after that? How many years will I owe you?"
"Once you're clear of what you owe Laurent, we'll talk. I'll expect a fairly hefty cut for my trouble for a couple years, then we'll whittle it down so I'm getting the usual tithe I get from other vampires in my territory. That's ten percent after taxes, which is goddamn fair, given the government's cut. I don't really need the money. It's the principle of it, the tradition, the bond it underscores. If it goes the way I think, in fifteen years you'll feel like you're mostly working for yourself. Fair?"
Laurent had taken all her profits, left her barely enough for living expenses and accepted personal credit for the success of her operations. What Butch was proposing worked fine enough for her--in comparison. With one caveat.
She stopped, looked up to meet his gaze. He and Quinn were both tall men. "If they rule to send me back to Laurent?"
He studied her, then nodded. "I'll protect your man."
"Thank you." She meant it. "I know it doesn't bring you much benefit."
"There are debts we all have to pay. I'll consider it my unpaid debt to Curtis." He looked out toward the open land beyond his yard. "I owe him that, no matter what this goddamn world of ours says. It's nice to have someone to whom I can say that, who understands it."
She nodded, feeling a relief in that as well. Then those piercing eyes fixed on her again. "But don't mistake who or what I am, youngling. I may have been human, but I am a vampire, and accepting everything that means and requires is why I'm where I am now. You don't live up to the same, I'll come down on you like a goddamn ton of bricks. Understand?"
"Understood."
"Good. We'll do some dinner now. Give your servant a different education about vampires and what they require of their servants."
She'd been nervous about Butch's decision on Laurent, but now that he'd stated his intentions on that, it left her room to worry about dinner. Oh shit.
*
Quinn had to keep himself from pacing while Selene was gone with Butch. All he could see was her down on the ground and that bastard kicking her. Coupled with the inexplicable contrast of him helping her into a chair, that intolerable kiss and his almost genial behavior afterward. But Quinn wasn't fooled. Those gray eyes and firm mouth had remained unyielding throughout, suggesting Butch could turn on a dime and go right back to beating the shit out of her if he got the wrong response.
Dix stood at the French doors where they'd disappeared out into the backyard, as if he was some kind of centurion at the gate. Though with his denim-clad butt leaned up against the wall, arms crossed, he displayed a cowboy's typically patient slouch. He was a wiry man with sunbaked skin and a lean build, but Quinn had discovered his third marked strength had been more than enough to keep him from lunging to Selene's defense. Quinn was a third mark too, but maybe servants were like vampires. Maybe age brought strength.
"How old are you?"
Dix lifted a brow. "You're lucky I'm not a woman, else I'd be offended. One-sixty two, last I remembered to pay attention. The candles get a little stupid after a while. You start marking decades instead of years."
One hundred and sixty-two years old. Damn if Quinn didn't see it in Dix's sea-green eyes, enhanced by flecks of gold in the irises. His grandfather hadn't had eyes that old. "So Butch's father and grandfather..."
"Him, with different haircut, hair color, different look to him. The childhood years are sometimes tricky, but you make up stories and people tend to accept them. Butch was the estranged son who came home when his father was sick, yada yada. So far it's worked. We've been on this spread about sixty years." He paused. "He had to punish her, you know. There's always a balance of power to be maintained."
"No. He didn't have to hit a woman in the face and kick her while she was curled at his feet. He's obviously a lot stronger than her."
"Yeah, he is. That was part of the point he was making. Reminding her. It's their way. You're dealing with vampires, not humans. Could have been a lot worse. Could have staked her out in the backyard and whipped the flesh from her back, then fucked her up the ass. Waited several hours for it all to heal up and do it all again. It's a favorite way of disciplining made vampires, under the justification that they need the harshness to 'get the lesson straight'."
Quinn stared at him. Dix had spoken as matter-of-factly as if explaining how to saddle a horse. What the hell kind of world was he in? But Sam had warned him, hadn't he? "Sounds like the voice of experience."
