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  Then again, if everyone was in the Wellsie Annex . . .

  "Good idea. Thank you."

  "I'll have them call you as soon as we're done."

  "Please."

  Cutting the connection, she hit up V. And got goddamn, frickin' voice mail. "Shit."

  Rhym spoke up from where she was pressing a towel to that leaking gash in the female's shoulder. "When are they coming?"

  It was getting close to the end of the night. V could just be in transit between the alleys of downtown Caldwell and the mansion. Or . . . he could be stuck fighting whoever had injured Tohr like that.

  As the female on the sofa began to cough and sputter, the calculation was done in a split second. The last thing she wanted to do was reach out to her brother, but she couldn't live with herself if her personal problems cost someone their life.

  Marissa dialed Havers's cell phone number by heart, and hoped he hadn't changed it. One ring, two rings . . .

  "Hello?" came his voice.

  "It's me." Before there was some kind of awkward silence or hello, she said, "We have a medical emergency here at Safe Place. I need you to come right now--or send someone. The Brotherhood's physicians are in surgery and we don't have a lot of time."

  There was a short pause, as if the race's primary healer were switching from a personal track to a professional one. "I shall be there in but a moment. Is it a trauma situation?"

  "Yes." Marissa lowered her voice again. "She's been badly beaten and . . . brutalized. There's a lot of blood. I don't know. . . ."

  "I'm bringing a nurse. Are you containing the other residents?"

  "Already have."

  "Unlock the front door."

  "I'll meet you at it."

  And that was that.

  Guess the universe was determined to have her brother on her radar screen this evening. First that idiot call with the socialite, now . . .

  Marissa nodded to Rhym. "Help is on the way."

  Through the eye that was not swollen shut, the injured female seemed to try to focus.

  Marissa leaned in and took a bloody hand. "My brother is going to take very good care of you."

  For a split second, she worried whether she should have kept quiet about the fact that a male was going to treat her. But the female didn't seem to be tracking.

  Dearest Virgin Scribe, what if she died before he got here?

  Marissa crouched down, tucking her blond hair behind her ears. "You're safe, it's going to be all right." That one eye looped over to her face. "Do you have kin we can call? Is there someone who we can get for you?"

  The female's head went back and forth.

  "No? Are you sure?" The eye shut. "Can you tell me who did this to you?"

  That face turned away.

  Shit.

  Backing off, Marissa went out to the shallow hall in the front of the house. There were long, thin windows on either side of the door, and she looked out to the lawn. The trees that had been so brilliantly colored just weeks before had molted their spectacular red and gold and yellow leaves, the spindly limbs underneath revealed like the bones of a too-thin dog.

  It was impossible not to glance at the mirror next to the door and check to see that her hair was in place, and her makeup was holding up even after a ten-hour day.

  Back when she had lived with her brother, she had worn silk gowns and heavy jewels, and had her hair styled up high on her head. Now? She had a pair of Ann Taylor slacks on, a blouse with a stand-up collar, and a pair of Cole Haan driving shoes on her feet because they were comfy. No jewelry other than a tiny gold cross that she wore because Butch's God was important to him and her hellren had given her the necklace during his last Christmas season. Oh, and she had a pair of pearl studs in her ears.

  In spite of Butch's transition having been jump-started, and his status as a Brother and a relation of the King, her male remained fundamentally human, everything from his Catholic belief system to his taste in books and movies to his opinions on what he wanted in a "wife," a product of his upbringing among Homo sapiens.

  Touching the gold chain on her neck, she frowned as she had to fight the urge to take the thing off because her brother wouldn't approve of it.

  But come on, whether the symbol of her mating was on or off her throat, it wasn't as if that changed anything. In her brother's eyes, she had taken a rat without a tail as a hellren, and that fall from grace would never be forgiven.

  A split second later, two shadows materialized out of thin air on the sidewalk: one taller and masculine, dressed in a white coat, the other smaller and feminine in a traditional nursing uniform.

