Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood 8)

As the sound of the treadmill got cut off abruptly, she was willing to bet Blaylock had pulled the cord out of the wall, and good for him if he had. She'd tried to get John to stop pulling a death-by-Nike, but when reasoning with him had gotten her absolutely nowhere, she'd taken up sentry duty out here.

No way she could watch him run himself into the ground. Listening to the punishment was bad enough.

Down the hall, the glass door to the office swung open and the Brother Tohrment appeared. Given the glow that emanated from behind him, Lassiter had come into the training center as well, but the fallen angel hung back.

"How is John?" As the Brother he walked over, his concern was in his hard face and his tired eyes, and also in his grid, which was lit up in the regret sectors.

Made sense on a lot of levels.

Xhex glanced at the weight room door. "Appears to have rethought a career change to marathoner. Either that or he just killed another treadmill. "

Tohr's towering height forced her to tilt her head up, and it was a surprise to see what was behind his blue eyes: There was knowledge in his stare, deep knowledge that made her own emotional circuits fire with suspicion. In her experience, strangers who looked at you like that were dangerous.

"How are you?" he asked softly.

It was strange; she hadn't had a lot of contact with the Brother, but whenever their paths had crossed, he'd always been particularly. . . well, kind. Which was why she always avoided him. She dealt much better with toughness than she did with anything tender.

Frankly he made her jumpy.

As she stayed quiet, his face tightened as if she'd disappointed him but he didn't blame her for the shortfall. "Okay," he said. "I won't pry. "

Jesus, she was a bitch. "No, it's all right. You just really don't want me to answer that right now. "

"Fair enough. " His eyes narrowed on the weight room door and she got the distinct impression he was trapped outside of it as much as she was, shut down by the male who was suffering on the other side. "So you called up to the kitchen to get me?"

She took out the key John had used to let them into the guy's former house. "Just wanted to give this back to you and tell you there was a problem. "

The Brother's emotional grid went black and vacant, everything lights-out. "What kind of problem?"

"One of your sliding glass doors is broken. It's going to need a couple of sheets of plywood to cover it up. We were able to reengage the security alarm so the motion detectors inside are on, but you've got a hell of a draft. I'll be happy to fix it today. "

Assuming John either finished off the rest of the exercise machines, ran out of running shoes, or fell over in a dead heap.

"Which. . . " Tohr cleared his throat. "Which door?"

"The one in John Matthew's room. "

The Brother frowned. "Was it broken when you got there?"

"No. . . it just spontaneously busted. "

"Glass doesn't do that without a good reason. "

And hadn't she given John Matthew one. "True enough. "

Tohr stared at her and she looked right back at him and the silence grew thick as mud. The thing was, though, as nice a guy and as good a soldier as the Brother was, she had nothing to share with him.

"Who do I talk to about getting some plywood," she prompted.

"Don't worry about it. And thanks for letting me know. "

As the Brother turned and walked back into the office, she felt like hell--which she supposed was yet another connection she had with John Matthew. Except instead of setting a land/speed record, she just wanted to take a knife and cut her inner forearms to release the pressure.

God, she was such a crybaby emo sometimes, she truly was. But those cilices of hers not only kept her symphath side in check, they helped her dim down the things she didn't want to feel.

Which was abooooooout ninety-nine percent of emotion, thank you very much.

Ten minutes later, Blaylock ducked his head out of the door. His eyes were locked on the floor and his emotions were in an upheaval, which made sense. No one liked to see a buddy self-destruct, and having to conversate with the person who'd sent the poor bastard into a free fall wasn't exactly a happy-happy.