The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 1)

Her eyes narrowed, but not because she was offended. And her lack of anticipated reaction made him realize he had phrased the question in a crude way because he had hoped that would be the case.

“The question is more whether you’ll let yourself fuck me,” she said. “Tell me, who is she.”

He whipped his head away from her. “There is no one for me.”

“Liar.” She laughed a little. “And you can be honest. It’s not like whatever you tell me is going anywhere. I don’t know anyone here and I’m not staying. Besides, we’re strangers.”

When he said nothing further, she cursed softly. “Come on, what else do we have to do but talk for the next eight hours? Or is it ten? Of course, I’d had other plans for how to spend the time.”

“Oh, really. And what were they?”

“Having sex with you seemed like a good way to pass the time.”

“Just some casual exercise,” he muttered. Then again, he should be used to that, right?

“Like it’s anything else on your side?”

“And that doesn’t bother you.”

“Oh, so we’re back to the virtuous female stuff, are we.” She exhaled long and slow. “I believe in living in the moment. That’s all I can say on that one.”

“I did not lie,” he said in the quiet between them. “There is no female for me.”

He watched her play with the water, moving her hands through it. “Did she die? Did you have a shellan and she died?”

“I have never been mated, and I never will be.”

“Why’s that?”

“I believe that is self-evident.” He motioned around. “We are in a prison, remember?”

“So how old were you when you came in. And how long until you—”

“It’s a lifetime sentence. For now, at any rate.”

“What did you do?”

“We don’t ask those questions down here.”

“Well, I’m a foreigner in these parts. As you like pointing out all the time.”

When she lowered her eyes to the water, he waited for her to say something, to challenge him. Instead, she remained silent, and it occurred to him that she needed to answer her own question for him.

“And you?” he said. “Mated?”

“Hell, no.” She threw her head back and laughed. “No.”

That was good. It meant he didn’t have to kill another male. Well, at least not because they were with her—

Groaning at his misplaced territoriality, he put a hand to his temple.

“If I ask you again if you’re all right, ” she said, “do I get to listen to another defensive monologue on how great you’re feeling?”

“No. I think I’ll spice it up and describe the pounding headache you give me.”

“Oh, my God. You made a joke.”

Dropping his hand, he sent a glare her way—and promptly lost the surge of anger. From over in the pool, she was smiling at him, her lips lifted at the corners, her eyes twinkling. His heart stopped. And then redoubled its beat. She was sexy when she was mad. And infuriating the rest of the time. But like this?

Her brows lowered and she pursed her mouth. “What.”

When he didn’t reply, she frowned. “Why the hell are you looking at me like that?”

Lowering his eyes, he said softly, “I have not seen the sun since before my transition. Can you blame me for staring.”

Twas an infection that ended up grounding Rhage, and he was woefully disappointed in his body’s failure of resolve when it came to the wound on his side. The other three places of lead invasion and operation had healed suitably well. The one under his ribs, however, insisted upon lingering, a houseguest with annoying habits and a pervasive lack of urgency about its departure.

And thus he lay upon Jabon’s guest bed, in the gentlemale’s guest room, and was waited upon incessantly. All of his needs were looked after. Food, drink, ablutions, clothing. Sex and blood. He had the sense that had he required someone to breathe for him, that function would have been taken up readily by the staff. Indeed, it seemed churlish not to greet such attention with effusive gratitude, but dearest Virgin Scribe, he could not wait to return unto his humble abode and the resonant solitude therein.

How he craved an utter lack of company.

Plus it was not as if the staff had nothing else to do. There were plenty of opportunities for the household’s doggen to offer service unto other guests. There were quite a number of females and males tarrying under Jabon’s roof. Rhage could hear them walking the halls and catch their scents in the draft that came under his closed door. Further, there was much conversation on either side of his accommodations. The mansion seemed more hotel than home, and things were never quiet, never still. Not during daylight. Not during mealtime. Certainly, not during the parties that seemed to be held every eve.

One had to wonder the point of such a vacuous, consumptive existence. Then again, Jabon was unmated, and there had been some gossip, not that Rhage particularly cared, that the male’s sire and mahmen were dead. Therefore, it appeared as though the aristocrat was buying his family, his hospitality the currency he used to secure his purchase of affection, constancy, and support—