Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #16.5)(61)

“Do you think his father died in the mountain’s collapse?”

“I didn’t see him. You did. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t.”



Back in their bedroom, Ahmare plumped up the pillows and propped herself against the headboard. Tucking her knees into her chest, she stared across at the bureau on which Duran’s weapons had been laid.

Like if she kept looking over there, they would mysteriously reappear and mean that he was still in bed with her.

Intellectually, she knew what the Shadow had said made sense. After her parents had been killed, she had roamed the nights, all pent-up anger and aggression with no target for her to take her emotions out on.

She’d even gone so far as to try and hunt lessers in the alleyways of Caldwell. As if she knew what she was doing, as if she were a member of the Brotherhood. So stupid and dangerous. But her grief and rage had been so great that her body had been a bowl overflowing, the container of her skin insufficient to hold all that consumed her.

She knew exactly how Duran felt.

And she told herself she had to believe in what they had. But that now sounded ridiculous. They were on, what, night three of a relationship now?

Anger swelled in the midst of her sadness as she remembered what his father had looked like, the crazy eyes, the long, white-streaked hair, the greedy way he’d stared at her.

The automatic shutters began to lift, the daytime panels retracting slowly from the glass on the exterior as they rolled into their storage units at the top of the headers.

She looked over to the window. As she’d left the lights off, she could see clearly into the distance, to the wide mountain-valley view that seemed to suggest all corners of the world could be seen— A figure was right at her window.

And the hulking form was revealed inch by inch by the rising shutter.

She knew who it was before she saw all of him, and she jumped back in the sheets.

Duran’s father was standing just outside the glass, sure as if she had conjured him with her memories, a spectral manifestation of the loathing she felt for him.

Except this was not a ghost.

As the moonlight shone down on his white-streaked hair, his eyes glinted in a nasty way. And with a smile of pure evil, he bared his fangs and pointed at her with a knife that gleamed.

Ahmare turned and lunged for the gun she’d put on the bedside.

When she wheeled around, she brought the muzzle up with her to shoot.

She did not pull the trigger.

No reason to.

Directly behind the male, materializing like the Grim Reaper, Duran’s larger body appeared from out of the shadows. He was enormous behind his father, his arms hanging with menace, his head tilted down.

Her male had not left her as it turned out.

And he was going to settle all scores.

Ahmare lowered her gun. The Dhavos was so fixated on her, he didn’t even sense what was upon him. But that was going to be an issue fixed all too soon.

Shifting off the bed, she approached the window, and Duran’s father seemed to take this as an invitation, his nose flaring as if he were trying to scent her through the glass.

His face was rapt, his eyes obsessed.

Grasping the edge of the heavy curtain, Ahmare drew the folds of fabric across the glass to block the view. She was halfway to home when the Dhavos frowned and tilted his head. Then he turned around— His scream was muffled.

And then there were many others.

With the drapes shut, Ahmare tightened the sash on her robe and walked calmly out of the bedroom.

She was waiting for her male when the front door to the house swung wide.

Duran was breathing heavily, and blood ran down his chin, dropped off his fingers, and stained all of his clothes.

His eyes, as they met hers, were wary, as if he didn’t know what kind of reception he was going to get.

Ahmare opened her arms. “Come here, my love. Let me hold you.”

Duran stumbled across the slate floor and fell against her. As great sobs came out of him and his legs buckled, she eased him down and arranged him in her lap. Covering him with her body, sheltering him with her love, she murmured in his ear.

Telling him, and believing it, that the score had been evened. The end had come.

And that he was the very best son to his mahmen that any male could ever be.





EPILOGUE




Six Months Later . . .

I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS ours,” Ahmare said as she and Nexi walked into the gym. The space was ten thousand square feet of treadmills, ellipticals, weights, and machines. There were two studios, as well, one for aerobics and one for spin classes, and also offices for the personal trainers and full showers and locker rooms for members.

“Big opening tomorrow.” Nexi put her palm out. “Put ’er here, partner.”

Ahmare smacked palms and then smiled at Rudie. “Hey, you ready?”

Rudie, the young redheaded guard, had taken to office management like a pro. With an automated speech machine, he could communicate with all their employees, and it was good to see his shy personality shine.

He’d certainly earned the happiness.

“I brought us something to celebrate with.” Ahmare nodded toward the staff break room. “Where are the boys, though?”

Duran—who was now going by the name Theo, a change that had been deliberate on his part and easy for everyone else to make—and Ahlan came in right on cue, bunches of helium balloons bobbing over their heads, the broad smiles of bonded males on their faces.