Choose Slice of Life:  Wrath and the Letter Opener | Movie Night | In the Nature of Phury | The Interview That Never Happened

SLICES OF LIFE

Slices of Life are scenes from the every day lives of the Brothers and their Shellans. These scenes are intended for those readers 18 years old or older.

Wrath and the Letter Opener

Whoever said it couldn’t snow in July had their fucking head wedged.

Wrath sat back in his throne and looked at the piles of white before him: Requests to him as king for intervention on civil matters. Powers of attorney to Fritz for banking transactions. The glymera’s constant stream of ‘helpful suggestions’ all of which served only them.

It was a wonder the pansy desk could hold it all up.

From behind him, he heard a series of metallic clicks and then the shutters rose for the night on a whirring noise. Along with the lifting of steel came a rolling bass rumble, advance warning that one of Caldwell’s summer thunderstorms was getting its groove on.

Wrath sat forward and picked up his magnifying glass. The damn thing was getting to be an extension of his arm and he hated it. First, the piece of shit didn’t really work: he couldn’t see much better when he used it. And secondly, it reminded him that for all intents and purposes his life had been reduced to a desk job.

A desk job with purpose and honor and nobility, sure. But still.

Idly, he picked up an envelope opener that bore his royal seal and he balanced the tip of it on the end of his forefinger, suspending the knife-shaped slice of silver in mid-air. To make the game harder on himself, he closed his eyes and moved his hand around, creating instability, testing himself, using senses other than his weak eyes.

With a curse, he cracked his lids back open. Christ, why was he wasting time here? He had about ten thousand things he needed to do. All of which were urgent-

From the open double doors across the study, he heard voices. Riding this uncharacteristic wave of procrastination, he tossed the opener onto the snow bank of shit he had to do and walked out. At the balcony, he planted his hands on the gold-leafed balustrade and looked down.

In the foyer below, Vishous, Rhage and Phury were getting ready to go out, yakking it up while they doubled checked their weapons. And off to the side, Zsadist was leaning back against a malachite column, one shitkicker crossed over the other. He had a black dagger in his hand and he was twirling it up into the air and catching it, over and over again. On each trip, the blade caught the light in flashes of navy blue.

Damn those daggers V made were fantastic. Sharpened to a razor edge, weighted perfectly, the handle contoured with precision for Z’s grip alone, the weapon was not state of the art, it was a state of grace: a simple configuration of steel that meant survival for the race.

And fuck you, have-a-nice-trip-back-to-the-Omega for the lessers.

“Rock on,” Rhage said as he went for the door. Heading over the mosaic tiles of the foyer, he moved with his typical swagger and impatience, clearly craving the fight he was damn well going to find, his beast no doubt as ready for some hand to hand as he was.

Vishous was right behind him, all cool strides and lethal calm. Phury was likewise collected, his limp not noticeable in the slightest thanks to the new prosthesis he was using.

In their wake, Zsadist stood from the column and sheathed his dagger. The slide of metal on metal reverberated up to Wrath like a sigh of satisfaction.

Z’s vicious black eyes followed the sound as it lifted. In the light from overhead, his scar was very noticeable, that distorted upper lip more pronounced than ever. “’Evening, my Lord.”

Wrath nodded down at his brother, thinking that the Lessening Society was facing a demon in the male who stood down there. Even though Bella was in Z’s life, whenever he left to go fighting, his hatred came back. With a nasty aura, the burn weaved through his bones and muscles, becoming indistinguishable from his body, making him as he had always been: a savage capable of anything.

Though considering what the guy’s shellan had been put through, Wrath didn’t fault him for the killing rage. Not in the slightest.

Z walked to the door and then paused. Over his shoulder he said, “You look tight tonight.”

“It’ll pass.”

The smile that flashed was a slash of aggression, nothing happy. “I can’t count to ten for very long. Can you?”

Wrath frowned, but the brother was already out the door. Out into the night.

Left by himself, Wrath headed back for his study. He sat down behind the frilly desk and his hand found the envelop opener, his forefinger running up and down the dull edge. As he looked at the thing, he knew someone could kill with it. Just not with any finesse.

