Lover Reborn (44 page)

There was no waiting for the butler to leave before he went in—too much sunlight on the other side of the garage doors. So with a final wave, he pulled himself together… and walked into the back hall.

As the door clamped shut behind him, the first thing he saw in the mudroom was their winter coats. The damn parkas were still hung up on pegs, his, Wellsie’s, and John’s.

John’s was tiny, because he’d been just a pretrans back then.

It was like the damn things were waiting for them all to come home again.

“Good luck with that,” he muttered.

Bracing himself, he kept going, entering the kitchen that had been Wellsie’s dream.

Fritz had thoughtfully left lights on, and the shock of seeing everything for the first time since the deaths made Tohr wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to come in in the dark: The countertops they had chosen together, and that massive Sub-Zero she had loved so much, and that table they had bought online at
1stdibs.com
, and the set of shelves he had put up for her cookbooks… all of it was on display, gleaming and clean as the day it had been installed/delivered/assembled.

Shit, nothing had changed. Everything was
exactly
as it had been the night she had been killed, his
doggen
keeping after the dust and that was it.

Walking over to the built-in desk, he forced himself to pick up a Post-it note with her handwriting on it.

Tues: Havers—checkup, 11:30.

He dropped the pad and turned away, seriously questioning his sanity. Why had he come here? What possible good could come out of this?

Wandering around, he went through the living room, the library, and the dining room, making a loop of the first floor’s public rooms… until he felt like he couldn’t breathe, until the alchie buzz was beyond gone and his vision and his sense of smell and his hearing were unbearably acute. Why was he—

Tohr blinked as he found himself in front of a door.

He’d come full circle, back to the kitchen.

And he was standing at the way into the basement.

Ah, shit. Not this… he wasn’t ready for this.

The truth was, Lassiter and his dumb-ass movies had done more damage than good. All those couples up on the screen… even though they were contrived instruments of fiction, some of them had filtered into his brain, and triggered all kinds of things.

None of which had been about Wellsie.

Instead, he’d thought only about those days with No’One, the two of them straining with all those blankets between their bodies, she looking up at him as if she wanted so much more than he was giving her, he holding back out of respect for his dead… and maybe because he was a fucking coward at his core.

Probably equal bits of both.

Given what was banging around in his head, he’d had to come here. He needed memories of his beloved, images of his Wellsie that maybe he’d forgotten, a powerful blast from the past to compete with what felt like a betrayal in the present.

From a vast distance, he watched his hand reach out and grab the doorknob. Twisting to the right, he pulled the heavy, painted steel panel wide. As the motion-activated lights came on in the stairwell, he was hit with a whole lot of cream: the steps that went downward were carpeted in a mellow buff, and the walls were painted likewise, everything calming and serene.

This had been their sanctuary.

The first step was the equivalent of jumping off the lip of the Grand Canyon. And number two wasn’t any better.

He still felt that way when he got to the bottom and there was no more descent to be had.

The basement of the house followed the first-floor plan, although only two-thirds of the space was finished with a master suite, a gym, a laundry, and a minikitchen fleshed out, and the rest functioning as storage.

Tohr had no idea how long he stood there.

Eventually, though, he walked forward, toward the closed door up ahead.…

The fact that he opened the thing into a black hole seemed absolutely right—

Fuuuuck, it still smelled like her. Her perfume. Her scent.

Stepping inside, he closed himself in and braced himself as he hit the wall switch, bringing up the overheads gradually.

The bed was made.

Likely by her hands: Even though they had staff, she had been the kind of female who liked to do things herself. Cooking. Cleaning. Folding laundry.

Making their bed at the end of every day.

There wasn’t a lick of dust on any of the surfaces, not the dressers, his and hers… not the nightstands, his with the alarm clock, hers with the phone… not the desk with the computer that they had shared.

Goddamn, he couldn’t breathe.

To take a little break from his crucible, he went into the bathroom with the idea of catching up on the oxygen requirements of his body.

