curves of her slender body catching the light. Gorgeous. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Utterly feminine.
Something to be worshiped and possessed. But never fucked. A Madonna.
Except anything with a cock would want that. Vampire, human, lesser. Anything.
Violence threaded through him, and abruptly he hoped she was dead. Because if that ugly bastard had tried to have sex with her... man, O was going to castrate that brother with a spoon before killing him.
And God help her if she enjoyed it.
Chapter Sixteen
When Phury woke up, it was three fifteen in the afternoon. He'd slept like crap, still so pissed off at what had happened the night before that his adrenal glands were working overtime. Which was hardly conducive to shut-eye.
He reached for a blunt and lit it. As he drew the red smoke into his lungs and held on tight, he tried not to imagine going to Zsadist's room and waking the brother up with a jaw shot. But the fantasy was righteous appealing.
Goddamn it, he couldn't believe Z had tried to take Bella like that, and actually hated his twin for the depravity. Hated himself, too, for being stupidly surprised. For so long he'd been sure that something had survived Z's slavery... that some small flicker of a soul was left in the male. After last night? No more doubts about his twin's cruel nature. None.
And, shit, the real ass burner was knowing he'd let Bella down. He should never have left her in Z's bedroom. Couldn't stand that he'd sacrificed her safety for his need to believe.
Bella...
He thought about how she'd allowed him to hold her. In those fleeting moments he'd felt powerful, capable of protecting her against an army of lessers. For that short time, she'd transformed him into a true male, one who was needed and served a purpose.
What a revelation to be something other than a reactive half-wit chasing after a destructive, suicidal madman.
He'd desperately wanted to stay the night with her, and he'd left only because it was the right thing to do. She was exhausted, but more than that - and in spite of his vow of celibacy - he was untrustworthy. He'd wanted to succor her with his body. He'd wanted to worship her and make her whole with his skin and bones.
But he couldn't think like that.
Phury inhaled deeply on the blunt, his breath going in with a hiss. Keeping the smoke inside him, he felt the tension ease out of his shoulders. As the calm came over him, he eyed his stash. It was running low already, and as much as he hated going to see the Reverend, he needed more.
Yeah, considering how he was feeling toward Z, he was going to need a lot more. Red smoke was just a mild muscle relaxant, really, nothing like marijuana or any of the dangerous stuff. But he relied on the blunts to keep him level, like other folks used cocktails. If he didn't have to go to the Reverend to get the stuff, he'd say that it was a perfectly harmless pastime.
Perfectly harmless and the only ease he had in life.
When he was finished with the hand-rolled, he stabbed the little end in an ashtray and got out of bed. After he attached his prosthesis, he went into the bathroom to shower and shave; then he pulled on a pair of slacks and one of his silk shirts. He pushed his real foot and then the one he couldn't feel into a pair of Cole Haan loafers.
He checked himself in the mirror. Smoothed his hair down a little. Took a deep breath.
He went to the bedroom next to his and knocked softly. When there was no answer he tried again, and then opened the door. The bed was mussed, but empty, and she wasn't in the bathroom.
As he walked back out to the hall, alarm rang in his ears. Before he knew it he was in a jog, then a run. He raced past the head of the stairway and pounded down the statuary corridor. He didn't bother knocking on Z's door, just threw it open.
Phury stopped dead.
His first thought was that Zsadist was going to fall off the bed. The brother's body was on top of the comforter and right on the edge of the mattress, as far over as possible. Jesus... The position looked uncomfortable as hell. Z's arms were wrapped around his bare chest as if he were holding himself together, and his legs were bent and twisted to the side