Cranking his fist tight as if it actually was a weapon, he pointed the thing out in front of him, leveling it over his paper mountain. As he moved, the tattoos running up his forearm stretched out, his crystal clean lineage all loud and clear in black ink. Not that he could read the pure bred stamp of approval.

Jesus, what the fuck was he doing here ass-rotting on this throne?

How had this happened? His brothers out working the war. Him sitting here with a goddamned letter opener.

“Wrath?”

He looked up. Beth was in the doorway, wearing a pair of old cut offs and a muscle shirt. Her long dark hair was down past her shoulders and she smelled like night blooming roses... night blooming roses and his bonding scent.

As he stared at her, for some reason he thought about the workouts he put himself through in the gym... those hardcore, hamster-wheel, full-body masturbations that got him exactly nowhere.

God... there were edges you just couldn’t work off on a treadmill. There were things that were missing even if you burned yourself out until the sweat ran fast as the blood in your veins.

Yeah... before you knew it, you lost your edge. You went from being a dagger to a desk ornament. Castrated.

“Wrath? Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m steady.”

Her dark blue eyes narrowed and the color struck him as being the same as Z’s dagger blade catching the light: Midnight blue. Beautiful.

And the intelligence in them was just as sharp as that weapon.

“Wrath, talk to me.”

***

Downtown on Tenth Street, Zsadist jogged over the pavement quick as a breeze, quiet as a ghost, a leathered-up wraith tracking his prey. He had found his first kills for the night, but at the moment he had his body on MasterLock, holding himself back, waiting until there was a little privacy.

No fighting in public for the Brotherhood. Unless you absolutely had to.

And this little impending shindig was going to create some noise. The three lessers ahead of him were Primes, all paled-out, looking to go at it, moving with a deadly rhythm of heavy bodies on solid ground.

For fuck’s sake, he needed to get them in an alley.

As all of them went along, the storm overhead stretched out its arms and started to pound on the night, its lightening flashing, its thunder cursing. Wind sprinted down the streets then tripped and fell, forming gusts that pushed and then relented at Z’s back.

He told himself patience, but he felt like holding back was punishment.

Except then, like a gift from the Scribe Virgin, the trio turned into an alley. And wheeled around to face him.

Ah, so it wasn’t a gift or luck. They knew he’d been in their trunks and had been looking for some dark and corner to do business in.

Yeah, well, time to waltz, motherfuckers.

Z unsheathed his dagger and fell into a jog, triggering the start gun on the fight. As he came forward, the lessers backed up, disappearing farther into the long alley, finding the shadows necessary to keep what was about to happen from human eyes.

Zsadist targeted the slayer on the right because the bastard was the biggest and had the largest knife so disarming him was a tactical priority. It was also something Z was just plain jonesing to do.

His momentum carried him faster and faster until he was skimming the ground, shitkickers barely touching the pavement. As he moved in, he was the wind, carrying along, rushing forward, sweeping down on what was ahead of him.

The lessers got ready, switching positions, crouching for conflict, so that the big guy was up in front and the other two flanked him.

At the last moment, Z tucked into a ball and rolled on the asphalt. Then he sprung up and led with his dagger, catching the linebacker lesser in the gut, opening the bastard up like a pillow. Man, abdominal cavities were always a messy affair, even if you didn’t eat, and the slayer went down on a waterfall of black blood.

Unfortunately, on the way to his dirt nap, he managed to clip Z right in the neck with his switchblade.

Z felt his skin split open and his vein start leaking, but there wasn’t time to get thought up about the injury. He focused on the other two slayers, popping free his second dagger so he was a two-fisted slashing machine. The fight went into hardcore territory fast, and as a second wound broke open on his shoulder, he thought he might even need a pick up at the end of it.

Especially as a length of steel chain snaked around his neck and went tight as a tire rim. With a yank, he was whipped off his feet and he back-landed it so hard he felt like he’d been body punched. All the air left his lungs on that eviction notice and it stayed away, his ribcage refusing to re-expand no matter how much he worked his mouth.

