The Beast

NINETEEN

Naasha did not keep him waiting.

As soon as Assail was shown into the lady’s parlor in her hellren’s mansion, a portion of the peach silk-covered wall slid back and Naasha came in from a hidden door.

“Good evening,” she said as she struck a pose. “I wore red, just as you asked.”

Say what you would about her lack of a pedigree and her gold digger mating, she was a beautiful female, all long black hair with a Marilyn Monroe bust-to-waist-to-hip ratio. Wearing that low-cut dress, and with her size sixes in a set of Loubou’s, she was every cock-and-ball’s wet dream.

And yet even dolled up and turned out, she didn’t hold a candle to his Marisol—in the same way a hothouse flower wasn’t nearly as attractive as something that grew, untamed and unexpected, in the wild.

Still, the scent of her went through him in a manner not all that different from the cocaine he’d taken before he’d come here, and his body woke up even as his emotions and soul remained dead and cold. The awful reality was that his flesh needed the blood of a female vampire—and that biological imperative was going to take precedence right here and now over everything else.

Even if under other circumstances he would have given her a pass.

“Do you like?” she said, holding up her arms and doing a slow circle.

As he was supposed to, he smiled, revealing his descended fangs. “It’s going to look even better off of you.”

“Come here,” he commanded.

Naasha sauntered toward him, but didn’t come all the way, stopping by a buttercup yellow, antique French sofa that had more pillows than seat space.

“You come to me.”

Assail shook his head. “No.”

The pout was quick, her thick lips pursing out, gleaming with a color that matched the dress. “You traveled all the way across town for me. Surely you can make it another six feet.”

“I shall not cross this room.”

As he assumed a bored look, which was not forced in the slightest, her arousal flared. “You are so disrespectful. I should throw you out.”

“If you think this is disrespect, you have seen naught from me. And I am more than happy to leave.”

“I have taken a lover, you know.”

“Have you.” He inclined his head. “Congratulations.”

“So I am quite well-serviced. In spite of my beloved’s infirmity.”

“Well, then, I shall take my leave of you—”

“No.” She raced around the sofa, moving in until she was so close he could see the pores on her smooth face. “Don’t go.”

He made a show of looking at her features. Then he reached out and touched her hair.

“Get on your knees.” Before she could say anything, he pointed to his feet. “On your knees. Now.”

“I’ve forgotten how demanding you are—”

“Don’t waste my time.”

As another rush of her arousal hit his nose, he knew she was going to kneel on the Aubusson carpet—and when she reached out to steady herself on his chest, he pushed her hand away so that she was forced to wobble her way down to the floor.

“That’s a good girl.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. Then he grabbed a fistful of her hair and bent her head back. “Open your mouth.”

With parted lips, she began to pant, the scent of her sex becoming a roar in his sinuses, her face flushing with heat, her breasts pumping over the bodice of her dress. With his free hand, he undid the zipper of his fine twill slacks and popped his erection.

Palming himself, he growled, “Do you want to tell me more about your lover?”

Her low-lidded eyes flared with erotic light. “He’s such a strong—”

Assail pushed himself in between her lips, stopping her from going any further. And then, using his grip on her hair, he fucked her mouth as she moaned, her hands going to her breasts and squeezing, her knees spreading wide as if, in her mind, he was working himself in and out of her core instead. Or maybe in addition to.

As he manhandled her, it wasn’t that he hated her. He didn’t even dislike her—she’d have had to be on his radar for him to have any kind of opinion of her one way or another.

What he did hate was that she was not the one he wanted.

And the more he thought about that reality, the forever distance, the loss?

Popping himself free of Naasha’s mouth, he led her over to the sofa on her knees, using her hair as a leash. And she loved it. She followed him more than willingly, panting, flushed, ready to be fucked. Which was convenient, wasn’t it.

Especially as he bent her over that beautiful French couch, shoved that tight skirting up, and drove into her from behind.

She came immediately, shuddering and bucking under him. And as he yanked her head back once more, she called out his name.

“Shh,” he gritted. “Wouldn’t want your beloved to hear. Or your boyfriend.”

She moaned a bunch of senseless things, so lost in the fucking that her brain had obviously taken a vacation. And in an odd way, he envied her the erotic experience. For him, this was nothing but an expression of base needs, a physical workout with pleasure and blood as an anonymous award.

It held none of the knife-edge pleasure she was so clearly enthralled by. But at least he could use this weakness of hers—to Wrath’s benefit.

Baring his fangs, Assail struck the side of her throat, biting hard as he rode her, sucking at her, taking his fill. The taste of her was . . . fine. The feel of her sex gripping and releasing his cock was . . . fine. The strength that she would give him was utterly necessary.

Across the way, in the wavy glass of an antique mirror, he caught sight of him fucking her.

Indeed, he looked as dead as he felt. But he reached into his inside suit coat for his cell phone anyway.

