Lover Reborn

THIRTY-FIVE

No’One awoke in an earthquake.

Beneath her, the mattress was all a-jumbling, the great force of the disturbance pitching pillows this way and that, sending covers flying, the cold air barging in against her skin—

Her consciousness quickly redefined the cause of the chaos. It was not the earth moving, but Tohrment. He was flailing beside her as if fighting against ties that bound him to the bed, his massive body jerking uncontrollably.

He’d had that dream again. The one he refused to speak of, and which, therefore, had to concern his beloved.

The glow from the bathroom caught his naked body as he landed on his feet, the clenched muscles of his back throwing hard-lined shadows, his hands curled in fists, his thighs engaged as if he were about to spring forward.

As he caught his breath and got his bearings, the name that was carved into his skin in a graceful arch expanded and contracted, almost as if the female was alive again:

WELLESANDRA

Without a word, Tohrment stalked into the bathroom, closing the door, cutting off the illumination… and her.

Lying in the dark, she listened to the water start to run. A quick glance to the bedside clock indicated it was about time to get up, and yet she stayed where she was.

How many days had she spent in this bed of his? A month’s worth. No, two… mayhap three? Time had ceased to have meaning to her, the nights wafting by like fragrance on a summer’s breeze.

She supposed he was her first lover.

Except… he refused to take her fully.

Moreover, even after all this time together, he did not allow her to touch him. Nor did he sleep under the covers with her. Or kiss her on the mouth. And he did not join her in the tub or the pool, or watch her dress with lingering eyes… and he did not hold her when they slept.

Still, he was generous with his sensual talents, taking her time and time again to that place of transient bliss, always so careful with her body and her releases. And she knew it pleased him, as well: His body’s reaction was too powerful to hide.

It seemed greedy to want more. But she did.

In spite of all the mad heat they called up from each other, in spite of the way he freely fed from her and she did the same from him, she felt… stalled. Trapped in a place that was short of an ultimate destination. Even though she had found structure in her nights working down at the compound, and relief and anticipation every dawn when he came back in health and strength, she was… quagmired. Restless.

Unhappy.

Which was why she had finally requested a visitor to come to the compound this evening.

At least she could make some progress somewhere. Or so she hoped.

Slipping out from the pocket of warmth she herself created, she shivered even though the heating units were on. The inconsistent temperature was one thing that she had yet to get used to on this side—and the only thing about the Sanctuary that she missed. Here, there were times when she was o’erheated, and others when she had a chill, the latter more prevalent now that September had arrived and ushered in with it the early frosts of fall.

As she pulled on her robe, its folds were cold, and she trembled within the fabric’s cloying embrace. She made sure she was always dressed whenever she was out of bed. Tohrment had never said as much, but she had the sense that he preferred her as such: As much as he appeared to enjoy the feel of her, his eyes avoided her nakedness and ducked away, too, when they were in public—even though surely his Brothers knew that she stayed with him.

She had a feeling, even though he had said he knew it was her whom he pleasured, that he tried to find his shellan in her body, in their experiences together.

Any reminder to the contrary would be difficult for him.

Slipping her feet into her leather moccasins, she hesitated before leaving. She hated that he was in extremis, but he would never talk to her about it. In fact, lately, he did not speak much when she was around him, even though their bodies were fluent in whatever language it was they communicated in. Indeed, nothing good could come out of her lingering, especially given the mood he had to be in.

Forcing herself to the door, she put her hood up and her head out, looking both ways before stepping into the corridor and shutting him in by himself.

As usual, she left without making a sound.

“Lassiter,” Tohr hissed into the bathroom mirror. When there was no reply, he splashed his face with cold water again. “Lassiter.”

As he closed his eyes, he saw his Wellsie in that gray landscape. She was even farther away from him, off now in the distance… harder than ever to reach as she sat so still among those boulders of gray stone.

They were losing ground.

“Lassiter—where the fuck are you?”

The angel finally made an appearance over on the edge of the Jacuzzi, a box of Freddie Freihofer’s chocolate-chip cookies in one hand, a long-tall of milk in the other.

“Want one?” he said, jogging the calorie payload. “They’re right out of the fridge. So much better cold.”

Tohr glared at the guy. “You told me I was the problem.” When all he got was chewing, he had the urge to feed the whole box to the bastard. At once. “She’s still there. She’s nearly gone.”

Lassiter put the spoil-your-dinner aside, like maybe he’d just lost his appetite. And when he simply shook his head, Tohr had a moment of panic.

“If you’ve bullshitted me, angel, I’m going to kill you.”

The other male rolled his eyes. “I’m already dead, idiot. And might I remind you that your shellan’s not the only one I’m trying to get free—my destiny is hers, remember. You fail, I fail—so I’m not incented to fuck with you.”

“Then why the hell is she still in that horrible place?”

Lassiter threw up his hands. “Look, man, it’s going to take more than a couple of orgasms. You’ve got to know that.”

“Jesus Christ, I can’t do much more than I am—”

“Really.” Lassiter’s eyes narrowed. “You sure about that.”

As their stares clashed, Tohr had to look away—as well as reassess any privacy he assumed he and No’One had.

Fuck that; they’d had a hundred orgasms together, so…

“You know as well as I do how much you haven’t done,” the angel said softly. “Blood, sweat and tears, that’s what it’s going to take.”

Lowering his head, Tohr rubbed his temples, feeling like he was going to scream. Fucking bullshit—

“You’re going out tonight, yeah?” the angel murmured. “So when you get back, come find me.”

“You’re with me anyway, aren’t you.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Let’s meet after Last Meal.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“You say you want help—well, I’m going to give it to you.”

The angel got to his feet and sauntered toward the bathroom’s door. Then doubled back and got his frickin’ cookies. “Until dawn, my friend.”

Left by himself, Tohr briefly considered the merits of punching the mirror—but then figured he might endanger his chances of going out and finding some lessers to kill. And right now? That prospect was the only thing keeping him in his own skin.

Blood. Sweat. Tears.

Cursing, he took a shower, shaved, and went out into the bedroom. No’One was already gone, likely so that she could make it down to First Meal separately from him. She did this every night, even though the show of discretion couldn’t possibly fool anybody.

You know as well as I do how much you haven’t done.

Damn it to hell, Lassiter probably did have a point—and not just about the whole sex thing.

As he thought about it, he realized he never explained himself to No’One. Like, there was no way she didn’t know that he’d had a nightmare again—him popping off the bed like it was a toaster and moody-ing around was a neon sign in the room. But he never talked about it with her. Never gave her an opening to ask about it.

He didn’t really talk to her about anything, actually. Not his work out in the field. Not his Brothers. Not the ongoing struggles the king was having with the glymera.

And there were so many other distances that he maintained…

At his closet, he ripped out a pair of leathers, stepped into them, and—

The waistband jammed at his thighs. And when he pulled them again, they stayed put. Yanking them even harder, they… split at the fly into two halves.

What. The. Fuck.

Goddamn pieces of shit.

He grabbed another pair. And ran into the same problem—his thighs were too big for them.

Going through his closet, he checked all his sets of fighting clothes. Now that he thought about it, things had been getting tighter lately. Jackets constricting his shoulders. Shirts ripped under the armpits at the end of the night. Thighgate.

Glancing over his shoulder, he caught his reflection in the mirror over one of the dressers.

Damn, he was… back to the size he had once been. Strange that he hadn’t noticed until tonight, but his body, now on a regular feeding schedule, had blown out to its previous dimensions, his shoulders corded with muscle, his arms bulging, his stomach rippled, his thighs swollen with power.

No’One was responsible for this. It was her blood in him making him this strong.

Turning away, he went over to the phone by the bed, ordered up another pair of leathers in a bigger size, stat, and then parked it on the chaise.

His eyes locked on the closet.

The mating dress was still in it, pushed to the rear, hanging where he had put it when he’d resolved to try to move on.

Lassiter was right: He hadn’t taken things as far as he could. But, God, having sex with someone else? As in actual sex? There had only ever been his Wellsie.

Shiiiiit… this nightmare he was in just kept getting more “mare.”

But, God, that vision as he’d woken up, of his shellan ever farther away… even more faded… her exhausted eyes tortured and gray as the landscape.

The knock on the door was too strong to be Fritz.

“Come in.”

John Matthew peered around the jamb. The kid was dressed for fighting, his weapons on, his mood dark.

“Going out early?” Tohr said.

No, I’ve switched shifts with Z—just wanted you to know that.

“What’s wrong?”

Nothing.

What a lie. The truth came out in the sharp edges to the kid’s words, his hands forming the positions of ASL with hard corners on the letters. And he wouldn’t look anywhere but the floor.

Tohr thought of the messy bed across the way, and the fact that No’One had left one of her spare sheaths on the chair over by the bureau.

“John,” he said. “Listen…”

The kid didn’t look at him. Just stood there in the open doorway, head down, brows down, body twitching to leave.

“Come in a minute. And shut the door.”

John took his time and crossed his arms when he was done closing them in.

Crap. Where to start.

“I think you know what’s going on here. With No’One.”

None of my business, came the signed response.

“Bullshit.” At least that got him some eye contact—too bad, since he promptly stalled out on the reveal. How could he explain what was going on? “It’s a complicated situation. But no one’s taking Wellsie’s place.” Shit, that name. “I mean—”

Do you love her?

“No’One? No, I don’t.”

So what the hell are you doing here—no, don’t answer that. John paced around, hands on hips, weapons catching the light in subtle flashes. I can guess.

In a sad way, Tohr thought, the anger was honorable. A son protecting the memory of his mother.

God, that hurt.

“I’ve got to move on,” Tohr whispered hoarsely. “I have no choice.”

The fuck you don’t. But like I said, it’s none of my business. I gotta go. Later—

“If you think for one moment that I’m having a party in here, you’re too wrong.”

I’ve heard the sounds. I know exactly how much fun you’re having.

As he took off, the door shut with a crack.

Fantastic. This night got any better and someone was going to lose a leg. Or a head.

THIRTY-SIX

Generally speaking, the scent of human blood wasn’t nearly as interesting as that of a lesser or a vampire. But it was equally recognizable, and something that you had to pay a little attention to.

As Xhex threw a leg over her Ducati, she sniffed the air again.

Definitely human, coming from west of the Iron Mask.

Checking her watch, she saw she had a little extra time before her meet-and-greet, and whereas in the normal course of business she wouldn’t give any kind of mess involving humans even a drive-by, in light of current events in the black-market trade, she dismounted, took her key, and dematerialized in that direction.

Over the last three months, there had been a rash of killings downtown. Well… duh on that. But the ones she had been interested in were not the sloppy gang-related drive-bys, or the heat-of-passion trigger fingers, or the drunken hit-and-runs. Her group fell into the fourth big catchall—drug related.

Except not in your run-of-the-mill kind of way.

The deaths were all suicides.

Middlemen were capping themselves left and right—and really, what were the chances that so many of those motherfuckers would develop a conscience at the same time? Unless, of course, someone was putting a moral additive in the Caldwell water system. In which case Trez would be out of business on a couple of different levels—and he wasn’t.

The human police were flummoxed. The news media had gone national. The politicians were all excited and getting up on their stumps.

She’d even tried to do some Nancy Drewing herself, but her timing had always been of the day/late, dollar/short variety.

Then again, she already knew the answer to a lot of those human questions: That Old Language symbol for death on those packets was the key. And gee whiz… the more guys who ate their own bullets, the more those stamps had appeared. They were even starting to show up on heroin and Ecstasy packaging now, not just cocaine.

The vampire in question, whoever he or she was, was gradually staking their claim. And after a busy summer season of influencing human filth to take themselves out of the gene pool, they’d managed to kill off an entire demographic in the drug trade: All that were left were street-corner retailers… and Benloise, the big-fish supplier.

As she took form behind a parked van, it was clear that she’d gotten to the scene right after it had all gone down: There were two guys making like mud puddles on the asphalt, lying faceup with unseeing eyes. Both had guns in their hands and holes in the fronts of their brains, and the car that the RIPs had come in was still going at an idle, its doors open, steam rising from its tailpipe.

None of that was what she cared about, however. What she was really interested in was the male vampire getting into a sleek Jaguar, his black hair flashing blue in the overhead light of an archway.

Guess her day/dollar ratio was on an upswing.

With a quick shift, she re-formed in front of his car, and thanks to the fact that he had no headlights on, she caught a good look at his face in the glow from the dashboard.

Well, well, well, she thought, as his head shot up to her.

The slow laugh that came out of the male belonged with the summer nights: deep, warm—and dangerous as coming lightning. “The fair Xhexania.”

“Assail. Welcome to the New World.”

“I had heard you were here.”

“Likewise.” She nodded at the bodies. “I understand that you’ve been performing a public service.”

The vampire assumed an evil expression, one she had to respect. “You give me credit where it may not be due.”

“Uh-huh. Right.”

“You can’t tell me you care about these rats without tails?”

“I care that your product has been in my club.”

“Club?” Elegant brows peaked over those cold eyes. “You work with humans?”

“Keep them in line is more like it.”

“And you don’t approve of chemicals.”

“The more they’re under the influence, the more annoying they are.”

There was a long pause. “You look good, Xhex. But you always did.”

She thought of John and the way he’d handled that vampire wannabe a couple of months ago. It would be a different scenario with Assail—John would have much more fun with a worthier opponent, and Assail was capable of anything.…

With a shot of pain, she abruptly wondered whether her mate would even bother fighting for her now.

Things were different between them, and not in a good way. All those summertime resolutions to stay close and connected had faded under the grind of their nightly jobs, those short bursts of seeing each other seeming to create more distance than they cured.

Until now, in the cold weather of fall, their visits were harder, less frequent. Less sexual, too.

“What’s the matter, Xhex,” Assail said softly. “I can smell pain.”

“You overestimate your nose—and your reach, if you think you can take over Caldwell so fast. You’re trying to fill some big-ass shoes.”

“Your boss, Rehvenge’s, you mean.”

“Precisely.”

“Does that mean you’ll come work for me when I finish cleaning house?”

“Not on your life.”

“How about on yours?” He tempered that one with a smile. “I’ve always liked you, Xhex. If you ever want a real job, come find me—I don’t have a problem with half-breeds.”

Annnnd didn’t that little ditty make her want to kick him in the teeth. “Sorry, I like where I’m at.”