Right before he blacked out, he thought of Bella and the panic of leaving her gave him the crash cart shock he needed. His sternum heaved for the heavens, drawing in breath so hard the shit went all the way down to his balls. And just in time.

As the two lessers fell on him, he twisted to the side and somehow found footing. Going on instinct and experience, he lick-splited a classic two knife lock and cross on the first of the slayers, all but decapitating the thing. Then he stabbed the other one in the ear, shorting him out cold.

Except then four more showed up: back ups called in, all nice and fresh, ready to work.

Z was now in goat fuck territory.

He sheathed a dagger and palmed one of his SIGs, even though the gun would make noise. And took a bite out of his pride. He was just flipping the safety off when he saw the twin, pale green lights at the back of the alley.

As the lessers went all standstill, clearly they noticed, too.

Z cursed. Dollars to dickheads, that was some new kind of Xenon headlight and they were about to get a visit by a carload of kibitzers.

Except then the air temperature dropped twenty degrees. Just like that. As if someone had unloaded two tons of dry ice back there and hit the shit with an industrial blower.

Zsadist threw his head back and laughed loud and long, the power coming back into his body even with his slit throat and his dripping shoulder. As rain started to fall, he positively sizzled with aggression.

The lessers clearly thought he was nuts. But then lightening snapped out and turned the alley daylight bright:

Wrath was revealed at the far end, his massive legs set like oak trunks in the ground, his arms stretched out like I-beams, the storm’s wind whipping his waist length hair around. His glowing eyes were a roaring call of death in the night, his fangs white and sharp and visible from yards and yards away. In his hands were his trademark throwing stars, on his hips were his Berettas... and across his chest, crisscrossed with handles down, were the daggers, the black daggers of the Brotherhood, the weapons that he had not used since his ascension.

The king had come out to kill.

Zsadist glanced at the lessers, one of whom was dialing for more back up.

Man, Z thought, he was so ready to get back in the game.

He and Wrath had never fought together before, but they would tonight. And they were going to win.

***

Much later, back at the mansion, Beth paced around the Billiard’s room. Over the course of the night, she’d turned the pool table into the center of her universe: the green felt square with its pockets and its rainbow balls was the sun to her solar system and around and around she went...

God. She didn’t know how Mary and Bella handled this... knowing that their hellrens were out there in that evil night fighting an endless enemy, an enemy with weapons that didn’t just maim, but killed.

When Wrath had told her what he wanted to do, what he needed to do, she’d had to force herself not to scream at him. But Christ, she’d seen him laying in a hospital bed, hooked up to wires and machines and tubes, injured, dying, lurching back and forth between life and nothingness.

She had zero interest in reliving that nightmare.

Sure he’d done his best to reassure her. And told her he’d be careful. And reminded her that he’d fought for some three hundred years and been trained and honed and bred for this.

Except like that all mattered? She wasn’t thinking about the three centuries he’d come home at the crack of dawn safely. She was worried about this specific night when he might not make it back. After all, he was flesh and blood and there was a timer on his life, a timer that could zero-out in the work of a moment. All it would take was a bullet in the chest or the head or-

She looked down and realized she wasn’t moving anymore. Which kind of made sense. Evidently, her feet had just super-glued themselves to the floor.

Forcing them to start walking again, she told herself that he was what he was: a warrior. She hadn’t married a goddamned nancy. That fighting blood was in him and he’d been chained to the house for the past year so it was inevitable he’d crack.

But oh, Christ, did he have to go out there and-

The grandfather clock started chiming. Five o’clock.

Why weren’t they back-

The door to the vestibule opened and she heard Zsadist and Phury and Vishous and Rhage come in. Their deep voices were hopping, their words fast with power and life. They were juiced about something, invigorated.

Surely if Wrath were injured they wouldn’t behave like that. Right? Right?

Beth went to the doorway... and had to grab onto the jamb. Z was bleeding, his skin tight turtleneck soaked with a red rush, his daggers wet and glossy as well. Except it wasn’t as if he noticed. His face was shining, a sparkle lighting up those eyes of his. Hell, he carried himself as if he had a couple of bug bites instead of two gaping wounds.

