Deon’s eyebrows went up, his mouth turned down, and he looked more than a little skeptical. He lifted one hand from his heart and raised a finger with each item he named. “You have one handgun, one vamp-killer, and three throwing knives to wear beneath yourensemble.” His hand was open, his expression sliding from skeptical to vexed.Vexedwas definitely the word. Not exasperated, annoyed, or peeved. Vexed. Very vexed. I did not laugh. But something must have shown on my face because his nose went into the air.
“Now, you listen to me,Queenie. Madame Melisende worked for, literally, hours with Quint and Koun tocreatethe holsters for you. Each is one of a kind, and attaches to your undergarments with hardware you cannot reach, even if you were as bendy as your big-cat.”
Beast is lithe and lissome,she thought at me, using some of my words for her.Jane is worried and muscles are tight. Jane isnot bendy.
Deon took a threatening step toward me. “With Quint in the hospital, and Koun there feeding her, withoutme, you willnotknow how to wear your weapons.Iam youronlychoice to assist dressing you, Queenie darlin’. It’s me or wait for Koun to come home and let him, all six sexy feet of tattooed Celtic gorgeousness, touch you near your lady parts.”
“Koun is not dressing me.” He’d die for me. I’d drink from him to heal in a heartbeat. But dressing me near my “lady parts,” was out. Totally. Out.
I walked to the bed, where my clothing—except the dress which was hanging from a closet door—and my weapons were neatly placed. Deon was right. I’d never seen a holster like this one. My back to him, I picked up the cloth contraption and ran a hand along the strap, touching the little industrial-feeling metal hooks. The strap felt like woven silk flex, slick, yet thick enough to stay in place and hold weight. The metal hooks were one half of hook-and-eye closures. I hadn’t lived at vamp central so many years without picking up a lot of useless fashion info.
I let out a silent sigh.
I felt around my waist under the black silk dressing gown, touching the smoother. Sliding my hand around, I felt the corresponding parts to the hooks on the holster. Deon was right. I hated when I . . . I scowled harder and muttered, “I hate to need help.” Which I did so freaking often now. Like, every single day. I had help to buy food, cook food, clean, help to protect me, to drive me, to buy me clothes—okay that part was good, because I really hated shopping—and for putting clothes together in outfits.
Crap in a bucket.How was I going to get into this?
“I am not wearing panty hose.” I tossed the torture garment across the room. “The white see-through socks are okay.”
Deon, who had walked around until he was in my peripheral vision, cocked out a hip and crossed his arms over his chest. “Knee-highs, Dearie. Knee-highs. You have never worn knee-highs?”
I knew what knee-highs were; I had worn them occasionally. I wasn’t a total heathen about clothes. But I didn’t reply, instead I wrinkled my nose and studied the contraptions my handgun and my vamp-killer were holstered and sheathed in. In no way did they look . . . normal. “Fine,” I snapped. I turned so Deon was not in my direct line of sight, so I could behonest and not see his reaction. “I hate being naked. In front of people.”
Deon didn’t reply at first, which made me clutch my robe together tightly.
“You are not naked. And I am notpeopleJanie,” he said softly. “I am your loyal and loving servant. Your friend for as long as I live. I will carry your secrets to my grave. And I will love you even in heaven, where I will finally be able to gossip about you to that angel who used to hang around. Do you think he’s into boys?”
I spluttered out a laugh. “Deon.”
“Made you laugh. Come on, Queenie. Let me help. Once you’re all weaponed up and the weapons hidden beneath your dressing gown, your female court can come in and do the whole makeup and hair thing. They’re getting insistent and if they come in now, they’ll see your weapons.”
That was a threat and it worked. Molly would have a conniption if she knew I was wearing a handgun beneath my wedding dress.
Deon added, “Molly brought in stylist tools and makeup and nail polish and there’ll be mimosas.”
And there was the carrot, right on que. I was being manipulated. For my own good.
“I do like mimosas. But you do the best makeup.”
“True,” he said, with no modestly at all. “I’ll touch up your face once they leave and help you into your gown.”
I inhaled and tried to relax as the breath escaped. I let the silk slide from me and extended the robe to Deon. He never once met my eyes. He took the dressing gown and hung it on a hook beside my wedding dress. He lifted the holster with the nine mil already in it and made a little twirling motion. I turned a hundred-eighty degrees.
Starting from my upper right pelvic bone, he began to attach the custom cloth holster. With each action he warned me where I’d be touched, all the way to my mid left hip. The narrow strap that went from my thoracic spine to my lower left hip was surprising, but it would keep the holster in place if I needed the weapon. He worked around until he was kneeling in front of me. A sly smile twisted his mouth and I spoke before he could. “No.”
His eyes flicked up to mine and back to his work. Naughty. His eyes were very,verynaughty.
“You would have laughed. You need to laugh more.”
“Not while I’m . . . Not like this.”
“Mmmm. Chicken.”
“I am.”
“So long as we’re clear, Queenie.”
He worked on the vamp-killer. That weapon harness was attached a little below my left hip and hung to my knee. It was shorter than most vamp-killers, the blade only eight inches long, and because it was wavy and curved, it resembled a kris-knife more than my bigger blades. I hadn’t practiced with it. In fact, I didn’t recognize it.