“Not according to your scent, you don’t.” As he turned the car engine on, the subtle growl foretold all kinds of horses under the hood. “I’ll see you around.”

With a casual wave, he shut himself in, revved the engine, and tore off without putting on his lights.

As she stared at the dead he’d left behind, she thought, well, at least she had a name now, but that was the extent of the good news. Assail was the kind of male you didn’t turn your back on for an instant. A chameleon without a conscience, he could be a thousand different faces to a thousand different people—with no one ever knowing the real him.

For example, she didn’t believe he found her attractive for one moment. It was just a comment to put her off balance. And it had worked; just not for the reason he’d intended.

God, John…

This shit between them was killing them both, but they were stalled out. Unable to make things work; unable to let things go.

It was a mess.

Flashing back to her bike, she mounted, put her sunglasses on to protect her eyes, and took off. As she headed out of downtown, she blew past a fleet of CPD squad cars with their lights flashing and sirens blaring, going as fast as their tires would take them toward where she had just been.

Have fun, boys, she thought.

Wonder if they had a protocol for multiple suicides by now.

She herself headed north toward the mountains. It would have been more efficient to just dematerialize, but she needed to air her head out, and there was nothing like doing eighty on a rural road to get your skull clean as a whistle. With the cold air shoving her aviators back onto her nose, and her biker’s jacket forming a second skin across her breasts, she gunned the engine even harder, stretching out flat over the bike, becoming one with the machine.

As she closed in on the Brotherhood’s mansion, she wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to this. Maybe it was just surprise at the request. Maybe she wanted to run into John. Maybe she was… looking for something, anything, that was a change from this fog of sadness she was living in.

Then again, maybe the fact that she was meeting with her mother meant shit was only going to get worse.

About fifteen minutes later, she turned off the road and ran smack into the mhis that was always in place. Slowing down, so she didn’t hit a deer or a tree, she gradually ascended the mountain’s rise, stopping at the series of gates that were similar to the ones that led to the training center entrance.

There was barely a delay at each of the security cameras; she was expected.

After she passed through the last barricade, and started on the wide turn that led to the courtyard, her heart relocated to her gut. Dayum, the huge stone house still looked the same. But come on, like it would have changed at all? There could be a nuclear bomb shower along the northeast coast and the place would still be solid.

This fortress, cockroaches, and Twinkies. All that would be left.

She parked the Ducati just beyond the stone steps that went up to the front door, but she didn’t dismount. Looking at the arching jambs, the massive carved panels, the glowering gargoyles that had cameras in their mouths—there was no welcome mat in sight.

Enter at your own risk was the point.

A quick check of her watch told her what she already knew: John would already be out for the night, fighting in the part of town she had just left—

Xhex cranked her head to the left.

Her mother’s grid was out back, in the gardens behind the house.

This was good. She didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to walk across the foyer. Didn’t want to remember what she had been wearing, thinking, dreaming of when she’d been mated.

Dumb-ass fantasy of what life was going to be like.

Dematerializing to the far side of the barrier hedge, she had no trouble orienting herself. She and John had wandered out here in the spring, ducking beneath the budding branches of the fruit trees, breathing in the forgotten smell of fresh earth, holding each other against the chill that they knew was not long for the air.

So much possibility back then. And given where they were now, it seemed kind of fitting that all of summer’s warmth was gone, that vital blooming period missed altogether: Now the leaves were on the ground, the branches were bare once again, and everything was about hunkering down.

Well, wasn’t she a Hallmark card tonight.

Zeroing in on her mother’s grid, she went along the side of the house, passing by the French doors of the billiards room and the library.

No’One was down at the pool’s edge, a still figure spotlit by the blue glow of water that was yet to be drained.

Wow… Xhex thought. Something big had changed with the female, and whatever the shift was, it had altered much of her emotional superstructure. Her grid was jumbled up, but not in a bad way; more like a house that was undergoing extensive renovations. It was a good start, a positive transformation that was probably a long time in coming.

“Attaboy, Tohr,” Xhex murmured under her breath.

As if she had heard, No’One looked over her shoulder—and that was when Xhex realized that the hood that was always up was down, her mother’s cap of smooth blond hair suggesting that the stuff was braided, with the long end tucked under the robing.

Xhex waited for fear to light up that grid. And waited. And waited…

Holy shit, something really had changed.

“Thank you for coming,” No’One said as Xhex approached.

That voice was different. A little deeper. Surer.

She had been transformed in a lot of ways.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Xhex replied.

“You look well.”

“As do you.”

Stopping in front of her mother, she measured the way the flickering light from the pool played across the female’s perfectly lovely face. And in the quiet that followed, Xhex frowned, information flooding through her sensory receptors, the picture filling out.

“You are stuck,” she said, thinking that was kind of ironic.

Her mother’s brows flared. “As a matter of fact… I am.”

“Funny.” Xhex looked at the sky. “Me, too.”

Staring up at the strong, proud female in front of her, No’One felt the strangest connection to her daughter: as the restless reflections from the pool played over tough, grim features, those gunmetal gray eyes held an edgy frustration similar to her own.

“So you and Tohr, huh,” Xhex said casually.

No’One put her hands up to her hot blush. “I do not know how to respond to that.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just—yeah, it’s all over your mind.”

“Not really.”

“Liar.” There was no accusation, though. No censure. Just a statement of fact.

No’One turned back to the water and reminded herself that as a half symphath, her daughter would know the truth even if she didn’t say a word.

“I have no right to him,” she murmured, looking at the pool’s churning surface. “No right to any of him. But that is not why I asked you to come—”

“Says who?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Who says he’s not yours.”

No’One shook her head. “You know all the whys.”

“No. I don’t. If you want him and he wants you—”

“He does not. Not… in all ways.” No’One brushed at her hair even though it was already back off her face. Dearest Virgin Scribe, her heart was beating so hard. “I can’t… I shouldn’t speak of this.”

It felt safer not to utter a syllable to a soul—she knew Tohr wouldn’t like to be speculated about.

There was a long silence.

“John and I aren’t doing well.”

No’One glanced over, brows up at her daughter’s candidness. “I… I had wondered. You have been long gone from here, and he has not looked happy. I had hoped for… a different outcome. On many levels.”

Including between the two of them.

And indeed, it was true what Xhex had said. They were each stalled—not exactly the accord one would wish for. However, she would take any commonality that presented itself.

“I think you and Tohr make sense,” Xhex said abruptly, as she began to wander down the edge of the pool. “I like it.”

No’One arched her brows again. And reassessed the no-talk rule. “Truly?”

“He’s a good male. Steady, reliable—damn tragic about what happened to his family. John’s been worried about him for so long—you know, she was the only mother John had. Wellsie, that is.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“Not formally. She wasn’t the type to hang out where I worked, and God knew I was never welcome where the Brotherhood was. But I was aware of her reputation. Tough cookie—really blunt, a female of worth in that regard. I don’t think the glymera were big fans of hers, and the fact that she didn’t care about them was just another thing to recommend her, in my opinion.”

“Theirs was a true love story.”

“Yeah, from what I hear. Frankly, I’m surprised that he’s been able to move on, but I’m glad he has—it’s done you a world of good.”

No’One took a deep breath and smelled dry leaves. “He has no choice.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It is not my story to tell, but suffice it to say, if he could choose another path, any other, he would.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.” When No’One didn’t fill in with explanations, Xhex shrugged. “I can respect the boundaries.”

“Thank you. And I’m glad you came.”

“I was surprised you wanted me here—”

“I have failed you too many times to count.” As Xhex visibly recoiled, No’One nodded. “When I first arrived herein, I was overwhelmed by so much, lost though I spoke the language, isolated though I was not alone. I want you to know, however, that you are the real reason I came—and tonight, it is time that I apologized to you.”

“For what?”

“For abandoning you at your very beginning.”

“Jesus…” The female rubbed her short hair, her powerful body wincing in place, as if she were having to force herself not to bolt. “Ah, listen, there’s nothing to apologize for. You didn’t ask to be—”

“You were a young, newly born unto the world, without a mahmen to care for you. I left you to fend for yourself when you could do little more than cry for warmth and succor. I am… so sorry, my daughter.” She put her hand up to her heart. “It has taken me too long to find my voice and my words, but know that I have practiced this for hours in my head. I want what I say to you to be correct, because everything has been wrong between you and me from day one—and it is all my doing. I was so selfish, and I lacked courage, and I—”

“Stop.” Xhex’s voice was strained. “Please… just stop—”

“—was wrong to ever turn my back on you. I was wrong to wait this long. I was wrong about everything. But this.” She stamped her foot. “This night I reveal to you all my faults, so that I may also pledge you my love, however imperfect and unwanted it is. I do not deserve to be your mother, or to call you daughter, but mayhap we may form a kind of… friendship. I can understand if this is unwanted as well, and I know that I have no right to demand anything from you. Just know that I am here, and my heart and mind are open to learning about who you are… and what you are.”

Xhex blinked once, and then stayed silent. As if what had been spoken to her had come over a bad radio frequency and she was forced to extrapolate meaning.

After a moment, the female said roughly, “I’m a symphath. You know that, right? The term ‘half-breed’ doesn’t mean shit when the ‘half’ is sin-eater.”

No’One kicked up her chin. “You are a female of worth. That is what you are. I care naught for the composition of your blood.”

“You were terrified of me.”

“I was terrified of everything.”

“And you have to see that… male in my face. Every time you look at me, you have to remember what was done to you.”

At that, No’One swallowed hard. She supposed that part was true, but it was also the least important thing going forward: it was more than time to make this about her daughter. “You are a female of worth. That is what I see. Nothing more… and nothing less.”

Xhex blinked again. A couple of times. Then faster.

And then she lunged forward, and No’One found herself enveloped in a strong, sure embrace.

She did not hesitate for a moment to return the gesture of affection.

As she held on to her daughter, she thought, yes, indeed, forgiveness was best expressed through contact. Words could not give nuance to the sensation of holding what she had eschewed in a moment of great agony, of having her blood against her, of supporting the female, even just briefly, whom she had so selfishly wronged.

“My daughter,” she said in a voice that cracked. “My beautiful, strong… worthy daughter.”

With a shaking hand, she cupped the back of Xhex’s head and turned the female’s face to the side, so that she held her upon her shoulder as she would have a babe. Then with soft, gentle strokes, she smoothed the short hair.

It was impossible to say that she was grateful for anything that symphath had done to her. But this moment took the sting away, this vital moment when she felt as if the circle that had started to be drawn in her womb had finally been completed, two halves that had long tarried apart, coming to cleave once more.

When Xhex eventually pulled back, No’One gasped. “You bleed!” Reaching up to her daughter’s cheek, she cleared away the red drops with her hands. “I shall get Doc Jane—”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just… yeah, nothing to worry about. It’s the way I… cry.”

No’One put her hand on her daughter’s face and shook her head in wonder. “You are nothing like me.” As the female looked away sharply, she said, “No, that is good. You are so strong. So powerful. I love that about you—I love all about you.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Your symphath side… it is a blessing of sorts.” As Xhex began disagreeing, No’One cut her off. “It gives you a layer of protection against… things. It gives you a weapon against… things.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

“You know something? I was never mad at you. I mean, I understand why you did what you did. You brought an abomination into the world—”

“Do not ever use that word around me,” No’One barked. “Not when it comes to yourself. Are we clear.”

Xhex laughed in a throaty way, putting her palms up in defense. “Okay. Okay.”

“You are a miracle.”

“More like a curse.” When No’One opened her mouth to argue, Xhex cut her off. “Look, I appreciate this whole… thing. I really do—I mean, it’s really good of you. But I don’t believe in butterflies and unicorns, and neither should you. Do you know what I’ve been for the last… God, as many years as I can remember?”

No’One frowned. “You have been working in the human world, no? I believe I overheard that at some point?”

Xhex lifted her pale hands, flexing the fingers into claws and releasing them. “I’ve been an assassin. I’ve been paid to hunt people down and kill them. There’s blood all over me, No’One—and you need to know that before you go planning any kind of rosy-rosy reunion for us. Again, I’m glad that you asked me to come here, and you are more than totally forgiven for everything—but I’m not sure you have a realistic picture of me.”

No’One tucked her arms into the sleeves of her robe. “Are you… engaged in that practice now?”

“Not for the Brotherhood or my old boss. But with the job I have at the moment? If I had to revisit that skill set, I would without hesitation. I protect what’s mine, and if anyone gets in the way, I will do what I have to. That’s how I am.”

No’One studied those features, that stark expression, that tense, muscled body that was more like a male’s… and saw what was behind the strength: There was a vulnerability to Xhex, as if she were waiting to be turned away, shut out, shoved aside.

“I think that’s just fine.”

Xhex actually jumped. “What?”

No’One kicked up her chin once more. “I am surrounded by males who live by those rules. Why should it be any different for you because you are female? I’m rather of proud of you, actually. Better to be the aggressor than the aggressed upon—I should much rather have you of that mind than any other.”

Xhex took a shuddering breath. “God… damn… you have no idea how badly I need to hear that right now.”

“I shall be pleased to repeat it, if you would like?”

“I never thought… well, whatever. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you called. I’m glad you…”

As the sentence was not finished, No’One smiled, a bright, shining light striking up within her chest. “Myself as well. Mayhap, if you have… how do they say, time off? We could tarry some hours away together?”

Xhex started to grin a little. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“You ever been on a motorcycle?”

“What’s that?”

“Come around to the front of the house. Let me show you.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Tohr came back at the end of the evening with two dirty daggers, no ammunition, and a bone bruise on his right calf that made him limp like a zombie.

Fucking tire irons. Then again, payback to that particular lesser had been kind of fun. Nothing like sanding the face off your enemy to lighten the mood.

Asphalt was his friend.

It had been a hard night fighting for all of them, a late one, too—both of which were good. The hours had sped by, and even though he stank like spoiled meat from all the black blood, and his new pair of leathers were going to have to be stitched up on one side, he felt better than he had when he’d headed out.

Fighting and fucking, as Rhage had always said. Those were the two best mood stabilizers there were.

Too bad the fact that he was more chilled out didn’t mean anything was different. The same shit was waiting for him as he came home.

