When Layla wobbled on her feet, everyone went for her, but she pushed all hands away and walked under her own steam back to the bed. Lowering her body gingerly, as if everything hurt, she hung her head.
“My die is cast, and I am prepared to live with the consequences, be as they may. That is all.”
There were a number of brows going up at her dismissal of the whole crowd, but nobody said boo: After a moment, the peanut gallery shuffled off, although Phury stayed put. So did Qhuinn and the doctor.
The door was shut.
“Okay, especially after all that, I really need to check your vitals,” Doc Jane said, easing the female back against the pillows and helping to resettle the covers that had been thrown off.
Qhuinn didn’t move as a blood-pressure cuff was slid up a slender arm and a series of puff-puff-puffs sounded.
Phury, on the other hand, paced around—at least until he frowned and took out his phone. “Is this why Havers called me last night?”
Layla nodded. “I went there looking for help.”
“Why didn’t you come to me?” the Brother muttered to himself.
“What did Havers say?”
“I don’t know because I didn’t listen to the voice mail. I thought I’d have no reason to.”
“He indicated he would deal only with you.”
At that, Phury looked over at Qhuinn, that yellow stare narrowing. “Are you going to mate her?”
“No.”
Phury’s expression grew icy again. “What the hell kind of male are you—”
“He’s not in love with me,” Layla cut in. “Nor I with him.”
As the Primale’s head whipped around, Layla continued, “We wanted a young.” She sat forward as Doc Jane listened to her heart from behind. “It began and finished there.”
Now the Brother cursed. “I don’t get it.”
“We are both orphans in many ways,” the Chosen said. “We are—were…seeking a family of our own.”
Phury exhaled, and wandered over to the desk in the corner, taking a load off in the dainty chair. “Well. Ah. I guess this changes things a little. I thought that—”
“It matters naught,” Layla interjected. “It is what it is. Or…was, as the case may be.”
Qhuinn found himself rubbing his eyes for no particular reason. Not like they were blurry or some shit. Nah. Not at all.
It was just so…damned sad. The whole fucking thing. From Layla’s condition, to Phury’s impotent exhaustion, to his own driving ache in the chest, it was just some seriously sad goddamned business.
THIRTY-ONE
“This is just what I’m looking for.”
As Trez spoke, he walked around the vast, empty space of the warehouse, his boots making loud impacts that echoed. From behind him, he could easily sense the relief that wafted out of the real estate agent standing by the door.
Negotiating with humans? Like taking candy from a baby.
“You could transform this part of the city,” the woman said. “It’s a real opportunity.”
“True enough.” Although it wasn’t like the kind of stores and restaurants that would follow him were highbrow: more like tattoo and piercing shops, cheap buffets, XXX theaters.
But he didn’t have a problem with all that. Even pimps could take pride in their work—and frankly, he tended to trust tattoo artists waaaaaaaay more than many so-called “upstanding citizens.”
Trez pivoted around. The space was tremendous, nearly as tall as it was wide, with rows upon rows of square windows, many of which had been broken and covered up with plywood. The roof was sound—or at least mostly so, the corrugated tin sheaths keeping the snow, although not the cold, out. The floor was concrete, but there was obviously a lower level—at various points there were trapdoors set underfoot, although none of them were easily opened. Electricals looked okay; HVAC was nonexistent; plumbing was a joke.
In his mind, however, he didn’t see the place as it was now—nope, he could picture it transformed, a club of Limelight proportions. Naturally, the project was going to require a huge capital infusion, and a number of months to get the work done; in the end, however, Caldwell was going to have a new hot spot—and he was going to have another venue to make money in.
Everybody wins.
“So would you like to make an offer?”
Trez looked over at the woman. She was Ms. Professional in her black wool coat, and her dark suit with the below-the-knee skirt—ninety percent of her flesh covered, and not just because it was December. And yet even all buttoned up with the sensible hair, she was pretty in the way that all women were to him: She had breasts and soft smooth skin, and a place for him to play in between her legs.
And she liked him.
He could tell by the way she dropped her eyes from his, and by the fact that she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands—they were in her coat pockets, then playing with her hair, then tucking her silk shirt in….
He could think of some things to keep her busy.
Trez smiled as he walked across to her—and didn’t stop until he was just inside her personal space. “Yes. I want it.”
The double entendre hit home, her cheeks reddening not from the cold, but arousal. “Oh. Good.”
“Where do you want to do it,” he drawled.
“Make the offer, you mean?” She cleared her throat. “All you have to do is tell me what you…want and I’ll…make it happen.”
Aw, she wasn’t used to casual sex. How sweet.
“Here.”
“I’m sorry?” she said, finally looking up into his eyes.
He smiled slow and tight so his fangs didn’t show. “The offer. Let’s do that here?”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.” He stepped in closer, but not so close that they were touching. He was happy to seduce her, but she had to be one hundred percent sure she was into the grind. “You ready?”
“To…make…the offer.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s, ah, it’s cold in here,” she said. “Maybe at my office? That’s where most of the…offers…get handled.”
From out of nowhere, the image of his brother sitting on the sofa at home, staring at him like he was the frickin’ problem, hit him hard—and as it stuck around, he realized that he’d had sex with almost every woman he’d come across in the last…shit, how long?
Well, obviously, if they weren’t of mateable age he hadn’t been with them.
Or fertile.
Which cut out what, like, a dozen or two? Great. What a hero.
What the fuck was he doing? He didn’t want to go back to this woman’s office—for one thing, there wasn’t enough time, assuming he wanted to be at the Iron Mask for opening. So the only option was right here, standing up, her skirt around her waist, her legs around his hips. Quick, to the point; then go their separate ways.
After he’d told her how much cash he was willing to pay for this warehouse, of course.
But then what? It wasn’t like he was going to bang her at the closing. He rarely did repeats, and only if he was seriously attracted or really itchy—which in this case he was not.
For chrissakes, what exactly was he getting out of this? It wasn’t like he was going to see her naked. Or have much skin-on-skin contact.
Unless…that was the point.
When was the last time he’d really been with a female? Like, properly. As in…nice dinner, little music, some necking that led to a bedroom…then long, slow, patient shit where he had a couple of orgasms.
And no choking sense of panic when it was over.
“You were going to say something?” the woman prompted him.
iAm was right. He didn’t need to be doing this crap. Hell, he wasn’t even attracted to the Realtor. She was standing in front of him; she was available; and that wedding ring on her finger meant she was probably not going to cause a lot of trouble after it was over—because she had something to lose.