Lover Mine

His heart swelled and he felt as if he filled out his skin better all around.

Fucking sap that he was—

The unmistakable pop of a gun going off behind him froze him where he stood.

The loud ring was so close his eardrums felt pain rather than hearing anything specific, and for a split second afterward, he wondered who’d done the shooting and who, if anyone, had been shot.

The latter was answered when his left leg went loose under his weight and he went down like an oak.

FIFTY-SIX

Xhex’s knife flew from her hand a split second after she saw the lesser come around the corner and level a gun muzzle right at John’s back.

Her dagger traveled hilt over tip through the air, crossing the distance in the blink of an eye, winging past John’s ear so close she prayed to a God she didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t suddenly decide to turn his head for any reason.

Just as the slayer pulled the trigger, her blade caught him in the meat of his shoulder, the impact shifting his torso, the pain making him drop his arm.

Which meant John took the slug in the leg instead of the heart.

As her male went down, she leaped over him with a war cry.

Fuck Butch O’Neal. This kill was hers.

The lesser was scrambling as he tried to disengage her weapon from his torso—at least until he heard her yell. Then he looked toward her and shrank back in horror—which suggested her eyes were glowing red and her fangs were fully extended and flashing.

She landed in front of him, and as he cringed and put his hands up to shield his face and neck, she didn’t move: Her backup dagger stayed by her side and her third-stringer remained holstered on her thigh.

Other plans for this boy.

Using her symphath side, she burrowed into the slayer’s brain and popped the tops on his memories so that all at once, he felt the impact of every horrible thing he’d ever done and every terrible act that had been perpetrated against him.

Lot of shit. Looooot of shit. He’d apparently had a thing for underage girls.

Well, wasn’t this going to be satisfying on so many levels.

As he went down to the floor, he screamed and clutched his temples—like he had a chance in hell of stopping the deluge—and she let him suffer and wallow in his sins, his emotional grid lighting up in all the sectors that indicated fear and loathing and regret and hatred.

When he started to bang his skull against the dirty wallpaper, leaving a black stain where his ear was, she planted one and only one thought in his mind.

Planted it like an ivy streamer... a poison ivy streamer that would take hold and infiltrate and own his mental real estate.

“You know what you have to do,” she said in a deep, warping voice. “You know the way out.”

The slayer dropped his arms and revealed his wild eyes. Under the weight of what she’d released, and as a slave to the dictate she gave him, he grabbed the hilt of her dagger and ripped it out of his flesh.

Turning the point back toward himself, he double-gripped the weapon, his shoulders tensing as he prepared to send the blade on a rocking descent.

Xhex halted him, freezing him so she could kneel down right beside him. Going face-to-face, she looked into his eyes and hissed. “You don’t go after what’s mine. Now be a good boy and gut yourself.”

A splatter of black blood hit her leather pants as the guy nailed himself right in the stomach and dragged the blade crosswise, making a nice messy hole of things.

And then on her mental command, even as his eyes were rolling back in his head, he withdrew the weapon and handed it to her hilt first.

“You’re welcome,” she muttered. Then she stabbed him in the heart and in a flash, he was gone.

As she pivoted around, the sole of her boot squeaked on the wet floor.

John was looking up at her with eyes that were not dissimilar to the slayer’s, his stare peeled so wide he was showing no lid at all on the top or the bottom.

Xhex wiped her first blade on her leathers. “How bad are you?”

As John gave her a thumbs-up, A-OK, she realized the house was quiet and looked around. Everyone was still standing: Qhuinn was just straightening from a decapitation, and wheeling around to see if John was okay. And Rhage was coming in at a run from the kitchen with Vishous on his heels.

“Who’s hit—” Rhage skidded to a halt and stared at the hole in John’s leathers. “Man, three inches up and to the left and you’da been a soprano, buddy.”

V went over and helped John to his feet. “Yeah, but at least he could have taken up knitting with you. You could’ve taught him how to crochet socks. Brings a tear to the eye.”

“If I recall, I’m not the one with the wool fixation—”

As a wheezing boiled up from the living room, Vishous cursed and rushed to Butch’s side as the guy all but fell into the hallway.

Oh... man. Maybe she needed to revise the “everyone standing” thing. The former cop looked like he had food poisoning, malaria, and H1N1 all at the same time.

She focused on Qhuinn and Rhage. “We need a car. He and John need transport back to the mansion—”

“I’ll take care of my boy,” Vishous said gruffly as he became a crutch for Butch and escorted him back over to the living room couch.

“And I’ll go get the Hummer,” Qhuinn said.

Just as he turned away, John slammed a fist into the wall to get everyone’s attention and signed, I’m fine to fight—

“You need to get seen by the doctor,” she said.

John’s hands started to fly so fast she couldn’t track the words, but it was pretty damn clear that he was not on board with getting benched just because of the slug of lead in his leg.

Their argument was interrupted by a brilliant glow that had her leaning to the side and glancing over her shoulder. What she saw explained so much and not just what had happened in the fight they’d all been in: on the ratty sofa, V had Butch in his arms and their heads were together, the pair of them so close there was no gap whatesoever between them. And in the midst of their embrace, Vishous’s whole body was glowing, with Butch seeming to draw strength and healing from him.

V’s obvious care and sympathy for the guy made her dislike him less—especially as he turned his face and looked over at her. For once, his icy mask slipped and the despair showing in his eyes proved he wasn’t a total asshole. On the contrary, he seemed to feel the pain of his Brother’s sacrifice for the race. Truly, it ate him alive.

Oh, and... Butch was apparently his. Which explained why V had it in for her. He was jel that she’d had a piece of what he’d wanted, and as rational as he was, he couldn’t stop resenting her for it.

Only once, though, she thought at him. And never again.

After a moment, V nodded, as if he appreciated the reassurance, and she returned the respect. Then she refocused on the males in front of her. Rhage had hopped on the hell-no-you’re-not-fighting train, picking up the slack she’d left.

“I’m going back with you, John,” she cut in. “We’re going back together.”

As John met her eyes, his emotional grid was lit up like the Vegas Strip.

She shook her head at him. “I’m going to keep to our deal. And you’re going to take care of yourself.”

With that, she resheathed her knives, crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned back against the wall, all going-nowhere-fast.

She’d saved his life.