"Actually, I'm not."
"How can you say that? You never ask for anything in return - "
"Marissa, look at me. Look at me." Dear Virgin in the Fade, she was beautiful. Especially with his blood in her. "Don't kid yourself. I still want you as my shellan. I want you naked in my bed. I want you swelling up with my young in your body. I want... yeah, the whole thing with you. I don't do this to be nice, I do it to get under your skin. I do it because I hope I can someday, somehow get you where I want you to be."
As her eyes peeled wide, he kept the rest to himself. No reason to air the fact that the symphath in him wanted to crawl around in her head and own every emotion she ever felt. Or share the reality that sex with him would be... complicated.
Ah, the joys of his nature. And his anomaly.
"But I want you to trust in something, Marissa. I won't ever cross the line if you don't want me to."
Besides, Xhex was probably right. Half-breeds like him did better going solo. Even if symphaths weren't discriminated against and could mate and live like Normals, they should never be with someone who was defenseless against their dark side.
He pulled on his floor-length sable coat. "This male of yours... he better get with the program. Damn f**king waste of a female of worth like you." Rehv grabbed his cane and headed for the door. "If you need me, call me."
* * *
Butch walked into ZeroSum, went back to the Brotherhood's table, and took off his Aquascutum raincoat. He was going to be here for a while. Which wasn't a news flash, was it? Hell, he should just pitch a damn pup tent and move in.
As the waitress came up with a Scotch, he said, "Any chance you can just bring me a bottle?"
"Sorry, I can't."
"Okay, come here." He crooked his finger at her. When she leaned down, he put a hundred-dollar bill on her tray. "This is just for you. I want you to keep me nice and poured."
"Absolutely."
Alone at the table, Butch reached up to his neck, his fingertips running over the puncture wounds. As he felt where he'd been bitten, he tried not to imagine what Marissa was doing right now to someone else. To an aristocrat. To a well-bred bastard who was better than him, platinum to his nickel. Oh, God.
Like a mantra, he repeated what V had said. That it didn't have to be sexual. That it was a biological imperative. That there was no choice. That it... didn't have to be sexual. He was hoping if he heard the litany often enough in his head, his emotions would calm the hell down so he could accept the necessity of what she had to do. After all, Marissa wasn't being cruel. She'd been as distraught as he was -
In a vivid flash, he saw her naked body and couldn't help but picture another man's hands smoothing over her br**sts. Another man's lips traveling across her skin. Another man taking her virginity as he nourished her, his hard body moving on top of her, inside of her.
And all the while she was drinking... drinking until she had her fill, until she was satiated, replete.
Taken care of. By someone else.
Butch hammered his double Lag.
Holy f**k. He was going to crack in half. He was going to fall apart, right here, right now, his raw insides spilling onto the floor, his vitals getting ground down under the feet of strangers along with fallen cocktail napkins and credit card receipts.
The waitress, bless her heart, came over with more Scotch.
As he picked up the second glass, he lectured himself:
O 'Neal, get your sack together and grow some pride. Have some faith in her, too. She would never sleep with another man. She just wouldn't.
But the sex was just part of it.
As he downed the Scotch, he realized there was another dimension to the nightmare. She was going to have to feed regularly, wasn't she. They were going to have to do this over and over again.
Fuck. He'd like to think he was a big enough man, a confident enough man, to handle all this, but he was possessive and selfish. And the next time she fed, they would be back where they were now, her in another man's arms, him drinking in a club alone on the verge of hanging himself. Only it would be worse. And the time after that, even more so. He loved her so much, so deeply, that he would destroy them both and it wouldn't take long.
Besides, what kind of future could they have? With the way he'd been pounding the Scotch lately, he probably only had another ten years left in his liver and her kind lived for centuries. He'd just be a footnote in her long life, a pothole on the road to her eventually finding a mate who was right for her, who could give her what she needed.
When the waitress brought him a third double, Butch held up his forefinger to keep her by his side. He downed the glass while she waited, gave it to her, and she went back to the bartender.
As she returned with number four, that scrawny blond Euro-trasher with his trio of thick-necked bodyguard types started waving for her attention from two tables over.
Christ, seemed like every damn night the kid was in this place. Or maybe it was just a little of the idiot went a long way.
"Hey!" the kid called out. "We need service over here. Get the lead out."
"I'll be right over," the waitress said.
"Now," the ass snapped. "Not later."
"I won't be gone long," she murmured to Butch.
As she went over to the punk, Butch watched as she got majorly harassed. Goddamned bigmouthed show-offs, all of them. And they weren't going to improve as the night went on.
Then again, neither was Butch.
"You look a little aggressive there, Butch O'Neal."
He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the female with the man's hair and the man's body was still in front of him.
"We going to have trouble with you tonight, Butch O'Neal?"
He wished she'd stop saying his name. "Nah, I'm good."
Her eyes flashed with an erotic light. "Oh, I know that. But let's get real. You going to be a problem tonight?"
"No."
She stared at him long and hard. Then smiled a little. "Well... I'll be watching you. So keep that in mind."
Chapter Twenty-five
Joyce O'Neal Rafferty met her husband at the door with the baby on her hip and a glare on her face. As Mike stood on the cold side of the welcome mat, he was clearly tired after pulling double shifts on the T, but she couldn't have cared less. "I got a telephone call today from my brother. Butch. You told him about the baptism, didn't you."
Her husband kissed Sean, but didn't try it with her. "Come on, honey - "
"This is not your business!"
Mike shut the door. "Why do you all hate him so much?"
"I am not going there with you."
As she wheeled away, he said, "He didn't kill your sister, Jo. He was twelve. What could he have done?"
She shifted her son in her arms and didn't turn around. "This is not about Janie. Butch turned his back on the family years ago. His choice, got nothing to do with what happened."
"Maybe all of you turned your back on him."
She glared over her shoulder. "Why are you defending him?"
"He was my friend. Before I met and married you, he was my friend."
"Some friend. When was the last time you heard from him?"
"Doesn't matter. He was good to me when I knew him."
"You are such a bleeding heart." She headed for the stairs. "I'm going to feed Sean. I left you some dinner in the fridge."
Joyce marched up to the second floor, and when she hit the top landing, she glared at the crucifix that hung on the wall. Turning away from the cross, she went into Sean's room and sat down in the rocker by his crib. Baring her breast, she brought her son up and he latched on, his hand squeezing the flesh that was next to his face. As he fed, his little body was warm and pudgy with health, his lashes down on his rosy cheeks.
Joyce took a number of deep breaths.
Crap. Now she felt bad for yelling. And for forsaking the Savior's cross. She said a Hail Mary and then tried to calm herself by counting Sean's perfect toes.
God... if anything happened to him, she would die, her heart would literally never beat the same way again. How had her mother done it? How had she lived through the loss of a child?
And Odell had lost two, hadn't she. First Janie. Then Butch. Thank God the woman's mind was going soft. The relief from bad memories must be a blessing.
Joyce stroked Sean's fine dark hair and realized that her mother had never even gotten to say good-bye to Janie. The body had been too ruined to fix up for an open casket and Eddie O'Neal, as the father, had done the ID at the morgue.