“That is one thing that has never been said about me.”

“Well, you’re sweet to me.” There was a pause. “May I ask you for some help?”

“I’d be pissed if you didn’t.”

Cue another long pause. To the point that he eased onto his side and propped his head on his hand. Now, he wished there was more illumination in the room other than that thin strip around the doorjamb. “What’s up?”

“Well, I know you’re busy with work and the training center—”

“Stop. Really?” He frowned at her even though she probably couldn’t see it. “You’re going to suggest anything is more important than you?”

The curse she let out was a kind of defeat. “Can you help me find out who killed that female? Who she was, what happened to her, who did it to her?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I will. It would be my honor.”

Her exhale of relief was another compliment the likes of which he would never stop relishing.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“I was going to offer, but I wanted to respect where you’re at.”

“I can’t leave her in an unmarked grave.”

“Not going to happen. I’ll take care of it.” He frowned again in the darkness. “You should know something, though.”

“What?’

“I’m not the type who’s going to let it go.”

“Oh, I know. You and I will dig until we find out everything.”

Butch shook his head. “Not what I mean. The vampire race doesn’t have a police force. There are no jails—”

“There’s a penal colony out west somewhere. At least, there used to be. I’m not sure what happened to it?”

“Which is my point. There’s no real procedure or consequences for crimes within the race. No way to punish the guilty or handle false accusations. Wrath doing the audiences again has helped with certain kinds of conflict, but he’s judge and jury all at once—which is fine until we get some capital murders and felonies into the system. And they will come. That’s a fact of society whether you have fangs or not.”

“So what are you saying?”

His voice lowered to a growl. “If I find out who did that to some innocent girl? I’m not going to be able to let that go without reprisals. Do you get my drift?”

Chapter Twenty-two

Raging. Hard-on.

The following nightfall, as Craeg resurfaced from the kind of sleep that was so dense it was practically a solid, he had a big-ass chubby straining at his hips: Laying on his side, having rolled over into his preferred position at some point, his hand was about three inches away from his cock—and on the backs of his closed lids, images of Paradise played like a slide show calculated to get him sprung and keep him that way until he got off.

Yeah, sure, his conscience put up a fight, but it was a battle doomed to be lost.

He wasn’t going to work himself out in the bed, though. The nurse was coming in to check on him every fifteen seconds, and knowing his luck, she’d pick just the right time to crack the door and make sure he was still breathing.

Bracing himself to sit up, he—

Had absolutely no problem moving. Shifting his legs off the bed. Getting to his feet. In fact, he felt as though he’d slept for a month.

Huh.

It was Paradise’s blood, of course. And that made him a little afraid of her for some reason.

One by one, he unhooked himself from the various machines and bags of fluid, and when an alarm sounded, he punched at the buttons of the monitor until the thing fell silent. Then he headed for the bathroom, cranked on the shower, and shut himself in, figuring the nurse who was no doubt going to run in like a fire truck to a house blaze would see for herself that he was up and at ’em.

Sure enough, there was a knock on the loo’s door just as he ditched the johnny and stepped under the spray.

“Craeg?” she said. “Everything all right?”

“Yup. Showering and ready to eat.”

“That’s good. Be careful, though—do you need help?”

He glanced down at the enormous erection sticking straight out in front of his hips. “No. I think I can handle things all on my own.”

“Okay, but you know where the call button is, don’t you? Just let us know if you feel woozy.”

“Yup. Thanks.”

He waited a moment longer to see if there was anything further coming at him. When there was only blissful, no-more-questions, he picked up the bar of soap—but he didn’t go for his cock and balls. Running the thing over his chest and shoulders, his neck and face, his legs and feet, he gave his body a chance to get over the bright idea.

Nope. If anything, the smooth feel of the suds over his flesh made him think about sitting on the floor in front of Paradise and stroking her fine skin.

The shampooing didn’t help, either. And as the air in the bathroom became dense with humidity, and he ran out of places to wash, he conceded defeat, ended the negotiation, resigned himself to the inevitable.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned as he gripped himself.

Putting one arm up on the tile wall, he leaned in until his forehead was on his forearm. The stroking was too damn good—he couldn’t remember, actually, the whole jerking-off thing feeling this incredible before. It was … paradise.

Or, Paradise, as the case was.

Harder, faster, until he dropped his other arm and squeezed his balls with a twist—