Feeling lightheaded, because she felt like someone should on his behalf, she watched the four head for the hidden door under the staircase. She knew they were making a beeline for the First Aid station in the training center and wondered how Bella would feel if she saw Z like that. Then again, knowing the Brothers, she wouldn’t get a chance to. The mated males in the house were always careful to get stitched and cleaned before they found their shellans.

Beth stepped into the foyer, unable to stand it any longer. “Where is he?” she said loudly.

The bunch of them stopped and their faces masked-up tight, as if they didn’t want to offend her by how pumped they were.

“He’ll be right here,” Phury said, his yellow eyes kind, his smile even kinder. “He’s just fine.”

Vishous smiled darkly. “He’s more than fine. He’s alive tonight.”

And then she was left alone.

Just as she was about to get pissed off, the vestibule’s door swung opened and a cold rush unfurled across the foyer like a rug rolling out.

Wrath stepped into the mansion and her eyes popped wide. She hadn’t seen him leave earlier, hadn’t been able to watch, but she saw him now.

Holy Christ did she see him now.

Her hellren was as she had first known him that night he had come into her old apartment: a killing menace dressed in black leather, the weapons strapped on his body as fundamental as his skin or his muscles. And in his war dress, he radiated power, the kind that broke bones and slit throats and bloodied faces. In this his fighting dress, he was a horror, a nightmare... who was nonetheless the male she loved and had mated and always slept beside, who fed her from his hand, who held her during the day, who gave himself to her body and soul.

Wrath’s head twisted on his thick neck until he stared at her. In a distorted voice, one that she barely recognized it was so low, he said, “I need to fuck you right now. I love you, but I need to fuck you tonight.”

She had one and only one thought: Run. Run because he wants you to. Run because he wants to come after you. Run because you’re just a little scared of him and it makes you hot as hell.

Knowing that she smelled of her arousal, Beth took off in her bare feet, flashing toward the stairs, taking them fast, her legs a blur. Within seconds, she heard him behind her, his shitkickers pounding like thunder, the erotic threat of him bearing down on her, enticing her until she couldn’t breathe not because of exertion but because she knew what was coming as soon as he got his hands on her.

When she got to the second floor, she randomly tore down a hallway, not knowing where she was headed, not caring. With every yard she covered, Wrath was closing in on her... she could feel him tight on her heels, a wave about to break all over her, crash down on her, sweep her up and hold her down.

She bursting into the second floor sitting room and-

He caught her by the hair and the arm, pulling her around, tripping her up, sending her to the floor.

Just before she made impact, he twisted so his body absorbed their fall and cushioned hers. As she fought to get up, she had the dim thought that she was face up on him, his chest under her shoulders, his erection right where it needed to be.

And then she didn’t think anymore.

Wrath’s legs shot up and linked around her shins, splaying her legs wide, trapping her. With rough authority, his hand shot between her thighs and she arched with a cry as he found out exactly how turned on she was. As she stopped fighting, the double doors in front of her slammed shut and then he rolled her, laying her out face down on the floor. He mounted her, holding her in place by the back of the neck and the way he straddled her legs. Up close, he smelled like clean sweat and the bonding scent and the leather of his clothes and the death of their enemies.

She nearly came.

Wrath was breathing hard and so was she as he hauled back and split her old cut offs right up the crotch, the worn fabric letting go as if it didn’t dare disobey him.

Jesus, she knew how that felt.

Cool air hit her ass as his fangs bit through one side of her panties and then there was the sound of a zipper. His hands angled her hips and the head of him bumped down to what was waiting for him, what was his for the taking.

He slammed into her, shoving in hard as a board, wide as a fist.

Beth splayed her hands out on the marble as he locked into her body and started pumping with a fierce stride, two hundred and eighty pounds of sex all over the top of her, stretching the inside of her. Her palms squeaked against the marble as the first of the orgasms jumped into her.

She was still climaxing as he clamped his hand on her chin and twisted her mouth around. His rhythm was so hard he couldn’t kiss her...

So he hissed and bit her right in the jugular.

