Lover Awakened (15 page)

Tohr put his hand on John's shoulder. "So I'll see you later, okay? You have my cell phone number. You just text-message me if you need something."

John nodded and watched Tohr stride off. Seeing those broad shoulders recede made him feel very alone.

At least until Phury said quietly, "Don't worry. He's never far, and I'll take good care of you."

John glanced up into warm yellow eyes. Wow… the things were the color of goldfinches. As he found himself relaxing, he connected the name. Phury… This was the guy who was going to be doing some of the teaching.

Good
, John thought.

"Come on in. I just got back from a little errand."

As John breached the doorway, the smoky, coffee smell grew heavier.

"You ever been to Havers's before?"

John shook his head and spotted an armchair by a window. He went over and sat in the thing.

"Well, don't worry about it. We'll make sure you're treated right. So I guess they're going to try to get a bead on your bloodline?"

John nodded. Tohr had said that he was getting blood drawn and having a physical. Both of which were probably a good idea, given the stop, drop, and shiver he'd just pulled in Wrath's office.

He took out his pad and wrote,
Why are you going to the doctor's
?

Phury came over and looked at the scribbles. With an easy shift of his big body, he propped one huge shitkicker on the edge of the chair. John leaned away as the man pulled up his leathers a little.

Oh, my God
… His lower leg was made up of a series of rods and bolts.

John reached out to feel the shiny metal, then looked up. He didn't realize he was touching his own throat until Phury smiled.

"Yeah, I know all about what it's like to be missing a part."

John glanced back at the artificial limb and cocked his head.

"How'd it happen?" When John nodded, Phury hesitated and then said, "I shot it off."

The door flew open and a hard male voice cut through the room. "I need to know—"

John shifted his eyes as the words died off. Then he cringed back in the chair.

The man in the doorway was scarred, his face distorted by a slash that ran right down the middle of it. But that wasn't what made John want to shrink out of sight. The black eyes in that ruined visage were like the shadows of a deserted house, full of things that probably would hurt you.

And to top it all off, the guy had fresh blood on his pant leg and left shitkicker.

That vicious gaze narrowed and hit John's face like a blast of cold air. "What are you looking at?"

Phury lowered his leg. "Z—"

"I asked you a question,
boy
."

John fumbled with his pad. He wrote fast and flashed the page to the other man, but somehow that just made the situation worse.

That misshapen upper lip pulled up, revealing tremendous fangs. "Yeah, whatever, kid."

"Back off, Z," Phury cut in. "He has no voice. He can't talk." Phury tilted the pad his way. "He apologizes."

John resisted the urge to hide behind the chair as he got raked over visually. But then the aggression radiating from the guy eased up.

"You can't talk at all?"

John shook his head.

"Well, I can't read. So we're SOL, you and me."

John worked his Bic quickly. As he showed the pad to Phury, the male with the black stare frowned. "What did the kid write?"

"He says that's okay. He's a good listener. You can do the talking."

Those soulless eyes shifted away. "Got nothing to say. Now what the hell do I set a thermostat at?"

"Ah, seventy degrees." Phury went across the room. "The dial should be here. See?"

"I didn't turn it up enough."

"And you've got to make sure this switch on the bottom of the unit is all the way over to the right. Otherwise, no matter what the dial is on, the heat won't kick in."

"Yeah… okay. And can you tell me what this says?"

Phury looked down at a square piece of paper. "It's the dosage information for the shot."

"No shit. So what do I do?"

"Is she uncomfortable?"

"Not right now, but I want you to fill this up for me and tell me what to do. I need one dose ready to go in case Havers can't get here fast enough."

Phury took the vial and unwrapped the needle. "Okay."

"Do it right." When Phury was finished with the syringe, he recapped it and the two spoke for a while in the Old Language. Then the scary guy asked, "How long will you be gone?"

"Maybe an hour."

"Do me a favor first, then. Lose that sedan I brought her back in."

"I already did."

The scarred man nodded and left, the door closing with a clap.

Phury put his hands on his hips and stared at the floor.

Then he went over to a mahogany box on a bureau and took out what looked like a blunt. Holding the hand-rolled between his thumb and forefinger, he lit it and breathed in deep, keeping the inhale down, closing his eyes. When he exhaled, the smoke smelled like roasting coffee beans and hot chocolate combined. Delicious.

As John's muscles relaxed, he wondered what the stuff was. Not marijuana, certainly. But it wasn't just a cigarette.

Who is he
? John wrote, and showed the pad.

