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He thought of Marissa... and felt his tear ducts sting.
The female next to him moved so that her br**sts were on his arm. "Let's go to the back, daddy."
He put his hand over hers at his crotch and she made some kind of purring noise in his ear. At least until he removed her palm.
"I'm sorry. I can't."
The female pulled away and looked at him as if he had to be playing her. Butch stared right back.
He wasn't prepared to say he was never going to have sex again. And he sure as shit didn't understand why Marissa had gotten to him as much as she had. All he knew was that his old pattern of balling random women wasn't doing it for him. Tonight.
Abruptly Phury's voice cut through the ambient noise of the club. "Hey, cop, you want to stay or go?"
Butch glanced up. There was a slight pause as he speculated about his friend.
The Brother's yellow eyes narrowed. "What's doing, cop?"
"I'm ready to go," Butch said, smoothing over the awkward moment.
As he got up, Phury gave the blond a hard look. A real keep-your-yap-shut special.
Wow, Butch thought as they headed for the door. So Phury really was g*y.
Chapter Twenty
Bella woke up hours later to a soft scraping sound. She glanced over to a window and watched as its steel shutter came down. Dawn must be close.
Anxiety tingled in her chest, and she looked at the door. She wanted Zsadist to come through it, wanted to clap her eyes on him and reassure herself he was in one piece. Even though he'd seemed back to normal when he'd left, she'd put him through a lot.
She rolled over onto her back and thought about Mary showing up. How had Zsadist known she'd needed a friend? And God, the fact that he'd gone to Mary and -
The bedroom door opened wide without any warning.
Bella sat up in a rush, pulling the covers to her throat. But then Zsadist's shadow was a stunning relief.
"It's just me," he said gruffly. As he came inside, he was carrying a tray, and there was something on his shoulder. A duffel bag. "You mind if I hit the lights?"
"Hi..." I'm so glad you're home safe. "Not at all."
He called to life several candles, and she blinked in the sudden glow.
"I brought you some things from your house." He put the tray of food on the bedside table and opened up the bag. "I got you clothes and a parka. The bottle of shampoo that was in your shower. A brush. Shoes. Socks to keep your feet warm. Your diary, too - don't worry, I haven't read it or anything."
"I'd be surprised if you had. You're more trustworthy than that."
"No, I'm illiterate."
Her eyes flared.
"Anyway" - his voice was hard as his jawline - "I figured you'd want some of your own stuff."
As he put the duffel next to her on the bed, she just stared up at him until, overwhelmed, she reached out to take his hand. When he flinched back, she flushed and looked at what he'd brought her.
God... she was nervous about seeing her things. Especially the diary.
Except it turned out to be comforting to pull out her favorite red sweater, put the thing to her nose, and catch a whiff of the perfume she'd always worn. And... yes, the brush, her brush, the one she liked with the broad, square head and metal bristles. She grabbed her shampoo, popped the top, and inhaled. Ahhhh... Biolage. Nothing like the scent of what the lesser had made her use.
"Thank you." Her voice trembled as she took out her journal. "Thank you so much."
She stroked her diary's leather cover. She would not open it. Not now. But soon...
She glanced up at Zsadist. "Will you... will you take me back to my house?"
"Yeah. I can do that."
"I'm frightened to go there, but I probably should."
"You just tell me when."
Gathering her courage, suddenly interested in getting one of the big "firsts" out of the way, she said, "When light falls this evening. I want to go then."
"Okay, we will." He pointed at the tray. "Now eat."
Ignoring the food, she watched him go into the closet and disarm. He was careful with his weapons, checking them thoroughly, and she wondered where he had been... what he had done. Though his hands were clean, there was black blood on his forearms.
He had killed tonight.
She supposed she should feel some kind of triumph that a lesser had been taken down. But as Zsadist walked over to the bathroom with a pair of sweats draped over his arm, she was more interested in his well-being.
And also... his body. He moved like an animal in the best sense of the word, all latent power and sleek strides. The sex that had stirred in her the very first time she'd seen him rocked her again. She wanted him.
As the bathroom door shut and the shower started to run, she rubbed her eyes and decided she was out of her mind. The male pulled away at the threat of her hand on his arm. Did she actually think he'd want to lay with her?
Disgusted with herself, she looked over at the food. It was some kind of herbed chicken with roasted potatoes and squash. There was a glass of water and a glass of white wine, as well as two bright green Granny Smith apples and a piece of carrot cake. She picked up a fork and pushed the chicken around. She wanted to eat what was on the plate only because he'd been thoughtful enough to bring it to her.
When Zsadist came out of the bathroom with only the nylon sweats on, she froze and couldn't stop staring. His nipple rings caught the candlelight, and so did the hard muscles of his stomach and arms. Along with the star-shaped mark of the Brotherhood, his bare chest had a fresh, livid scratch across it and a bruise.
"Are you injured?"
He came over and measured the plate. "You haven't eaten much."
She didn't reply as her eyes got caught on the curving hip bones that rose above the low waistband of the sweats. God... just a little lower and she would be able to see everything.
Abruptly she remembered him scrubbing himself raw because he thought he was filthy. She swallowed, wondering what had been done to him, to his sex. Wanting him as she did seemed... inappropriate. Invasive. Not that it changed the way she felt.
"I'm not terribly hungry," she murmured.
He pushed the tray closer to her. "Eat anyway."
When she started in on the chicken again, he took the two apples and walked across the room. He bit into one and sank down to the floor, sitting cross-legged with his eyes lowered. One arm settled across his stomach as he chewed.
"Did you have dinner downstairs?" she asked.
He shook his head and took another hunk out of the apple, the crack ricocheting around the room.
"Is that all you'll have?" When he shrugged, she muttered, "And you're telling me to eat?"
"Yeah, I am. So why don't you get back to work there, female."
"You don't like chicken?"
"I don't like food." His eyes never wavered from the floor, but his voice got pushier. "Now eat."
"Why don't you like food?"
"Can't trust it," he said tightly. "Unless you make it yourself, or can see it whole, you don't know what's in it."
"Why do you think someone would tamper - "
"Have I mentioned how much I don't like talking?"
"Will you sleep beside me tonight?" She blurted out the request, figuring she'd better get her answer before he shut up completely.
His brows flickered. "You really want that?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then, yeah. I will."
As he polished off the two apples and she cleaned the plate, the silence wasn't exactly easy, but it didn't crackle, either. After she was finished with the carrot cake, she went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. By the time she came back, he was working the last apple core with his fangs, picking off the little bits of flesh that were left.
She couldn't imagine how he fought on such a diet. Surely he must eat more.
And she felt like she should say something, but instead slid into bed and curled up, waiting for him. As minutes ticked by, and all he did was surgically trim that apple, she couldn't stand the tension.
Enough, she thought. She really should go somewhere else in the house. She was using him as a crutch, and that wasn't fair.
She reached out to throw the covers back just as he uncoiled from the floor. As he walked to the bed, she froze. He dropped the apple cores next to her plate, then picked up the napkin she had used to wipe her own mouth. After rubbing his hands with the thing, he took the tray and carried it out of the room, setting it right outside the door.
