Page 24 of Vanish Into Light

He washed his hair without hurrying, eyes closed, enjoying the press of his own fingertips along his scalp. He’d had a headache building he hadn’t even noticed, and felt it slowly ebb as he worked the suds through his hair.

He turned to tip his head back into the jets and rinse, enjoying the water pressure – the kind of forceful spray that only a mob boss could have afforded.

After, he slicked his hair back, wiped his face, and cracked his eyes open. The entire bathroom was roiling with steam.

And he could make out the silhouette of someone standing just outside the open shower door.

A tall someone.

A man.

It wasn’t Rose who’d sought him out tonight.

Lance sucked in a breath. And he froze. He blamed it on the bourbon, in the moment, but later, when he allowed himself, he would admit that he wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t have run; couldn’t have chucked the bar of soap, or tackled him to the ground. He could have fought.

If he’d wanted to.

Instead, he stood, the shower pounding his back and shoulders, and watched the silhouette take one step, and then another.

A flash of black whipping along the floor: the tail. The wings lifted, sharp points, a shape straight from hell – then they folded, so the silhouette seemed gowned.

And then the mist swirled, and parted, and Arthur Becket stepped through it, steam beading his horns, hair plastered to his neck, eyes glowing, fangs showing in a wide, feral smile.

He was naked. Every pale, sculpted, lean inch of him.

Lance had a lump in his throat that he had to work to swallow.

Move, he thought to himself.Run. Fight. Do something, dumbass!

But he stood. Slowly, he lowered his arms. His hands didn’t form fists; they stayed loose, relaxed.

Becket’s eyes pulsed. His lean hips swayed as he came the last two strides that put them only an arm span apart.

He was like a fallen angel from a Renaissance painting.

He was…beautiful.

“Hello, Lance.”

Get out. Get away from me. I don’t like you – in fact, I hate you. I’m not into this, you freak. What kind of invasion of privacy shit is this? I don’t find you beautiful at all.

But when Lance finally found his voice, it was small, just a whisper nearly drowned out but the rush of water, and he said, “What are you doing in here?” Shit, he soundedscared, but the heat that was beginning to settle low in his stomach had nothing to do with fear.

Becket shifted in closer, close enough that it was a case of retreat or hold his ground. And Lance had never been one for retreating. Becket said, “You think I hate you. That I’m jealous – angry that you were with Rose. You’re wrong.” Slowly, telegraphing the movement, he reached out and placed a single fingertip beneath Lance’s chin. Applied the slightest pressure, so that Lance’s head tipped back, so he was looking up into the other man’s face. The smile was still fixed, still fanged,predatory, Lance’s brain supplied – but it didn’t frighten him. Becket’s eyes pulsed again, and he felt the blood pulse inside him, responding.

“No,” Becket said. “I want to thank you for looking after her. She’s very fond of you, you know.”

He swallowed again, with difficulty. Some stupid, sudden streak of defiance had him saying, “She loves me.”

Becket chuckled, his breath across Lance’s face warmer than the heat of the shower. “Oh, I know. And she loves me.” His smile touched his eyes, deepened the lines around them. “Now, where does that leave us?”

Lance tried and failed to form a response. The water was warm at his back, and Becket radiated heat at his front, and, and…he was getting hard.

Becket chuckled again, and shifted another fraction closer, close enough for Lance to feel that he was hard, too.

“God,” he murmured.

“Not exactly,” Becket said, and kissed him.

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