He froze in mid-stroke as he started to feed, sucking hard, pulling at her vein with a wild supremacy. The pain swirled and tingled, mixed with the tail end of the orgasm, kicked off another rush of pleasure. And then he was riding her again, his lower belly rubbing on her ass, his hips slapping against her, his growl that of a lover...

And an animal.

He roared loud as a beast as he started to come, his erection kicking in her like a living thing with its own mind. The bonding scent rose even stronger as he filled her up, his pulses hot as embers, thick as honey.

The instant he was finished, he flipped her over, and loomed between her legs, his sex glistening and proud and completely erect. He wasn’t done with her yet. Linking his tattooed forearm behind one of her knees, he pulled her leg up high and entered her from the front, his huge arms knotting up as he held himself above her body. As he stared down at her, his hair came forward, great falls of black that tumbled from his widow’s peak and got tangled in the weapons on his body.

His fangs were so long he couldn’t close his mouth, and as his jaw unhinged and he got ready to bite into her again, she shivered. But not from fear.

This was the raw edge, the reality of him under the clothes he wore and the daily life he led. This was her mate at his purest, distilled essence: Power.

And God, she loved him.

Especially like this.

***

Wrath was taking Beth with furious action, his cock hard as a bone, his fangs like ivory nails driven deep in her neck. She was everything he needed and would ever want: the soft landing for his aggression, the female sex squeezing him, the love that captivated and captured him.

He was the storm bearing down on her; she was the land with the strength to take what he had to let out.

As she sang again from her body splinting apart with pleasure, he pitched himself off the ledge and went flying with her. His balls clenched up hard and his orgasm pistoled out of him... bang, bang, bang, bang...

Releasing her vein, he collapsed into her hair as he shuddered and bucked.

And then there was only their desperate breathing.

Dizzy, out of it, satiated, he lifted his head. Then his arm.

He bit into his own wrist and brought it to her lips. As she nursed quietly, he stroked her hair with a gentle hand and felt a stupid fucking weak-ass urge to tear up.

When her blue black eyes lifted to his, everything disappeared. Their bodies dematerialized. The room they were in ceased to exist. Time became nothing.

And in the void, in the worm hole, Wrath’s chest opened up sure as if he’d been shot, a piercing pain licking over his nerve endings.

He knew then that there are many ways for a heart to break. Sometimes it’s from the crowding of life, the compression of responsibility and birth right and burden that just squeezed you until you couldn’t breathe anymore. Even though your lungs were working just fine.

And sometimes it’s from the casual cruelty of a fate that took you far from where you had thought you would end up.

And sometimes it’s age in the face of youth. Or sickness in the face of health.

But sometimes it’s just because you’re looking into the eyes of your lover and your gratitude for having them in your life overflows... because you showed them what was on the inside and they didn’t run scared or turn away, they accepted you and loved you and held you in the midst of your passion or your fear... or your combination of both.

Wrath closed his eyes and focused on the soft pulls at his wrist. God, they were just like the beat of his heart. Which made sense.

Because she was the center of his chest. And the center of his world.

He opened his eyes and let himself fall into all that midnight blue.

“I love you, leelan.”

© Copyright 2006 by J.R.Ward. All Rights Reserved. No portion or the entirely may be reproduced without the express written permission of J.R. Ward.


Movie Night

So the question was asked on the loop what free time is like for the Brothers. And what the girls did at the mansion. And I figured I'd share this little Slice of Life with folks...

The Brotherhood did movie night the other night and it was hysterical! Well, movie day as it were. The bunch of them ended up piling into the Pit- which I'd like to point out only has two leather couches and not a lot of floor space. Picture this: Wrath and Beth in one corner of a couch. Rhage and Mary on the opposite side. Z on the floor with Bella in his lap. Butch and Phury on the other couch. V behind the Four Toys on his chair. The place was like a Frat house and they watched the first two Die Hards back to back. Between Phury's red smoke and V's handrolls the place smelled delicious. Butch was drinking a lot of Scotch (well... duh). V was into the Grey Goose. Mary and Bella were drinking Chardonnay. Rhage was into the Perrier- busy rehydrating from a hard night on the streets with the lessers.

