Lover at Last (Black Dagger Brotherhood #11)(83)
Author: J.R. Ward

Striding into the bar’s dim expanse, Trez headed around the far end of the five-tiered display of bottles and hit the flap door. As he pushed his way into the kitchen, the scent of basil and onion, oregano and red wine, told him just how stressed iAm was.

Sure enough, the guy was facing off at the sixteen-burner stove on the far wall, five huge pots simmering in front of him – and what do you want to bet there were things in the stoves, too. Meanwhile, wooden cutting boards were lined up on the stainless-steel counters, the dead heads of various kinds of peppers lolling around next to the very sharp knives that had been used.

Ten bucks to guess who the guy had been thinking of when he’d been chopping stuff.

"You going to talk to me at all?" Trez said to his brother’s back.

iAm moved to the next pot, lifting its lid with a white dishcloth, a big slotted spoon going in and stirring slowly.

Trez leaned to the side and pulled over a stainless-steel stool. Taking a seat, he rubbed his thighs up and down.

"Hello?"

iAm went to the next pot. And then the next. Each had a separate spoon for flavor flagellation, and his brother was careful not to cross-contaminate.

"Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you came by the club tonight." Every evening, iAm headed over to the Iron Mask for a check-in after Sal’s closed. "I had some business to take care of."

Shit, yeah, he did. Baby girl with the bouncer BF had taken forever to get out of his car when he’d gotten her to her house – eventually he’d walked her to the door, opened the way in, and all but toastered her through the jambs. Back at his Beamer, he’d hit the gas like he’d planted a bomb in the walk-up, and as he’d steamed over to the Iron Mask, all he’d heard in his head was iAm’s voice.

You can’t keep doing this.

iAm turned around at that point, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the stove. His biceps were big to begin with, but cranked like that, they strained the bounds of the black T-shirt he was wearing.

His almond-shaped eyes were half-lidded. "You actually think I’m pissed off that you weren’t around when I got to the club? Really. It’s not because you left me to deal with AnsLai or some shit."

Annnnnnnnd they were off to the races.

"I can’t see any of them face-to-face, you know that." Trez lifted his hands, all what-am-I-gonna-do? "They would try to force me to go back with them, and then what are my options? Fight? I’d end up killing the son of a bitch, and then where would I be?"

iAm rubbed his eyes like he had a headache. "Right now, it appears as if they’re taking a diplomatic approach. At least with me."

"When are they coming back?"

"I don’t know – and that’s what makes me nervous."

Trez stiffened. The idea that his cool-as-a-cucumber brother was anxious made him feel like he had a knife to his throat.

Then again, he was well aware of exactly how dangerous his people could be. The s’Hisbe was largely a peaceable nation, content to stay out of the battles with the Lessening Society and away from pesky humans. Scholarly, highly intelligent, and spiritual, they were, on the whole, a pretty nice group of people. Provided you weren’t on their shit list.

Trez looked at those pots and wondered what the meat in the sauces was. "I’m still working off the debt to Rehv," he pointed out. "So that obligation has to come first."

"Not to the s’Hisbe anymore. AnsLai said, and I’m quoting, ‘It’s time.’"

"I’m not going back there." He met his brother’s eyes. "Not going to happen."

iAm turned back to the pots, stirring each one with its designated spoon. "I know. That’s why I’ve been cooking. I’m trying to think of a way out of this."

God, he loved his brother. Even pissed off, the guy was trying to help. "I’m sorry I pulled a ghost and made you deal with this. I really am. That wasn’t fair – I just…yeah, I really didn’t think it was safe to be in the same room with the guy. I’m very sorry."

iAm’s thick chest rose and fell. "I know you are."

"I could just disappear. That would solve the problem."

Although, man, it would kill him to leave iAm. The thing was, if he went on the lam from the s’Hisbe, he could never have any contact with the male again. Ever.

"Where would you go," iAm pointed out.

"Not a clue."

The good news was that the s’Hisbe didn’t like to have any contact with UKs. No doubt even showing up at his and iAm’s apartment had been traumatic, even if the high priest had just dematerialized onto the terrace. Dealing directly with humans? Being around them? AnsLai’s head would explode.

"So what was your business?" iAm asked.

Great. Onto an equally happy subject.

"I went to see that warehouse property," he hedged. But come on, like he was going to voluntarily bring up the chick and her boyfriend?

"At one a.m.?"

"I made an offer."

"How much?"

"One four. The asking price is two and a half million, but there’s no way they’re going to get it. The place has been vacant for years, and it shows." Although…even as he said that, he had to admit he’d felt presences there. Then again, maybe that had just been his stress level talking. "My guess is that they’ll come back at two, I’ll throw out one six, and we’ll come to terms at one seven."

"Are you sure you want to tackle that project right now? Unless you show up at the territory with your mating tackle ready to be used, the issue with the s’Hisbe is only going to escalate."

"If things come to a head, I’ll deal with it then."

"When," iAm corrected. "That would be ‘when.’ And I know what happened in the back parking lot, Trez. With the guy and that woman."

Oooooof course he did. "You see the tapes or something?"

Goddamn security monitoring.

"Yes."

"I handled it."

"Just like you’re handling the s’Hisbe. Perfect."

Temper flaring, Trez leaned in. "You want to be in my shoes, brother mine? I’d like to see how well you’d deal with this bullshit."

"I wouldn’t be out f**king whores, I’ll tell you that much. Which makes me wonder…isn’t our real estate agent a female?"

"Fuck you, iAm. For real."

Trez shot off the stool and marched out of the kitchen. He had enough problems, FFS – he didn’t need Mr. Superior with the Julia Child skills armchair-quarterbacking this whole thing with twelve kinds of potshot commentary –

"You can’t keep putting this off," iAm called out from behind. "Or trying to bury it in between the legs of countless women."