  As they approached and were illuminated in the security lights, Marissa rubbed her sweaty palms on the seat of her pants. Havers looked exactly the same as he always had, from the bow tie and the horn-rimmed glasses to the dark hair parted on the side and kept in Mad Men order.

  At the last minute, Marissa switched the cross around to her nape and opened the door. Trying not to sound as if she were nervous, she announced, "She is in the parlor."

  No "Hello, how are you?" or "Hey, have you stopped being a prejudicial asshole?"--but then again, this was a medical emergency, not a social call.

  "Marissa," her brother said, nodding his head and stepping by her. "This is Cannest, my head nurse."

  "My pleasure, I'm sure," the nurse murmured.

  Marissa nodded at the female. "This way."

  Her legs felt stiff as she led them deeper into the modest house with its common furnishings, and for some absurd reason she pictured herself as a flamingo, her knees facing the wrong way. Meanwhile, all manner of memories boiled under the surface of her conscious mind, only the psychic weight of the tragedy unfolding in the other room keeping a lid on her emotions.

  Her brother stopped at the archway into the parlor and gave his doctor's bag to his assistant. "My nurse will do the triage, and advise me as to her condition. It will be better than having a male perform the examination."

  Marissa glanced into Havers's eyes for the first time, and noted that his stare had remained the identical shade of blue that hers was. As if that would have changed, though?

  "That is very considerate of you," she said before looking to his associate. "Come with me."

  In the parlor, the nurse went directly to the sofa, and was kind to Rhym as she took the staffer's place. The victim stirred as if recognizing that there was a new presence before her, and then moaned as her pulse and blood pressure were taken.

  Marissa stood off to the side, crossing her arms over her chest and putting her hand up to her mouth. The movements were good, she told herself. It meant that the poor girl was still alive.

  "Be careful," she blurted as the nurse felt down that arm and tears mixed with the blood on that beaten face.

  Dear God, who had done this? It had to be a member of the species--she couldn't catch the scent of anything human on her.

  Marissa had to drop her eyes as the exam became more intimate, and she motioned for Rhym to join her by the archway, as if she were protecting the privacy her brother was already respecting.

  After what felt like forever, the nurse spoke quietly with the female and then came back over, nodding for Marissa to follow her out to where Havers was standing with his hands clasped behind his back. He bowed his head as he listened to his nurse speak in a quiet tone.

  "She has extensive internal injuries," the female reported. "She will have to be operated on immediately if she is going to survive. The arm is the least of the problems."

  Havers nodded and glanced at Marissa. "I took the liberty of arranging for transport. It should arrive in approximately fifteen minutes."

  "I'm going in the van with her." Marissa got ready for a fight. "Until her blood comes, I am her ghardian."

  "But of course."

  "And I will assume the cost of treatment."

  "That will not be necessary."

  "It is very necessary. Allow me to get my things."

  Leaving them, she
spoke to Rhym, and then she ran up to her office and got her phone, her purse, and her coat.

  She thought about calling Butch, as there was some chance she wasn't going to be home for the day, but she wasn't going to know that for a little bit. And unfortunately, if she dialed up her hellren every time a crisis hit here at work? She would wear out his ringer.

  Halfway down the stairs, she realized there was another reason she wasn't reaching out to him.

  Too close to what had happened to his sister.

  And there was a possibility things could be completely the same if this female died from her injuries.

  No, she thought as she returned to the first floor. He had enough on his plate without having old triggers scatter his grey matter yet again.

  "I'm ready," she told her brother, as if daring him to change his mind.

  "The ambulance is two minutes out. I shall need to be in it with her as well--she is going to require a feeding if she has any chance of surviving."

  Havers gave her a little bow and retraced his steps to the front door. As he turned the corner, Marissa shook her head.

  The idea that he would give of his own blood to help some unknown female, who was probably naught but a civilian, was both amazing . . . and a source of frustration.

  That the male could be so kind to his patients and so cruel to her personally seemed like an insupportable contradiction.

  But that was the glymera for you. Double standards abounded.