Stepping through the vestibule, he began the disarming ritual, undoing his chest holster, his shoulder holster, his gun belt. The scent of freshly cooked lamb with rosemary filled the foyer, and a quick glance into the dining room showed that the doggen had set everything up properly, the silver gleaming, the crystal sparkling, people already beginning to gather for Last Meal.

No’One wasn’t among them as was usually the case.

Jogging up the stairs, he couldn’t deny the arousal that got harder and harder the higher he went. But the erection didn’t exactly make him happy.

You know as well as I do how much you haven’t done.

When he got to his door, he gripped the knob and closed his eyes. Then, forcing the panels wide, he said, “No’One?”

Her shift would have been over for about an hour—Fritz had insisted that she have some time to ready herself for dining, something she had fought initially, but seemed to have been taking advantage of lately, as the Jacuzzi was always damp at its drain when he came back after fighting.

He hoped he wouldn’t catch her in the tub. He wanted a shower, and didn’t know how to handle the two of them in the bathroom naked together.

You know as well as I do—

“Shut. Up.” He dropped his weapons and started to shuck his muscle shirt and his shitkickers. “No’One? You here?”

Frowning, he leaned into the bathroom, and found a whole lot of nobody.

No fragrance in the air. No draining water in the tub. No towels out of place.

Weird.

With a scattered head, he went back out into the corridor, hit the grand staircase and put the hidden door underneath it to good use. As he went through the underground tunnel, he wondered if she was in the pool.

He hoped she wasn’t. His cock prayed she was.

For godsakes, he didn’t know what the fuck to think anymore.

Except… she wasn’t floating, naked or otherwise, on its surface. And she wasn’t where the washers and dryers were. Not in the weight room or the locker room or the gym restacking towels. Not in the clinic area putting fresh scrubs in the shelving, either.

She wasn’t… there.

His trip back to the mansion took half the time of the jog out, and when he got to the kitchen, all he found was a shitload of doggen doing the dinner scurry.

Stretching his senses out for the first time, he discovered… she wasn’t anywhere in the mansion.

A striking panic went through him, making his head hum—

No, wait, that was the sound of a… motorcycle?

The deep, rumbling growl made no sense. Unless Xhex had come home for some reason—which was good news for John—

No’One was out in front of the house. Right now.

Tracking his blood in her veins, he ran out across the foyer, shot through the vestibule, and… stopped dead on the top step of the entrance.

Xhex was on her Ducati, her black leather form fitting perfectly with the bike. And right behind her? No’One was sharing the seat, her hood off, her hair a frizzy mess, her smile as bright as the sun.

The expression changed as she saw him, tightening up.

“Hey,” he said, feeling his heart rate start to return to normal.

Behind him, he sensed someone else come out of the vestibule. John.

Xhex glanced at her mate and nodded, but did not cut the engine. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “You okay there, Mom?”

“Yes, indeed.” No’One dismounted awkwardly, her robe resettling down at her feet as if it were relieved to have the joyride over with. “I shall see you tomorrow night?”

“Yup. I’ll pick you up at three.”

“Perfect.”

The two females shared a smile that was so easy, he nearly teared the fuck up: Some kind of something had been reached between them… and if he couldn’t have his Wellsie and son back… yeah, he would want No’One to find her true family.

Looked like a step in the right direction had been taken.

As No’One walked up the steps, John traded places with her, going down to the bike. Tohr wanted to ask her where they’d gone, what she’d done, what had been said. But he reminded himself that sleeping arrangements notwithstanding, he didn’t have a right to any of that.

Which told him exactly how far they hadn’t come, didn’t it.

“You have fun?” he said as he backed up and held the door open for her.

“Yes, I did.” She gathered the hem of her robe and limped into the vestibule. “Xhex took me for a motorcycle ride—or is it motorbike?”

“Either one works.” Death trap. Donor cycle. Whatevs. “Next time, you wear a helmet, though.”

“Helmet? As in an equestrian one?”

“Not exactly. We’re talking about something a little sturdier than velvet with a chin strap. I’ll get you one.”

“Oh, thank you.” She smoothed the wisps that were all over her cap of blond hair. “It was so… exhilarating. Like flying. I was scared at first, but she went slowly. Later, though, I learned to love it. We went very fast.”

Well, didn’t that make him want to shit in a bag for the rest of his life.

And for once, he found himself wishing she was afraid. That Ducati was nothing but an engine with a goddamn seat bolted to it. One bounce off the back, and that delicate skin of hers would be nothing but red paint for the road.

“Yeah… that’s great.” In his head, he started to give her a safety lecture that revolved around the fundamentals of kinetic energy and medical terms like hematoma and amputation. “You ready to eat?”

“I’m famished. All that fresh air.”

In the distance, he heard the roar of that bike taking off, and then John came in looking like death.

The kid went directly to the billiards room, and ten to one, he wasn’t after a handful of honey-roasted—but there would be no talking with him. He’d made that pretty damn clear at the beginning of the night.

“Come on,” Tohr said. “Let’s go sit down.”

The usual din of conversation around the table quieted as they came through the arches, but he was too focused on the female walking ahead of him to care. The idea that she’d been out in the world on her own, roaring along in the night with Xhex, made her seem… different.

The No’One he knew would never have done something like that.

And, shit… for some reason, his body juiced at the thought of her in clothes other than that robe of hers, straddling that bike, her hair free from that braid and trailing into the night.

What would she look like in jeans? The good kind… the kind that hugged a female’s ass, and made a male want to do some riding of the non-cycle variety.

Abruptly, he pictured her naked and up against the wall, her legs spread, her hair unbraided, her hands cupping her breasts. Like a good boy, he was on his knees, his mouth on her sex, his tongue licking at that place he had learned so much about with his fingers.

He was sucking on her. Feeling her against his face as she arched up and got tight—

The growl that came out of him was loud enough to echo in the silent room. Loud enough to bring No’One’s surprised face around over her shoulder. Loud enough to make him seem like a total ass.

To cover his tracks, he made elaborate work out of pulling her chair from the table. Like the shit was brain surgery.

As No’One sat down, her own arousal drifted up into his nose, and he nearly had to strangle himself to keep another growl from vibrating up out of his chest.

Parking it in his own seat, his erection got pinched big-time behind his fly, and that was just fine. Maybe the blood supply would get cut off and the bitch would deflate—except… well, going on the cock-ring theory, the opposite would likely be true.

Fantastic.

He picked up his napkin, snapped it free of its elaborate fold, and—

Everyone was looking at him and No’One. The Brotherhood. Their shellans. Even the doggen who had yet to start serving.

“What,” he muttered, as he laid the damask across his lap.

Annnnd that was when he realized that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. And No’One hadn’t put up her hood.

Hard to know who was getting more attention. Probably her, as most folks hadn’t seen her without her face covered—

Before he knew it, his upper lip curled off his elongated fangs, and he met each one of the males in the eye, hissing at them low and nasty. In spite of the fact that they were all happily mated. And his brothers. And he had no right to be territorial.

Lot of brows went up. A couple of folks asked for another shot of whatever they were drinking. Someone started whistling casually.

As No’One quickly put her hood back into place, awkward conversations about the weather and sports sprouted.

Tohr just rubbed his temples. Hard to know what was giving him his headache.

There was so much to choose from.

In the end, the meal passed by without further incident. Then again, short of a food fight or a fire in the kitchen, it was hard to imagine what could have been a worthy second act to his playing rattlesnake at the Brotherhood.

When things broke up, he and No’One beat feet out of the dining room—but not for the same reason, evidently.

“I have to go to work now,” she said as they came up to the staircase. “I was gone all evening.”

“You can catch up at nightfall.”

“That wouldn’t be right.”

As he found himself on the verge of telling her she should go to bed instead, he realized that in the last few months, No’One had spent time only with him: Yeah, sure, she had worked, but she did that alone, and at meals she stayed quiet.

Come to think of it, when they were upstairs, they were either hitting it or asleep. So she didn’t really interact with him, either.

“Where did you and Xhex go?”

“All over. Down to the river. Into town.”

He closed his eyes briefly at the “into town” bit. And then had to wonder why he had never taken her anywhere. Whenever he was off rotation, he was down in the gym or reading in bed, waiting for her to be done. It had never dawned on him to do anything with her out in the world.

That’s because you’ve been hiding her as best you can, his conscience pointed out.

Whatever. She was always working—

“Hey, wait a minute, why don’t you get any evenings off?” he demanded with a frown as he did the math. Shit, what the hell was that butler doing, working this female to the bone—

“Oh, I do, but I never take them. I don’t like to simply sit around.”

Tohr rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, “I’ll go down to the training center and get started now.”

“When will you be finished.”

“Probably about four in the afternoon.”

“Okay.” As she turned away, he put a hand on her forearm. “Ah, listen, if you go into the locker room during daylight hours, always knock and announce yourself, ’kay?”

The last thing anyone needed was her getting a gander at one of his naked brothers.

“Oh, of course. I always do.”

As she disappeared around the corner, he watched her go, her limping form carrying an innate dignity that he abruptly felt he hadn’t been honoring.

“We have a date, remember?”

Glancing to the right, he shook his head at Lassiter. “Not in the mood.”

“Tough shit. Come on—I’ve got it all set up.”

“Look, no offense, but I’m not good company now—”

“When are you ever?”

“I really don’t—”

“Blah, blah, blah. Shut the fuck up and get your ass in gear.”

As the angel grabbed hold and pulled, Tohr gave up the fight and allowed himself to be dragged up the staircase and down the hall of statues—and out the other side. They went past his room, past the boys’ rooms, past Z and Bella and Nalla’s suite. Out into the staff quarters. Over to the entrance to the movie theater.

Tohr stopped dead. “If this is another Beaches marathon, I’m going to Bette your ass until you can’t sit down.”

“Aw, look at you! Trying to be finny.”

“Seriously, if you have any compassion in you at all, you’ll let me go to bed—”

“I have peanut M&M’s up there.”

“Not my style.”

“Raisinets.”

“Feh.”

“Sam Adams.”

Tohr narrowed his eyes. “Cold?”

“Downright icy.”

Tohr crossed his arms over his chest and told himself he was not pouting like a five-year-old. “I want Milk Duds.”

“Got ’em. And popcorn.”

With a curse, Tohr yanked open the door and ascended into the dimly lit red cave. The angel made everything seamless once they got up there: Deep-dish ass palaces engaged. Sam Adams with backups on the floor in a bucket with ice. An embarrassing caloric display with, yup, a yellow box of Milk Duds. And the damn popcorn.

They sat down side by side, and kicked up the footrests.

“Tell me this isn’t a fifties-era sex-ed film,” Tohr muttered.

“Nah. Popcorn?” the angel said as he hit play and offered a bowl. “Extra butter—the good plastic kind, too. Not that bullshit real cow crap.”

“I’m okay right now.”

Up on the screen, some movie studio’s intro played along with a bunch of credits. And then there were two old people sitting on a couch. Talking.

Tohr took a pull of his beer. “What the hell is this?”

“When Harry Met Sally.”

Tohr lowered the longneck from his mouth. “What?”

“Shut it. After this, we’re going to watch an episode of Moonlighting. Then An Affair to Remember—the old-school one, not that stupidity with Warren Beatty. Then The Princess Bride—”

Tohr hit the switch by his hip and straightened the chair up. “Okay. Right. Have fun with this—”

Lassiter hit pause and clamped a hard hand on his shoulder. “Sit the fuck back. Watch and learn.”

“What? How much I hate rom-coms? How ’bout we just stipulate that and let me go.”

“You’re going to need this.”

“For my second career as a pussy?”

“Because you have to remember how to be romantic.”

Tohr shook his head. “No. Nope. Not going to happen…”

As he hopped on the over-my-dead-body train, Lassiter just kept shaking his head. “You gotta remember it’s possible, buddy.”

“The hell I do—”

“You’re stalled, Tohr. And whereas you might have time to fart around, Wellsie doesn’t have that luxury.”

Tohr shut up. Sat back. Started to pick off the label on his beer. “I can’t do that, man. I can’t pretend to feel… that way.”

“Kind of like you can’t have sex with No’One? Just how long do you plan on going on like you are?”

“Until you disappear. Until Wellsie’s free and you’re gone.”

“And how’s that working for you. You like that dream you woke up with today?”

“Movies aren’t going to help,” he said after a moment.

“What else are you going to do? Jack off in your room until No’One comes back from work—then jack off next to her? Oh, wait, let me guess—pace around aimlessly. Because it’s not like you’ve ever done that before.” Lassiter shoved the bowl he’d offered into Tohr’s face. “What the fuck is it going to cost you to hang here with me. Shut up and eat your half of the popcorn, asshole.”

Tohr accepted what was in his grill only because it was either that or he ended up with Orville all over his lap.

One hour and thirty-six minutes later, he had to clear his throat as Meg Ryan told Billy Crystal that she hated him in the middle of a New Year’s Eve party.

“Sauce on the side,” Lassiter said as he got up. “The answer to everything.”

A minute later, young Bruce Willis came onscreen, and Tohr sent up a prayer of thanks. “This is much better. We need more beer, though.”

“Got it.”

A case of lager later and they had blown through two epis of Moonlighting, including a Christmas one where the cast and crew sang along with the actors in the last scene.

Which did not make him clear his throat again.

Really. It didn’t.

Then they tried to get through An Affair to Remember. At least until Lassiter took pity on them both and started to rock the fast-forward button.

“Chicks say this is the greatest,” the angel muttered, as he hit the button again and whoever it was started speed-emoting. “Maybe this one was a mistake.”

“Amen on that.”

Okay, the princess movie did not suck—that shit was funny in places. And, yeah, it was… cool when the pair got together at the end. Plus he liked Columbo as the granddad. But he couldn’t really say any of it was turning him into a Casanova.

Lassiter glanced over. “We’re not done yet.”

“Just keep beering me.”

“Ask and ye shall receive.”

The angel handed him a freshie and disappeared into the control room to switch DVDs. As he came back down to where they were sitting, the screen lit up with—

Tohr jacked forward in his seat. “What the hell!”

As Lassiter’s big body cut through the projection onto the screen, a gigantic pair of flapping breasts covered his face and chest. “Adventures in the MILFy Way. A true classic.”

“It’s porn!”

“Duh—”

“Okay, I am not sitting through this with you.”

