Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(87)

“Sorry I’m sweaty.”

“I do not mind.”

On that note, they were off. Moving slowly, they inched up the stairs and headed down the second-floor corridor, gimping by all kinds of blissfully closed doors: Wrath’s study. Tohrment’s room. Blay’s—not looking at that. Saxton’s—not busting that down and boot-licking his cousin out the window. John Matthew and Xhex’s.

“I shall open the way,” the Chosen said as they stopped at his own.

They had to turn sideways to get through the jambs because of his size, and he was grateful as shit when she closed them in together and took him to the bed. No one needed to know what was doing, and chances were good the Chosen would buy his just-an-owie excuse.

Sitting upright was the plan. Except the second she let go of him, he flopped back onto the mattress and made like a welcome mat. Looking down his body toward his running shoes, he wondered why he couldn’t see the car that was parked on top of him. Definitely wasn’t a Prius. More like a Chevy-f*cking-Tahoe.

Whatever, try Suburban.

“Ah . . . listen, can you go into my leather coat? I’ve got a protein bar in there.”

Abruptly, there was a shift of metal on porcelain from over by the door. And then a whiff of something dinner-ish. “Perhaps you would like this roast beef, sire?”

His stomach clenched hard as a fist. “God . . . no . . .”

“There is rice.”

“Just . . . one of those bars . . .”

A subtle squeaking sound suggested she was rolling a tray over, and a second later, he got so much more than a mere sniff of whatever Fritz had prepared.

“Stop—stop, f*ck—” He lurched over and dry-heaved into a wastebasket. “Not . . . the food . . .”

“You need to eat,” came the surprisingly strong reply. “And I shall feed you.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Here.” Instead of the meat or the rice, a small piece of bread was presented to him. “Open. You need food, sire. Your John Matthew said so.”

Sinking back against the pillows, he put his arm over his face. His heart was all hopscotch behind his sternum, and on some dim level, he realized he could actually kill himself if he kept going like this.

Funny, the idea struck him as not all that bad. Especially as Blay’s face came to mind.

So beautiful. So very, very beautiful. It seemed silly and emasculating to call the guy that, but he was. Those damn lips were the problem . . . nice and cushioned on the bottom. Or maybe the eyes? So f*cking blue.

He’d kissed that mouth and loved it. Seen those eyes go wild.

He could have had Blay first—and only. But instead? His cousin . . .

“Oh, God . . .” he groaned.

“Sire. Eat.”

Out of energy to fight anything, he did as he was told, opening up, chewing mechanically, swallowing down his dry throat. And then he did it again. And again. Turned out that the carbs quieted the earthquake zone in his stomach, and faster than he would have thought possible, he was actually looking forward to something a little more substantial. Next up on the menu, though, was just some bottled water, which Layla held while he took small sips.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he said, holding off on another bread run just in case the tide turned.

As he rolled over onto his side, he felt the bones in his legs knock together and realized his arm was hanging differently across his chest—less pecs to get in the way. His Nike running shorts were likewise baggy at the waistband.

He’d done all this damage in seven days.

At this rate, he wasn’t going to look like himself for much longer.

Screw that, he already didn’t. As John Matthew had frickin’ noticed, not only had he buzzed his head, he’d taken his eyebrow piercing out as well as the one on his lower lip and the dozen or so up his ears. Gone too were his nipple rings. He still had his tongue stud and the shit below, but the visi stuff was gone, gone, gone.

He was through with himself on so many levels. Sick and tired of being the odd man out on purpose. Exhausted with his slut reputation.

And uninterested in rebelling against a bunch of dead stiffs anymore. For f*ck’s sake, he didn’t need some shrink to explain the psychology that had shaped him: His family had been all picture perfect, glymera-conservative—and payback had been a bisexual, metal-headed whore with a Goth wardrobe and a needle fetish. But how much of that shit was him and how much was a mismatched-eye-based mutiny?

Who the f*ck was he really?

“More now?” Layla asked.

Wasn’t that the question.

As the Chosen went front and center again with the baguette, Qhuinn decided to cut the shit. Opening his mouth, he pulled a baby bird and ate the damn stuff. And some more. And then like she read his mind, Layla brought a sterling-silver fork with a piece of roast beef on it to his lips.

“Let us try this, sire. . . . Chew slowly, however.”

Fat. Chance. Starvation immediately became the name of the game and he went T. rex on the meat, nearly biting tines off in the rush. But Layla was right on it, feeding him another round as fast as he could take it in.

“Wait . . . stop,” he mumbled, afraid he was going to throw up.

He eased over onto his back again and let one hand rest on his chest. Shallow breaths were his savior. Anything deeper and he was going to pull a Technicolor yawn all over himself.