John reached up to her face and touched next to her red eyes.
"Yeah, I need my cilices," she said.
He brought his hands forward in front of her and signed, I have them.
"You do?"
I saved them. He frowned. But are you sure you have to--
"Yes," she bristled. "I am."
The hard expression that tightened his face reminded her of the way he'd been when he'd sprung out of that bed as she'd screamed: Tough. Intractable. All-male. But there was nothing she could do to help him out of his current disapproval. She had to take care of herself, and whether or not he was down with what she did to keep herself in a "normal" bandwidth wasn't going to change her reality.
Man, they just weren't meant to be together, no matter how compatible they could be sometimes.
John withdrew from her core and stepped back, running his fingers down her spine as a kind of a thank-you . . . and given the dark knowledge in his eyes, probably a good-bye of his own. Turning away, he headed for the sh--
"Oh . . . my . . . God . . ."
Xhex's heart stopped as she looked at him in the mirror. Across his upper back, in a glorious spread of black ink . . . in a declaration that didn't whisper, but shouted . . . in a billboard-size font with flourishes . . .
Her name in the Old Language.
Xhex wheeled around as John froze. "When did you get that done?"
After a tense moment, his shoulder shrugged and she was captivated by the way the ink moved, stretching and then returning into place. Shaking his head, he reached in to test the warm spray, and then stepped through the glass door, put his back to the running water and grabbed the soap, frothing up the bar in his hands.
As he refused to look at her, he sent a clear message that her name in his skin was none of her business. Which was the same kind of line she'd drawn with her cilices, wasn't it.
Xhex went up to the glass door that separated them. Putting her hand up, she knocked hard.
When, she mouthed.
His eyes squeezed shut, as if he were remembering something that made his stomach hurt. And then with his lids down, he signed slowly . . . and broke her in half:
When I thought you weren't coming home.
John made quick work with the soap and the shampoo, very aware that Xhex was standing on the cold side of the glass, staring at him. He wanted to help her out with the surprise and all, but given where things stood between them, he was so not about to throw himself on the sword of all his feelings.
Or the tattoo needle, as it were.
When he'd asked her about the cilices, she'd been pretty clear about shutting him out--and that had rebooted his brain. Since he'd been injured the night before, they'd fallen back into their sex connection, and that had a way of blurring reality. But no more.
After he was finished with his wash-up, he stepped out of the shower and went past her, nabbing a towel from a brass bar and wrapping it around his hips. In the mirror, he met her eyes.
I'll go get your cilices, he signed.
"John . . ."
When she didn't say anything more, he frowned, thinking this was the pair of them in a nutshell: Standing three feet away from each other and being separated by miles.
He left and went into the bedroom, picking up a pair of jeans and pulling them on. His leather jacket had been brought in with him to the clinic the night before and he'd left it there. Somewhere.
In his bare feet, he walked past the marble statues, down the grand staircase, and around the corner to duck through the hidden door. Man . . . going back into the tunnel was a total crusher; all he could think about was Xhex and him together in the dark.
Like a complete nancy, he wished like hell they could return to those suspended moments when nothing existed except their roaring bodies. Down here, their hearts had been free to pound . . . and sing.
Fucking real life.
Sucked ass.
He was striding toward the training center's entrance when Z's voice stopped him.
"Yo, John."
John pivoted around, his bare feet squeaking on the tunnel floor. As he raised his hand in greeting, the Brother came striding down from the mansion's door and Z was dressed for fighting, his black leathers and muscle shirt something that they would all be wearing before they headed out once again to hunt Lash. With the Brother's skull trim, and the ceiling lights streaming down across that jagged scar on his face, it was no wonder people were scared shitless of him.
Especially with his stare narrowed like that and his jaw set grimly.
What's up, John signed as the Brother stopped in front of him.
When there was no immediate reply, John braced himself, thinking, Oh . . . fuck, now what.
What, he signed.
Zsadist exhaled a curse and started to pace around, his hands on his hips, his eyes locked on the floor. "I don't even know where to frickin' start."