He should have known better. She was all over the tiled space, too; just as she was all over the house.

Opening one of the cabinets, he picked up a pump bottle of her hand lotion and read the label, back and front—something he had never done when she’d been alive. He did the same with one of her backup shampoo bottles, as well as a jar of bath salts that… yup, smelled just as he remembered, lemon verbena.

Back to the bedroom.

Over to the walk-in closet…

He wasn’t sure exactly when the shift occurred. Maybe it was as he went through her sweaters that were stacked in the cubbies. Maybe it was as he stared at her shoes in their neat, marching order on the tilted shelves. Maybe it was as he trolled through her blouses on their hangers, or no, her slacks… or maybe the skirts or the dresses…

But eventually, in the silence, in his aching loneliness, in his perennial grief… it dawned on him that this was all just stuff.

Her clothing, her makeup, her toiletries… the bed she had made, the kitchen she had cooked in, the house she had made their own.

It was only stuff.

And just as she was never going to fill out her mating gown again, she was never coming back here to claim any of this. It had all been hers and she had worn it, and used it, and needed every bit of it—but it wasn’t her.

Say it—say that she’s dead.

I can’t.

You’re the problem.

Nothing he had done in his mourning process had brought her back. Not the agony of reminiscing, not the mindless drinking, not the worthless weak tears or the resistance to another female… not the avoidance of this place, or the hours sitting alone with an empty hole in his chest.

She was gone.

And that meant that all of this was just stuff in an empty house.

God… this was not at all what he had expected to feel. He had come here to pave over No’One. Instead? All he’d found was a collection of inanimate objects with no more power to transform where he was at than they could walk and talk on their own.

Although, considering where Wellsie was, the idea that he had been looking for a way to stop the connection with No’One was craziness. He should be rejoicing at the idea he was thinking of another female.

Instead, it still felt like a curse.

B
ack at the Brotherhood mansion, No’One sat upon the bed she shared with Tohrment, her robe lying on the duvet next to her, her shift covering her flesh.

Silent. So silent this room was without him.

Wherever was he?

When she had returned herein following her work down in the training center, she had expected to find him waiting upon her, warm and mayhap asleep upon the duvet. Instead, the covers were all arranged, the pillows ordered at the headboard, the extra comforter, the one he used to warm himself, still folded neatly at the foot of the mattress.

He had not been in the weight room, the pool, or the gym. Nor had he been in the kitchen when she had stopped briefly to gather a refreshment for herself. Or the billiards room or library.

And he had not appeared for First Meal, either.

The knob turned and she jumped—only to release a deep, easing exhale. Her blood in the warrior’s body announced his arrival even before his scent came upon her nose or his body filled the jambs.

He still didn’t have a shirt on. Or boots upon his feet.

And his stare was dark and desolate as the corridors of
Dhund
.

“Where have you been,” she whispered.

He ducked both her eyes and the question by going into the bathroom. “I’m late. Wrath’s called a meeting.”

As the shower came on, she gathered her robe and drew it over her shoulders, knowing that he was uncomfortable with her in any manner of undress out of bed. But that wasn’t the cause of his mood; he’d been as such afore he’d even looked her way.

His beloved, she thought. It had to have something to do with his beloved.

And she should probably leave him be.

But she did not.

When he came out, he had a towel wrapped around his hips, and he went directly to the closet without sparing her a glance. Propping a palm on the doorjamb, he opened up and leaned in, the name upon his shoulders spotlit under the ceiling fixture above him.

Except he didn’t take any clothing out. He hung his head and fell still.

“I went home today,” he said abruptly.

“Today? As in… during the daylight hours?”

“Fritz took me.”

Her heart beat hard at the thought of him exposed to sunshine— Wait, hadn’t they lived together here?

“We had our own place,” he said. “We didn’t stay here with everyone else.”

So this was not his mated room. Or his mated bed.