Vishous was heading past the training center’s weight room and gym when his cell phone went off, thanks to the training center’s Wi-Fi. Taking the thing out of his ass pocket, he put his code in and then smiled at the text.

It was a picture from Assail—of the back of a dark haired female’s head as she was bent doggy-style over a sofa. The message below was short and to the point: I am in.

Gd job, V typed back. Enjoy t ride.

“And bring us back some shit,” he said as he returned the phone to its place.

That male’s addiction was a potential problem, but it appeared as if Wrath had made the right call with the sonofabitch. Assail looked good, had money, and was a total bastard with the right bloodline. He was the perfect ringer to plant in the glymera.

The question was going to be what he found out. And how long he was going to be a good boy and play by the rules.

Any independent thinking on his part and V was going to slit that throat open wider than a garage door. But until that time came, Assail was solidly in the Useful, Allow to Keep Breathing column.

As Vishous came up to the entrance of the gun range, he bent down and snagged a black duffel bag that he’d left at the door hours ago. Heading into the low-ceilinged, musty-smelling space, he called out a wassup.

“How we doing?” he said, walking around the shooting booth and proceeding onto the concrete target area.

Blay got up from the folding chair he’d been in, stretching his arms over his head and flattening his palms on the ceiling. “No change.”

“But I’ve beaten this guy twice at gin rummy,” Lassiter cut in.

“That’s because you cheat.”

Vishous glanced over—and shook his head at the angel. “What are you doing here? And why are you in a lawn chair?”

“Lumbar support—”

At that moment, the piece of meat on V’s rack twitched—and V had to give the black-and-blond asshole in the tanning position credit: Lassiter was up and out of that thing faster than a blink, gun pointed at Xcor’s chest like he was prepared to blow a hole through his heart.

“Easy, cowboy,” V said. “It was just an involuntary muscle spasm.”

The angel didn’t seem to hear him—or maybe he didn’t care for anybody else making an assessment for his trigger finger, even if they’d had medical training.

Hard not to approve of the guy. Hard also not to notice that Lassiter clearly wasn’t leaving Xcor, as if he trusted only himself to take care of business.

Shit, as long as that angel didn’t open his mouth, and provided V didn’t think about their little difficulties in the past, you could almost forget how much you wanted to shank the motherfucker.

Going over to their prisoner, Vishous performed a visual assessment on Xcor. When they’d brought the bastard in here, V had strapped him onto the wooden slab table face-up and spread-eagled, locking stainless-steel cuffs on those wrists and ankles and around that thick neck—and what do you know, the guy was right where he’d left him. Color was passable. Eyes were closed. Head wound at the rear of the skull was no longer leaking, having healed already.

“Do you need help?” Blay asked.

“Nah, I got it.”

Opening up the duffel, V used what was inside to check heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, and oxygenation. The thing he was most concerned with was the inevitable hematoma from where he’d pistol-whipped the fucker—and its possible complications, which included anything from the inconvenient to the catastrophic. However, without moving him or bringing in some seriously heavy and expensive equipment, there was going to be no way of checking any of that out.

He had his suspicions, though. It was entirely possible the concussion had caused an ischemic stroke due to a blood clot blocking a vessel.

Just their frickin’ luck. They capture the enemy and the bastard goes brain-dead on them.

After V had put his toys away and made his notes in the digital file with his phone, he took a step back and just stared at the male’s ugly face. In the absence of being able to do a battery of tests, he had to rely on his own observation—and sometimes, even with the heavy-duty equipment, nothing beat a medic’s own extraoplation from what he could see.

Narrowing his eyes, he tracked every single breath, each exhale . . . the twitches across the brows and the stillness of the lids . . . the random movements of fingers . . . the skin contractions across the thighs.

Stroke. Definitely a stroke. No movement on the left side at all.

Wake the fuck up, V thought. So I can give you a pounding and put you back to sleep.

“Goddamn it.”

“What’s wrong?” Blay asked.

If there was no change in status soon, he was going to have to make a judgment call on whether to keep Xcor—or throw his body out with the trash.

“Are you okay?”

V turned to Blay. “What?”

“Your eye is having a seizure.”

Vishous rubbed at the thing until it stopped. And then wondered, with everything that was going on, whether he was going to be next on the TIA stroke list.

“Let me know if he regains consciousness?”

“Will do,” Lassiter said. “And I’ll also tell you when I need my next strawberry milk shake.”

“I’m not your butler, true.” V put the duffel back up on his shoulder and headed for the door. “And you blow me a kiss again? Ima put an MRI in you, instead of the other way around.”

“What happens if I pinch your ass next?” the angel called out.

“Try it and you’ll find that immortality, like time, is relative.”

“You know you love me!”

Vishous was shaking his head as he pushed his way back out into the corridor. Lassiter was like a head cold, contagious, annoying and nothing you ever looked forward to.

And yet he was glad the fucker was in there. Even if Xcor was little more than a piece of furniture.