Part 5 (2/2)

He felt the heat of tears in his eyes and pressed his lips together in a thin, defiant line. No, he thought, shaking his head.

Why do you keep fighting it? Tessa asked. The bloodl.u.s.t is part of who you are. Why do you keep fighting what is your nature, Brandon?

Because it's wrong! he'd cried desperately. We're all monsters! That's our nature! How can you not see that, Tessa? How can n.o.body else see it but me?

Brandon turned away from the window in the cab, glancing toward Lina, who rode beside him on their way back from Danny O's to Jackson's apartment. She was worried about him; he knew it, and now she was only worried all the more, because he'd drank too much and said too much. He'd revealed far more than he should have.

Tessa had recoiled at his mental cry on that morning in his room a year ago, just like Emily and Caine had. Her hand had darted to her face, her fingertips pressing against her brow, and she'd backpedaled, her face twisted in a wince. She'd left him alone, but it hadn't mattered. She had abandoned him years before that, on the night of her bloodletting, whether she had meant for it to happen or not. Brandon had been alone-utterly alone, with no hope for rescue, none for escape.

He and Lina weren't even halfway back to Jackson's yet, not fifteen minutes from the bar, but already, his accelerated metabolism had kicked in, dissolving the intoxicating effects of the alcohol in him. He no longer felt giddy or comfortable or relaxed, and knew within a few more minutes, he'd feel no differently than he had before he'd indulged in his first sip.

Jesus, I told Lina too much, he thought, turning away again, looking out the window, wis.h.i.+ng desperately he could just take the entire night back and start it over again from scratch. She doesn't need to know the truth about the Brethren. She doesn't even need to suspect it.

Chapter Seven.

Lina awoke the next morning with bright sunlight in her face, hazy and glaring through Jackson's floor-to-ceiling windows. She grimaced, sucking in a breath through her teeth and brought the blade of her hand up to s.h.i.+eld her eyes. She'd slept on the couch, enduring a night with what felt like a thick metal bar and at least a dozen poorly cus.h.i.+oned springs digging into her body at various uncomfortable points. She sat up slowly, her hair a mess, her face set in a groggy scowl as she ma.s.saged a wicked crick that had formed in her neck. Jesus, Jackie, you'll spend $1,500 on a G.o.dd.a.m.n houseplant, but you won't even buy a sofa that's less than twenty years old? she thought grumpily.

She squinted toward the windows, making a mental note to spend the next night at Jackson's apartment either with her back to the east, or taking up Brandon's offer to trade places with him and sleep in the bed. She'd refused the night before, still unnerved by his kiss outside of Joe's Wok, and not completely convinced that Brandon wouldn't try to sneak out and run away if he spent the night on the sofa.

What would be so wrong with that? she thought that morning, just as she had the previous night. There was more to his circ.u.mstances than he was saying-more, apparently, than even Jackson knew. He's in some kind of trouble, and I bet it would make my life a h.e.l.l of a lot easier if he did just skip town.

But she'd given her word to Jackson, and more than this, there was something about Brandon n.o.ble she found intriguing. More than just that wondrous, stupefying kiss from the day before, and more than just the fact he was strikingly handsome, there was something about the kid she liked. Or at least, that piqued her curiosity.

She saw him standing out on the terrace, a silhouette in motion against a backwash of new sunlight. She rose to her feet and walked to the sliding gla.s.s doors, watching as he stepped forward and pushed his hand out slowly, deliberately in the open air.

Again, he moved forward, and circled his hand, palm facing upward, and then he reached toward the bal.u.s.trade, sweeping his arm around to the side, palm out.

He was performing kata, a rhythmic, ch.o.r.eographed presentation of aikido maneuvers. She slid the door open and stepped outside to join him. The immediate press of the cool morning air frosted her breath around her face and raised gooseb.u.mps along her bare arms.

He pivoted his hips, drawing his hands toward him in tight circles, and as he turned, he caught sight of her. He immediately came to a halt, his eyes widening, his balance wavering. He stumbled slightly, and his expression grew sheepish. Good morning, he signed, bringing the blade of his hand from his lips to rest against the cup of his other palm and then sweeping his open right hand upward, mimicking the sunrise.

Good morning, she signed in reply.

I didn't mean to wake you ... he began, but she shook her head, staying his hands.

”You didn't,” she said. ”Mind if I join you?”

He seemed surprised, but nodded, stepping sideways in invitation. Lina walked beside him and settled her feet into a ready stance. ”You may have to go slow at first. I haven't done this for a while,” she admitted, glancing at him so he could read her lips.

”Don't tell Jackson.”

He laughed soundlessly. Deal, he signed. His hair lay in an unruly, dark corona about his face, tumbling past his ears and drooping over his brow in haphazard waves. When he smiled like that, Lina felt something visceral within her tremble.

They moved together, stepping in tandem, their hands punching and sweeping slowly, precisely in the air, their bodies moving in fluid rhythm as they pivoted and turned with each motion of the kata. Lina pulled every breath in deeply through her nose, feeling it fill her core, tightening through her torso, just as Jackson had taught her. G.o.d, I'd forgotten how good this feels, she thought.

She ran by daily habit, and there was a stark contrast between that rapid, ruthless pounding on her body, the exertion on her form, and this gentle, deliberate series of movements that stretched and stirred her muscles languidly.