"Zsadist. My twin." Phury laughed a little when John's mouth went slack. "Yeah, I know, we don't look much alike. At least, not anymore. Listen, he's a little touchy, so you might want to give him some space."

No shit
, John thought.

Phury slipped on a shoulder holster and popped a gun in on one side and a black-bladed dagger on the other. He went into a closet and came back wearing a black leather peacoat.

He put the joint or whatever it was out in a silver ashtray next to the bed. "All right, let's go."

Chapter Eleven

Zsadist was quiet as he stole back into his room. After he fixed the thermostat and put the medicine on the bureau, he went over to the bed and leaned against the wall, staying in the shadows. He became suspended in time as he loomed over Bella and measured the slight rise and fall of the covers that marked her breathing. He could feel the minutes dripping into hours, and yet he could not move even as his legs grew numb.

In the candlelight he watched her skin heal right in front of his eyes. It was miraculous, the bruises fading from her face, the swelling around her eyes draining away, the cuts disappearing. Thanks to the deep sleep she was in, her body was throwing off the damage, and as her beauty was revealed once again, he was so damned grateful. In the lofty circles she ran in, a female with imperfections of any kind would be shunned. Aristocrats were like that.

He pictured his twin's unmarred, handsome face and knew Phury should be the one taking care of her. Phury was perfect savior material, and it was obvious he was into her. Plus she would like to wake up to a male like that. Any female would.

So why the hell didn't he just pick her up and put her in Phury's bed? Right now.

But he couldn't move. And as he stared down at her while she lay on pillows he'd never used, between sheets he'd never turned back for himself, he remembered the past…

Months had gone by since the slave first awoke in captivity. And in this time there was not anything that had not been done to him, in him, or on him, and there was a predictable rhythm to the abuse.

The Mistress was fascinated by his privates and felt the need to display them to other males she favored. She would bring these strangers into the cell, get out the salve, and show him off like a prized horse. He knew she did it to make the others insecure, for he could see the delight in her eyes as the males shook their heads in awe.

When the inevitable violations started up, the slave did his best to release himself from his skin and bones. It was so much more bearable when he could rise up into the air, rise higher and higher until he bounced along the ceiling, a cloud of himself. If he was lucky, he could transform entirely and just float along, watching them from above, playing witness to someone else's humiliation and pain and degradation. But it didn't always work. Sometimes he couldn't free himself, and was forced to endure.

The Mistress always had to use the salve on him, and of late he'd noticed something strange: Even when he was trapped in his body and everything being done to him was vivid, even as the sounds and the smells burrowed like rats into his brain, there was a curious displacement below his waist. Whatever he felt down there registered as an echo, as something removed from the rest of him. It was odd, but he was grateful. Any kind of numbing was good.

Whenever he was left alone, he worked at learning to control his huge, posttransition muscles and bones. This he succeeded at, and he'd attacked the guards a number of times, totally unrepentant about his acts of aggression. Verily, he no longer felt like he knew the males who watched over him and who found such disgust in their duty: Their faces were familiar to him in the manner of dream figures, naught but hazy leftovers from a wretched life he should have enjoyed more.

Each time he'd struck out he'd been beaten for hours
—
although only on the palms and the soles of his feet, because the Mistress liked him kept pleasing to the eye. As a result of his offensives, he was now guarded by a revolving squad of warriors, all of whom wore chain mail if they came inside his cell. Moreover, the bedding platform was now fitted with restraints that could be sprung from outside, so that after he'd been used, the guards didn't have to endanger their lives letting him go. And when the Mistress wanted to come calling, he was drugged into submission either through his food or by blow darts that would be shot through a slot in the door
.

The days passed slowly. He was focused on finding the weakness in the guards and on removing himself as much as he could from the depravity… when for all intents and purposes he died. And died so hard that even when he was out from under the Mistress, he would never truly live again.

The slave was eating in his cell, trying to keep his strength up for the next opening within the guards, when he saw the sliding panel on the door shift open and a hollow tube protrude. He leaped up, though there was no cover to be had, and felt the first sting in his neck. He pulled out the dart as quickly as he could, but he was hit with another and then another until his body grew heavy.

He woke up on the bedding, shackled.

The Mistress was sitting right next to him, her head down, her hair shielding her face. As if she knew he had found consciousness, her eyes shifted to his.

"I am to be mated."

Oh, sweet Virgin in the Fade…
The words he'd longed to hear. He would be free now, for she would need no blood slave if she had a
nellren.
He could go back to his duties in the kitchen
…

The slave forced himself to address her with respect, although to him she was no female of worth. "Mistress, will you let me go?"

There was only silence.