“Selena!”
Trez caught her before she slid onto the floor, his great arms scooping her up and holding her tight as, inside of her body, everything that had been rigid became liquid: She didn’t so much recline in his hold as melt into it. And not because she was aroused.
“What’s going on?” he demanded as he carried her out of the kitchen and laid her on the daybed opposite the foyer fire.
Although she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. Instead, the details of the dark wood paneling and the river-stone hearth and the stuffed owl on the mantelpiece became hyper-clear, her eyes practically burning from the acuity of her vision.
Closing her lids, she moaned.
“Selena? Selena.”
There was curious lethargy now, one so intense she could feel her energy being sucked down into a vortex she feared it would never be free of. Dimly, she was aware that she’d had the disease wrong. She’d always assumed it was in the joints, but in fact, it felt as though her muscles were the problem.
Out of superstition, none of her sisters had spoken of the particulars. All that she had ever been told of was the final stage.
Now she wished she had questioned those who had suffered. Especially when the slightest of stiffness had started up in her how long ago?
Quite a while.
She was definitely embarking on the final stage now—
Something brushed against her mouth. Something wet, warm … blood.
“Drink,” Trez commanded. “Drink, goddamn it, drink…”
Her tongue came out and tested the flavor, and the taste of him made her groan with thirst. She didn’t think she could swallow, however—
Yes, yes, actually, she could.
Pursing her lips, she formed a seal around the cut he had made in his wrist, and oh, the glorious nourishment. With each draw, she felt a strength come to her, filling her up where the lethargy had left her hollow.
And the more she had, the more she wanted, greed growing instead of satiation.
But Trez didn’t seem to mind. At all.
With gentle hands, he repositioned her so that she was lying in his lap, her legs stretched out, her arms over her head. And as she drank of him, he was all she saw, his beautiful almond-shaped eyes, his perfectly molded lips, his dark skin and cropped-tight hair.
Just as she had before in his presence, she could feel her priorities shifting back to that place of desperation, to the sexual drive that had wiped out her proper thinking to such a degree that it didn’t exist at all.
Indeed, in the deep recesses of her consciousness, she knew that any action taken in this state of hers was more than likely to be regretted, but she didn’t care. If anything, her first true episode of the sickness made her want to follow through with him more as opposed to less.
And maybe she could not fall in love.
Maybe … she could steel herself against that.
Rigidity, after all, was her future.
FIFTY
Standing in the doorway of his bedroom, John Matthew could feel a seizure threatening to break through.
As his sister continued to speak, and he felt his head nod, he retreated into that place where the epilepsy was birthed, some kind of tangle of electrical impulses threatening to take over everything—except he was done with that shit. Just as the hum started to rise, he cut it off by force of will.
Not. Gonna. Do. It—
Unbelievable to be channeling Dana Carvey from SNL. But there you go.
Plus it worked. Not right away, but gradually, that sizzle and burn started to fade, its lights-out crescendo receding.
“So … will you?” Beth asked, her eyes wide. “It’s, like, in an hour. Lassiter needs that much time to get ready.”
Refocusing, he strung together some semblance of what she’d been talking about, his brain linking the nouns and verbs until …
Oh, my God, he thought.
Man, for once, he was glad he was mute. Because if he’d had to speak, she’d know he was in some strange place emotionally. As it was, his hands were steadier than his voice would have been.
Something about her request was getting to him big-time.
It would be an honor, he signed.
Before he could drop his arms, his sister pitched herself at him, hugging him so tightly she nearly snapped his head off. And as he closed his eyes and held her in return, time stopped—
A vision struck from out of nowhere. One minute, he was standing outside his and Xhex’s bedroom. The next?
All he could see was tears … except, no, it was rain. Rain on the windshield of a car—a car he’d loved. And then he was reaching forward for the ignition and—
Beth pulled back and he watched from a vast distance as her mouth moved and she told him more things. He nodded in the right places, but as soon as she left and he shut the door, all that part of it was gone.
Leaning his forehead on the panels, he had no idea why his eyes were watering up—or why his chest had swollen with such pride and happiness.
“You okay?” Xhex whispered from behind him.
Turning into the darkness, he nodded—and then realized she couldn’t see him.
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “But I have to ask out loud sometimes.”
There was a click as she turned on the lamp by her side of the bed. Blinking in the illumination, he took a swipe of his face, making like he was just, you know, rubbing it or some shit. But she was a symphath—so where he was at was as clear to her as a billboard.
I don’t get it, he signed. Why am I so fucked in the head about her?
His mate’s gunmetal-gray eyes locked on him, and he did nothing to avoid that laser stare: If he wanted more information on all this, she was his best bet.
“Your grid has that shadow,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen one like it. It’s as if—I don’t know, you’re parallel-processing life? Or that…”
What, he demanded.
“There are two of you in there.”
That’s how it feels. He rubbed his already messy hair. Especially around her.
“She is your sister.”
But there was more than that to it, he thought. Not romantically or anything. Still …
“Come on,” Xhex said as she got out of bed. “We need to get ready. Goddamn brilliant idea of hers.”
As his female walked up to him naked, her tight, muscular body had a way of clarifying things—suddenly he had sex on the brain and what a relief. At least that he could do something about.
“Let me help you in the shower,” she said, reaching in between the folds of his robe and finding his hard cock. “You should be very, very clean for this.”
John was more than happy to be led by the dumb handle into the bathroom, and when they emerged forty-five minutes later, he was more relaxed—and clean as a motherfucking whistle.
“Yes, the tux,” his female said as he stood in front of their closet, staring at the stuff hanging from the rods. “No question.”
Nodding, he went for the starched white shirt, popping it off its hanger and pulling it onto his shoulders. Xhex had to do up the buttons—for some reason his hands were jumping all around now like he was nervous. He got the slacks on just fine, though—not the suspenders, however. She had to take care of them. And forget about the cummerbund and the bow tie—he just stood there like a dairy cow as she made quick work of it all.
The nice thing was that he got to stare at her.
“Now the jacket.” She held the thing out for him like she was the man, guiding the fine wool into place on his back, then turning him around and smoothing the lapels. “Damn…”
What? he signed.
Her stare was gleaming as she pulled a head-to-toe on him. “You make that look hot as hell.”