asshole package. The guy was big and filled out, built like a
fighter. And he'd gone through a G.I. Joe makeover. Before he'd worn flashy couture clothes and
a vault's worth of Jacob & Co. jewelry; now he was dressed in black cargo pants and a skintight
black nylon shirt. His blond hair, which had been long enough to pull back into a ponytail, was
now military short.
It was as if all that pretension had been wiped clean because he knew he had the goods on the
inside.
One thing hadn't changed: His eyes were still sharkskin gray and focused on John-who knew
without a doubt that if he got caught alone with the guy he was in for a world of hurt. He might
have taken Lash down the last time, but it wouldn't happen again, and more than that, Lash was
going to get him. The promise of payback was in both the set of those big shoulders and the half
smile that had fuck you written all over it.
John took a seat next to Blay, feeling a dark-alley kind of dread.
«Hey, buddy,» his friend said softly. «Don't worry about that bastard, okay?»
John didn't want to look as weak as he was feeling, so he just shrugged and unzipped his
backpack. God, this headache was a killer. But then, the flight-or-fight response on an empty,
rolling stomach was hardly a dose of Excedrin.
Qhuinn leaned over and dropped a note in front of John. We gotchu, was all it said.
John blinked quickly from gratitude as he got out his firearms book and thought about what they
were going to cover today in class. How appropriate it was guns. He felt like one was leveled at
the back of his skull.
He looked to the rear of the room. As if Lash had been waiting for the eye contact, the guy
leaned forward and put his forearms on the table. His hands slowly cranked into two fists that
seemed big as John's head, and when he smiled, his new fangs were sharp as knives and white as
the afterlife.
Shit. John was a dead man if his transition didn't come soon.
Chapter Fifteen
Vishous woke up, and the first thing he saw was his surgeon in the chair across the room.
Apparently even in his sleep, he'd been keeping track of her.
She was watching him, too.
«How are you?» Her voice was low and even. Professionally warm, he thought.
«I'm better.» Although it was hard to imagine feeling worse than he had when he'd been throwing
up.
«Are you in pain?»
«Yeah, but it doesn't bother me. More an ache, really.»
Her eyes went over him, but again it was with professional purpose. «Your coloring is good.»
He didn't know what to say to that. Because the longer he looked like shit, the longer she could
stay. Health was so not his friend.
«Do you remember anything?» she asked. «About the shooting?»
«Not really.»
Which was only a partial lie. All he had were flashes of the events, partial clippings of the
articles instead of the full columns: He remembered the alley. A fight with a lesser. A gun going
off. And after that ending up on her table and getting evac'd from the hospital by his brothers.
«Why did someone want to shoot you?» she asked.
«I'm hungry. Is there food around?»
«Are you a drug dealer? Or a pimp?»
He rubbed his face. «Why do you think I'm either?»
«You got shot in an alley off Trade. The paramedics said you had weapons on you.»
«It didn't occur to you I could be undercover police?»
«Cops in Caldwell don't carry martial-arts daggers. And your kind wouldn't go that route.»
V narrowed his eyes. «My kind?»
«Too much exposure, right? Besides, you wouldn't worry much about policing another race.»
Man, he didn't have the energy to tackle the species discussion with her. Plus, there was a part of
him that didn't want her to think of him as different.
«Food,» he said, glancing over at a tray that was set on the bureau. «Can I have some?»
She stood up and planted her hands on her hips. He had a feeling she was going to say something
along the lines of Get it yourself, you freak bastard.
Instead she walked across the room. «If you're hungry, you can eat. I didn't touch what Red Sox
brought me, and there's no sense throwing it out.»
He frowned. «I will not take food meant for you.»
«I'm not going to eat it. Being kidnapped has killed my appetite.»
V cursed under his breath, hating the position he'd put her in. «I'm sorry.»
«Instead of doing the 'sorry' thing, how about you just let me go?»
«Not yet.» Not ever, some crazy-ass voice muttered.
Oh, Christ, not more with
| <<Previous page | |
Next page>> |