Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(38)

Payne bid the female good day and closed her eyes once more.

Left by herself, she found herself understanding how the female felt about the idea of Vishous being with another. Images of her healer around the likes of the Chosen Layla made her sick to her stomach—even though there was no cause for the indigestion.

What a mess she was in. Stuck upon this hospital bed, her mind tangled in thoughts of a male she had no right to on so many levels . . .

And yet the idea of his sharing that sexual energy with anyone but her made her downright violent. To think that there were other females around her healer, seeking what he had seemed prepared to give her, wanting that straining length at his hips and the pressure of his lips against their mouths—

When she growled again, she knew it was for the best that she had let that card with his information go. Else she would have wrought carnage upon the lovers he took.

After all, she had no problems killing.

As history had well proven.





THIRTEEN


Qhuinn entered the mansion through the vestibule. Which was a mistake.

He should have gone into the mansion through the garage, but the truth was, those coffins stacked up in the corner freaked him out. He always expected their lids to open and some kind of Night of the Living Dead to whassup the ever living crap out of him.

He so needed to get over being a *, however.

Courtesy of his case of the nancys, the instant he pushed his way into the foyer, he got a clear shot at Blaylock and Saxton coming down the grand staircase, the two of them all GQ’d up for Last Meal. Both wore slacks, not jeans, and sweaters, not sweatshirts, and loafers, not shitkickers. They were clean-shaven, cologned, and coiffed, but they were not she-males in the slightest.

Frankly, that would have made things a lot easier.

For f*ck’s sake, he wished one of the SOBs would RuPaul their shit and go all feather boa and fingernail polish. But no. They just kept looking like two too-hot males who knew how to spend their money at Saks . . . while he, on the other hand, gutter-snaked it up in his leathers and his muscle shirts—and in the case of tonight, sported hair styled by rough sex, and cologne, if you could call it that, from the same line of slut-care products.

Then again, he was willing to bet all that separated them from the state he was in was a hot, soapy shower and a visit to the ol’ closet: Dollars to licks they’d been in a clinch all night. They were looking far too satisfied as they headed for a meal they were no doubt starved for.

As they hit the mosaic depiction of an apple tree in full bloom, Blay’s set of blues shifted over and pulled a head-to-heel on Qhuinn. The guy’s face didn’t show any reaction. Not anymore.

That old flare of pain was nowhere in sight—and not because Qhuinn’s recreations weren’t perfectly frickin’ obvi.

Saxton said something and Blay looked away . . . and there it was. A blush on that lovely pale skin as blue eyes met gray ones.

I can’t do this, Qhuinn thought. Not tonight.

Avoiding the whole dining room scene, he headed for the door beneath the stairs and put the thing to good use. The instant it closed behind him, the chatty patter of people talking was cut off and silent darkness rushed up to greet him. Which was more like it.

Down the shallow stairs. Through another coded door. Into the underground tunnel that ran from the main house to the training center. And now that he was alone, he ran out of gas, making it only about two feet before his legs stopped working and he had to lean against the smooth wall. Letting his head fall back, he closed his eyes . . . and wanted to put a gun to his temple.

He’d had that redhead back at the Iron Mask.

Had that hetero good and hard.

And it had happened exactly the way he’d predicted, starting with the pair of them yakking it up at the bar and checking out the chicks. Not long after, a set of double-Ds had gone trolling by on black platform boots. Talked to her. Drank with her . . . and her friend. Hour later? The four of them were in a bathroom, squeezed in tight.

Which had been part two of the plan. Hands were hands in cramped spaces, and when there was a lot of moving and pawing going down, you could never be sure who was touching you. Stroking you. Feeling you up.

The whole time they’d been with the chippies, Qhuinn had been strategizing on how to get rid of the females, and it had taken waaay longer than he’d wanted. After the sex, the girls had wanted to hang out some more—trade numbers, kibitz, ask if they wanted to go out for a bite.

Yeah, right. He didn’t need no digits, because he was never going to call them; he wasn’t into kibitzing even with people he liked; and the sort of bite he could offer them had nothing to do with greasy-ass diner food.

After filing the requests under Bitch, Please in his head, he’d been forced to brainwash them into leaving—which had led him to a rare moment of pity for human males who didn’t have that luxury.

And then he and his prey had been alone, the human male recovering against the sink; Qhuinn pretending to do likewise against the door. Eventually there had been eye contact, casual on the human’s side, very serious on Qhuinn’s.

“What?” the man had asked. But he’d known . . . because his eyelids had grown heavy.

Qhuinn had reached behind himself and turned the lock so they wouldn’t be disturbed. “I’m still hungry.”

Abruptly, the redhead had stared at the door like he’d wanted to leave . . . but his cock had told a different story. Behind the button fly of those jeans . . . he got hard.