The angel, still standing up, shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure you know what you’re missing.”

Moans rumbled through the surround sound as those boobs… those frickin’ boobs looked like they were slapping Lassiter in the piehole—

Tohr covered his eyes at the horror. “No! Not doing this!”

Lassiter cut off the movie, the sounds disappearing. And a quick intrafinger check indicated that it was a stop, not a pause, mercifully.

“I’m just trying to get through to you.” Lassiter sat down, cracked open a beer, and looked tired. “Man, this angel crap… it’s so fucking hard to influence anything. I’ve never had a problem with free will before, but for shit’s sake, I wish I could just I Dream of Jeannie you to where you need to be.” As Tohr winced, the angel muttered, “It’s okay, though. We’ll get you there somehow—”

“Actually, I’m cringing at the vision of you in a pink harem costume.”

“Hey, I have a great ass, I’ll have you know.”

They drank beer for a while until a Sony logo started to appear at random points on the screen. “You ever been in love?” Tohr asked.

“Once. Never again.”

“What happened.” When the angel didn’t answer, Tohr shot a look over. “Oh, so it’s fine for you to be all up in my dark-and-dirty, but you can’t return the favor?”

Lassiter shrugged. Opened yet another beer. “You know what I think?”

“Not unless you tell me.”

“I think we should try another epi of Moonlighting.”

Tohr exhaled long and slow and had to agree. It didn’t suck watching movies with the guy, talking over the dialogue while drinking Sam Adams and eating crap food. In fact, he could not remember the last time he’d ever just… hung out.

Of course, it must have been with Wellsie. If he’d had downtime, he’d always spent it with her.

God, how many days had they frittered away, mindlessly checking out in front of the television, watching reruns and crappy cable movies and droning newscasts. They’d held hands, or she’d lain on his chest, or he’d played with her hair.

Such wasted time, he thought. But when they’d been in that suck zone of minutes and hours, it had been… a simple, easy kind of bliss.

One more thing to mourn.

“How about something later in Willis’s career?” he said roughly.

“Die Hard?”

“You set it up and I’ll put another fire in the hole at the popcorn machine.”

“Deal.”

As they both rose and headed for the back, him to the candy and soda counter, Lassiter to the control booth, Tohr stopped the guy.

“Thanks, man.”

The angel gave him a knock in the shoulder, and then went about getting some yippee-ki-yay-motherfucker on deck. “Just doing my job.”

Tohr watched the angel’s blond-and-black head duck through the narrow doorway.

Fuck free will was right. And as for him and No’One?

It was tough to think about what was coming next. Hell, when he’d first hooked up with her, it had taken the hide right off of him to ride through all the emotions just so he could accept her vein, give her his, and be with her to the extent he had.

If he took this any farther?

The next level was going to make that shit look like a walk in the park.

THIRTY-EIGHT

It was twelve noon when Xcor’s cellular device went off, and the soft chiming roused him from his light sleep. With awkward jabs, he hunted and pecked around for the green send button, and after he hit it, he put the thing to his ear.

In practice, he hated the damn things. In practical terms, they were an incredible benefit, one that made him question why he had ever been so resistant.

“Aye,” he demanded. When a haughty voice answered him, he smiled into the dim candlelight of the basement. “Greetings, gentlemale. How fare thee this day, Elan?”

“What… what…” The aristocrat had to marshal more breath. “Whatever have you sent me?”

His source on the Council had a rather high voice to begin with; the care package that had obviously just been opened lifted the male’s tone into the stratosphere.

“Proof of our work.” As he spoke, heads began to lift off of bunks, his Band of Bastards waking, listening. “I did not want you to think that we had overestimated our effectiveness—or, the Scribe Virgin preserve us, been untruthful with respect to our activities.”

“I… I… Whatever shall I do with… this?”

Xcor rolled his eyes. “Mayhap some of your servants could parcel it up and share it among your fellow Council members. And then I imagine your carpet will need to be cleaned.”

Inside the three-foot-by-three-foot cardboard box he’d had delivered, Xcor had put some of the souvenirs of their kills, all manner of bits and pieces of lessers: arms, hands, that spinal column, a head, part of a leg. He had been saving them up, preparing for the right moment to both shock the Council… and prove that the job was getting done.

The gamble was that the grotesque nature of his “gift” would backfire and they would be viewed as savages. The potential payoff was that he and his soldiers would be seen as effective.

Elan cleared his throat. “Indeed, you have been… rather busy.”

“I realize that it is grisly, but war is a grisly business that you should merely be the beneficiary of, not a participant in. We need to save you—” Until you are no longer useful. “—from such unpleasantness. I should like to point out, however, that that is but a small sampling of the very many we have killed.”

“In truth?”

The bit of awe there was gratifying. “Aye. You may be assured that we fight every night for the race, and we are highly successful.”

“Yes, clearly, you are… and I would stipulate that I require no more ‘proof,’ as it were. I will say, however, that I was going to call you late this afternoon anyway. The final appointment with the king has been scheduled.”

“Oh?”

“I called the members of the Council because I have scheduled for this evening a gathering—keeping it informal, of course, so that there is no procedural requirement to include Rehvenge. Assail has indicated he cannot attend. Clearly, he must have an audience with the king—or he would come unto my home.”

“Clearly,” Xcor drawled. Or rather, clearly not. Given Assail’s nightly pursuits, which had only intensified since the summer, he was likely busy enough. “And I thank you for the information.”

“When the others arrive, I shall exhibit this… display,” the aristocrat said.

“Do that. And tell them that I am ready to meet with them at any time. You just call upon me—I am your servant in this as in all things. In fact,” he paused for effect, “it shall be an honor to associate with them under your introduction—and together, you and I may ensure that they understand adequately the vulnerable state they are in under the rule of the Blind King, and the safety that you and I can provide for them.”

“Oh, yes, indeed… yes.” The gentlemale perked up at all that verbiage—which was precisely why it had been used. “And I am very appreciative of your candor.”

Amazing when calculation was mistaken for that.

“And I for your support, Elan.” As Xcor hung up the phone, he glanced over his soldiers and then focused on Throe. “After sunset, we coalesce upon Assail’s property once again. Mayhap it will come to aught this time.”

As the others growled their readiness, he mutely raised his cell phone… and inclined his head to his second in command.

“Sire, we have arrived. The door is shutting behind our vehicle.”

As Fritz’s voice came through the van’s intercom, the butler’s report wasn’t a news flash, even though Tohr couldn’t see anything of where they were from his vantage point in the back.

“Thanks, man.”

Drumming his fingers on the floor’s Duraliner, he was still buzzed from all those beers he’d had with Lassiter, and his stomach was a sour pit thanks to that marathon of plastic butter and Milk Duds.

Then again, maybe the nausea was more about where they were.

“Sire, you are free to extricate yourself.”

Tohr crab-walked to the double doors, and wondered why the hell he was doing this to himself. After he and Lassiter had finished their homage to John McClane, the angel had taken off to go crash, and Tohr had… come up with this great idea, for no apparent reason.

Opening the way out… he stepped into his darkened garage and closed things up behind him.

Fritz put his window down. “Sire, mayhap I shall just wait here.”

“No, you go. I’m going to hang until sunset.”

“Are you certain the drapes are pulled indoors.”

“Yup. That’s protocol, and I trust my doggen.”

“Mayhap I shall simply go through and double-check?”

“That’s really not—”

“Please, sire. Do not send me home to face your king and your Brothers without my knowing you are safe.”

Hard to argue with that. “I’ll wait here.”

The doggen hustled his old bones out from behind the wheel and headed across the way with admirable speed—probably because he was worried Tohr would change his mind.

As the butler slipped into the house, Tohr wandered around, inspecting his old lawn equipment, his rakes, his salt for the driveway. The Stingray convertible had been relocated to the mansion’s garage… back on the night he’d brought Wellsie’s gown over for Xhex.

He hadn’t wanted to return here to drop off the dress after it had been cleaned and pressed.

Wasn’t sure he wanted to be here now.

“All is secure, sire.”

Tohr pivoted away from the empty space where the Corvette had been parked. “Thanks, man.”

There was no waiting for the butler to leave before he went in—too much sunlight on the other side of the garage doors. So with a final wave, he pulled himself together… and walked into the back hall.

As the door clamped shut behind him, the first thing he saw in the mudroom was their winter coats. The damn parkas were still hung up on pegs, his, Wellsie’s, and John’s.

John’s was tiny, because he’d been just a pretrans back then.

It was like the damn things were waiting for them all to come home again.

“Good luck with that,” he muttered.

Bracing himself, he kept going, entering the kitchen that had been Wellsie’s dream.

Fritz had thoughtfully left lights on, and the shock of seeing everything for the first time since the deaths made Tohr wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to come in in the dark: The countertops they had chosen together, and that massive Sub-Zero she had loved so much, and that table they had bought online at 1stdibs.com, and the set of shelves he had put up for her cookbooks… all of it was on display, gleaming and clean as the day it had been installed/delivered/assembled.

Shit, nothing had changed. Everything was exactly as it had been the night she had been killed, his doggen keeping after the dust and that was it.

Walking over to the built-in desk, he forced himself to pick up a Post-it note with her handwriting on it.

Tues: Havers—checkup, 11:30.

He dropped the pad and turned away, seriously questioning his sanity. Why had he come here? What possible good could come out of this?

Wandering around, he went through the living room, the library, and the dining room, making a loop of the first floor’s public rooms… until he felt like he couldn’t breathe, until the alchie buzz was beyond gone and his vision and his sense of smell and his hearing were unbearably acute. Why was he—

Tohr blinked as he found himself in front of a door.

He’d come full circle, back to the kitchen.

And he was standing at the way into the basement.

Ah, shit. Not this… he wasn’t ready for this.

The truth was, Lassiter and his dumb-ass movies had done more damage than good. All those couples up on the screen… even though they were contrived instruments of fiction, some of them had filtered into his brain, and triggered all kinds of things.

None of which had been about Wellsie.

Instead, he’d thought only about those days with No’One, the two of them straining with all those blankets between their bodies, she looking up at him as if she wanted so much more than he was giving her, he holding back out of respect for his dead… and maybe because he was a fucking coward at his core.

Probably equal bits of both.

Given what was banging around in his head, he’d had to come here. He needed memories of his beloved, images of his Wellsie that maybe he’d forgotten, a powerful blast from the past to compete with what felt like a betrayal in the present.

From a vast distance, he watched his hand reach out and grab the doorknob. Twisting to the right, he pulled the heavy, painted steel panel wide. As the motion-activated lights came on in the stairwell, he was hit with a whole lot of cream: the steps that went downward were carpeted in a mellow buff, and the walls were painted likewise, everything calming and serene.

This had been their sanctuary.

The first step was the equivalent of jumping off the lip of the Grand Canyon. And number two wasn’t any better.

He still felt that way when he got to the bottom and there was no more descent to be had.

The basement of the house followed the first-floor plan, although only two-thirds of the space was finished with a master suite, a gym, a laundry, and a minikitchen fleshed out, and the rest functioning as storage.

Tohr had no idea how long he stood there.

Eventually, though, he walked forward, toward the closed door up ahead.…

The fact that he opened the thing into a black hole seemed absolutely right—

Fuuuuck, it still smelled like her. Her perfume. Her scent.

Stepping inside, he closed himself in and braced himself as he hit the wall switch, bringing up the overheads gradually.

The bed was made.

Likely by her hands: Even though they had staff, she had been the kind of female who liked to do things herself. Cooking. Cleaning. Folding laundry.

Making their bed at the end of every day.

There wasn’t a lick of dust on any of the surfaces, not the dressers, his and hers… not the nightstands, his with the alarm clock, hers with the phone… not the desk with the computer that they had shared.

Goddamn, he couldn’t breathe.

To take a little break from his crucible, he went into the bathroom with the idea of catching up on the oxygen requirements of his body.

He should have known better. She was all over the tiled space, too; just as she was all over the house.

Opening one of the cabinets, he picked up a pump bottle of her hand lotion and read the label, back and front—something he had never done when she’d been alive. He did the same with one of her backup shampoo bottles, as well as a jar of bath salts that… yup, smelled just as he remembered, lemon verbena.

Back to the bedroom.

Over to the walk-in closet…

He wasn’t sure exactly when the shift occurred. Maybe it was as he went through her sweaters that were stacked in the cubbies. Maybe it was as he stared at her shoes in their neat, marching order on the tilted shelves. Maybe it was as he trolled through her blouses on their hangers, or no, her slacks… or maybe the skirts or the dresses…

But eventually, in the silence, in his aching loneliness, in his perennial grief… it dawned on him that this was all just stuff.

Her clothing, her makeup, her toiletries… the bed she had made, the kitchen she had cooked in, the house she had made their own.

It was only stuff.

And just as she was never going to fill out her mating gown again, she was never coming back here to claim any of this. It had all been hers and she had worn it, and used it, and needed every bit of it—but it wasn’t her.

Say it—say that she’s dead.

I can’t.

You’re the problem.

Nothing he had done in his mourning process had brought her back. Not the agony of reminiscing, not the mindless drinking, not the worthless weak tears or the resistance to another female… not the avoidance of this place, or the hours sitting alone with an empty hole in his chest.

She was gone.

And that meant that all of this was just stuff in an empty house.

God… this was not at all what he had expected to feel. He had come here to pave over No’One. Instead? All he’d found was a collection of inanimate objects with no more power to transform where he was at than they could walk and talk on their own.

Although, considering where Wellsie was, the idea that he had been looking for a way to stop the connection with No’One was craziness. He should be rejoicing at the idea he was thinking of another female.

Instead, it still felt like a curse.

THIRTY-NINE

Back at the Brotherhood mansion, No’One sat upon the bed she shared with Tohrment, her robe lying on the duvet next to her, her shift covering her flesh.

Silent. So silent this room was without him.

Wherever was he?

When she had returned herein following her work down in the training center, she had expected to find him waiting upon her, warm and mayhap asleep upon the duvet. Instead, the covers were all arranged, the pillows ordered at the headboard, the extra comforter, the one he used to warm himself, still folded neatly at the foot of the mattress.

He had not been in the weight room, the pool, or the gym. Nor had he been in the kitchen when she had stopped briefly to gather a refreshment for herself. Or the billiards room or library.

And he had not appeared for First Meal, either.

