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Wrath sped into the drawing room. Pushed the painting aside. Ran down the stairs as fast as he could go.
Time was of the essence.
Butch watched the drug dealer disappear with Beth. Her head bounced as they rushed away, her hair a silken flag trailing behind them.
For a moment, he was utterly immobilized, caught between wanting to scream and needing to cry.
The waste. The horrible waste.
Then he heard the door shut and lock behind him. And realized he was surrounded by five of the meanest, biggest bastards he'd ever seen.
A hand landed on his shoulder like an anvil. "How'd you like to stay for dinner?"
Butch looked up. The guy was wearing a baseball cap and had some kind of marking - was that a tattoo, on his face?
"How'd you like to be dinner?" said another one, who looked like some kind of model.
Anger returned to Butch, thickening his muscles, strengthening his bones.
He jacked up his pants.
These boys wanna play? he thought. Fine. We'll f**king dance.
To show he wasn't afraid, he met each of them in the eye. The two who'd spoken. A relatively normal-looking one who was hanging back. Another guy with an outrageous mane of hair, the kind of stuff women would pay hundreds for at some ritzy salon.
And then the last man.
Butch stared at the scarred face. Black eyes glared back.
This fella, he thought, was the one to really watch out for.
With a deliberate shrug, he stepped free of the hold on his shoulder.
"Tell me something, boys," he drawled. "Do you wear that leather to turn each other on? I mean, is it a dick thing with you all?"
Butch got slammed so hard against the door that his back teeth rattled.
The model shoved his perfect face into Butch's. "I'd watch your mouth, if I were you."
"Why bother, when you're keeping an eye on it for me? You gonna kiss me now?"
A growl like none Butch had ever heard came out of the guy.
"Okay, okay." The one who seemed the most normal came forward. "Back off, Rhage. Hey, come on. Let's relax."
It took a minute before the model let go.
"That's right. We're cool," Mr. Normal muttered, clapping his buddy on the back before looking at Butch. "Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up."
Butch shrugged. "Blondie's dying to get his hands on me. I can't help it."
The guy launched back at Butch, and Mr. Normal rolled his eyes, letting his friend go this time.
The fist that came sailing at jaw level snapped Butch's head to one side. As the pain hit, Butch let his own rage fly. The fear for Beth, the pent-up hatred of these lowlifes, the frustration about his job, all of it came out of him. He tackled the bigger man, taking him down onto the floor.
The guy was momentarily surprised, as if he hadn't expected Butch's speed or strength, and Butch took advantage of the hesitation. He clocked Blondie in the mouth as payback and then grabbed the guy's throat.
One second later, Butch was flat on his back with the man sitting on his chest like a parked car.
The guy took Butch's face into his hand and squeezed, crunching the features together. It was nearly impossible to breathe, and Butch panted shallowly.
"Maybe I'll find your wife," the guy said, "and do her a couple of times. How's that sound?"
"Don't have one."
"Then I'm coming after your girlfriend."
Butch dragged in some air. "Got no woman."
"So if the chicks won't do you, what makes you think I'd want to?"
"Was hoping to piss you off."
Stunning electric-blue eyes narrowed.
They had to be contacts, Butch thought. No one really had peepers that color.
"Now why'd you want to do that?" Blondie asked.
"If I attacked first" - Butch hauled more breath into his lungs - "your boys wouldn't have let us fight. Would've killed me first. Before I had a chance at you."
Blondie loosened his grip a little and laughed as he stripped Butch of his wallet, keys, and cell phone.
"You know, I kind of like this big dummy," the guy drawled.
Someone cleared a throat. Rather officiously.
Blondie leaped to his feet, and Butch rolled over, gasping. When he looked up, he was convinced he was hallucinating.
Standing in the hall was a little old man dressed in livery. Holding a silver tray. "Pardon me, gentlemen. Dinner will be served in about fifteen minutes."
"Hey, are those the spinach crepes I like so much?" Blondie said, going for the tray.
"Yes, Sire."
"Hot damn."
The other men clustered around the butler, taking what he offered. Along with cocktail napkins. Like they didn't want to drop anything on the floor.
What the hell was this?
"Might I ask a favor?" the butler said.
Mr. Normal nodded with vigor. "Bring out another tray of these and we'll kill anything you want for you."
Yeah, guess the guy wasn't really normal. Just relatively so.
The butler smiled as if touched. "If you're going to bloody the human, would you be good enough to do it in the backyard?"
"No problem." Mr. Normal popped another crepe in his mouth. "Damn, Rhage, you're right. These are awesome."
Chapter Thirty-three
Wrath was getting desperate. He couldn't get Beth to come around.
And her skin was getting colder by the moment.
He shook her on the bed again. "Beth! Beth! Can you hear me?"
Her hands twitched, but he had a feeling the spasms were involuntary. He put his ear down to her mouth. Air was still coming out, but the intervals were alarmingly long. And the force of the exhale was alarmingly weak.
"Damn it!" He bared his wrist and was about to score himself with his fangs when he realized he wanted to hold her if she was able to drink.
When she was able to drink.
He stripped off his holster, pulled out a dagger, and removed his shirt. He felt around his neck until he found his jugular. Placing the point of his knife against his skin, he cut himself. Blood came out in an obliging rush.
He took his fingertip, got it wet, and brought it to her lips. When he dipped it inside her mouth, her tongue did not respond.
"Beth," he whispered. "Come back to me."
He brought more of his blood to her.
"Damn it, don't you die!" Candles flared in the room. "I love you, damn you! Goddamn you, don't you let go!"
Her skin was turning blue now; even he could see the color change.
Frantic prayers fell from his lips, ancient ones in the old language. Ones he'd assumed he'd forgotten.
She wasn't moving. She was far too still.
The Fade was upon her.
Wrath screamed in fury and grabbed her body. He shook her until her hair tangled. "Beth! I will not let you go! I will come after you before I let you . . ."
A moan came out of him, and he pulled her against him. As he rocked her cold body back and forth, his blind eyes stared at the black wall before him.
Marissa took special care as she got dressed, determined to go down to the first meal of the night looking her best. After reviewing her wardrobe, she chose a long gown made of cream-colored chiffon. She'd purchased it the season before from the Givenchy collection, but had never worn it. The bodice was tighter and a little more revealing than she usually favored, though the Empire waist ensured that the overall effect was entirely modest.
She brushed out her hair, leaving it free to fall over her shoulders. It was so long now, reaching her hips.
The sight of it brought Wrath to mind. He'd once mentioned its softness, so she'd grown it out under the assumption that the more of it there was, the more he'd like it. And the more he'd like her.
Maybe she would cut off the blond waves. Hack them free of her head.
Her anger, which had simmered down, flared again.
Abruptly, Marissa came to a decision. She was through keeping everything inside. It was time to share.
But then she pictured Wrath's towering height. His cold, hard features. That awesome presence of his. Could she really confront him?
She'd never know if she didn't try. And she wasn't about to let him waltz off into whatever future waited for him without speaking her mind.
She glanced at her Tiffany clock. If she didn't show for dinner and then help out in the clinic as she'd promised, Havers would be suspicious. Better to wait until later in the night to go to Wrath. She had sensed he was staying at Darius's. She would go there.
And she would bide her time until he came home.
Some things were worth waiting for.