Halfway through the first movie, someone fell asleep. And can you believe it? It was Wrath! He's usually so incredibly focused and he's been working too hard. But the things was, he had his Brothers and his shellan- his family- all around him and they were safe. He literally passed out, head flopping back on the top of the sofa, his long, long hair all over his chest (he's grown it out super long because Beth loves it.) Beth slid his sunglasses off and tucked a blanket around him- which was a nice thing to do except... Unfortunately, the movements woke him a little and he ended up repositioning himself all over her- he fell back asleep mashing her up against Rhage. She just laughed. She was so relieved he was relaxing a little. She has to see him get up during the day and pace and pace and pace around their bedroom. It just about kills her because he's almost stopped sleeping at all and he's losing weight. Straight up? This king stuff is killing him.

Anyway... Fritz kept bringing over hors duerves- you remember the spinach crepes Rhage loves? The group of them went through trays of those and other things. Fritz was so happy, running back and forth in the tunnel between the main house and the Pit.

Rhage of course insisted on yelling out lines. You know what his favorite one is, of course: Yippee Kiyay Motherf*****. But 'bout half way through the second movie, he started nuzzling the back of Mary's neck. And then his hands started traveling. She tried to get him to cut it out- but not too hard. When his eyes flashed white, they disappeared for a little while. Um... Er...

ANYWAY, Phury was really quiet. He's gotten terribly quiet. Sadly quiet. He keeps to himself mostly and was there really more because he felt he had to be than because he wanted to be.

Z watched both movies for the first time. He was ABSORBED by them. Imagine the surprises in store- when Mr. Takagi (SP?) gets shot by Ivan Reikman? When the body shows up in the elevator with Ho Ho Ho on the shirt? When McClain is in the ventilator shaft? Then later
when McClain's wife tasers that idiot reporter? Z LOVED the movies... he jumped in the right places and cursed at the screen and snarled and yelled. He was all involved and had a death grip on Bella through the whole thing. The only time he looked away from the TV was to make sure she had something to drink. Or to eat. Or to ask if she was comfortable? Too cold? You need another fleece maybe?

I will say... even though I shouldn't... that Bella had a huge bite mark on her neck. He'd fed from her about an hour before they started to watch the movies. He'd gotten home from a night of fighting and he felt this... urge... to feed. He ended up sidling up to her in the bathroom. She was just out of the shower and was talking to him about this writing class she's taking on line. Anyway... he was staring at her in the mirror and she was chatting
away and toweling off her hair and... she stopped and asked him what was wrong. When she got the picture, she turned and smiled at him. Um... dropped the towel she had wrapped around herself. At first he was apologetic about it. Like, embarrassed almost because he hadn't
come to her before. But then she was in his arms and he dropped his mouth to her throat and.................... well, they really got into the swing of things. *clears throat* Boy, did they ever... *blushes* Er... ANYWAY...

V stayed out of the movie thing for the most part. He was doing searches on the internet although what he was looking for I have no clue. Every once in a while someone would yell at him to get off the computer. He ignored them until Butch fired an empty beer can at him (and who was drinking the beer? Beth... she likes Sam Adams, remember.) V ended up sitting with Phury and Butch. The bachelors, as the others call them.

Sooooooooooooo that was movie night (day). Next one is going to be an Aliens marathon. And yeah, Rhage is going to insist on acting out the alien out of the stomach routine on the floor in front of the TV. *sigh* Hollywood's just like that, you know?

© Copyright 2006 by J.R.Ward. All Rights Reserved. No portion or the entirely may be reproduced without the express written permission of J.R. Ward.


In The Nature of Phury


Over this past weekend, I found myself alone in the house, pacing around. I was skipping over the surface of everything around me... not really tracking, roaming. Restless. I do this alot because I'm a high strung nutcase and my head just chews on things practical and impractical until I think I'll go mad.

In a Hail Mary move, I got into the car and opened the windows and the sunroof and cranked the bass: Sometimes our escape hatches have four wheels and righteous beats. And bless these chariots of relief.