The knob turned and she jumped—only to release a deep, easing exhale. Her blood in the warrior’s body announced his arrival even before his scent came upon her nose or his body filled the jambs.

He still didn’t have a shirt on. Or boots upon his feet.

And his stare was dark and desolate as the corridors of Dhund.

“Where have you been,” she whispered.

He ducked both her eyes and the question by going into the bathroom. “I’m late. Wrath’s called a meeting.”

As the shower came on, she gathered her robe and drew it over her shoulders, knowing that he was uncomfortable with her in any manner of undress out of bed. But that wasn’t the cause of his mood; he’d been as such afore he’d even looked her way.

His beloved, she thought. It had to have something to do with his beloved.

And she should probably leave him be.

But she did not.

When he came out, he had a towel wrapped around his hips, and he went directly to the closet without sparing her a glance. Propping a palm on the doorjamb, he opened up and leaned in, the name upon his shoulders spotlit under the ceiling fixture above him.

Except he didn’t take any clothing out. He hung his head and fell still.

“I went home today,” he said abruptly.

“Today? As in… during the daylight hours?”

“Fritz took me.”

Her heart beat hard at the thought of him exposed to sunshine— Wait, hadn’t they lived together here?

“We had our own place,” he said. “We didn’t stay here with everyone else.”

So this was not his mated room. Or his mated bed.

When he didn’t say anything further, she prompted, “What did you… find there?”

“Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.”

“It had been emptied of your things?”

“No, I left it all exactly as it was the night she died. Down to the dishes that are clean in the dishwasher, the mail on the counter, the mascara she left out right before she took off for the last time.”

Oh, the agony for him, she thought.

“I went there looking for her, and all I got was an exhibition of the past.”

“But you are never far from her—your Wellesandra is ever with you. She breathes in your heart.”

Tohrment pivoted around, his eyes hooded, intense. “Not like she used to.”

Abruptly, she straightened under his gaze. Fiddled with the edge of her robe. Crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. “Why are you looking at me like that.”

“I want to fuck you. That’s why I went back home.”

As No’One’s face registered high-octane shock, Tohr didn’t bother to temper the truth with pretty words or apologies or any kind of fanfare. He was just too done with everything: fighting his body, arguing with destiny, wrestling with an inevitability that he had been refusing to yield to for too long.

Standing in front of her, he was naked in a way that had nothing to do with a lack of clothes. Naked and tired… and hungry for her—

“Then you may have me,” she said in a soft voice.

As her words sank in, he felt himself pale. “Do you understand what I said?”

“You were blunt enough.”

“You’re supposed to tell me to go to hell.”

There was a short pause. “Well, we do not have to proceed.”

No rancor. No begging. No disappointment—it was all about him and where he was at.

How could she be so… kind? he wondered.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, feeling like he wanted to return the favor.

“You won’t. I know you are still in love with your mate, and I do not blame you. What you had with her is a once-in-a-lifetime love.”

“What about you?”

“I have no need or desire to take her place. And I accept you just as you are, in any fashion you choose to come to me. Or not, if that is the way it must be.”

Tohr cursed as a part of his pain unexpectedly eased. “That isn’t fair to you.”

“Yes, it is. I am happy to simply have time with you. That is enough—and more than I could ever have expected out of my fate. These past few months have been a complicated joy that I wouldn’t have traded anything for. If it must end, then at least I’ve had what I did. And if it goes further then I am luckier than I deserve. And… if it puts you in some small way at peace then I have served my only purpose.”

As she fell silent, that quiet dignity of hers slayed him, it truly did. And it was with a sense of utter unreality that he walked over to her, bent down and took her face into his palms.

Rubbing her cheek with his thumb, he stared into her eyes. “You are…” His voice broke. “You are such a female of worth.”

No’One put her hands up to his thick wrists, her touch soft and light. “Listen to my words and believe them. Do not worry about me. Take care of your heart and your soul first—that is what matters most.”

Kneeling in front of her, he worked his way in between her legs, filling the space he created with his body. As always with her, he felt both awkward and at ease being so close.

With his eyes, he traced her face, that beautiful, kind face. And then he zeroed in on her lips.

Moving slowly, he leaned in, not really sure what the hell he was doing. He had never kissed her. Not once. For all he knew about her body, he knew nothing of her mouth, and as her eyes flared, it was obvious she had never expected the intimacy.

Tilting his head to the side, he shut his lids… and closed the distance until he met a whole lot of velvet.

Softly, chastely, he pressed in and pulled back.

Not enough.

Dipping down again, he lingered at her mouth, brushing, plying. Then he abruptly broke off the contact and shoved himself to his feet. If he didn’t stop now, he wouldn’t at all, and he was already running late for Wrath and his brothers. Besides, this wasn’t about a quick sex session.

It was more important than that.

“I have to get dressed,” he told her. “I have to go.”

“And I shall be here when you return. If you want me to be.”

“I do.”

Turning away, he wasted no time in throwing his clothes on or gathering his weapons, and as soon as he nabbed his leather jacket, he had every intention of going right out the door. Instead, he stopped and looked at her. She had her fingertips up to her lips, her eyes wide and full of wonder… as if she had never felt anything even close to what she just had.

He went back to the bed. “Was that your first kiss?”

She blushed in the most lovely pink, her eyes dropping shyly to the carpet. “Yes.”

For a moment, all he could do was shake his head at everything she had been through.

Then he leaned down. “You gonna let me give you another?”

“Yes, please…” she breathed.

He kissed her longer this time, lingering on her lower lip, even clipping it gently with one of his fangs. At the contact, heat exploded between them, especially as he pulled her up against his body, holding her harder than he should given how many weapons were hanging off his torso.

Before he took her standing up, he forced himself to put her back on the bed. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“What ever for?”

All he could do was shrug because so much of his gratitude was too complicated to give voice to. “I guess for not trying to change me.”

“Never,” she said. “Now be safe.”

“I will.”

Out in the hall, he closed the door quietly and took a deep breath.…

“You all right, my brother?”

He shook himself and glanced over at Z. The male was likewise dressed for fighting, but he was coming down the hall from the opposite direction of his suite.

“Ah, yeah, sure. Yourself?”

“I was sent to get you.”

Right. Got it. And he was glad it was Z. Undoubtedly the guy was well aware of his fucked-up mood, but unlike some of the others—*cough*Rhage*cough*—he would never pry.

Together, they walked down the hall and entered the king’s study, arriving just as V said, “I don’t like this. The one vampire who’s fucked us off for months suddenly calls from out of the blue and says he’s ready to see you?”

Assail, Tohr thought, while he settled against the bookshelves.

As his brothers muttered different variations on the not-so-hot theme, he put his game head on and agreed completely. Too much of a coincidence—

From behind the great desk, Wrath’s expression went stone-cold, and just the look on that face quieted the room: He was going, with or without the rest of them.

“Fucking hell,” Rhage bitched. “You can’t be serious.”

Cursing under his breath, Tohr figured he might as well cut past the argument stage: given the thrust of Wrath’s jaw, the brothers were going to lose in any contest of will. “You are wearing a Kevlar vest,” he told the king.

Wrath bared his fangs. “When have I not.”

“Just needed to be clear on that. What time do you want to leave?”

“Now.”

Vishous lit up a hand-rolled and blew out smoke. “Fucking hell is right.”

Wrath stood up, grasped George’s halter, and came around from the throne. “I want just a regular squadron of four. We go there with too many guns and it’s going to look like we’re nervous. Tohr, V, John, and Qhuinn are going to be on first string.”

Made sense. Rhage with his beast was too much of a wild card. Z and Phury were technically off rotation tonight. Butch needed to be on standby with the Escalade. And Rehv wasn’t in the room, which meant his day job of being king of the symphaths had taken him up north again.

Oh, and Payne? Given what she looked like, she was liable to fritz Assail’s circuits out, rendering him too stupid to speak. Like her twin, she tended to make a big impression on the opposite sex.

Everyone would just be a text away, however, and Wrath was right: They brought the whole fan-damn-ily and that was going to send the wrong message.

As everybody filed out and hit the grand staircase, there were all kinds of under-the-breath grousing, and at the bottom, weapons were rechecked and holsters tightened an extra notch.

Tohr glanced across at John. Qhuinn was on the kid’s ass tighter than a pair of pants, and that was a good thing as it was obvious that all was still not well in John’s world: he smelled like his bonding scent, but looked like death.

The king bent down and talked to George for a moment. Then he grabbed his queen and kissed her like he meant it. “I’ll be home before you know it, leelan.”

While Wrath walked through the crowd and disappeared into the courtyard without aid, Tohr went over to Beth, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’m gonna bring him back as soon as it’s over—in one piece.”

“Thank you—God, thank you.” She put her arms around him and hugged him hard. “I know he’s safe with you.”

As she sank to her haunches to comfort the anxious retriever, Tohr headed for the door, slowing down as he joined the traffic jam of brothers at the vestibule. Waiting to file through, he glanced up at the second-floor balcony. No’One was at the head of the stairs, standing by herself, that hood of hers down.

The braid needed to go, he thought to himself. Hair as beautiful as hers was meant to catch the light and shine.

He lifted his hand in a wave, and after she echoed the good-bye, he ducked out and emerged into the cold night.

Standing close, but not too close to John, he waited for Wrath to give the nod, and then he dematerialized with the king and the boys to a peninsula on the Hudson just north of Xhex’s cabin.

As Tohr re-formed in the midst of a thin beard of forest, the air was bracingly cold and smelled of fallen leaves and the wet rocks of the shoreline.

Up ahead, Assail’s contemporary mansion was a true showpiece, even from this rear view by the garages. The palatial structure had two main floors, with a porch that went all the way around, everything angled and windowed to provide as much of a view of the water as possible.

Dumb-ass place for a vampire to live. All that glass in the daylight?

Then again, what could you expect from a member of the glymera.

The house had been prescreened, as each of the other locations for the meetings had been, so they were familiar with the layout on the exterior—and V had broken in and surveyed the inside as well. Report: Nothing much in there, and clearly that hadn’t changed. In the lights that glowed from the ceilings, there was a whole lot of nothing much in the furniture department.

It was as if Assail lived in a display case featuring himself.

And yet apparently the guy had done a few smart things. According to V, all those glass panels were threaded with fine steel wires, in the manner of a car window defroster system, so there was no dematerializing in or out. He’d also cleared the lawn that circled the place so that if anything or anybody approached, they’d be sitting ducks.

On that note, Tohr let his instincts and senses roam… and had a grand total of nada hit his radar screen. Nothing moved that wasn’t supposed to: just tree limbs and leaves in the breeze, a deer about three hundred yards away, his brother and the boys behind him.

At least until a car came down the narrow, paved driveway.

Jaguar, Tohr guessed by the engine sound.

Yup, he was right. Black XKR. With blacked-out side windows.

The long-nosed convertible went by, stopped at the garage door nearest to the mansion, and then eased inside as the panels rose. Assail, or whoever it was behind the wheel, did not can the engine or get out of the car right away. He waited for the door to drop back into place behind him, and as it did, Tohr noticed there were no windowpanes in the thing. The shit was also a shade ever so slightly off from the trim on the rest of the house. Same with the other five bays.

He’d added those doors since he’d moved in, Tohr thought.

Maybe the SOB wasn’t a total moron.

“Okay, I’ll head over to the front door.” V’s diamond eyes flashed. “I’ll give you a signal… or you’ll hear that lightweight scream like a girl. Either way, you know what to do.”

Annnnnd off he went, dematerializing around the corner of the house. It would be better to have eyes on him, but Wrath was the most important part of this, and the tree line in the back was the only cover there was to be had.

As they waited, Tohr got his gun out, and so did John Matthew and Qhuinn. The king was dripping with forties, but his matched sets stayed put. Way too defensive to have him with a gat in his hand.

But your personal guard? Part of the cocksucking job description.

Keeping sharp, he wished, yet again, that they could leave the king at home for the pregame process, but Wrath had flat-out no’d that idea months ago. Too galling, no doubt, given that, unlike his father, he’d been a fighter before he’d taken the throne—it was just, fucking hell, moments like this made you want to peel your own face off.

Tohr’s cell phone went off three tense minutes later: Kitchen door by the garage.

“He wants us at the back entrance,” Tohr said, putting the thing away. “Wrath, that’s fifty yards straight ahead.”

“Roger that.”

The four of them dematerialized and reappeared on the rear stoop in a flanking formation that provided as much protection to Wrath as possible: Tohr was right in front of the king, John to his right, Qhuinn to his left. V immediately assumed the rear.

And right on cue, Assail opened the door.

FORTY

Tohr’s first impression of their host was that Assail hadn’t changed at all. He was still big enough to be a Brother, with hair so dark he made V seem like a blond. And his clothes were, as always, formal and perfectly tailored. He was also as cagey as ever, his stare shrewd and hooded… seeing too much, capable of too much.

Another fine addition to the continent.

Not.

The aristocrat smiled in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m guessing that’s Wrath in the middle of all those bodies?”

“Show some fucking respect,” V snapped.

“Compliments are the condiment of conversation.” Assail turned away, leaving them to come through the jambs by themselves. “They just get in the way—”

Wrath dematerialized right in the guy’s path, moving so fast they met chest-to-chest.

Baring fangs long as daggers, the king growled low. “Watch your mouth, son. Or I’ll make it impossible for you to throw any more bullshit around.”

Assail stepped back, his eyes narrowing like he was reading Wrath’s vital statistics. “You’re not like your father.”

“Neither are you. Unfortunately.”

As V shut the door, Assail went for his inside pocket—and immediately had four gun muzzles pointed at his head. As he froze, his eyes went from weapon to weapon.

“I was getting out a cigar.”

“I’d do it slowly if I were you,” Wrath murmured. “My boys wouldn’t mind dropping you where you stand.”

“Good thing we’re not in my living room. I love that rug.” He glanced over at V. “You sure you want to do this here in the mudroom?”

“Yeah, bitch, I am,” Vishous ground out.

“Window phobia?”

“You were about to light up,” Wrath said. “Or get lit up. How about we solve that one first and then talk about your sieve of a house.”

“I like the view.”

“Which could be me standing over your grave,” V announced as he nodded at the guy’s disappeared hand.

