The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(102)

But none of that was the worst part.

No, the worst was the way her head moved up and back, up and back—because he was inside of her. His cock was in her sex, going in and out, the rhythm growing faster so that he could come and be done with the session.

His erection, the one that he was getting ready to slip into Selena, had been in a cesspool. Had been in … hundreds of dirty human women who hadn’t brought up safe sex or STD tests or whether or not they’d already contracted AIDS from letting sluts like him into their panties.

The fact that he couldn’t contract their diseases did not matter in the slightest.

Filthy was filthy.

Jerking back, he hissed and closed his eyes, trying to order an evac for all of that shit.

“Trez?”

“Sorry, I…” Shaking his head, he refocused on her breasts—and felt nauseous from self-hatred. “I’m just—”

Another human woman tackled his brain, this one that real estate agent he’d done at the warehouse he’d just bought: He pictured her hands spread against the wall as he f*cked her from behind, her wedding ring flashing.

“I’m sorry,” he grunted. And then it was more with the head shaking—like the memories were objects he could knock off his table of consciousness. “I’m…”

In rapid succession, he saw the brunette he’d let suck him off in his office. The redhead he’d done with that blond in the club bathroom. The threesome with those college girls, the Goth at the cemetery, the waitress at Sal’s, the pharmacist when he’d gone to get Motrin one afternoon, the bartender at that place, the woman he’d seen at the car dealership …

Faster and faster, until the images were like bullets one after another after another, firing into his brain.

As he peeled off of Selena, it seemed both bizarre and totally appropriate that the only thing he could think of was that the Shadows were right.

Sex with humans had contaminated him.

And he was paying the price for the poison, right here and now.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Assail could only stare at his cousins. The pair of contract killers, drug dealers, and enforcers had not only washed up before the meal, they were now easing back in their seats and looking like they wanted to loosen their pants.

As Marisol’s grandmother got to her feet again, Assail shook his head. “Madam, you must enjoy this food on which you worked so diligently.”

“I am enjoying.” She headed back for the counter and cut more bread. “These boys, they need to eat more. Too thin, too thin.”

At this rate, she was going to turn his backups into—what was the expression, sofa potatoes?

And what do you know, even though those two males were stuffed, they took another slice of her homemade bread, and dutifully layered on the sweet butter.

Unbelievable.

Assail shifted his eyes over to Marisol. Her head was down, her fork testing the mettle of the food. She hadn’t eaten much, but she had opened the copper-colored pill bottle Doc Jane had given her and taken one of the gray-and-orange capsules inside.

He wasn’t the only one watching her. The eagle eyes of her grandmother were monitoring everything: Every move of that fork, each sip from her glass of water, all the non-eating that was going on.

Marisol, on the other hand, was watching no one. After the emotional reunion with her bloodline, she had closed up, her stare staying on the meal, her voice limited to yeses and nos about condiments and seasonings.

She had retreated to a place he didn’t want her to dwell in.

“Marisol,” he said.

Her head came up. “Yes?”

“Would you like me to show you to your room?” The instant that came out of his mouth, he glanced at the grandmother. “If you will permit me, of course.”

According to the old ways, the senior female would have been Marisol’s ghardian, and though he rarely showed respect to humans, it felt appropriate to pay mindfulness to the woman.

Marisol’s grandmother nodded. “Yes. I have things for her. There.”

Sure enough, there was a rolling suitcase parked by the archway into the great room.

As the grandmother went back to her own food, he could have sworn there was a slight smile on her mouth.

“I am just exhausted.” Marisol got to her feet and picked up her plate. “I feel like I could sleep forever.”

Let us not talk of such, he thought as he, too, stood.

After she kissed her grandmother’s cheek and spoke in her mother tongue, he followed her, putting his dishes in the sink, and then going over to the suitcase. He wanted to put an arm around her. He did not. He did, however, pick up the luggage when she went for it.

“Allow me,” he said.

The ease with which she gave in told him that she was as yet in pain. And assuming the lead, he took her out to the stairs. There were two sets: one that went up to his chamber, another that proceeded down into the basement, where there were five bedrooms.

The grandmother and the cousins were on the lower level.

Glancing over his shoulder, she was silent and grave behind him, her eyes drooping, her shoulders slumped from fatigue that was more than just physical.

“I shall give you my room,” he told her. “In privacy.”

It would not do for him to stay with her. Not with her grandmother in the house.