When he didn’t say anything further, she prompted, “What did you… find there?”

“Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.”

“It had been emptied of your things?”

“No, I left it all exactly as it was the night she died. Down to the dishes that are clean in the dishwasher, the mail on the counter, the mascara she left out right before she took off for the last time.”

Oh, the agony for him, she thought.

“I went there looking for her, and all I got was an exhibition of the past.”

“But you are never far from her—your Wellesandra is ever with you. She breathes in your heart.”

Tohrment pivoted around, his eyes hooded, intense. “Not like she used to.”

Abruptly, she straightened under his gaze. Fiddled with the edge of her robe. Crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. “Why are you looking at me like that.”

“I want to fuck you. That’s why I went back home.”

As No’One’s face registered high-octane shock, Tohr didn’t bother to temper the truth with pretty words or apologies or any kind of fanfare. He was just too done with everything: fighting his body, arguing with destiny, wrestling with an inevitability that he had been refusing to yield to for too long.

Standing in front of her, he was naked in a way that had nothing to do with a lack of clothes. Naked and tired… and hungry for her—

“Then you may have me,” she said in a soft voice.

As her words sank in, he felt himself pale. “Do you understand what I said?”

“You were blunt enough.”

“You’re supposed to tell me to go to hell.”

There was a short pause. “Well, we do not have to proceed.”

No rancor. No begging. No disappointment—it was all about him and where he was at.

How could she be so… kind? he wondered.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, feeling like he wanted to return the favor.

“You won’t. I know you are still in love with your mate, and I do not blame you. What you had with her is a once-in-a-lifetime love.”

“What about you?”

“I have no need or desire to take her place. And I accept you just as you are, in any fashion you choose to come to me. Or not, if that is the way it must be.”

Tohr cursed as a part of his pain unexpectedly eased. “That isn’t fair to you.”

“Yes, it is. I am happy to simply have time with you. That is enough—and more than I could ever have expected out of my fate. These past few months have been a complicated joy that I wouldn’t have traded anything for. If it must end, then at least I’ve had what I did. And if it goes further then I am luckier than I deserve. And… if it puts you in some small way at peace then I have served my only purpose.”

As she fell silent, that quiet dignity of hers slayed him, it truly did.
And it was with a sense of utter unreality that he walked over to her, bent down and took her face into his palms.

Rubbing her cheek with his thumb, he stared into her eyes. “You are…” His voice broke. “You are such a female of worth.”

No’One put her hands up to his thick wrists, her touch soft and light. “Listen to my words and believe them. Do not worry about me. Take care of your heart and your soul first—that is what matters most.”

Kneeling in front of her, he worked his way in between her legs, filling the space he created with his body. As always with her, he felt both awkward and at ease being so close.

With his eyes, he traced her face, that beautiful, kind face. And then he zeroed in on her lips.

Moving slowly, he leaned in, not really sure what the hell he was doing. He had never kissed her. Not once. For all he knew about her body, he knew nothing of her mouth, and as her eyes flared, it was obvious she had never expected the intimacy.

Tilting his head to the side, he shut his lids… and closed the distance until he met a whole lot of velvet.

Softly, chastely, he pressed in and pulled back.

Not enough.

Dipping down again, he lingered at her mouth, brushing, plying. Then he abruptly broke off the contact and shoved himself to his feet. If he didn’t stop now, he wouldn’t at all, and he was already running late for Wrath and his brothers. Besides, this wasn’t about a quick sex session.

It was more important than that.

“I have to get dressed,” he told her. “I have to go.”

“And I shall be here when you return. If you want me to be.”

“I do.”

Turning away, he wasted no time in throwing his clothes on or gathering his weapons, and as soon as he nabbed his leather jacket, he had every intention of going right out the door. Instead, he stopped and looked at her. She had her fingertips up to her lips, her eyes wide and full of wonder… as if she had never felt anything even close to what she just had.