Cocking a brow, Assail pulled out a long Cuban, and made a point to show it to everybody. Then he went into a side pocket, took out a gold snipper, and held it up to his well-armed peanut gallery.

“Anyone care to join me? No?” He clipped the end off and lit up, seemingly unconcerned that his head was still in the crosshairs.

After a couple of puffs, he said, “So I want to know something.”

“Don’t give me an opening like that,” V muttered.

“Is that why you finally called me?” Wrath asked.

“Yes, it is.” The vampire rolled his cigar back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you have any intention of altering the laws concerning commerce with humans?”

Leaning to the side, Tohr did a flash scan of what he could see of the rest of the house—which wasn’t much: modern kitchen, a hint of the dining room, a living room out the far side. Finding no one moving through the empty rooms, he refocused.

“No,” Wrath said. “Provided the business stays under the radar, you can do what you want. What kind of commerce are you in.”

“Retail.”

“Of what?”

“Does it matter.”

“If you’re not answering, I’m going to assume drugs or women.” Wrath frowned when there was no reply. “So which one is it.”

“Women are too much trouble.”

“That drug shit is tough to keep under the radar.”

“Not the way I take care of things.”

V piped up. “So you’re the reason middlemen have been capping themselves in alleys.”

“No comment.”

Wrath frowned again. “Why bring this up now?”

“Let’s just say I’ve run into one too many interested parties.”

“Be more specific.”

“Well, one of them’s about six feet tall. Brush-cut dark hair. Name rhymes with sex, and her body’s built for it.”

Oh, no, you didn’t, Tohr thought—

The hiss that came out of John brought everyone’s head around. And what do you know, the guy’s eyes were trained on Assail as if, at least in his mind, he was already ripping the male’s throat out.

“I beg your pardon,” Assail drawled. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with her in some manner.”

Tohr growled on behalf of his son—even though they were estranged. “He’s a fuck of a lot more than just acquainted. So you can blow that speculation out your ass—and while you’re at it, stay away from her.”

“She was the one who came to me.”

Greeeeeeeeeeeeeeat. That went over like a lead balloon—

Before shit got out of hand, Wrath held up his palm. “I don’t give a fuck what you do with humans—provided you clean up any messes. But if you get tagged, you’re on your own.”

“What about our species interfering with my commerce.”

Wrath smiled a little, his cruel face showing absolutely no humor. “Having trouble defending your territory already? Guess what. You can’t have what you can’t keep.”

Assail inclined his head. “Fair enough—”

The shattering of glass sounded out behind them all, cutting through everything, crushing time down to a crawl: gunfire.

With a mighty lunge, Tohr went airborne, his massive body flying over the Spanish tile, his target: Wrath.

As a rat-tat-tat-tat-tat spray of bullets hit the back of the house, he tackled the king to the floor, covering his brother with as much of his body as possible. Everyone else, including Assail, likewise hit the ground and shuffled for cover against various walls.

“My lord, are you hit?” Tohr hissed in Wrath’s ear as he hit send on the text alarm.

“Maybe the neck,” came a groaned response.

“Lie still.”

“You’re all over me. Exactly where do you think I’m going.”

Tohr twisted his head around to eyeball where everybody was. V was all about Assail, his hand locked on the guy’s throat, his weapon tight on their host’s temple. And Qhuinn and John were back-flatted on either side of where they’d come in, covering the outside as well as the entryway into the kitchen.

The cold breeze coming through the broken windowpane in the door did not provide any particular scent, and that proved who it was: Slayers would have stunk up the place given that both the prevailing wind and the shot came from the north.

It was Xcor and his Band of Bastards.

But come on, like they didn’t know that already. That single shot had to have come from a rifle, and had to have been aimed at Wrath through those fucking panes in the door—and it had been a long while since the Lessening Society had shown any finesse in their attacks.

“You were supposed to keep this meeting private, vampire,” V said in a deadly tone.

“No one knows you’re here.”

“Then I’ll assume you ordered an assassination all by your lonesome.”

He was going to shoot the motherfucker, Tohr thought without caring. Right here, right now.

Assail kept it cool, squaring off at the Brother so that the gun muzzle was now pointed at the center of his forehead. “Fuck you—that’s why I wanted to do this out in the living room. That’s bulletproof glass out there, asshole. And P.S., I’m hit, you fool.”

The male lifted his arm and showed off his dripping right hand, the one that had been holding the cigar.

“So maybe your friends have bad aim.”

“That was not bad aim. I’m a target, too—”

More bullets sprayed the back of the house, finding their way in through the cutout in the door. Fucking hell, thermal pane was good against the New York winters, but it didn’t do shit to stop Remington’s best.

“How you doing?” Tohr whispered in Wrath’s ear as he checked his phone for a response from his other brothers.

“Fine. You?” Except the king coughed… and, man, there was a rattle in his lungs.

He was bleeding somewhere along his respiratory tract—

Moving fast as a gasp, Assail slipped out of V’s hold, and streaked across the back of the mudroom, heading for a door that had to let out into the garage. “Don’t shoot! I’ve got a car you can take him in! And I’m killing all the lights in the house.”

As everything went dark, Vishous dematerialized on top of the guy, taking him down and grinding his face into the tile. “I’m going to kill you now—”

“No,” Wrath ordered. “Not until we know what’s going on.”

In the shadows, V grit his teeth and glared at the king. But at least he didn’t hit the trigger. Instead, he put his mouth to their host’s ear and growled, “You better think twice before you go for any exits again.”

“Then do it yourself.” This came out as, “Vhen do ith y’selth.”

Vishous glanced over at Tohr, the pair of them locking eyes. When Tohr gave a subtle nod, the other brother cursed… then reached up and popped open the garage door. The automatic lights were still on from Assail’s having come home earlier, and Tohr caught sight of four cars: The Jaguar. A Spyker. A black Mercedes. And a black van with no side windows.

“Take the GMC,” Assail grunted. “Keys are in the ignition. It’s bulletproof all the way around.”

As everything went silent outside, John and Qhuinn began pumping rounds off through the broken glass, falling into a steady, alternating rhythm, just to make sure that someone didn’t try and dematerialize inside.

Shit, their ammo wasn’t going to last long.

Tohr cursed the lack of options, as well as the fact that he’d gotten no reply from the Brotherhood—

“We got this,” Qhuinn said, not turning away from the door. “But we need the other Brothers here before you try to leave.”

“I’ve already alerted them,” Tohr muttered. “They’re on the way.”

At least, he hoped they were.

Assail’s voice rose above the gunshots. “Take the goddamn van. I’m not fucking with you.”

Tohr pegged the guy with hard eyes. “If you are, I will skin you alive.”

“I’m not.”

Given that there were no further assurances to be had, Tohr rolled off Wrath and helped the king into a crouching position. Shit… blood at the side of his neck. Lot of it. “Keep your head down, my lord, and follow my lead.”

“You don’t say.”

Moving as quickly as he dared, Tohr started them across the floor, steering the king over to the wall so that Wrath could put a hand out and orient himself.

“Washing machine,” Tohr said, pulling him out to avoid the boxy machine. “Dryer. Door six feet. Four. Two. Step down.”

As they went by Assail, the male was watching them. “Jesus, he really is blind.”

Wrath pulled up short and unsheathed his dagger, pointing it directly into the guy’s face. “But my hearing works just fine.”

Assail probably would have recoiled, but he was stuck between the hard wall, a bullet and a sharp point—not a lot of room to maneuver. “Yes. Indeed.”

“This meeting isn’t over,” Wrath said.

“I don’t have anything else.”

“I do. You watch yourself, son—this little go-around proves to have your fingerprints anywhere near it, and your next house is a pine box.”

“It wasn’t me. I swear to it—I’m a businessman, pure and simple. I just want to be left alone.”

“Greta fucking Garbo,” V bit out as Tohr urged Wrath back into motion.

In the garage proper, Tohr crabbed it across the bald concrete with the king, going around the other vehicles. When they got to the van, he checked the thing out, then popped the back double doors and shoved the most powerful vampire on the planet in there like he was a piece of luggage.

As he reshut the panels, he spared one moment to take a deep breath. Then he ripped around to the driver’s side and got in. The interior light stayed on for a bit after he took his seat, and yes, the keys were right where Assail had said. And yeah, there had been some serious modifications to the vehicle: two gas tanks, reinforced steel crash cage, thick glass the girth of which suggested it was indeed bulletproof.

There was a sliding partition that separated the back from the front, and he opened it far enough so he could monitor the king.

With his hearing on overdrive, the dripping of blood in the van seemed as loud as the gunshots that had caused it. “You’re hit bad, my lord.”

All that came back at him was that cough.

Fuck.

John was ready to kill.

As he stood to the left of that goddamn back door, the thick muscles of his thighs were twitching, and his heart was going bronco in his chest. His gun, however, was steady as a stone.

The Band of Bastards had initiated the attack from where the Brotherhood had started out: on the far side of the cleared lawn, in the forest behind the house.

Hell of a shot, he thought. That first rifle bullet had punctured the door’s windowpane and gone right for Wrath’s head, even though there had been a number of people standing around.

Too close. Waaaaay too close.

These guys were true professionals—which meant they had to be gearing up for a second engagement… and not from this angle that was guarded so well.

As Qhuinn kept pulling his trigger in a slow, even motion, John leaned back and looked through the archway into the kitchen.

Whistling low, he caught Qhuinn’s eye and nodded in that direction.

“Roger that—”

“John, you don’t go out there alone,” V said. “I’ll watch the back door as well as our host.”

“What if they come through the opening?” Qhuinn asked.

“I’ll pick ’em off one by one.”

Hard to argue with the guy. Especially as the Brother trained his second gun right where Qhuinn and John had been shooting through.

That was the end of any further convo.

John and Qhuinn fell into flanking position and took off together. Using the moonlight as a guide, they streaked through the professionally equipped kitchen, and tried every door they came to. Locked. Locked. Locked.

The dining, living, and family rooms turned out to be one massive expanse, kind of like a football field that had been outfitted at a home show. The good news was that there were ornate columns at regular intervals that supported the ceiling over the expanse, and he and Qhuinn used them for cover as they darted out, checked sliding glass doors, and ducked back again.

Everything was locked: As they worked the circle of the giant room, shit was tight as a tick on all sides. But God, all that glass…

Stopping short, he leveled his gun muzzle at a stretch of it, whistled twice to signal to V… and popped off a test shot.

No shattering. Not even a cracking. The ten-by-six-foot pane simply caught the bullet and held it, like the thing was nothing more than ABC gum.

Assail hadn’t lied. At least not about that.

From the back of the house, their host’s voice was distant but clear. “Close and lock the door at the base of the stairs to the second floor. Fast.”

Roger. That.

John let Qhuinn sweep the bathrooms and the office as he beat feet over to a black-and-white marble staircase. Sure enough, tucked into the wall was a stainless-steel, fireproof panel that, when you pulled it out, smelled like fresh paint, as if it had been recently installed.

There were two locks on it, one so you could isolated yourself upstairs, one for doing the same downstairs.

As he got the thing into place and secured, he had to have some respect for how Assail handled security measures.

“This place is a fortress,” Qhuinn said as he came out of another bathroom.

Cellar? John mouthed so he didn’t have to reholster his gun.

Like he read minds, Assail called out, “The basement door is locked. It’s in the kitchen by the second fridge.”

They darted back in the direction they’d started out in, locating another one of those steel jobbies that happened to already be slid into place and bolted.

John checked his phone, and saw the group text that Rhage had sent out: Hvy fghtn dwntwn—b thr ASAP.

Fuck, he breathed as he flashed the screen to Qhuinn.

“I’m going out there,” the guy announced as he jogged for one of the sliders. “Lock the door after me—”

John lunged for the fighter, snagging a hold. The hell you are, he mouthed.

Qhuinn shook off the iron grip. “This is a cluster-fuck waiting to happen, and Wrath has to be taken to the clinic.” As John cursed in silence, Qhuinn shook his head. “Be reasonable, buddy. You’re the backup for V with Assail, and the pair of you have to keep the interior secured. Likewise, that van has to get moving because the king’s bleeding. You need to let me go out there and do what I can to secure the area—we can’t spare anybody else.”

John cursed again, his mind churning for other options.

In the end, he clapped his best friend on the side of the neck and brought their foreheads together for a brief moment. Then he let go and backed the fuck off—even though it nearly killed him.

Bottom line, his first duty was to save the king, not his best friend. Wrath was the mission critical here, not Qhuinn.

Besides, Qhuinn was a deadly son of a bitch, fast on his feet, good with a gun, great with a knife.

You had to trust those skills. And the bastard was right: They were sorely needed in this situation.

With a final nod, Qhuinn slipped out of a glass door, and John closed and locked it behind him… leaving the male on his own.

At least the Band of Bastards would likely assume everyone was in the house and staying there—they had to know that backup would be coming, and in most situations, people waited for their reinforcements to arrive before they marshaled a counterattack.

“John! Qhuinn!” V called out. “What the hell is going on out there!”

John jogged back to the mudroom. Unfortunately, there was no effective way to communicate without losing his weapon—

“Shit, Qhuinn went out there alone, didn’t he.”

Assail laughed softly. “And I thought I was the only one with a death wish.”

FORTY-ONE

Directly after Syphon pulled the trigger on his long-range rifle, Xcor’s first thought was that the male may well have killed the king.

Standing in the shelter of the forest, he was amazed at his soldier’s accuracy: The bullet had sailed across the lawn, blown out the glass pane of the door… and dropped the king like a bag of sand.

Either that or the king had chosen to take cover.

There was no way of knowing whether the disappearance was a defensive reaction or the collapse of a male gravely injured.

Mayhap both were true.

“Open fire,” he commanded into the newfangled transistor at his shoulder. “And assume second positions.”

With practiced precision, his soldiers went into action, the ringing sound of gunfire providing cover as everyone but him and Throe shifted in various directions.

The Brotherhood would be arriving at any moment, so there was little time to batten down the hatches and prepare for conflict. Good thing his soldiers were well trained—

All at once, the house went dark—smart. It made them more difficult to isolate as targets, although given the way all the glass except for that back door’s had withstood bullets, it appeared as though Assail was far more tactical than your average glymera waffle-about.

Car bombs notwithstanding.