  And typically were used to screw daughters, sisters, and mothers.

  Chapter Three

  As Butch stood in the BDB mansion's grand, colorful foyer, he frowned and looked at his phone. He'd checked the time on his Audemars Piguet watch about three minutes prior, but figured maybe his Samsung whatever-the-fuck-it-was might give him an answer he could live with better.

  Negative.

  And his seventh call to Marissa had just gone unanswered. As had the other six.

  Off in the distance, the chatter and subtle clanking of Last Meal being consumed bubbled out of the dining room.

  For no good reason, he thought about the first night he'd listened to sounds like that. It had been at what was now the audience house. He'd been a homicide detective back then, out of control and looking for a source of total destruction so that he could just be done with life.

  And then came the rabbit hole.

  Beth had gone down it first, her mixed heritage as half human, half vampire sucking her in. His entree had been something else entirely.

  If you're going to bloody the human, would you be good enough to do it in the backyard?

  "You got her yet?"

  Butch closed his eyes at the familiar male voice. Even though it was not even partially true, sometimes he felt like Vishous's acerbic mutter had been in his head for his entire life.

  "No."

  As the Brother approached, the scent of Turkish tobacco preceded him and Butch breathed in deep. Maybe it was a contact high, maybe it was the nasty bastard's presence, but the volume of screaming panic in his ears decreased a little.

  "You call her office at the Place?" V asked on the exhale.

  "Voice mail. And I dialed Mary, too. Nothing."

  "Motherfucker--"

  The subtle binging of the security monitor ripped his head around. When he saw the image on the screen, he lunged for the vestibule's door, nearly tearing the heavy weight off its hinges.

  "Oh, God, where have you been--"

  He was on his Marissa so fast and hard, the rest of whatever gibberish came out of his mouth was lost as he held her against him.

  "I'm so sorry," she said in a muffled voice. "I was dealing with a case. I didn't bother calling you because I had almost no time to get home."

  Pulling back, he put his palms on either side of her face and looked her over. "Are you okay?"

  "Absolutely. And I'm so sorry--"

  He kissed her, shuddering as her hands traveled up his back. "No, no. Not sorry. I only care that you're okay."

  Fucking hell, that sun was a terrifying thing. A vampire caught out at dawn was nothing but a bonfire in their clothes--and although Marissa was well protected at Safe Place, shit could happen: humans were unpredicable idiots and the slayers were downright deadly.

  As she separated them, she smiled. "I'm fine, just fine."

  Yeah, right, he thought as her eyes wouldn't meet his.

  He tugged her arm. "Come with me."

  "But Last Meal is on the table--"

  "Who cares."

  Drawing her into the billiards room, he would have shut them in together if there had been doors to close.

  "What happened," he demanded.

  She wandered around a little, her incredible body turning those simple clothes of hers into haute couture. "Nothing you haven't heard before, sadly."

  Butch closed his eyes. Sometimes he hated her job; he really did. The harder it got, though, the more she fought--and though it pained him to see her worn-out, worn down, and discouraged sometimes, he respected the hell out of her for what she did for her race. And it wasn't all bad. When people she had helped transitioned back into independent living, his shellan glowed like the sun.

  Taking her hand, he backed up against one of the pool tables, and pulled her in between his thighs. "Tell me anyway."

  Her eyes traveled around the room, but he stayed focused on her. And Jesus, even after a long, hard night, she took his breath away. Her beauty was legendary in the race, something that had been spoken about for generations and was still revered, and it was obvious why. Her face was a compilation of perfect angles, her skin as smooth and luminous as a pearl, her blue eyes the color of a morning glory, those lips so pink and soft. And then there was the blond hair that was down past her shoulders, and yeah, that figure, which was the kind of thing that knocked males on their asses--and kept 'em down.

  On a regular basis, he couldn't believe she was with him. Him. A guy from Southie, with a chipped front tooth, a bad background, and a host of addictions he hadn't been able to master until he'd met her.

  Plus there was all the Omega shit.

