Smolder (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter, #29)(84)
It was part of the argument we’d been having about my wedding dress, and if you say But it’s your wedding day, there will be plenty of security, you’ve missed the point.
“I am sorry that tonight’s shoes were such a problem for you, ma petite.”
The whole mind-reading thing used to creep me out, but now I thought it just saved so much time.
“They can be bedroom shoes, but I won’t wear them out again.”
“Agreed, ma petite.”
My stomach was tight, my shoulders bunching for a fight as we got closer to Demo, and that was when I knew he could no longer bodyguard anyone, because you absolutely must trust anyone who is supposed to take a bullet for you. I didn’t trust Demo not to take a swing at Wicked as we tried to go through the door.
Wicked was almost even with the bigger man when I suddenly wasn’t tense anymore. I was strangely relaxed. The inside of my head had gone to that quiet place. I unsnapped the purse and slipped my hand inside it until it wrapped around the little Sig Sauer so all I had to do was flip the safety off, get closer, and pull the trigger. Normally I wouldn’t have been caressing the trigger this soon, but he wasn’t just a wereanimal, he was former military, which meant he was superhuman fast and trained. It was why I kept the gun inside the little bag so he wouldn’t see it coming. I hoped the purse wasn’t as expensive as I feared, because I wasn’t taking the gun out of it to fire it. When seconds count, just shoot through your damn purse. You only need to take it out if you have to aim at a distance, and ladies, if you need to do that then just freaking run.
Was I overreacting, and if I was, why? Demo hadn’t threatened me, or Jean-Claude, so why was my finger on the trigger? Because I’d felt helpless. Jean-Claude had dressed me like the princess in the story and . . . it wasn’t me. It would never be me. That wasn’t a good enough reason to shoot someone, though. I took my finger off the trigger. Wicked could handle himself if Demo tried anything.
I didn’t need to protect my protectors.
Jean-Claude leaned close to my face and whispered, “I am so sorry, ma petite.”
“I know,” I said, but I didn’t look at him. I kept my attention on Demo and getting through the door.
The gun was still in my hand; I’d just gotten off the trigger because I didn’t trust myself not to overreact, which wasn’t like me. Did I want to prove that I could protect myself? Was I having a macho moment? I didn’t know, and if you carry a gun, you need to know. Shit.
I used my thumb to slide the safety on, then took my hand out of my purse and accepted that the inside of my head was too snarled to be trusted to make the right decision. If Demo managed to get past all our security, which was incredibly unlikely, I could go for his knee, dislocate it, then try for an elbow to his head or dislocating his shoulder depending on what openings he gave me. I had a plan now, and I was calmer. It would be okay, but part of me didn’t believe it.
“May I put my arm around you, ma petite?” Jean-Claude asked, and because he asked, I said yes.
If he’d just wrapped himself around me in that moment without asking, I’d have been pissed. It wasn’t just the wedding prep, or the clothes for tonight, it was talking to my dad. It was raising old ghosts that no amount of psychic ability would chase away.
Demo went through the door with two other werewolf guards who had been special teams like he’d wanted to be. He’d washed out, left the military and become a civilian contractor, read mercenary. He’d been the only contractor to survive the shapeshifter attack that had ended the SEALs’ military careers. If he could manage not to get himself killed for two years, some of the contracting firms would hire him again, the idea being that two years of control meant he was safe to hire. Some firms demanded five years of shapeshifter experience, but most only two. If someone could convince Demo to behave himself, in two years he could be someone else’s problem. If only it worked that way with family.
I slid my arm inside Jean-Claude’s robe so I could touch all that smooth skin and let myself lean against him. He wrapped me into a hug and started murmuring comforting things in French. I even understood some of them, but it was the sound of his voice, not what he said. Jean-Claude’s voice had become the white noise that let me know I was safe and loved.
There was a moment of longing and sorrow that was almost pain. It rang through us and made us turn toward the source. Richard’s brown eyes shone in the overhead lights with unshed tears. I realized that until that moment he hadn’t understood just how much Jean-Claude and I loved each other. His thoughts were too close to the surface, they just came tumbling out. He’d known we were in love, that hot lustful can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other falling in love, but he’d never realized that we’d moved on, gone deeper while he’d been away fixing himself. We’d been building a life together.
One that didn’t include him, and for the first time he wondered if he’d come back too late.
Jean-Claude was able to hide his thoughts and emotions like he’d flipped a switch, but I hadn’t had centuries of practice. So Richard heard that I’d been afraid of him expecting too much, that I didn’t love him, that I worried that I was already stretched too thin with all the people in our poly group now. It was like the harder I tried to not overshare, the more I shared.
“I’m sorry,” I said out loud, because I didn’t know what else to say.