When I took off, it was on the edge of night and I drove far, far from home... I drove to the Ohio River and took the road that coasts along its bank. I've been doing this lately... just getting away, nothing but me and the car and the summer air and the music. The trees were black green overhead, a tunnel I followed with desperate hope that it could take me somewhere other than I was.

It worked.

As I went along, to the left, the sun was a big fat disk drifting down, like someone had hooked it and was trying to pull out of the sky but its inherent boyancy was fighting the draw. Around me, the air was so damned wet, thick as a cloud, smelling like... summer really. And that sweet humidity coated my skin and I liked what I was wearing when it was there.

Out there on the road, life was sweet. Life was a precious gift, not the burden it can be sometimes. Life was the vivid mystery it should be.

And I found myself thinking of Phury.

Driving along, driving alone, driving out far from home... he followed me. Like he was in the car with me, elbow on the open window sash, the air moving all that hair of his around. I pictured his yellow eyes as the color of the setting sun, glowing like that, warm like that, beautiful like that.

Now, of course, he wasn't with me. Would have been up in flames had he been. But he was in my head and looking out of my eyes and listening to what was around me. And he slid into my chest like a ghost and took up the space in my marrow and he assumed the wheel and the gear shift and the gas pedal.

And while he was with me, he spoke to me of the nature of the Do Not Have. The Cannot Have. The Never Possible.

The Unfulfilled.

I saw him sitting at the dining room table. Bella was across the way, across the china and the silver and the crystal, across the divide of the mahogony... across a million miles that would never be walked. He was watching her hands. Watching her cut her meat and switch the fork and knife back and spear the lamb and bring it to her lips. He watched her hands because it was the only remotely, socially acceptable option he had.

It is a special hell to want what you cannot have. Because his mind wanders. Takes him in directions he doesn't want. Teases him with tastes he will never have on his tongue, curves he will never learn, feelings he can never ever express.

He is trapped in his honor and his love for his twin, trapped also by his respect for Bella... a slave to his moral nature.

I think what makes it hardest for him is that she is always around him. He sees her every day. He knows each dawn when he returns she is where he lives.

What does he do? He lies in his big bed and smokes the blunts that keep him calm and he prays that it will all fade soon. What makes it even worse is his honest to God happiness for Z: There is tremendous relief in Phury's special hell because he knows that Z has a future now.

Relief... yes, relief. But there are times that that pales. Phury looks down at his missing leg and feels unwhole and unworthy and weak and lame and it's not really all about the amputation because he has no regrets there. What stings during the days when the house is quiet and Bella and Z are sleeping entwined in their mated bed... what stings Phury is the fact that he is sexually clueless and inept and there is no way out of that desert. Even if he gave up the celebacy, even if he found a female and put her on her back and rode her out, what would that cure exactly? A graceless, uncaring sex act wouldn't make him feel any better. If anything, that would cut him deeper... because he knows that isn't what's doing between Z and Bella.

No... Phury's on the other side of the river bank, watching a sunset. Unable to touch. Only able to look. And Never Have.

So in his ineptiness and his pathetic yearning, in his despisable weakness, in his deplorable swill of emotion... he watches Bella's hands as she eats. Because that's all he can do.

He waits for some relief. Knowing it's not coming anytime soon.

And he hates himself.

The decent he is on seems bottomless and he has no rope to cast out for purchase, no net to fall into, nothing to break his fall. All he can do is anticipate a hard impact, a shattering body blow whenever the bottom finds him.

For Phury, the nature of the Do Not Have, the Cannot Have, the Never Possible, the Unfulfilled is taking him into darker places than he could have predicted. I think he assumed that if Z ever healed a little, that his own suffering would be over.

Wrong. Because the flavor of Z's healing is a taste Phury would kill to have.

Anyway... that was what I found out by the Ohio River the other night in the summer air... in the bass-ridden solitude... where all there was was myself and the headlights of on coming cars and the wet breeze of the air.

Some distances will never ever be closed.

© Copyright 2006 by J.R.Ward. All Rights Reserved. No portion or the entirely may be reproduced without the express written permission of J.R. Ward.