Lover Arisen (Black Dagger Brotherhood #20)(10)

Andthensomevampirebitchhadlitthethingonfire.

How the fuck did anybody do that? If the stupid cunt had been so desperate to try to get out by triggering the fire alarm, she could have lit up a Balmain jacket. A Chanel suit. An Escada gown. But nooooooo, out of all the racks of clothes, and the shoes and boots, and the other, hello, regular boring flammable shit like sheets, pillows, the fucking Saks catalog, for fuck’s sake—that female had had to pick the Himalayan. With the diamond hardware. And the matching bangle.

That waste of skin had picked the most expensive, most rare, and most desirable purse to try to get out of this parallel dimension.

It was almost like she’d known what she was doing. Which she had not.

Torching that stupid little ranch in retaliation hadn’t gone nearly far enough. And then the vampire had managed to waltz away with her immortal fucking mate, all in love and happily ever after and crap.

Who knew Sahvage had been immortal? It was like finding out a housewife could bench-press a car.

And when all was said and done, what did Devina get? Not true love, yeah, not at all on that, but rather a toasted-beyond-recognition Birkin, and now PMS—without the period.

Looking down at the floor between her Louboutins, Devina wondered if maybe she needed to put the bag’s remains to rest. Considering the way the night was going, what with her frustratingly sleepless vampire lover betraying her with thoughts about a human, how could she feel worse? And hadn’t her therapist said something about part of mourning being a gradual confrontation of loss? Like you bit off the death in pieces, working through your horror d’oeuvres in degrees?

God… the Birkin had been so perfect.

At least the diamonds still sparkled.

As she took the burned carcass off of its stand, she cradled the remains to her heart and closed her eyes. Tears started coming and she pictured that human therapist, the one who had always worn earth tones that had blended her into her brown sofa.

Feel your feelings, Devina. That’s all you have to do.

“I’m trying…”

That Balz thing had cut really deep, the idea that the guy she was fucking was actually into someone else such a goddamn stinger. She definitely could not feel worse than she did right now.

When she was ready, she conjured a child-size coffin out of thin air and willed open the lid. The glossy white-and-cream box with its tufted satin interior seemed like a fitting reliquary for the cream-and-brown-and-gray color scheme of the Himalayan.

With resignation, she placed the Birkin onto the cushioned interior, setting its handles on the little tufted pillow. As tears blurred her eyes, she ran her manicured fingertips over the pattern of scales where things were not burned and she tried to shut out the campfire smell. She could still remember what it had looked like as she had first seen it in the private room at the mothership at Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, so fresh, so clean, that fragrance of the crocodile hide rising up as she had held it as if it were holy.

Because it had been. Because it still was, no matter its marring.

With trembling hands, she closed the lid. Then she rested her palms on the lacquered contours of the top and bowed her head. Breathing shallowly through her mouth, she told herself that she could get a new one.

But this one had been hers.

As the grief became unbearable, she willed the remains away, sending them down to the Well of Souls. For a split second, she remembered that that vampire Throe was still there on her worktable, and then that thought went right out of her mind.

The silence surrounding her registered as total isolation, sure as if the humanity had been wiped off the earth along with every animal, insect, reptile, and fish. She felt alone, like she was no longer even tethered to the blue-and-green planet she had for eons called home, but rather lost in a galaxy, floating through space, cold and useless, passing by uncaring planets and suns that had no time for her.

The thought that she was, in fact, not by herself snapped her back to reality.

She glared over her shoulder at her roommate. “But you’re going to change all this. Aren’t you?”

When there was no response, she embarked on a walk across the vast open space—only to pause by a rack of formal gowns to check herself in a full-length mirror. Her long brunette hair was a cascade of waves over her bare shoulders, and the bustier she had cinched on her waist made her tits look incredible. The leather pencil slacks were as always a nice touch, but she wasn’t sure she liked all the black. It was a bit of a dour one-note.

Tilting her head, she willed the shrink-wrap outfit blood red.

“And people say perfection can’t be improved.”

Resuming her strut, she clip, clip, clip’d across the bare concrete floor. When she got to the far corner of the lair, she stopped in front of a municipal-parks-and-recreation trash receptacle, the kind that could be found all around downtown Caldwell, the kind that people threw nasty trash out in, like half-eaten sandwiches, the last inch of coffee that was cold, dog shit in bags.

Used condoms and needles.

Okay, maybe those last two mostly ended up tossed to the ground, but surely there were some prostitutes, some johns, some casual vein fuckers who were tidy.

“Enough with the bullshit,” she said. “It’s time for you to give me what I’m owed. I’ve been fucking patient, but that is so over right now.”

She wasn’t talking to the bin.

She was talking to the piece of shit sitting on top of the goddamn bin’s square lid. “You owe me, and you know what I want. So get to it.”