In the lull that followed, Xcor had to assume that if the king were alive and completely unhit, Wrath would dematerialize through the opening in the back door, get out of the area, and the others would attack. If the king was injured, they would hunker down and wait for the other members of the Brotherhood to arrive and provide cover for a drive-out. And if the Blind King were dead? They would stay with the body to protect it until the others got here—

A gun went off in the interior. One shot, the flash of which appeared to the left.

They were testing the glass, he thought. So Assail was either dead or they didn’t trust him.

“Someone is coming out,” Throe said by his side.

“Shoot to kill,” Xcor ordered into his shoulder.

There was no reason to take a chance at a capture: Anybody fighting alongside the Brotherhood would be trained to withstand torture, and therefore not a good candidate for information gathering. More to the point, this situation was a powder keg about to explode, and reducing the number of the enemy was the most important goal; taking prisoners was not.

Gunfire rang out as his bastards tried to pick off whoever had departed, but naturally the fighter dematerialized so it was unlikely they were hit—

The Brotherhood arrived all at once, the massive fighters taking positions all over the exterior of house, as if it had been scoped out previously.

Gunfire was traded, with Xcor aiming for the pair on the roof whilst his others focused on the dark shapes moving around the porches as well as any who might be coming up from behind in the woods.

He needed to get in the path of any vehicle that attempted to get away from the house.

“I shall cover the garage,” he spoke into his transistor. “Hold positions.”

Glancing over his shoulder at Throe, he ordered, “You back up the cousins at the north.”

As his soldier nodded and took off, Xcor ducked and did the same, shifting his position by running, as he was too keyed up to dematerialize: If they tried to take Wrath out by vehicle because he was injured, Xcor had to be the one who got the satisfaction of preventing the king’s escape… and finishing the job as necessary. The garage, therefore, was his best vantage point: The Brothers would have to commandeer one of Assail’s vehicles as they appeared to have arrived without any—and Assail would offer the aid. He had no allegiance to any particular group—not the Band of Bastards, not the Council, probably not even the king. But he wouldn’t want to bear the price of someone else’s vendetta against Wrath.

Xcor set up behind a massive boulder that sat at the edge of the asphalt square behind the house. Taking out a small, convex strip of metal that was polished to a high shine, he positioned the mirror on the rock so he had a view of whatever was behind him. And then he waited.

Ah, yes. Right again…

As gunfire continued to ring out, the garage door farthest to the right opened, the protection it offered disappearing panel by panel.

The van that backed out had no windows in its rear portion, and he was willing to bet that, like the house, its flanks were impenetrable by anything less than an antiaircraft missile.

It was entirely possible, of course, that this was a ruse.

But he was not going to miss the opportunity in the event that it wasn’t.

Flicking his eyes up, he checked behind him, then refocused on the van. If he jumped out into its path, he might get a shot into the engine block through the front grille—

The attack that came from behind was so swift, all he felt was an arm locking around his throat and his body getting hauled backward. Shifting instantly into hand-to-hand self-defense mode, he stopped the male from snapping his neck by elbowing the shit out of the fighter’s gut, and then taking advantage of the momentary stun to spin around.

He had a brief impression of mismatched eyes… and then it was all about the fighting.

The male attacked with such ferocity, the punches were like getting rained upon by cars. Fortunately, he had outstanding balance and reflexes, and crouching low, he took the male by the thighs and tackled him hard. Riding that massive lower body down to the ground, he jumped upward and worked the fighter’s face until there was blood not just on his knuckles, but flying in the air.

His superior position did not last. In spite of the fact that the soldier couldn’t possibly see clearly, he somehow caught one of Xcor’s wrists and held on to it. With brute strength, he yanked back, brought Xcor within range, and head-butted so hard, for a moment the world went incandescent sure as if the trees around them had fireworks for branches and leaves.

An abrupt shift in gravity told him that he was being rolled, but fuck that. He stopped the momentum by throwing out a leg and digging his boot into the ground. As he strained against a great weight on his chest, he saw the black van screeching off like a bat out of hell down the driveway.

Anger at a missed chance at the king gave him extra power, and he rose up onto his feet with the male draped across his shoulders, a shawl of soldier.

Unsheathing his hunting knife, he stabbed around the back of his own torso, and he knew he hit something, given the resistance and the cursing. But then that grip around his neck returned, challenging his airway, making him work even harder for oxygen.

The large rock he’d taken cover behind was about a meter away, and he headed for it, his boots clomping across the lawn. Spinning about, he slammed the male once… twice.…

On the third time, just before he was about to black out, the grip loosened. With sloppy disorientation, he freed himself just as a bullet whistled by his head, so close he felt a stripe of heat on his scalp.

Behind him, the soldier fell down upon the grass, but that wasn’t going to last—and a quick glance around at the gunfight being waged told him that if he and his bastards stayed much longer, there would be catastrophic casualties—yes, they would take out some of the Brotherhood with them, but only at a tremendous cost to their own numbers.

His gut instinct told him Wrath had already left. And damn it, even if half the Brotherhood was in or around that van—and if the king was being transported away, some of them were undoubtedly shadowing the vehicle—there were still plenty of Brothers left here at the river’s edge to do vital damage to him and his males.

The Bloodletter would have stayed and fought.

He, however, was smarter than that: If Wrath was mortally injured, or if that was his body, Xcor was going to need his band of bastards for the second phase of his takeover.

“Retreat,” he barked into his shoulder piece.

He hauled back his combat boot and kicked that downed, mismatched-eyed motherfucker on the ground—to make sure the male stayed where he was.

Then he closed his eyes and forced himself to calm… calm… calm.…

Life and death turned on whether he could get himself into the right frame of mind—

Just as another bullet whizzed by his skull, he felt himself take wings… and fly.

“How we doing back there?”

Tohr yelled out the question as he forced the van into yet another curve in the road. The POS cornered like it was on a coffee table with bad legs, rocking to and fro until even he felt a little nauseous.

Wrath, meanwhile, was playing marble-in-a-jar in the back, the king rolling around and flailing his arms to catch himself.

“Any chance—” Wrath lurched in the other direction and coughed some more. “You can slow… this bus down?”

Tohr looked in the rearview mirror. He’d kept the partition open so he could keep an eye on the king, and in the glow from the dashboard, Wrath was white as a sheet. Except for where the blood stained the skin of his throat. That was red as a cherry.

“No slowing down—sorry.”

If luck was on their side, the Brotherhood was keeping the Band of Bastards fully occupied at the house, but who the fuck knew. And he and Wrath were on the wrong side of the Hudson River with a good twenty minutes of driving in front of them.

And no backup.

And Wrath… shit, he really didn’t look good.

“How you doing?” Tohr called out again.

There was a longer pause at that point. Too long.

Gritting his teeth, he triangulated the distance to Havers’s clinic. Fuck, it was nearly equidistant—so gunning for that facility in the hopes of finding somebody, anybody with medical training wasn’t going to save much time.

From out of nowhere, Lassiter appeared in the passenger seat—right out of thin air.

“You can put your gun down,” the angel said dryly.

Shit, he’d pulled his heat on the guy.

“I’ll take the wheel,” Lassiter ordered. “You deal with him.”

Tohr was out of that seat belt and doing the driver shuffle in a heartbeat, and as the angel took over, it was clear the guy was fully armed. Nice touch. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem. And here, let me shed some light on the subject.”

The angel began to glow, but only toward the back. And… goddamn… when Tohr stepped through the partition, what he saw in the golden illumination was death on four hooves coming for the king: Wrath’s breathing was shallow and coming in puffs, his neck cords straining with the effort it was taking him to get oxygen down into his lungs.

That gunshot in the neck was compromising the airway above the Adam’s apple. Hopefully it was just swelling; worst case, he was bleeding from an artery and drowning in his own blood.

“How far from the bridge,” he barked out to Lassiter.

“I can see it.”

Wrath was running out of time. “Don’t slow down. For anything.”

“Got it.”

Tohr knelt beside the king and ripped off his own leather jacket. “I’m going to see if I can help you, my brother—”

The king grabbed his arm. “Don’t… get… panties… in a wad.”

“I’m not wearing any, my lord.” And he was not being paranoid about the danger they were facing. If the king didn’t get some help with the breathing thing, he was going to die before anyone addressed whatever else was wrong.

Snapping into action, he tore open the king’s coat, stripped off the front of the Kevlar vest—and was only mildly reassured to find nothing doing on that big chest. The problem was the neck wound, and yup, closer inspection suggested the bullet was lodged in there somewhere. Christ only knew precisely what was wrong. But he was pretty sure that if he could open up an air access point below the injury, they might have a fighting chance.

“Wrath, I gotta get you breathing. And please, for the love of your shellan, don’t fight me about the trouble you’re in. I need you to work with me, not against me.”

The king fumbled with his hand at his face, eventually finding his wraparounds and shoving them out of the way. As those incredibly beautiful, bright green eyes locked on Tohr’s own, it was as if they worked.

“Tohr? Tohr—” Clicking, desperate clicking as the king tried to draw breath. “Where… you?”

Tohr captured that flapping palm and squeezed it hard. “I’m right here. You’re going to let me help you breathe, okay? Nod for me, my brother.”

When the king did, Tohr shouted up to Lassiter, “Keep it real steady up there until I say so.”

“Hitting the bridge right now.”

At least they had a straightaway.

“Real steady, angel, we clear?”

“Roger that.”

Unsheathing one of his daggers, he put it on the carpeted floor by Wrath’s head. Then he shed his water pack and ripped it apart: Taking the flexible plastic tubing that snaked from the mouthpiece to the bladder, he drew the thing out flat and cut it at both ends; then he blew the water out of the inside.

He leaned down to Wrath. “I’m going to have to cut it into you.”

Shit, the breathing was even worse, nothing but hitches.

Tohr didn’t wait for consent or even acknowledgment. He palmed his knife and, with his left hand, probed the soft, fleshy field between the terminals of the king’s collarbones.

“Brace yourself,” he said hoarsely.

It was a damn shame he couldn’t sterilize the blade, but even if he’d had a bonfire to draw it through, he didn’t have time for the thing to cool down: Those jerking breaths were getting quieter, instead of louder.

With a silent prayer, Tohr did exactly as V had trained him: He pressed the sharp point of his dagger through the skin to the tough tunnel of the esophagus. Another quick prayer… and then he cut deep, but not too deep. Immediately thereafter, he shoved the flexible hollow tubing into the king.

The relief was fast, the air rushing out with a little whistle. And right thereafter, Wrath sucked in a proper breath, and another… and another.

Planting a palm on the floor, Tohr focused on keeping that tube right where it was, sticking out of the front of the king’s throat. When blood started to seep from around the site, he ditched the prop-up routine and pinched the skin around the plastic lifeline, keeping the seal as tight as possible.

Those blind eyes with their pinprick irises found his, and there was gratitude in them, like he’d saved the guy’s life or something.

But they’d have to see about that. Every subtle bump that registered through the van’s suspension made Tohr mental, and they were still too far from home.

“Stay with me,” Tohr murmured. “Stay right here with me.”

As Wrath nodded and closed his eyes, Tohr glanced over at the Kevlar vest. The damn things were designed to protect vital organs, but they were not a home-safe guarantee.

On that note, how the hell had they managed to get the van out of there at all? Surely Xcor’s soldiers would have been manning the garage—those bloodthirsty bastards would have known that that was the only escape route for an injured king.

Somebody must have covered it—no doubt one of the Brothers arriving in the nick of time.

“Can you drive any faster?” Tohr demanded.

“I got the pedal to the metal.” The angel looked back. “And I don’t care what I have to mow over.”

FORTY-TWO

No’One was down in the training center, pushing along a bin full of clean linens to the recovery beds, when it happened again.

The phone rang in the main exam room, and then she heard through the open door Doc Jane talking fast and pointedly… and using the name “Tohr”—

What began as a hesitation turned into a dead stop, her hands tightening on the bin’s metal rim, her heart beating hard as the world tilted wildly, spinning her round and round—

Down at the far end of the hallway, the office’s glass door burst wide and Beth, the queen, skidded into the hallway.

“Jane! Jane!”

The healer stuck her head out of the examination room. “I’m on the phone with Tohr right now. They’re bringing him in right away.”

Beth tore down the corridor, her dark hair streaming out behind her. “I’m ready to feed him.”

It took a moment for the implications to sink in.

Not Tohr, it wasn’t Tohr, not Tohr… Dearest Virgin Scribe, thank you—

But Wrath—not the king!

Time became as a rubber band, stretching endlessly, the passing minutes slowing down to a crawl as people from the household began to arrive—except then suddenly, a terminal extension was reached and snap! everything became a blur.

Doc Jane and the healer Manuel flew out from the examining room, a rolling gurney between them, a black duffel bag with a red cross jangling off the male’s shoulder. Ehlena was right with them, with more equipment in her hands. And so was the queen.

No’One whispered down the hall in their wake, running on the balls of her leather slippers, catching the heavy steel door that led out into the parking lot and squeezing through before it closed. At the curb, a van with blackened windows screeched to a halt, steam curling up from its tailpipe.

Voices—harried and deep—fought for airspace as the vehicle’s rear doors were popped wide and Manuel the healer jumped inside.

Then Tohr got out.

No’One gasped. He was covered with blood, his hands, his chest, his leathers, everything stained red. Except he seemed otherwise all right. It had to be Wrath’s.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, the king—

“Beth! Get in here,” Manuel hollared. “Now.”

After Tohr helped the queen inside, he stood by the open doors with his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling fast, his bleak stare trained on the treatment of the king. No’One, meanwhile, loitered on the periphery, waiting and praying, her eyes going back and forth from Tohr’s horrible, fixed expression to the dark recesses of the van. All she saw of the king were his boots, tough, thick soled, and black, the tread on them deep enough to make grooves in set concrete—at least when a male as great as he was wearing them.

Would that he would walk tall once again.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she wished she was a Chosen, a sacred female who had a line to the Scribe Virgin, some way of approaching the mother of the race for special dispensation. But she was no one like that.

All she could do was wait with the ring of others who had formed by the van.…

There was no way of knowing how long they worked upon the king in that vehicle. Hours. Days. But eventually Ehlena repositioned the gurney as close as possible and Tohr hopped back in the rear.

