"You know," the Brother said, "I didn't like you when I first met you. I've thought you were a jackass. "
"The feeling was mutual. Although not the jackass part - and it wasn't personal. I don't like anyone, and as I said, I don't really believe in anything. "
"Even though you're staying to help me?"
"I don't know. . . I guess I just want what your shellan does. " He shrugged. "End of the day, the quick and the dead are the same. Everyone's just looking for home. Plus. . . I don't know, you're not so bad. "
Tohr went back to his own room sometime later. When he got to his door, he found his crutch propped against the panels.
No'One had returned it to him. After he'd left it behind on the Other Side.
Picking the thing up, he went into his room. . . and half expected to find her naked on his bed, ready for some sex. Which was completely ridiculous - on too many levels to count.
Parking himself on the chaise lounge, he stared at the gown that Lassiter had handled so roughly. The fine satin was bunched up in waves, the disorder creating a wonderful, shimmering display over on the bed.
"My beloved is dead," he said out loud.
As the sound of the words faded, something was suddenly, stupidly clear: Wellesandra, blooded daughter of Relix, was never filling out that bodice again. She was never going to put the skirting over her head and wriggle into the corset, or free the ends of her hair from the lace-ups in the back. She wasn't going to look for matching shoes, or get pissed off because she sneezed right after she put her mascara on, or worry about whether she was going to spill on the skirting.
She was. . . dead.
How ironic. He'd been mourning her this whole time, and yet somehow missing the point that was most obvious. She was not coming back. Ever.
Getting up, he went across and gently gathered up the dress. The skirting refused to obey, slipping out of his hands and jumping back down to the floor - doing what it wanted and taking control of the situation.
Just as his Wellsie had always done.
When he had a moderate handle on everything, he carried the gown over to the closet, opened the double doors, and hung the glorious weight on the brass rod.
Crap. He was going to see it every time he went in here.
Pu
lling it free, he shifted it over to the other side, so it was in the darkness behind the two suits that he never wore and the ties that had been bought for him not by his mate, but by Fritz.
And then he closed the closet up tight.
Back at the bed, he lay down and shut his eyes.
Moving on didn't have to involve sex, he told himself. It just didn't. Accepting the death, letting her go to save her, that he could do without the benefit of. . . any kind of naked-female thing. After all, what was he going to do? Head out into the alleys, find a whore, and fuck her? That was a bodily function like breathing. Hard to see how that was going to help.
Lying still, he tried to picture doves being released from cages, and waters bursting from dams, and wind blowing through trees, and. . .
Fucking hell. It was like the insides of his eyelids were playing the goddamn Discovery Channel.
But then just as he was drifting off, the images changed, shifting to water, lazy blue-green water that had no current. Calm. Warm water. With humid air all around. . . .
He wasn't sure exactly when he fell asleep, but the image turned into a dream that started with a pale arm, a lovely pale arm floating on the water, the lazy blue-green water that had no current. Calm. Warm -
It was his Wellsie in the pool. His beautiful Wellsie, her breasts peaked as she floated, her tight stomach and flaring hips and bare sex licked with wetness.
In the dream, he saw himself breaching the pool, walking down short steps, the water getting into his clothes -
Abruptly, he stopped and looked at his chest.
His daggers were strapped on. His guns under his arms. His ammo belt locked on his hips.
What the hell was he doing? This shit got wet and it was useless -