Rhage squeezed his eyes shut and started back for his seat at the table. But after two steps, he thought of Beth’s trip-and-fall and imagined himself flattening the kid like a panini. Going bug-lid, he proceeded heel-toe, heel-toe, as if he were balancing a crystal vase on the top of his skull. As soon as he got within range, he parked it on the chair and stood the kid up on those biscuit feet of his. L.W. wasn’t strong enough to hold his body up, but that screaming was straight rock-and-roll.
“Your mahmen’s coming back.” Please, dearest Virgin Scribe, let that female get back here before he was deaf. “Yup. Riiiight back.”
Rhage looked around the pair of very healthy lungs and prayed for someone, anyone to come running.
When that passive optimism didn’t pan out, he refocused on the red face.
“Buddy, your point’s been made. Trust me. I heaaaaaar you.”
Okay, if the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again …
Turning the little boy around, Rhage laid L.W. back in the crook of his arm as he’d seen Wrath and Beth do—
Fucking hell, that just pissed the kid off more. If that was possible.
Next position? Um …
Rhage put L.W. up on his chest so that the baby could see over his shoulder. And then he patted his flat palm onto the surprisingly sturdy back. Over. And over. And over …
Just like Wrath did.
And what do you know. The shit worked.
About four minutes and thirty-seven seconds later—not that Rhage was counting—L.W. sputtered to a halt, like his tear maker had used up the last of its gas. Then the kid took a ragged inhale and went limp.
Later, Rhage would wonder if things might have been okay had L.W. stopped there. Maybe if the infant hadn’t gone any further … or maybe if it had started to cry again? Then perhaps Rhage might have been saved.
The trouble was, mere moments later, L.W. wrapped a chubby arm around Rhage’s throat, and then he fisted the sweatshirt and held on, getting in close, seeking comfort, finding it … relying on it because the little guy was utterly helpless in the world.
Abruptly, Rhage stopped with the patting, freezing exactly where he was even though he was off-balance in the chair. And with a clarity that was shattering, everything about the young registered on him, from the heat in that vital body, to the tensile strength in that grip, to the rise and fall of that little chest. The sniffles were right by Rhage’s ear, and so was the soft puffing breath, and when L.W. moved his head, fine, silky hair tickled Rhage’s neck.
This was the future, Rhage thought. This was … destiny come to rest up against him.
After all, L.W. had eyes that would witness events long after Rhage was gone. And the infant’s brain would make decisions Rhage couldn’t even comprehend. And the body that was fragile in this nascent state, but enduring in its maturity, would fight and honor and protect, just as his father had and his father’s father … and all the sires in the bloodline before that had.
Wrath was alive in this boy. And would be in the boy’s young. And in their young after that.
Moreover, Beth had given this to him. They shared this. They had … made … this.
Suddenly, Rhage found that he could not breathe.
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.