The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(36)

For example, Zsadist? Mated?

Then again, that broken male would likely be dead in a few years anyway. Although . . . people had been saying that for a while now.

“’Tis a fine thing to have dreams,” Rhage murmured remotely.

“Mayhap you will accept these renderings with my best regards,” the Jackal said unto Darius as he lowered the broad pages back into place. “After you study them, you can come back here and we can discuss whether you want to use them and, if so, what you would like to change.”

Darius’s stare moved around the topmost sheet as if he were translating the depictions of rooms and hallways into three dimensions in his head. “Do you have time to go through this with me the now?”

“Of course, but there is no hurry if you wish to study at your leisure. I am staying here for two weeks.”

“Are you a relation of Jabon’s, then?”

“We do not share a bloodline. We have been of acquaintance for some while, however. When I was orphaned, his sire helped me on my way.”

“Have you no living blood?”

“My mahmen passed two years following my transition.”

“What of your sire?”

The Jackal tapped the plans. “Do you want to start at the top and work our way down? Or commence from the basement?”

Darius inclined his head, acknowledging the firm change in subject. “The basement. Let us build from the ground up.”

The Jackal carefully folded back the layers, at last exposing a sheet that had far fewer compartments. “First, allow me to explain the plumbing system and heating provisions. I have some new ideas—and I urge you to consider outfitting the structure for electricity. It is the standard for all buildings of the future.”

“Yes, I see that it is becoming popular, the now.”

As their heads tilted in, and the master of works began to describe all manner of things that were of little interest, Rhage dragged a chair over and lowered himself down into its silk confines. His side was talking to him—cursing him was more apt—but he did not want to return unto that bed. At the very least, if he stayed here and watched the pair of them discuss Darius’s mountain house that would e’er remain empty, he would be distracted from the infernal pain—

Out in the receiving area, the front door unto the mansion opened and closed, a gust of fresh outside air rushing in as if it were yet another enthusiastic guest. But there was something else reaching his nose. Perfume.

Rhage glanced over his shoulder. And abruptly wished he had stayed upstairs upon his back.

The gracious, desperate host of the household, who had noticed who was in his drawing room, rushed forth, the wide smile on Jabon’s face the kind of thing that made Rhage probe his infected wound for whether progress unto healing had been made in the previous ten minutes. As he winced, he feared he was going to be stuck for a considerably longer time.

Perhaps an eternity. Or at least it was going to feel as such.

“Come, come, you must meet my very special guests,” Jabon said as he motioned to those who had entered with him. “Come!”

The gentlemale swept into the drawing room, dressed as if he were imminently going to be sitting for a formal portrait, his cravat of silk, his waistcoat bearing a pattern of peacocks, his well-tailored jacket and slacks perfectly fit. In his wake? Two females of obvious breeding, distinction, and relation, the mahmen and daughter garbed in gowns and capes brightly colored and adorned with seed pearls and much decorative stitching.

Rather as if Jabon’s sense of decor had been translated into textiles.

Rhage turned away from the females, well aware that as soon as his display of comely thigh and calf registered, it would take care of the intrusion.

And sure enough, there was a twin screech and fast shuffle as the females went into a giggling retreat.

Shaking his head, Rhage awaited the censure of his host.

Instead, Jabon laughed. “Save yourselves, dear females. Avert thine eyes!”

There was further giggling out in the receiving area. “Our stares are well averted,” one of the two of them replied.

Jabon’s eyes sparkled with delight. “The Black Dagger Brother Rhage makes an impression, does he not. As does the Black Dagger Brother Darius.”

Rhage ground his molars, and his brother seemed likewise annoyed. The response, meanwhile, from the females was immediate. From out of the corner of his eye, Rhage noted the way the pair leaned around the parlor’s jambs and regarded him and his fellow fighter with burning interest.

Propriety was apparently relative. Depending upon the social status of that which was of offense.

Shaking his head, Rhage thought, Truly, I should have stayed abed.





Talk about sleeping with one eye open.

As Nyx sat propped up against the damp wall of the carved-out cave, her feet stretched toward the pool, her clothes back on, her hair still wet in the braid she’d put it in, she decided she’d never truly thought about the expression. Kind of like “life is a highway,” the words were the sort of thing you heard from time to time. Read in a magazine article. Caught in the middle of the chapter of a book—or at the beginning of one. Like all other stock phrases, however, the combination of words was so overused that it ceased to really mean anything. Plus, if you dissected it, the whole clause fell apart. Unless someone propped your lid open with a toothpick, the fact pattern behind the saying couldn’t get off the ground. And at any rate, if somebody had done that to you, you wouldn’t be sleeping. You’d be taking out the toothpick and thanking them for the effort with a knuckle sandwich.