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Lassiter brushed a length of her hair behind her ear. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“Do take your time.”
He kissed her quick again. Kissed her a third time.
Then bent down and gathered up the things that had fallen out of her hands.
“Be back soon,” he murmured.
As he walked off, she leaned out and watched him go. His stride was long and purposeful, and his hair flowed behind him. When he disappeared through a glass door, she wondered how far they were away from the First Family’s house. Not far, she was guessing, if the loaner of the clothing could just “go back up” or however he had phrased it. Indeed, there was probably an underground tunnel somewhere that provided linkage, and for that, she was grateful.
She had hated what had happened last night at the club, and if one of the Brothers’ females was kind enough to lend clothes to a stranger, Rahvyn had to imagine there were many good people in this community. Kind, good people. She would hate such violence e’er to come upon them, especially in their home.
Ducking back inside the locker room, she glanced around at all the metal vertical cabinets. Then she returned to the showers’ enclave, chose the first stall, and closed the curtain. Changing out of what she had on was a bit of a relief, and, oh, the hot water.
Soap, shampoo, and various other supplies were in a metal basin upon the wall, but she just stood under the rush for a while, enjoying the sensations of the gentle fall of rain and the warmth and the humidity. Her body was sore in places that made her smile, and when she finally took to the cleansing, she felt a kind of wonder as her hands passed the bar over her breasts, her stomach… between her legs.
With everything washed, including her hair, she gave herself a little longer, but then began to feel guilty at how much hot water she was using. Back in the Old Country, such a luxury was rare and precious.
When she got out, she took a white towel off a little ledge in the dressing part of the stall and she dried herself off. As she reached for the shirt to put on, a packet slipped out of its folds. It was a plastic bag that read “Hanes,” and inside were three pairs of fresh underwear.
“How thoughtful.”
She chose the red ones, and imagined, as she put them on, Lassiter removing them. And didn’t that make her flush.
The shirt was soft and white, the fleece was a lightweight cotton layer with a zipper in front, and the jeans were a little long, but otherwise perfect. She collected her own clothes—or rather those that had been given to her at Luchas House—and left them on the bench in the cabinet area.
As she went to the exit, she had a thought she would pick them up on her way home—and stopped.
Glancing back, she regarded the little pile and realized that she had no home. Luchas House had been a stopgap. The alternate plane where the Book was sequestered was not a residence. And the rustic cottage in that field, back in the Old Country, was no doubt long gone by now.
And yes, Sahvage had told her that she could live with him and his new shellan, but she did not feel right about that. He had done his duty caretaking her, and now he should be able to live without the burden of—
She considered the cave. And Lassiter.
Yes, she thought. When she considered the subject of going home, that place she had only been to once before was what was in her heart. Although that had more to do with where the angel was… than the location itself.
* * *
Striding down the subterranean tunnel that connected the training center to the main house, Lassiter was nervous as hell. Given his personality and the whole immortal thing, him being this kind of stressed was a new experience. He’d known despair, sure. Generic sadness. Boredom—often. Panic—when he hadn’t been able to find Rahvyn the night before.
But this twitchy, vibrating anxiety was a new one.
Yay. Personal growth.
Stopping in front of a steel door, he punched in a code, went up a short-stack stairwell, and entered another code. Emerging from under the mansion’s grand staircase, he took a deep breath. He’d always liked the way the big house smelled, all lemon wax, old-fashioned floor polish, and homemade bread in an oven.
Man, if there was a way to bottle this, it could be called Mom’s.
Not that he’d had one.
Although he wasn’t exactly sure what time it was, it was clear First Meal had come and gone: Not only was there no one eating in the dining room, he could also tell by the scent of dishwashing liquid wafting through from the kitchen, and the sweet chiming of silverware being scooped up off the big table as place settings were swapped out.
