Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

My gaze dropped to my twice-wrapped palms.

I knew exactly how I could be thinking what I was thinking. But it hurt so damn much. Like the shabbubitum, I’d done this to myself. I’d given Johnny what he needed to be Domn Lup: his wolf unbound. But I’d also created a situation that undermined the love that had prompted my actions.

There’s that stupid L word again.

Menessos slowly lowered his lips to my wrist, giving me plenty of seconds to protest. I didn’t. When his fangs pierced me, I barely felt it. He didn’t go deep, but he didn’t need to.

With his teeth just under my skin, he kindled my flesh, raising heat throughout my body. Gooseflesh followed. The hair at the nape of my neck prickled and a deep sigh drifted from my lips. My sternum burned within me. My nipples hardened and I yearned to be touched.

But he held only my wrist and sipped of my blood.

So I touched him.

The fingers of my free hand stroked his head, combed slightly through his walnut-colored curls. His hair was so soft. When I caressed his earlobe, he shuddered, and I felt the needle-tips of his fangs leave my flesh. He kept his head lowered as the kindling died slowly away, but I could hear his breathing had accelerated.

He sat up slowly and released my wrist. “There, my master. That should be better.” He freed one of the bandages.

He’d pushed some healing into me. A week or so ago, after the Omori had hit me with a baseball bat, Menessos had fed and the goose egg on my cranium had disappeared. Now, the cuts on my palms were more like scrapes, and the sore puffiness was gone. I wasn’t as tired, either. “Much,” I whispered.

He relaxed into the couch and stroked my cheek, then his hand fell to his lap.

Zhan could have told him that my afternoon was spent with the wæres. From that, and my weepy arrival, he could infer a lot.

Menessos is the master manipulator. If he’s sitting here being so gentle and sweet, he has a reason. Maybe Zhan even told him how Johnny was acting, what she overheard.

“How does the stake connect to our dilemma now?” My voice was still husky with desire.

“I can still transfer my pain.”

Aha. “To your master.”

“Yes, but you are here and expected to be seen. If you fell into agony, it would give away what I was doing.”

This wasn’t going where I thought it would.

“But if I move it via my soul . . .”

I blinked. “You mean you’d send it to Johnny. Through the sorsanimus .” Was he testing me, to see if I felt vindictive? “Why not just spread it out over your people? The whole haven will be here.”

“I can and will . . . they will be expecting that. But since Johnny could endure a lot of pain, I would give him a large chunk of it, and meanwhile, as I pretend to be in pain, I’m actually still able to function secretly.”

“Is this what you and Creepy worked out? Torturing an innocent in your stead?”

“Johnny is hardly innocent.”

I tilted my head forward expectantly. “Elaborate.”

“Your hands have been torn open, and his fur—I could smell him—was stuck in your dried blood. Follow that with your tears and I don’t need you to tell me what happened, sweet Persephone, because I can guess.”

I swallowed hard. I expected him to ballyhoo about Johnny being dangerous and to boast how he was fully able to control himself. But he didn’t crow about his merits at all.

“I have to keep some of the pain.” He shook his head side to side, as if his body were trying to refute the notion. “The shabbubitum are skilled mistresses of torture. They would know if I was completely faking. So our new ally taught me to think through the pain. I know what they will be asked to find, and I will make that easy for them. But I suspect they will dig deeper for information, information they want personally that has nothing to do with the request being made of them and everything to do with how to hurt me most. It is that which I cannot give them . . . so I must give them a lie.”

“But they will know.”

“As they increase the misery to find what they seek, I will defer more pain to Johnny and maintain my own ability to think. I will guide them to the knowledge they think they want. All I need is for you to call dear John and tell him what to expect. Receiving the news from you will be less irritating to him, despite whatever has happened, than if I delivered it myself.”

The mere idea of calling Johnny inspired an Olympian amount of grumpy anti-enthusiasm, and some angry little part of me did think the idea of Johnny getting a whopping dose of out-of-nowhere pain was something he had earned. Shut up, little angry part. That is not the person I want to be. “Won’t the shabbubitum know you’re deferring the pain?”

“Not with the aid I have secured.”

“What did it cost you?” My arms crossed over my chest. Again, it felt way better to argue about this than to accept the anxiety over the idea of talking to Johnny.

“Much. But less than it would without his assistance.”

“Menessos—”

“Shhh.” His finger touched my lips. “I have already torn my soul and given my life for you, Persephone. Comparatively, what Creepy asked is a small price to pay.”

I uncrossed my arms, batting away his gentle touch, and then scooted around on the sectional in a huff. With my feet on the floor, I glared.

“What?”

“My mother is already using what she’s lost in an effort to control me. I don’t need you doing it too.”

Menessos blinked, rose from the couch, and left without a word.

I remained where I was, feeling like an ass.

The guilt wasn’t enough to keep me from sleeping, however. Or maybe the drowsiness was a result of the wine. Whatever the case, Risqué woke me hours later, banging and kicking on my door. When I opened it, the red-eyed whatever-she-was stood there pout-frowning at me. She wore a pink tank top and matching ruffled boy-shorts with her clear platform heels. Not unexpectedly, she was toting a garment bag. “Boss says it’s time to play dress-up.”

Privately, I worried. Menessos had less than practical tastes in clothing for me. With him leaving pissed off, I was sure there would be little to the outfit and that it would have matching shoes with heels ridiculously high.

I motioned her inside. “Show me.”

Risqué set her makeup case down and draped the garment bag along the couch. She unzipped it and held up the gown. It was white satin covered by an outer layer of something crimson and sheer and meant for bedroom clothes. The style was elegant, and though the dress was empire-waisted, the length was tight through the hips, with a very, very high slit on one side.

I grimaced.

“Your garter must show. It is the symbol of your status in the haven. Get used to the high slit.”

“And the shoes?”

She laid the gown over the back of the couch, rambled in the garment bag bottom, and presented me with a pair of shiny patent-leather shoes that resembled scarlet ballerina toe shoes—if toe shoes had five-inch spike heels thinner than pencils. “What do you think?”

“I think that purchasing those should include a three-day wait period in which time changes are made to the phrasing of the accidental death clause of the wearer’s life insurance policy.”

“Boss said you’d say something to that effect.” She dropped the shoes aside. She reached into the bottom of the bag again and produced a pair of standard, peep-toe crimson pumps with a sturdier three-inch heel. In a bored tone she asked, “Will these do?”

“Absolutely.”

I showered so that Risqué could perform her salon magic on my clean hair. My injuries had not healed completely, so I warned her about my scalp wound mostly so she would be gentle— as if! —and partially because washing it had reopened that wound and I was bleeding in a vampire haven.