Blood Kiss - Ward J. R. (чтение книг .txt) 📗
“And here I was, hoping we could both forget this conversation.”
“Never going to happen, my man.” Abruptly, Peyton’s eyes narrowed and pure aggression shone out of them. “Anyone who hurts that female is an enemy of mine. And I might be an aristocrat, but I am capable of going straight-up animal to protect what’s mine. Got it?”
Craeg measured the guy. “I can’t promise anything.”
“What’s that supposed to mean.”
“I have … things … I need to do after this, and they don’t include settling down and taking a mate. Bonding or no bonding, nothing is going to change that reality. Not even her—and she knows this.”
Peyton’s voice dropped until it was so deep, it was barely audible. “Then you are a fool. You are a dumb motherfucking fool.” Except then the guy shrugged. “But hey, that’s good news. It means I might still have a chance with her. And before I have to give you a distemper shot, fuck you. You walk away, it’s on you, asshole—and I promise you, I will make a play for her serious, like.”
As Craeg’s inner beast stood up and roared, it was probably best that the male walked back into the weight room at that point.
Yup.
They already had one trainee in the clinic. The class didn’t need two.
Especially if that second one had to be brought there in pieces.
Chapter Thirty-four
Marissa talked to Butch all night long.
Even as she conducted her staff meeting, interviewed a mental health caseworker for a job, and had a little visit with Mary, in the back of her mind, she was talking to Butch.
The imaginary scenes of her going all righteous on his omissioning ass were marked with a sound track of him agreeing with her that he was a douche bag who needed twelve kinds of therapy. The fact that, over the course of the hours, he called her three times and texted her twice didn’t help his cause—then again, he could have had Perry Mason pleading his case and he would still have ended up in prison for life without the possibility of ever getting laid by his shellan again.
She hadn’t returned any of his fingers-doing-the-walking, and she told herself she was shutting him out because she wanted to choose her words carefully first. The reality was far less laudible: She felt hurt by him, rejected by him, set aside by him, and she wanted him to get a sense firsthand for how that felt.
Which was not attractive at all.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, she’d never been a spiteful person, and she hated that the very thing she treasured most in the world, her relationship with her mate, had made her go sour.
And it was that sticky wicket that got her to leave work early, text him that she’d be waiting for him after training got out, and resolve to have the hard conversation they needed to.
When she arrived back at the mansion and got a gander at the grand foyer, all she could think of was the number of people who walked through that space on a regular basis. As privacy was required, she decided to go sit down in the training center. For one thing, having made the decision to talk, she wanted to get going with Butch as soon as possible; for another, the Pit was too claustrophobic and she wasn’t sure whether V or Jane had the night off.
God knew she didn’t want anyone to overhear anything.
Leaving her coat and briefcase by the hidden door under the grand staircase, she entered the proper code, 1914, and jogged down the shallow steps. After putting in the same series of numbers again, she emerged into the underground tunnel and started off in the direction of the training center. From time to time, she had to wipe sweaty palms on the seat of her dress slacks, and she fussed with her hair, which she’d left down for once.
By the time she went through the supply closet and came out into the office, her heart was pounding, her mouth was dry and her stomach rolling.
After years of having suffered from panic attacks, she prayed her nerves weren’t going to take her into that stretch of hell.
Checking the slim Cartier watch Butch had given her on their first anniversary, she figured she had a while to wait. An hour, at least.
Great, now she felt trapped in the glass fishbowl.
With a glance over her shoulder, she eyed the closet door and wondered if she shouldn’t just walk the tunnel a couple dozen times under the exercise-clears-the-mind theory, but that didn’t appeal. Besides, sooner or later, even if Butch didn’t get her text, he’d have to go to the big house for Last Meal, and this was her best bet for catching him.
Looking over at the desk, she went across and sat in the office chair. Her log-in was accepted by the computer, and then she signed into the Gmail account she’d created for RSVPs to the Twelfth Month Festival Ball.
“Wow.” She leaned in toward the screen. There were countless replies waiting. “Unless you’re all declines, that is.”
For godsakes, there were easily a hundred unread messages, and as she started at the top, she found … all yeses.
We accept with pleasure your kind invitation …
But of course, both my hellren and I shall …
With great anticipation, we do humbly accept …
Before she got too far into it, she opened a side drawer and took out a yellow legal pad. With a blue ink pen, she created a table with Name, Reply, and Number at the top. Going between the computer list and the paper, she marked the names and replies, and she was about halfway down the former when she got to her brother’s name.
Double-clicking the bolded entry, she held her breath. And then exhaled.
He was not coming. With three polite sentences, he indicated that he would need to be at the clinic, but he certainly appreciated being included.
Funny, it was both a relief and strangely deflating. She’d expected him to come, especially after that initial female had mentioned that Havers had been the one to recommend her as event chair.
Sitting back, she thought about her whole confront-the-past goal. Wrath had long ago apologized to her, and the way he had so freely and warmly embraced Butch and their mating had meant so much. She’d never really dwelled on what had happened between her and the King, but as she considered their doomed betrothal, and then everything that had come afterward, she found that she had fully forgiven him. She bore him only love—and knew that he would speak with her if she wanted or needed him to. She truly was at peace with him, however.
The glymera, on the other hand? She remained incensed to the point of rage about them and their standards, but it wasn’t like she could line up that judgmental bunch of bullshit artists and yell at them. Living independently from all that had been a far more healthy and successful strategy.
And as for Havers? She had been planning on talking to her brother at the ball—but that would not have been a good plan, really. Talk about needing privacy—and maybe notecards. She wasn’t even sure what she would say to him.
This was the problem with resolutions. You couldn’t force something until you were ready for it. And her emotions were still so volatile.
Yes, she thought. Him not attending was actually going to make her life easier. And less of a spectacle for the glymera peanut gallery.
The answer for speaking with him was probably a little more time and maybe … shoot, maybe she would sit down with him and Mary—if he’d be willing? Who knew.
Butch was her main problem. And that female who had been killed, of course.
Refocusing, she finished her tallying, closed out of the account and made an estimate of the numbers. If this nearly one-hundred-percent acceptance rate kept up, they were going to have four hundred people at Abalone’s. Which was twice what she’d assumed when she’d run the food and booze costs—something that, of course, as head of the event, she was expected to cover.
