He probably could have caught her. But, shit, he’d obviously scared the crap out of the female, and if he’d been unfit for conversation at the dinner table, he was now unfitter-er.
See? He was even making up words now.
Plus he was buck-ass naked.
Weaving his way out into the corridor, he stood in front of the gown. The thing had obviously been cleaned with care and prepared for storage, its sleeves stuffed with tissue paper, its hanger one of those jobs that had a padded insert for the bodice.
As he looked at the dress, the effects of the alcohol made it seem as if the skirting was caught in a breeze, the bloodred fabric waving to and fro, the weight catching the light and reflecting it back at him at various angles.
Except he was the one moving, wasn’t he.
Reaching up, he lifted the hanger from where it had been slung over the sconce, and carried the gown inside his room, shutting his door behind them both. Over at the bed, he laid the dress out on the side that Wellsie had always preferred—the one farthest from the door—and carefully arranged the sleeves and the skirting, making minute adjustments until it was in perfect position.
Then he willed the lights off.
Lying down, he curled on his side, putting his head on the pillow opposite the one that would have supported his Wellsie’s head.
With a shaking hand, he touched the satin of the filled-out bodice, feeling the whalebones set within the fabric, the structure of the dress built to enhance a female’s gentle, curving body.
It was not as good as her rib cage. Just as the satin was not as good as her body. And the sleeves weren’t as good as her arms.
“I miss you.…” He stroked the indentation of the gown where her waist would have been—should have been. “I miss you so much.”
To think she had once filled this dress out. Had lived inside of it for a brief time, nothing but a camera shot of one evening in both their lives.
Why couldn’t his memories bring her back? They felt strong enough, powerful enough, a summoning spell that should have had her magically reinflating the gown.
Except she was alive only in his mind. Ever with him, always out of reach.
That’s what death was, he realized. The great fictionalizer.
And just as he would have reread a passage in a book, he remembered their mating day, the way he had stood so nervously to one side of his brothers, fidgeting with his satin robe and his jeweled belt. His blooded sire, Hharm, had yet to come around, the reconciliation that had arrived at the end of his life still a century in the making. But Darius had been there, the male looking over at him every second or two, no doubt because he’d been worried Tohr was going to pass the fuck out.
Which had made two of them.
And then Wellsie had shown.…
Tohr slipped his palm down to the satin skirting. Closing his eyes, he imagined her warm, vital flesh filling out the gown once again, her breath expanding and contracting the confines of the bodice, her long, long legs holding the skirting up off the floor, her red hair curling down to the black lace of the sleeves.
In his vision, she was real and she was in his arms, looking up at him from under her lashes as they had danced the minuet with the others. They’d both been virgins that night. He’d been a fumbling idiot. She’d known exactly what to do. And that was pretty much the way things had continued throughout their mating.
Although he’d gotten pretty goddamn good at the sex, pretty fucking fast.
They had been yin and yang, and yet exactly the same: He’d been a sergeant with the Brotherhood, she’d been the general at home, and together, they’d had it all.…
Maybe that was why it had happened, he thought. He’d had too much luck and so had she, and the Scribe Virgin had had to level that score.
And now here he was, empty just like the dress, because what had filled both him and this gown was gone.
The tears that came out of his eyes were silent, the kind that seeped out and soaked the pillow, traveling over the bridge of his nose and falling free to drop one after another like rain from the lip of a roof.
His thumb went back and forth over the satin, as if he were rubbing her hip as he had when they’d been together, and he moved his leg over so that it was on top of the skirting.
It wasn’t the same, though. There was no body underneath, and the fabric smelled like lemons, not her skin. And he was, after all, alone in this room that was not theirs.
“God, I miss you,” he said in a voice that cracked. “Every night. Every day…”
From across the dark bedroom, Lassiter stood in the corner next to the highboy, feeling like crap while Tohr whispered to the dress.
Scrubbing his face, he wondered why… why in the hell, of all the ways he could have gotten free of the In Between, did it have to be this one.
The shit was starting to get to him.
Him. The angel who didn’t give a shit about other people, the one who should have been a claims adjuster or a personal injury lawyer or anything on the earth where screwing others was an asset in his course of work.
He should never have been an angel. That required a skill set he didn’t have, and couldn’t fake.
Back when the Maker had approached him with an opportunity to redeem himself, he’d been too focused on the idea of getting free to think about the particulars of the assignment. All he’d heard was something along the lines of, “Go to earth, get this vampire back on track, set that shellan free,” yada, yada, yada.… After which he’d be released to go about his business instead of stuck in the land of neither-here-nor-there. Seemed like a good deal. And in the beginning, it was. Show up in the woods with a Big Mac, feed the sorry bastard, drag him back here… and then wait until Tohr was strong enough physically to start the process of moving on.
Good plan. Except then came the stall-out.
“Moving on” was more than just fighting the enemy, apparently.
He’d been losing hope, about to throw up his hands… when suddenly that female No’One appeared in the house—and for the first time, Tohr actually focused on something.
Which was when light dawned on Marblehead: “Moving on” was going to require another level of participation in the world.
Sure. Fine. Dandy. Get the guy laid, great. Then everyone won—most especially Lassiter himself. And, shit, the instant he’d seen No’One without that hood up, he’d known he was on the right track. She was astonishingly beautiful, the kind of female who made even a male who wasn’t interested in anything like that stand a little straighter and jack his slacks up. She had paper white skin, and blond hair that would have come down to her hips if it hadn’t been braided. With lips that were pink, and eyes that were a lovely gray, and cheeks that were the color of the inside of a strawberry, she was too bright to be real.
And clearly she was perfect for other reasons: She wanted to make amends, and Lassiter had been assuming that with any luck, nature would take its course and everything would fall into place… and she would fall into the Brother’s bed.
Sure. Fine. Dandy.
Except, whatever. This… display… across the way? Not sure, not fine, not dandy.
That kind of suffering was a canyon, a purgatory of its own for someone who had not died. And damned if the angel had any clue how to drag the Brother out of it.
Frankly, he was having enough trouble just playing witness.
And on that note, he hadn’t planned on respecting the guy. After all, he was on a mission, not here to get buddy-buddy with his key to freedom.
Trouble was, as the acrid scent of the male’s agony rose up and filled the room, it was impossible not to feel for him.
Man, he just couldn’t fucking take this.