Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(132)

Lash's cloaking again?

What the f*ck was he up to? Calling the Brothers, announcing this

shit . . . and then getting the cops to come? Or had someone else done the dialing to 911?

She needed answers to so much . . .

Mixed in with all the blood was some inky residue and one of the

officers was frowning over a patch of it, looking like he'd found something icky. Yup . . . that amount of oily mess wasn't sufficient to explain the strong sweet scent she'd followed--so she had to assume that the inductions had been successful and what was hidden was no longer human.

She glanced around the forest behind and before her. Where was the

Omega's golden boy in all of this?

Moving around to the front of the house, she saw a postman who was

clearly struggling with some PTSD as he gave a statement to a uniform.

U.S. Postal Service to the rescue.

No doubt he'd been the one to drop a dime. . . .

Staying camo'd, she just observed the scene, watching the cops fight

their gag reflexes to do their jobs, and waiting for Lash to make himself known--or for any other lesser to make an appearance. When the television crews showed up about a minute and a half later, she played witness to an almost beautiful blond woman doing a poor man's Barbara Walters on the lawn. The second the taping was finished, she started pestering the cops for information until she annoyed them enough that they let her get a gander of what was doing inside.

Didn't that just slap the serious journalist right out of her.

As she went full chick and passed out into the arms of one of the

uniforms, Xhex rolled her eyes and headed around back again.

Shit. She might as well get comfy. She'd come jonesing for a fight,

but as so often happened in war, she was in a waiting game until the enemy showed.

"Surprise."

She wheeled around so fast, she nearly lost her balance: The only

thing that saved her from falling over was the counterbalance of her dagger 339

J. R.Ward

hand, which was raised up high, over her shoulder, ready for use.

"I wish we'd showered together."

As Blay choked on the coffee he'd made them both, Saxton sipped at

his cup just fine. To the point where it was pretty obvious the guy both engineered and enjoyed the reaction he'd gotten.

"I really like surprising you," the male said.

Bingo. And naturally, those damn fool redhead genes made hiding a

blush impossible.

Easier to put a sedan in your pocket. It was that obvious.

"And you know, the environment is important. Water conservation

and all that. Go green . . . or naked as it were."

Saxton was lounging against the satin pillows of his bed in a silk robe, whereas Blay was stretched out all along the base of the mattress, weighing down the extra duvet that had been folded so precisely. Candlelight turned the scene into something out of a fantasy, the glow blurring all kinds of lines and boundaries.

And what do you know, Saxton was beautiful amid all the dark

chocolate bedding, his pale hair so thickly waved, it seemed sculpted even though it was unmoussed, unsprayed. With his half-mast eyes and his

smooth chest partially exposed, he was ready, willing . . . and, given the scent he was throwing off, able to be what Blay needed.

At least on the inside. His exterior wasn't quite up to the job: His face remained swollen, his lips puffy not from an erotic pout, but some asswipe's punch, and he moved carefully, as if there were still a lot of black-and-blues on him.

Which was not cool. His injuries should have been healed up by now,

some twelve hours following the attack. He was an aristocrat, after all, and had a good blood line.

"Oh, Blaylock, whatever are you doing here." Saxton shook his head.

"I still don't know why you came."

"How could I not have."

"You like being a hero, don't you."

"It's not heroic just to sit with someone."

"Don't underestimate that one," Saxton said gruffly.

Which made Blay wonder. The guy had been his usual cool, slightly

sarcastic self all morning and afternoon--but he had been attacked. Brutally.

"Are you okay?" Blay said softly. "Really okay."

Saxton stared into his coffee. "I find it difficult to fathom humanity 340

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sometimes, I truly do. Not just in that race, but our own."

"I'm sorry. About last night."

"Well, it got you in my bed, didn't it." Saxton smiled as much as he could, given that half of his mouth was distorted. "Not exactly the route I had planned to take to get you here . . . but it is lovely looking at you in the candlelight. You have the body of a soldier, but the face of an earnest scholar. The combination is . . . intoxicating."

Blay finished what was in his cup on a oner and nearly choked. Or

maybe that was less what he was drinking and more what he was hearing.

"Do you need a refill on the coffee?"

"Not right now, thank you. It was perfectly made, by the way, and that was also an excellent, if obvious, deflection."

Saxton put his cup and saucer on his ormolu bed stand and resettled

himself with a groan. To keep himself from staring at the guy, Blay put his cup on the blanket chest below and let his eyes wander around. Upstairs was all Victorian Empire, with heavy mahogany furniture and Oriental rugs and gorgeous, lush colors--which he'd learned during his excursions to the kitchen. The understated and proper and reserved got left at the cellar door, however. Down here it was all straight-up boudoir, everything French, with curving marble-topped tables and dressers and formal needlepoint rugs. Lot of satin and . . . black-and-white pencil drawings of gorgeous males reclining very much in the same way Saxton was.