Lover Mine(20)

But dear Lord, she hated fighting him. Hated this whole fucking thing.

When he came out a little later, he was clean and already healing up, the bruises fading, the scrapes disappearing, the bones reknitting like magic.

Just her luck. The goddamn Energizer Bunny.

"I'm off to see my father." As he came over to her, she bared her fangs and he seemed momentarily complimented. "I love your smile."

"Not a smile, asshole."

"Whatever you call it, I like it. And someday I'll introduce you to dear old Dad. I have plans for us."

Lash went to lean down, no doubt to try to kiss her, but as she hissed deep in her throat, he paused and reconsidered.

"I'll be back," he whispered. "My love."

He knew she hated the "love" crap, so she was careful to swallow her reaction. She also didn't taunt him as he turned and left.

The more she refused to play into the situation, the more tangled he became and the clearer her head was.

Listening to him moving around in the room next door, she pictured him getting dressed. He kept his clothes in the other room, having moved them out after it became clear how things were going to roll between them: He hated messes and was fastidious about his threads.

When things quieted down and she heard him descend the stairs, she took a deep breath and dragged herself up off the floor. The bathroom was still steamy and tropical from his shower, and though she hated using the same soap he did, she disliked what was on her skin even more.

The moment she stepped under the hot spray, the marble at her feet turned both red and black as two kinds of blood washed off of her body and disappeared down the drain. She was quick with the suds and rinse, because Lash had left only moments before and you could never tell with him. Sometimes he came right back. Other times he didn't show again for a whole day.

The fragrance of the fancy-ass French shit Lash insisted on stocking his bathroom with made her gag, even though she supposed most females would have enjoyed the blend of lavender and jasmine. Man, she wished she had a dose of Rehv's good ol' Dial. Although no doubt that would sting like a bitch on the cuts, she was okay with agony, and the idea of scrubbing herself raw was appealing.

Each sweep up the arm or down the leg was marked with aches as she bent to the side or leaned forward, and for no reason at all, she thought of the cilices she'd always worn to control her symphath nature. With all the fighting out in that bedroom, she'd had enough pain in her body to dampen her evil inclinations--not that it mattered, really. She wasn't around "normals," and that dark part of her helped her deal with this situation.

Still, after two decades of wearing the barbs, it was odd not to have them with her. She'd left the pair of spiked chains behind at the Brotherhood mansion . . . on the bureau in the room she'd stayed in that day before they'd gone up to the colony. She'd had every intention of returning at the end of the night, showering, and putting them back on . . . but now they were no doubt gathering dust as they waited for her return.

She was losing faith that there was going to be a happy reunion   with those fuckers.

Funny how your life could be interrupted: You left a house expecting to come back, but then the path you were on took you left instead of around again to the right.

How long would the Brothers let her personal items sit out? she wondered. How long before her few belongings, whether they were at the Brotherhood mansion or her hunting cabin or her basement place, got relegated to nothing but clutter? Two weeks was probably approaching the outside limit--although as no one except John knew about her underground crash pad, that stuff would linger far longer.

After a couple of weeks, her shit would no doubt be shoved into a closet. Then a small box in the attic.

Or maybe it would simply be pitched into the trash.

That was what happened when people died, though. What had been a possession became litter--unless the shit was adopted by someone else.

And it wasn't like there was a great demand for cilices.

Turning off the water, she got out, toweled off, and went back into the bedroom. Just as she sat down by the window, the door opened and the little lesser who ran the kitchen came in with a tray full of food.

He always seemed confused as he put what he'd prepared down on the bureau and looked around--like after all this time, he still had no clue why in the hell he was leaving hot meals in an empty room. He also inspected the walls, tracing the fresh dings and streaks of black blood. Given how tidy he seemed, no doubt he wanted to pull a DIY: When she'd first come here, the silk paper had been in perfect shape. Now, the stuff looked like it had been put through the wringer.

As he went over to the bed and straightened the scrambled duvet and scattered pillows, he left the door wide open and she stared out into the hall and down the stairs.