Lover at Last (Black Dagger Brotherhood #11) - J.R. Ward Page 0,35

the iPad down, each of the four sections landing like footsteps across the screen. He then put the thing aside, uncrossed his leg, and leaned forward to balance his elbows on his knees. The guy’s biceps were so thick, the sleeves of his shirt looked like they were going to split wide.

“Your sex life is out of control.” As Trez rolled his eyes, his brother kept on talking. “You are fucking three or four women a night, sometimes more. It’s not about feeding, so don’t waste either of our time by excusing it in that fashion. You are compromising the professional standards of—”

“I run liquor and prostitutes. Don’t you think that’s a little highbrow—”

iAm picked up the iPad and waved it back and forth. “Should I go back to reading?”

“I’m just saying—”

“You asked me to speak. If this is a problem, the solution is not to get defensive because you don’t like what you hear. The answer is to not invite me to talk.”

Trez ground his teeth. See, this was the issue with his fucking brother. Too goddamn reasonable.

Bursting up, he stalked across the open living room. The kitchen was like everything else in the condo: modern, airy, and uncluttered. Which meant that as he poured himself some more caffeine, he could see his brother in his peripheral vision.

Man, sometimes he hated this place: Unless he was in his bedroom with the door shut, he couldn’t get a break from those damn eyeballs.

“Am I reading or talking?” iAm said calmly, like he didn’t care either way.

Man, Trez desperately wanted to tell the guy to shove his nose back into the Times, but that was like a defeat.

“G’head.” Trez went back to his chair and settled in for more ass kicking.

“You’re not behaving in a professional manner.”

“You eat your own food at Sal’s.”

“My linguine with clam sauce doesn’t require a restraining order when I decide the next night I want the Fra Diavolo.”

Good point. And somehow, that made him feel nearly violent.

“I know what you’re doing,” iAm said steadily. “And why.”

“You’re not a virgin, of course you do—”

“I know what they sent you.”

Trez froze. “How.”

“When you didn’t respond, I received a phone call.”

Trez pushed the rug with his foot and turned himself around to face the river. Shit. He figured he’d clear the air with this, you know, give his brother a little bitch session so that the two of them could go back to being normal—usually they were close as skin to bone, and the relationship was as fundamental as that to him.

He could handle just about anything except friction with his brother.

Unfortunately, the problems that had gotten alluded to over there were about the only thing in that “just about anything.”

“Ignoring it will not make it go away, Trez.”

This was said with a certain gentleness of tone—like the guy felt bad for him.

As Trez looked out over the river, he imagined that he was at his club, with humans all around and cash trading hands and the women who worked there doing their thing in the back. Nice. Normal. In control and comfortable.

“You have responsibilities.”

Trez tightened his grip on his mug. “I didn’t volunteer for them.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He spun around so fast, hot coffee went flying and landed on his thigh. He ignored the sting. “It should. It fucking should. I’m not some inanimate object that can be given to somebody. That whole thing is bullshit.”

“Some would find it an honor.”

“Well, I don’t. I’m not getting mated to that female. I don’t care who she is or who set it up or how ‘important’ it is to the s’Hisbe.”

Trez braced himself for a barrage of oh-yeah-you-do. Instead, his brother looked sad, as if he wouldn’t have wanted the curse, either.

“I’ll say it again, Trez. This is not just magically going to disappear. And trying to fuck your way out of it? That’s not only futile, it’s potentially dangerous.”

Trez rubbed his face. “The women are just humans. They don’t matter.” He turned back to the river again. “And frankly, if I don’t do something, I’m going to go insane. A couple of orgasms has to be better than that, right?”

As silence resumed, he knew his brother disagreed with him. But proof positive that his life was in the shitter was the fact that the conversation dried up at that point.

iAm apparently wasn’t into kicking a guy when he was down.

Whatever. He didn’t care what was expected of him—he was not going back and being condemned to a life of service.

He