Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(142)

“I want to remember you, Payne. . . all of you. All of it.” That sad, yearning stare of his searched her face. “The way you tasted and felt. The sound of you laughing . . . gasping. The time I had next to you—” His voice cracked, and he recovered by clearing his throat. “I need those memories to last me a lifetime.”

Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks as her heart stopped working properly.

“I’m going to miss you, bambina. Every day. Always.”

When he held out his arms, she went into them and lost her composure completely. Sobbing into his shirt, she was enveloped by his strong, solid body, and she held him as tightly as he did her.

And then they both broke the embrace at the same time, as if they were of one heart. And she supposed they were.

Indeed, there was a part of her that wanted to fight and argue and try to make him see another side, another way. But she was not sure there was one to be had. She could no more predict the future than he could, and she knew no more about the repercussions of what had changed within him than he did.

There was nothing left to be said. This end that had arrived unexpectedly was an impact that could not be cushioned by talk or touch or even, she suspected, time.

“I shall go now,” she said, backing away.

“Let me get the door for you—”

As she dematerialized out of his home, she realized those were the last words he would speak to her.

That was their good-bye.




Manny stared at the space his woman had just inhabited. There was nothing of her there anymore; she’d disappeared into thin air sure as a shaft of light that had been cut off.

Gone.

His immediate impulse was to go into the front hall closet, get out his baseball bat, and wreck the place. Just break all the mirrors and glass and dishes and shit—then get to work throwing what little furniture he had over the lip of the terrace. After that . . . maybe he’d take his Porsche out onto the Northway, get ’er up to a hundred, and pilot a course that terminated in the underpinnings of a bridge.

No seat belt in this scenario, obviously.

In the end, though, he just sat on the bed next to the gym bags and put his head in his hands. He wasn’t a * to sob like he was at a funeral. Not at all. He just dripped onto his running shoes.

Manly. Really f*cking manly.

But how he appeared to the peanut gallery of his empty condo was as unimportant as his pride, his ego, his cock and balls . . . all of it.

God . . . this wasn’t just sad.

The loss ruined him.

And he was going to carry this pain around with him for the rest of his natural life.

How ironic. Her name had seemed so strange to him at first. Now, it was so very apt.





FIFTY


Payne did not go back to the mansion; she had no interest in seeing anyone who lived there. Not the king, who had given her a freedom that it turned out she did not need. Not her twin, who had advocated on her behalf. And certainly not all the happy, fortunate, blessed couples who lived beneath that regal roof.

So instead of heading north, she re-formed herself on the shores of the waterway that ran beside the tall, glassy buildings of downtown. The breeze was gentler at ground level and carried upon it the chattering sound of the waves licking at the river’s rocky flanks. In the background, the hum from the vehicles surmounting the bridges’ gently curving backs and fading down on their far sides made her feel most keenly the depth and breadth of the landscape.

Surrounded by humans, she was totally alone.

This was what she had asked for, however. This was the freedom she had so dearly wanted and sought with greed.

In the Sanctuary, nothing had changed. But naught had gone wrong, either.

Still, though, she would e’er choose this raw hardship over her former numb insulation.

Oh, Manuel . . .

“Hey, baby.”

Payne looked over her shoulder. A human male was approaching her, having evidently stepped out from behind one of the supports of the bridge. He was weaving, and he smelled like layers upon layers of fermented sweat and dirt.

Without sparing him a greeting, Payne dematerialized farther down the riverbank. There was no reason to scrub him. He was unlikely to remember he’d ever seen her. And no doubt used to drugaddled hallucinations.

Staring at the curling surface of the river, she was not beckoned toward the dark depths. She was not going to hurt herself over this. This was no prison to get trapped in . . . and besides, she was finished with taking a cowardly route out. Bracing her feet upon the earth, she crossed her arms and just existed in the place she stood, time seeping through reality’s sieve unheeded as the stars pinwheeled overhead, changing position. . . .

At first, the scent entered her nose surreptitiously, weaving in and amidst the mix of fresh dirt and wet stone and urban pollution. So initially, she didn’t notice the odor as anything distinctive.

Her brain stem soon came alive in recognition, however.

With a tingle of instinct, her head turned of its own volition, cranking around on the top of her spine. Her shoulders followed . . . then her hips.

That rancid odor was the enemy.

A lesser.

As she fell into a light jog, she felt in her blood an aggression that was not solely tied to her heartache and frustration at what fate had wrought upon her. Closing in on the scent, she was animated by a deep heritage of violence and protection, her limbs and her dagger hand and her fangs prickling. Transformed by deadly purpose, she was neither male nor female, neither Chosen nor sister nor daughter. As she dodged and surmounted the alleys and streets, she was a soldier.