  Yet his shellan loved him, for some completely unknown reason.

  "You're not talking to me," he whispered, sweeping her hair back and stroking her neck, her tight shoulders, her stiff arms. "You know I hate it when I don't know what's doing."

  As a chorus of laughter broke out across the way, Marissa nestled in close, her hips coming into contact with all kinds of party time.

  And what do you know, his erection was instant, his cock thickening up and getting long behind the fly of his leathers.

  Putting her arms around his neck, she leaned in and eased her breasts into his chest. "Aren't you hungry?"

  Growling deep in his throat, he reached around and cupped her rear assets. A palmful on either side, nothing more, firm as a gymnast's--oh, God, he was starting to sweat.

  Except he shook his head. "This isn't going to work. You're not going to distract me--"

  Next thing he knew, Marissa parted her mouth and exposed her fangs. Getting close, she ran one of the canines across his lower lip, the sensation of the sharp point moving over his flesh causing him to moan.

  "You sound like you need something," she whispered against his mouth. "Do you want to tell me what it is?" Her tongue extended and licked her way into him. "What is it, Butch. Tell me what you need. . . ."

  "You," he groaned. "I need you."

  After his transition, when his body had bulked up and become this hulking thing of power, he'd gotten used to feats of physical strength--and also this resonant weakness when it came to his female and sex. He'd needed women from time to time back when he'd been strictly human, but that was nothing compared to the roaring lust Marissa could bring out of him at the drop of a hat. One look, one touch . . . a sentence or two . . . sometimes it was just the clean ocean scent of her. . . .

  Boom! Like someone blew up his brain.

  "Marissa . . ."

  Her pelvis ro
tated against his arousal and then she was stepping away from him. "Come here."

  She could have commanded him to do any number of things--"Stand on your head, shave your eyebrows, pull your own arm off"--and he would have done any of it in a heartbeat. Follow her? With the possibility of giving her an orgasm--or six?

  Yes, please, thank you, ma'am, how may I be of service.

  Marissa led him behind the bar and pushed him against the shelves of liquor bottles. With fast hands, she went for his fly, and God help him, he gripped the edge of the granite countertop and watched her undo the buttons one by one, the ridge of his erection pushing things open as she went down.

  And then she gripped him.

  "Fuuuuck . . ." His head wanted to fall back, but he needed to see her--

  His whole body swayed as her hand stroked his shaft.

  "Do you like to see me do this to you?" She worked him nice and slow, up and down. "Do you, Butch."

  "Yes," he whispered, drawing out the word. "I like . . . to see . . . your hands on me. . . ."

  "What about my mouth?"

  His balls tightened, and an orgasm shot into the head of his cock, ready to explode--and that was before she got on her knees in front of him, disappearing behind the cover of the bar's front section.

  He wasn't going to last long, but fuck him, he wanted that sensation, that warm, wet pull, even if for just a second--no watching, though. He had to squeeze his eyes shut. If he saw what she looked like, her mouth stretched wide, her beautiful hair splaying over his leather-clad thighs, that blue stare of hers looking up at him as if she liked the taste of him . . .

  Which, of course, couldn't possibly be true. But that was one lie he wasn't going to argue with--

  As her name reverberated up his throat, that suction was exactly what he was after, so slick and smooth, so hot that his eyes flared open. With his head on the level, he got a brief hi-how're-ya of the leather couches, the pool tables, the archway into the foyer. If anybody happened to come in--which was unlikely, given Last Meal--they were just going to see him with his porn face on. Marissa was hidden behind the screen of the bar's long, high countertop piece. And more good news? His bonding scent was waaaaaay out there, the dark spices so thick, it would serve as a warning that shit was going down in here, and people needed to give them a little privacy.

  Marissa rode his head and shaft with her mouth, working him out like he liked it, and he closed his lids again--thinking of the Patriots playing the Giants . . . what was being served in that dining room . . . whether Lassiter was going to make them watch The Bachelor or if it was going to be Rachael frickin' Ray and her EVOO shit.