"I've seen it done." Dix's jaw tightened, relieving Quinn--a little--with the glimmer of emotion. "It's not Butch's way. But if he has to do it to maintain balance, he will. Vampires only respect strength. If you're weak, you grow stronger. If you're not so clever, you wise up. Else you'll be someone else's whipping boy--or girl--forever. Literally."
As Dix considered him from head to toe once again, Quinn shifted. "I wish you'd stop doing that," he said bluntly. "It makes me fucking uncomfortable."
Dix's lips twitched. "Then you're going to have a real problem with dinner."
He shifted out of the way of the door as it opened, Butch guiding Selene back into the room before Quinn could ask what he meant. He had a feeling he didn't want to know.
"Dix will show you to your rooms," Butch told her. "We'll have dinner at one in the main dining room. More space there." He gave Quinn a considering look, then met his gaze. "Dix will tell you how to dress for dinner."
Dix made a gesture to the archway, and Selene nodded, preceding him.
Quinn, follow us up.
As he complied, he was relieved to be out of the presence of the other vampire and all that unsettling innuendo. He'd been focused on the whole Laurent situation, but now the sex issue was right up close and personal in his face and maybe near other parts of his anatomy. Selene had fucked his ass. How different could it be to have a man do it, if he just shut down his brain? Did he really sign up for this?
When Dix pointed her to a door, she went through it, not saying a word. As her door shut, Dix gestured to the one next to it. "Those are your quarters. There's a connecting door in between if your Mistress has need of you. Lock's on her side, not yours."
Further highlighting a servant's status. The house was full of subtle cues about such things and quite frankly Quinn was already tired of it. But then he thought about Selene and realized her position in the vampire world was no different. He pulled his head out of his whiny ass to listen to Dix.
"In the dresser, you'll find what you'll wear to dinner tonight. We don't sit at the table with them. You'll stand behind your Mistress' chair. We eat after they have their dinner and are done with us."
"Christ. Is that the way it always is?"
"For formal dinners." Dix shrugged. "On a normal night, Butch and I might chow down on burgers in front of a game on the widescreen, but vampires have particular rituals when it comes to meets like this."
Quinn set his jaw, nodded. It wouldn't help to ask what would be happening at dinner, would it? He'd just assume the worst and anything better would be a nice surprise.
When he closed his door behind him, he found the room was comfortably furnished but not overly large. Another statement, because they certainly had the space to make it larger.
Quinn, once you're dressed for dinner, I want you to come see me. But before you do, use the ointment I told you to pack. Lube yourself up well.
Her tone was as neutral as a robot's as she delivered the ominous instruction.
He quelled the feeling of being cast adrift and all alone, suddenly in a place
where the language was foreign and the person he'd come with as much a part of it, separate from him, as the Grand Canyon was wide. But she was his Mistress, right?
Since they'd deigned to give him his own bathroom, he decided to take a quick shower and do a smooth shave. Then he faced what was in the dresser.
The outfit could have been worse. He'd imagined studded leather straps, metal rings to go around his cock and balls. Instead it was just a tight pair of shorts in some sort of sleek material that fit him like a seal's skin from just below his hipbones to high on the thighs. Obviously intended to highlight his ass and every hill and valley of his package. Christ. There was no way he could stand in front of other men in this.
Are you dressed?
Define dressed. But he moved to take care of the lube. Thanks to her desires, he was now pretty efficient at getting his ass lubricated. As he pushed the shorts to his thighs, braced himself against the bathroom counter to comply, she helped. He felt the sensual hum of her attention, and his cock jumped, responding to it as she made it clear she liked watching him through his eyes, in his mirror, seeing his arm flexing as he fucked himself with his fingers, worked the lube in good to make himself ready for God knew what.
When he replaced the shorts, washed his hands, she spoke in his head again, a little breathless, which just made more of his blood drain to his groin.
