Lover Revealed

Marissa went back into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. 'I think I like them.'

When Butch returned to the Pit, he lurched down to his suite. As he started the shower, he kept the lights off because he had no interest in seeing how drunk and freaked out he still was. And he got under the spray, even though it was cold, in the hopes that the Antarctic wash would help sober him up.

With rough hands, he worked himself over with a bar of soap, and when he got to his privates, he didn't look down. Couldn't bear it. He knew, what he was washing off his body, and his chest burned at the thought of the blood that had been on the inside of Marissa's thighs.

Man… seeing that had been a killer. Then he'd shocked the shit out of himself by doing what he did. He had no idea why he'd put his mouth to her or where the idea had come from. It had just seemed like the thing to do.

Oh… hell. He couldn't think about all that.

Quick shampoo. Quick rinse. And then he was out. He didn't bother toweling off, just went dripping to his bed and sat down. The air was freezing cold on his wet skin, and the chill felt like a proper punishment as he rested his chin on his fist and stared across the room. In the dim glow coming under the door, he saw the pile of clothes Marissa had taken off him earlier. Then that dress of hers on the floor.

He went back to looking at what he'd been wearing. That suit wasn't really his, was it. Neither was the shirt—or the socks or the loafers. Nothing he wore was his.

He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Took the thing off. Let it fall onto the carpet.

He didn't live in his own place. He didn't spend his own money. He had no job, no future, He was a well-kept pet, not a man. And as much as he loved Marissa, after what just happened on that back lawn, it was clear things couldn't work out between them. The relationship was flat-out destructive, especially for her: she was distraught, blaming herself for shit that wasn't her fault, suffering, and it was because of him. Goddamn it, she deserved so much better. She deserved… oh, shit, she deserved Rehvenge, that thick-blooded aristocrat. Rehv would be able to take care of her, give her what she needed, take her out socially, be her mate for centuries.

Butch got up, walked to the closet, and took out a Gucci duffel… then realized he didn't want to take anything of this life with him when he bailed.

Tossing the bag aside, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, shoved his feet into some running shoes, and found the old wallet and set of keys he'd brought with him when he moved in with Vishous. As he looked at the metal tangle on its simple silver ring, he remembered that back in September he hadn't bothered to do anything with his apartment. So after all his time, his landlord must have long ago busted in and cleared out his stuff. Which was fine. It wasn't like he wanted to go back there anyway.

Leaving the keys, he headed out of his room, only to realize he had no wheels. He glanced down at his feet. Looked like he vas walking it down to Route 22, then hitching a ride from here.

He had no coherent plan for what he was going to do or where he would go. He knew only that he was leaving the Brothers and Marissa and that was it. Well, he also knew that to make it stick, he was going to have to get out of Caldwell. Maybe he could head west or something.

When he walked into the living room, he was relieved V wasn't around. Saying good-bye to his roommate was nearly as awful as leaving his woman. So no reason to have that bon voyage convo.

Shit. What was the Brotherhood going to do about him pulling out? He knew a lot about them— Whatever. He couldn't stay, and if that meant action had to be taken, it would sure as hell put him out of his misery.

And as for what the Omega did to him? Well, he didn't have much of an answer for the whole lesser thing. But at least he wouldn't have to worry about hurting the brothers or Marissa. Because he wasn't planning on ever seeing them again.

His hand was on the vestibule's doorknob when V said, 'Where you going, cop?'

Butch swiveled his head around as V stepped out of the shadows of the kitchen.

'V… I'm leaving.' Before there was a response, Butch shook his head. 'If that means you have to kill me, just do it quick and bury me fast. And don't let Marissa know.'

'Why you pulling out?'

'It's better this way, even if it means I'm dead. Hell, you'll be doing me a favor if you have to off me. I'm in love with a woman I can't really have. You and the Brotherhood are the only friends I've got and I'm giving you up, too. And what the fuck do I have out in the real world waiting for me? Nothing. I got no job. My family thinks I'm whacked. The only good thing is that I'll be on my own with my own kind.'

V approached, a tall, menacing shadow.

Shit, maybe this would all be over with tonight. Right here. Right now.

'Butch, man, you can't get out. I told you from the beginning. No getting out.'

'So like I just said… snuff me. Grab a dagger and do me. But hear me clear. I will not stay in this world as an outsider one more minute.'

As their eyes met, Butch didn't even brace himself. He wasn't going to fight. He was going to go gently into the good night, carried there by his best friend's hand on a good, clean kill.

There were worse ways to go, he thought. Many, many worse ways.

Vishous's eyes narrowed. 'There may be another way.'

'Another… V, buddy, a set of plastic fangs ain't going to make this better.'

'Do you trust me?' When there was only silence, V repeated, 'Butch, do you trust me?'

'Yeah.'

'Then give me an hour, cop. Let me see what I can do.'

Chapter Twenty-nine

Time dragged and Butch prowled around the Pit while waiting for V to get back. Finally, unable to shake the Scotch haze and still dizzy as shit, he went in and lay down on his bed. As he closed his eyes, it was more to dim the light than with any hope of sleep.

Surrounded by a dense quiet, he thought about his sister Joyce and that new baby of hers. He knew where the baptism had been held today: Same place he'd been dipped. Same place all the O'Neals had been dipped.

Original sin washed away.

He put his hand on his stomach, on that black scar, and thought that evil had certainly come back for him, hadn't it. Ended up right inside of him.

Palming his cross, he fisted the gold until it cut into his skin, and decided he needed to go back to church. Regularly.

He was still gripping the crucifix when exhaustion took him by stealth, leaching his thoughts away, replacing them with a nothingness he would have been relieved by if he'd been conscious.

Sometime later, he woke up and glanced at the clock. He'd slept for two hours straight, and now he was in the hangover phase of things, his head one big, dull ache, his eyes supersensitive to the light coming in under the door. He rolled over and stretched, his spine cracking.

An eerie moan drifted down the hall.

'V?' he said.

Another moan.

'You okay there, V?'

From out of nowhere, there was a crashing noise, like something heavy had been dropped. Then choking sounds, the kind you made when you were too hurt to cry out and scared to death. Butch sprang off his bed and ran into the living room.

'Jesus Christ!'

Vishous had thrown himself off the couch and landed face-first on the coffee table, scattering bottles and glasses. As he flailed around, his eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth gaped with screams unvoiced.

'Vishous! Wake up!' Butch grabbed on to those heavy arms, only to realize V had taken his glove off: That god-awful hand of his was glowing like the sun, burning holes in the wood of the table and the leather of the