The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(43)

He would almost have preferred the latter. For him, the hours crawled, and he was painfully aware of their pernicious laziness.

Returning the sheeting over his abdominals, he grunted as he twisted and reached for the oil lamp on the bedside table. As he extinguished the low-seated flame, he fully reclined and held his limbs in strict stillness to avoid any conversation from his wound. Whilst he became as a statue, frozen save for his breathing, he tried not to dwell on the fact that one night, perhaps sooner or maybe much later, he would be thus for eternity, dead and gone, his soul unto the Fade.

As he contemplated the afterlife, he wondered if it would be thus. An eternal lie-in, every need met, no future to worry about because there was a forever too vast to comprehend ahead of oneself, and that meant one had the present and nothing else. After all, it was the rarity of time that led the mortal to be concerned with things like fate and destiny, and perhaps the relief of that worry and angst was the point of the Fade, the reward for the struggle upon the earth. But after this experience herein? Rhage was not sure how much of a boon would be granted upon one’s last breath. Timelessness struck him as a bore.

If he’d had a shellan, though . . .

Well, if he had found a true love, someone who alit his heart and not just his sex, a female of strength and intelligence to complement him, then the prospect of eternity would have been wholly different. Who wouldn’t wish to be with their beloved forever?

But love for him was like Darius’s communal fantasy.

Never a reality, ever a dream.

That male of worth could build a hundred houses on a hundred hills—the Brotherhood was never going to show up and fill those rooms. Just as Rhage could ever imagine a love that went deeper than sex, but that didn’t mean it was going to come and find him—

The door to the guest room opened, and the slice of light that pierced through the darkness got him right in the aching head.

With a curse, he lifted his forearm to shield his eyes.

“No,” he snapped, “I require naught. Please leave me thus.”

When the doggen did not readily accept the relief of their duties, he lowered his arm and glared into the illumination. “If I must get up to close that door myself, I will not thank you for forcing me unto the effort of rising from this bed.”

There was a pause. And then a female voice, a young female voice, made a reedy inquiry. “Are you unwell then?”

As he recognized who it was, the scent affirming his identification of the voice, he wanted to curse. ’Twas the unmated daughter of fine breeding, the one who had come in with her mahmen and Jabon when Darius had been reviewing the renderings of that mansion.

The one who had curved herself around the archway into the parlor and regarded him with open curiosity.

The one who had taken it upon herself to sit at his elbow at each meal he attended.

Indeed, he had been making an effort to descend unto the dining table for at least First and Last Meal. He had some thought that the activity would speed his healing, and up until this moment, he’d felt as though it was right to force himself to go.

But he had neither the interest nor the energy to deal with what had breached his doorway.

“You are in the wrong bedroom,” he said. “Go now.”

The female took a step forward, the light streaming in from behind her illuminating the outline of her body as it was draped in some diaphanous dressing gown. “But you are ill.”

“I am well enough.”

“Mayhap I can help you.” Her voice was soft. “Mayhap . . . I can make it better.”

As she turned to shut the door—to ensure a privacy that was the very last thing Rhage wanted—he sat up sharply and let out a groan. And then the room was plunged into darkness once more, and he had the sense she was walking over to him.

“No,” he snapped as he willed the door back open.

She froze as illumination flooded in once more. “But, sire . . . do you not find me . . . acceptable?”

“As a meal companion, certainly.” He held the sheets tightly over his chest, a classic pose of virtue that was laughable given his proclivities. “Nothing more than that—”

Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe. Tears.

Even though he could not see her face because of the orientation of the hall lighting, he was well aware of her escalating state of agitation and hurt: The acrid scent of tears emanated from her, much like the delicate fragrance of her arousal, and he truly, utterly wished to be absent of both.

“Forgive me for speaking so rashly,” he muttered. “You are of much virtue and beauty. But I am not what you are looking for.”

The female glanced back at the door, as if she were contemplating another closing attempt—no doubt because she had been ordered to complete this mission or not return to whatever wing she and her mahmen had been put in. Yes, she may desire him, but no female of any breeding would come thus into any male’s room—unless the suggestion had been placed there by an elder relation who saw much benefit to a forced mating ceremony.

“That door is staying open,” he said firmly, “and you are going back to the bedroom you share with your mahmen.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“Return unto your mahmen.” He did his best to keep his exhaustion from making his tone too cutting. “This is not about you, and there is nothing wrong with you. But it is never happening between you and me. Ever. I only like females who are experienced and free of complications. You, my dear, fulfill neither of those requirements.”