When they were finished, they segued seamlessly into sparring maneuvers, practicing striking and elbow-thrusting techniques together. What began in the same slow, methodical fas.h.i.+on as their previous kata quickly grew rougher and more heated, the punches faster and more forceful, the elbow pushes and armlocks more aggressive, until both of them were sweating despite the early morning chill, and any semblance of routine was gone. They fought, pure and simple, and Lina couldn't help but grin as she ducked and blocked her way around a constant volley of blows.

I haven't done this in ages, she thought, cutting her head to the left, feeling the snap of wind against her face as Brandon thrust the heel of his hand past her cheek. She remembered that yesterday, when she'd surprised him in the bathroom, he'd attacked her vigorously, relentlessly, with a speed and tremendous power like nothing she had ever seen before. She wondered now if that had been her imagination, brought on by the panic she'd felt in the moment. While Brandon fought her earnestly, and didn't seem to be pulling his punches, blocks, or kicks, it was with nowhere near the speed or strength she remembered.

She met his gaze, locking eyes with him, and swung her hand up, folding her fingers around his wrist, the heel of his thumb. She stepped forward and pivoted, sweeping his arm around in a wrist lock. He let her flip him, dropping his shoulder and tucking his head as he hit the patio floor. She let him go and he rolled smoothly, getting his feet beneath him and rising again.

He rubbed his hand momentarily, almost unconsciously, and she hesitated. ”You alright?” she asked.

He nodded, unfazed, and flapped his hand to her in beckon. They grappled again; this time, when she snapped a punch at his face, he caught her in a wrist hold, folding his hand expertly around hers, his fingers settling against the crook of her thumb joint.

It happened so unexpectedly and he moved so fast, she didn't have time to counter him, much less escape. He closed his hand and twisted, hyperextending her wrist and sending a sudden, shocking pain up her arm. Lina cried out sharply, dropping to her knees.

Brandon immediately released her and danced backward, his eyes flown wide. I'm sorry! he signed, drawing his fist in circles against his heart. He reached for her, meaning to help her to her feet, but she shook her head, holding out her hand to keep him away. ”Don't,” she said, gasping. ”Just...just don't.”

G.o.dd.a.m.n it! she thought, cradling her aching wrist. She stumbled to her feet, her eyes smarting with tears. He'd grabbed her quick and hard; it felt like he'd d.a.m.n near crushed the bones in her wrist beneath his hand.

She turned and found him watching her, his brows lifted, his expression somewhat mournful and uncertain.

Game over, she signed, drawing her fists together, striking her knuckles, and then shaking her hands, as if to loosen a cobweb caught on her fingertips. At least until you learn your own strength, she added mentally.

He nodded, looking even more abashed, as if he'd been privy to her thought somehow. He looked down at the ground, his shoulders hunching, like he braced himself for a rebuke. I'm sorry, he said again, still tracing circles against his heart with his hand.

Lina had seen Brandon naked the day before-she knew he was lean, but nearly all muscle. That still didn't account for that crus.h.i.+ng grip he'd awarded her wrist, or the speed with which he'd reacted. It had seemed impossible, d.a.m.n near inhuman.

Maybe I wasn't imagining things yesterday after all.

His dismay at having hurt her seemed genuine, and she found herself charmed. She reached out, smiling slightly, tousling his hair to draw his gaze. When he blinked at her, all round, dark, and remorseful eyes, her smile widened. ”I'll live,” she told him. ”Don't worry.” She flapped her hand in beckon as she walked toward the sliding gla.s.s door. ”Come on.”

She signed to him as he fell in step, walking with her back into the living room. I have to go to a wedding tonight, she said, drawing her hands together, crossing one atop the other in front of her. You'll have to come with me.

I can stay here, Brandon offered in sign language.

Lina winced inwardly. She didn't want to explain to him in too much detail that she didn't quite trust him not to run away if left on his own, or that she had promised Jackson she'd keep an eye on him. No, why don't you come? she signed. They'll have an open bar, dinner, dancing. It will be fun. You'll see.

Fun, indeed, she thought. My d.i.c.khead ex and the bimbo he dumped me for will be there. Remember them? Not to mention at least a hundred of our mutual and mostly former friends. Fun, fun, fun.

Brandon drew to a halt, his expression puzzled and somewhat troubled. Again, it was as if he'd read and was reacting to her thoughts, something Lina found increasingly disconcerting. I don't have anything to wear, he signed at length, with a demonstrative sweep of his hands to indicate his T-s.h.i.+rt and sweatpants. Lina nodded. ”I know,” she said. She thought of the back of her closet at home, the Dolce and Gabbana suit and boxload of other items that had once belonged to Jude. Brandon was of a similar tall, lean build. And it seemed such a shame to let the clothes go to waste. She smiled again and dropped him a wink. ”I think I have something that will work.”

She brought him to her apartment, and he blinked in wide-eyed surprise as she pulled the suit out of the back of her closet. It was wrapped in plastic, but she lay it against her bedspread, raising the dry cleaning bag so he could get a better look. He studied the suit for a long moment and then glanced at her, a speculative brow raised.

Hold it up to you, she signed. Let's see if it fits.

He caught the crook of the hanger against his hand and lifted the blazer off the bed. He held it up to his chest, looking down, frowning thoughtfully. To Lina's inexperienced gaze, it looked like it would be a perfect fit. Her smile widened. ”It's yours, then,”

she said, when he looked up at her.

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