Lover Mine(9)

Four weeks and they'd found nothing other than signs that lessers were moving product on the street to humans.

John was going insane, mostly from all the not-knowing and the fear, but partially from having to hold his violence inside. Although it was amazing what you could do when you had no choice--he had to appear normal and levelheaded if he wanted to be a part of this, so that was what he presented himself to be.

And this tattoo? It was a stake shoved into the territory he was in. His declaration that even if Xhex hadn't wanted him, she was his mate and he would honor her, alive or dead. Here was the thing: People felt the way they did and it wasn't their fault or yours if the connection was one-sided. It just . . . was.

God, he wished he hadn't been so cold when they'd had sex the second time.

That final time.

Abruptly, he cut off his emotions, putting that genie of sadness and regret and rejection back into its bottle. He couldn't allow himself to break down. He had to keep going, keep searching, keep putting one foot in front of the other. Time was moving forward even though he wanted to slow it down so that they had a better chance of finding her alive.

The clock was not interested in his opinions, however.

Dear God, he thought. Please let me not fail in this.





THREE





"Induction? What, like it's a fucking club?"

As the words bounced around the inside of the Mercedes, Lash tightened his hands on the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. He had a switchblade in the inside pocket of his Canali suit and the urge to out the blade and slice this human's throat open was goddamned tempting.

Of course, then he'd have a dead body to deal with and blood all over the leather.

Both of which were bores.

He looked across the seats. The one he had picked out of a cast of hundreds was your typical bottom-feeding, drug-dealing, shifty-eyed motherfucker. The kid's history of child abuse was written in the old circular scar on his face--perfectly round and the size of the burning end of a cigarette--and his hard life on the street was in his smart, twitchy eyes. His greed was in the way he looked around the inside of the car, like he was trying to figure out how to make it his own, and his resourcefulness was obvious by how quickly he'd made a name for himself as a go-to dealer.

"More than a club," Lash said in a low voice. "Much more. You've got a future in this business and I'm offering it to you on a silver platter. I'll have my men pick you up here tomorrow night."

"What if I don't show?"

"Your choice." Of course, then the fucker was going to wake up dead in the morning, but details, details . . .

The kid met Lash's eyes. The human wasn't built like a fighter; he was more the size of someone who'd gotten his ass cheeks duct-taped together in the school locker room. But it had become amply clear that the Lessening Society needed two kinds of members now: moneymakers and soldiers. After having had Mr. D scope the Xtreme Park and watch who was moving the most product, this wiry little shit with the reptilian stare was at the top of the heap.

"Are you queer?" the kid said.

Lash allowed one of his hands to leave the steering wheel and duck into his jacket. "Why do you ask that?"

"You smell like one. Dress like one, too."

Lash moved so fast, his target didn't have a chance to even lean back in the seat. With a quick lunge, he rocked out the switch and laid that sharp blade right against the vital, beating pulse at the side of the white neck.

"The only thing I do to males is kill them," Lash said. "You want to get fucked like that? Because I'm ready if you are."

The kid's eyes went cartoon wide and his body trembled beneath his dirty clothes. "No . . . I don't got a problem with the queers."

Fidiot was missing the point, but whatever. "Do we have a deal?" Lash said, pressing the point of his knife in. As the penetration was achieved, blood welled up in a bubble and stayed put for a split second, like it was trying to decide whether to flow down the shiny metal or the smooth column of skin.

It picked the blade, meandering forth in a ruby red stream.

"Please . . . don't kill me."

"What's your answer."

"Yeah. I'll do it."

Lash pressed in harder, watching the blood run. He was momentarily captivated by the reality that if he took the weapon and pushed it farther through the flesh, this human would cease to exist, like a breath of air disappearing into a chilly night.

He enjoyed feeling like a god.

As whimpering breached the kid's chapped lips, Lash relented, easing back. With a quick lick, he cleaned off the blade and flicked the weapon shut. "You're going to like where you end up. I promise you."

He gave the guy a chance to recover and knew it wasn't going to take long for the kid to get his groove back. Asswipes like this one had egos like balloons. Pressure, particularly the kind that came with a knife at the throat, caused them to collapse in on themselves. But the instant the stress was relieved, they rebounded, puffing back up into place.