Dead Ice (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter) - Laurell K. Hamilton Page 0,222

above the fireplace where his perfect profile had made Belle commission him painted as Cupid to Jean-Claude’s Psyche in the same picture. The painter had taken some liberties, as they do, but they really were that heartrendingly beautiful, or could be.

I looked around the room and nodded. “I am actually sleeping with almost everyone in this room, but I don’t think my pussy belongs to everyone here; I see it more as, all the cocks belong to me.”

“Slut,” he said.

“Who’s your daddy, Kane?” I asked.

“What? Asher is.”

I shook my head. “Not in the locker room earlier today he wasn’t.”

He actually started to get up, but Asher pulled him back down and cuddled him closer to his side; he’d already put him on the far side against the couch arm so he wasn’t in touching distance of Richard and Jean-Claude. I hadn’t expected to see Richard here, especially not with his arm around Jean-Claude’s shoulders. He’d put his arm across the back of the couch, but not actually around the other man’s shoulders, especially not without me sitting with them. They looked as they usually did, like they didn’t match: Jean-Claude in one of his white shirts with all the lace at the sleeves and collar and going down the V to midchest, black leather pants that looked like someone had sewn him into them with the stitching on the sides of his long legs, and a pair of boots that only went to his knees, conservative for his footwear. Richard in blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt that made his spring tan look even darker, with nice brown leather hiking boots that had begun to soften because he actually hiked in them. Jean-Claude’s black curls that fell almost to his waist, Richard’s shoulder-length brown waves. Jean-Claude’s almost androgynous beauty, Richard’s face so very masculine in its handsomeness. Richard was only an inch taller, but with the swell of his muscled arm across Jean-Claude’s shoulders it made the other man seem fragile, though I knew he wasn’t. Richard was one of those big men who doesn’t look that big most of the time, until he does.

Richard’s main bodyguards were Shang-Da, the only six-foot-five Chinese man I’d ever met, and Jamil, who was darkly African American with cornrow hair to his waist. One was dressed in a black suit tailored big to hide the weapons I knew he was carrying, and the other was dressed in a white suit, red shirt, and tie to match the red beads in his hair. Jamil was the only man I’d ever known who could really pull off a white suit and not look silly. He made it look just right.

Sin took my hand and said, “I think I missed something, but it sounds good.”

“I told you to stay away, Sin,” Jean-Claude said.

“He’s earned the right to be here, Jean-Claude.”

“She defies you at every turn, Jean-Claude.” Kane again.

“Even your young prince obeys her over you, mon amour,” Asher said.

“The guards were all talking about how Anita handed you your ass in the locker room,” Nicky said. “They found you flopping around on the floor. You couldn’t even stand up.”

Richard laughed, and once he did the guards joined him in a round of very masculine laughter. Micah joined them; only Nathaniel and Jean-Claude stayed somber. Nathaniel was watching Asher with a very solemn look as he sat holding hands with Micah. Jean-Claude’s hand was playing with the lace on his shirt, which was something he did to calm himself, or when he was trying to calm himself. Richard had his other hand pinned against his thigh. I wasn’t sure if they were holding hands, or if Richard had just pinned Jean-Claude’s hand so it wouldn’t keep petting his thigh, which was another nervous thing he did. It was usually my thigh, or Asher’s, or occasionally Micah’s.

“Did you hit him that hard?” Sin asked.

“I didn’t hit him.”

“She ate his anger,” Nicky said. “I hear that leaves you pretty messed up afterward, Kane.” He stared at Kane; it was a speculative look, somewhere between sizing someone up on the practice mat and watching someone you were thinking about fucking, or maybe just about tearing their throat out and eating them. It was an incredibly predatory look, the kind a serial killer might give his victims, all violence, sex, and cannibalistic speculation.

“Not as messed up as being her fucking Bride makes you.” Kane said it with an unpleasant smile.

Nicky smiled back, but it was a pleased smile, an anticipatory