Wrath was carried forth by his loyal Brother and laid out flat upon the white-sheeted mattress—which would not stay so pure for long, she feared, as she measured the king’s neck: Red was already seeping through layers of gauze at the side.

Time was of the essence—but before they could roll him inside, the great male grabbed onto Tohr’s ruined shirt and then started motioning to his throat. Abruptly he made a fist, and then opened his palm upward as if he were holding something.

Tohr nodded, and looked at the doctors. “You need to try to take the bullet out. We have to have that thing—it’s the only way we’re going to be able to prove who did this.”

“What if it compromises his life?” Manuel asked.

Wrath started shaking his head and pointing again, but the queen overruled him. “Then you will leave it right where it is.” As her mate glared at her, she shrugged. “Sorry, my hellren. I’m sure your Brothers will agree—you need to survive first and foremost.”

“That’s right,” Tohr growled. “The lead is less important—besides, we already know who’s to blame.”

Wrath started working his mouth—except there was no speaking, because… there was a tube sticking out of his throat?

“Good, glad that’s settled,” Tohr muttered. “Have at him, will you?”

The healers nodded and off they all went with the king, the queen staying right with her male, speaking to him in soft, urgent tones as she jogged alongside. Indeed, as they passed through the doors into the training center, Wrath’s eyes, pale green and glowing, were locked, but unfocused, on her face.

She was keeping him alive, No’One thought. That connection between the two of them sustaining him just as much as anything that the physicians were doing.…

Tohr, meanwhile, also stayed with his leader, passing by without even looking at her.

She didn’t blame him. How could he see anything else?

Reentering the corridor, she wondered if she shouldn’t try to get back to work. But no, there was no possibility of that.

She just followed the group down until the whole lot of them, including Tohr, disappeared into the operating room. Not daring to intrude, she tarried outside.

It was not long before she was joined by the rest of the Brotherhood.

Tragically so.

Over the next hour, the horrors of war were all too evident, the risks to life and limb made manifest by the injuries that presented themselves as the Brothers came in from the field at a trickle.

It had been a rabid gunfight. At least, that was what they said to their mates, all of whom gathered to comfort them, anxious faces, horrified eyes, panicked hearts drawing the couples tightly together. The good news was that each and every one of them came home, the males, and the lone female, Payne, all returned safe and got treated.

Only to worry about Wrath.

The last to arrive was among the worst injured but for the king—to the point that at first, she didn’t recognize who it was. The thatch of dark hair and the fact that John Matthew was carrying him informed her it was likely Qhuinn—but one certainly wouldn’t know that going by his face.

He had been beaten severely.

As the male was delivered to the second operating room, she thought of the mangled mess of her leg and prayed that the healing ahead for him, for them all, was nothing like hers had been.

Dawn eventually arrived, but she knew this only because of what the clock on the wall read. Intermittent glimpses of the various dramas were provided when OR doors were opened and closed, and eventually, those treated were released into healing rooms, or permitted to ambulate themselves back to the main house—not that any of them left. They all settled as she did against the concrete walls of the corridor, sitting vigil not just for the king, but for their fellow fighters.

Doggen brought food and drink to those who could eat, and she helped pass trays laden with fruit juices and coffee and tea. She brought pillows to ease strained necks, and blankets to cut the draft on the hard floor, and tissues—not that anyone was crying.

The stoic nature of those males and their mates was a kind of power in and of itself. Yet she knew, in spite of their forbearance, that they were terrified.

Still other members of the household arrived: Layla, the Chosen. Saxton, the lawyer who worked with the king. Rehvenge, who always made her nervous even though he had never been anything but perfectly polite to her. The king’s beloved retriever who wasn’t allowed into the operating room, but was comforted by all and sundry. The black cat, Boo, who snaked around the stretched-out boots, and padded over laps, and was petted in passing.

Late morning.

Afternoon.

Late afternoon.

At five-oh-seven, Doc Jane and her partner, Manuel, finally appeared, removing their masks from their exhausted faces.

“Wrath is doing as well as can be expected,” the female reported. “But given that he was treated in the field, we’ve got twenty-four hours of watching for infection ahead of us.”

“You can deal with that, though,” the Brother Rhage spoke up. “Right?”

“We can treat the shit out of it,” Manuel said with a nod. “He’s going to pull through—that tough bastard won’t have it any other way.”

There was an abrupt war cry from the Brotherhood, their respect and adoration and relief so very obvious. And as No’One breathed her own sigh of relief, she realized it was not for the king. It was because she did not want Tohr to sustain any more losses.

This was… good. Thanks be to the Scribe Virgin.

FORTY-THREE

At first, Layla could not comprehend what she was looking at. A face, yes, and one that she supposed she knew by shape. But its composite features were distorted to such an extent that she would not have been able to identify the male had she not known him so well.

“Qhuinn…?” she whispered as she approached the hospital bed.

He had been stitched up, little lines of black thread snaking down his brow and across his cheek, his skin shiny from swelling, his hair as yet matted with dried blood, his breathing shallow.

Looking to the machines over the bed, she heard no alarms ringing, saw nothing flashing. That was good, yes?

She would feel better if he replied to her. “Qhuinn?”

On the bed, his hand turned over and released its tight crunch to reveal his broad, flat palm.

She put her own upon it and felt him squeeze. “So you are in there,” she said roughly.

Another squeeze.

“I need to feed you,” she moaned, feeling his pain as her own. “Please… open your mouth for me. Let me ease you.…”

As he complied, there was a cracking sound, as if the joints of his jaw weren’t working properly.

Scoring her own vein, she carried her wrist to his bruised, parted lips. “Take from me.…”

At first, it was clear he had difficulty swallowing, so she licked one of the puncture marks shut to slow the flow. As he gained momentum, she bit herself once again.

She fed him for as long as he would let her, praying that her strength would become his own, and be transformed into a healing force.

How had this happened? Who had done this to him?

Given the number of gauze-wrapped limbs out in the hallway, it was obvious the lessers had sent a brutal force out into the streets of Caldwell upon the eve. And Qhuinn had certainly taken on the toughest, meanest member of the enemy forces. He was like that. Unflinching, always willing to put himself on the line… to the point where she worried about that vengeful streak of his.

It was such a fine distinction between courage and deadly recklessness.

When he was finished, she closed her wounds and pulled up a chair, sitting beside him with her palm against his once more.

It was a relief to watch the miraculous transformation of the injuries on his face. At this rate, they would soon be nothing but surface wounds, barely noticeable upon the morrow’s arrival.

Whatever damage he had internally would likewise be discharged.

He was going to survive.

Sitting with him in silence, she thought about the pair of them, and the friendship that had sprouted from that misplaced adoration of hers. If anything happened to him, she would mourn him as a brother of her own blood, and there was naught that she would not do for him—further, she had the keen sense that the same was true on his side as well.

Indeed, he had done so much for her. He had taught her to drive and to fight with her fists, to shoot a gun and operate all manner of computer equipment. He had shown her movies and exposed her to music, bought her clothes that were other than the traditional white robe of the Chosen, took time to answer her questions about this side and make her laugh when she needed to.

She had learned so much from him. Owed him so much.

So it seemed… ungrateful… to feel dissatisfied with her lot. But of late she had experienced a strange irony: The more she was exposed to, the emptier her life felt. And yet as much as he urged her in opposite directions, she still looked upon her service to the Brotherhood as the most important thing she could do with her time—

As Qhuinn tried to reposition himself, he cursed from discomfort, and she reached out to calm him, stroking back his stringy hair. Only one eye of his worked, and it shifted over to her, the light behind the blue color exhausted and grateful.

A smile stretched her lips and she brushed his busted-up cheek with the very tips of her fingers. Strange, this platonic closeness they shared—it was an island, a sanctuary, and she valued it so much more than whatever heat she had once felt for him.

The vital link also made her aware of how much he suffered, watching his beloved Blay with Saxton.

His pain was ever present, coating him as his very flesh did and binding him in the same way, defining his contours and straightaways.

It made her resent Blay at times, even though it was not her place to judge: If there was one thing she had learned, it was that the hearts of others were known only to themselves—and Blay was, at his core, a male of worth—

The door opened behind her, and over her shoulder the male in her thoughts appeared as if summoned by her ruminations.

Blaylock was not uninjured himself, but he was far better off than the male on the bed—at least on the outside. Internally was a matter altogether different: still fully armed, he appeared far, far older than his years. Especially as he took in his fellow soldier.

He stopped short just inside the room. “I wanted to know how you… he… is doing.”

Layla refocused on Qhuinn. His working eye was locked on the redheaded male, and the regard he paid the other no longer pained her—well, not in the sense that she wanted it for herself.

She wished for Qhuinn this soldier. She truly did.

“Come in,” she said. “Please—we’re done here.”

Blay was slow in approaching, and his hands went to random buckles—on his holster, on his belt, on the leather strapping around his upper thigh.

His composure was retained, however. At least until he spoke. Then his voice quavered. “You dumb son of a bitch.”

Layla’s brows sunk into a glare, even though Qhuinn hardly needed someone like her to defend him. “I beg your pardon.”

“According to John, he went out of that house into the Band of Bastards. Alone.”

“Band of Bastards?”

“The ones who tried to assassinate Wrath tonight. This dumb son of a bitch took it upon himself to go out right into the middle of them, all alone, like he was some kind of superhero—it was a miracle he didn’t get himself killed.”

She immediately transferred her glare to the bed. Clearly, the Lessening Society had a new division, and the idea that he had exposed himself in such a way made her want to yell at him. “You… dumb son of a bitch.”

Qhuinn coughed a little. Then a little more.

With a stab of fear, she jumped up. “I shall get the doctors—”

Except Qhuinn was laughing. Not choking to death.

He laughed stiffly at first and then with growing expression, until the bed shook from the hilarity that only he saw.

“I find no levity in this,” she snapped.

“Nor I,” Blay cut in. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Qhuinn just continued to laugh, enjoying himself over the Scribe Virgin only knew what.

Layla glanced over at Blay. “I find myself rather wanting to hit him.”

“It’d be redundant at this point. Wait until he’s better, then have at him. Matter of fact, I’ll hold him down for you.”

“Right… thing… to do…” Qhuinn groaned out.

“I agree.” Layla put her hands on her hips. “Blay is absolutely right—I shall punch you later. And you taught me exactly where one needs to strike a male.”

“Nice,” Blay muttered.

After they all fell silent, the intense way the males stared at each other made her heart light up. Mayhap they could find an accord now?

“I shall go forth and check the others,” she said quickly. “To see if anyone else requires feeding—”

Qhuinn reached out and snagged her hand. “You?”

“No, I’m fine. You were more than generous enough last week. I feel very strong.” She bent down and kissed his forehead. “You just rest. I’ll check on you later.”

On her way past Blay, she said softly, “You two talk. I’ll tell everyone to leave you be.”

As the Chosen departed, Blay could only stare in disbelief at the back of her perfectly coiffed head.

When he’d walked into the room, the connection between Qhuinn and that female had socked him in the gut: all that eye contact, that hand-holding, the way she curved her elegant body toward him… the way that she and she alone sustained him.

And yet… it appeared as if she wanted him to be by himself with Qhuinn.

It made no sense. If anyone was incented to keep the pair of them apart, it was her.

Refocusing on the male, he thought, God, those injuries were hard to look at, even though they were in the process of healing.

“Who did you go up against?” he asked roughly. “And don’t bother arguing—I spoke to John as soon as I got home. I know what you did.”

Qhuinn lifted a swollen hand and made an X.

“Xcor…?” As the guy nodded, he grimaced like the movement made his head hurt. “Don’t—yeah, don’t force yourself.”

Qhuinn waved the concern off in his classic, nothing-doing kind of way. On a rasp, he said, “S’okay.”

“What made you go out there against him?”

“Wrath… was hit… knew Xcor’s ego—he’d have to be…” Big breath, one that rattled on its way out. “… the guy to prevent the king from leaving. Bastard had to… had to be incapacitated… or Wrath would never…”

“Have gotten out of there alive.” Blay rubbed the back of his neck. “Holy shit—you saved the king’s life.”

“Nah… lot of people… did that.”

Yeah, he wasn’t so sure about that. Back at Assail’s, it had been total chaos—the kind of out-of-control that easily cut both ways: had the Band of Bastards not retreated shortly after the Brotherhood arrived, there would have been heavy losses on both sides.

Staring down at Qhuinn, he had to wonder what kind of shape Xcor was in. If he looked like this? The bastard was at least the same, probably worse.

Blay shook himself, aware that he had been standing at the edge of the bed in silence. “Ah…”

Back long ago, a lifetime ago, there had never been silences between them. Except… they had been boys then. Not fully transitioned males.

Different standard, he supposed.

“I guess I should leave you,” he said. Without leaving.

This could so easily have gone a different way, he thought. Xcor’s ability to kill was well-known—not by Blay personally, but he’d heard the stories from the Old Country. Besides, for chrissakes, anyone with enough balls not only to talk about going against Wrath, but to actually put a bullet in the king?

Deadly or stupid. And the latter didn’t count in this case.

Qhuinn could easily have been hit by a lot more than multiple fists.

“Can I get you anything?” Blay said. Except, duh, the guy couldn’t eat, and he’d already been fed.

Layla had taken care of that.

Man, if he was brutally honest with himself—and it seemed as if brutally was the word of the day—there were times when he resented the Chosen, even though that was a colossal waste of emotion. He had no right to feel cranked, especially given what he and Saxton got up to on a very regular basis. Especially given that nothing was going to change on Qhuinn’s side.

You almost died tonight, he wanted to say. You dumb son of a bitch, you nearly died… and then what would we have done?

And not “we” as in the Brotherhood.

Not even “we” as in he and John. More like… “me.”

Shit, why did he keep coming back to this corner with this male?

It was just too stupid. Particularly as he stood over the guy, watching as more color came into that mangled face, and his breathing grew less labored, and the bruising faded even further… all thanks to Layla.

“I’d better go,” he said, without leaving.

That one eye, the blue one, just kept staring up at him. Bloodshot, with a cut across the brow above it, the thing shouldn’t have been able to focus. But it was.

“I have to go,” Blay said finally.

Without leaving.

Damn him, he didn’t know what the hell he was doing—

A tear escaped from that eye. Welling up along the lower lid, it coalesced at the far corner, formed a crystal circle, and grew so fat it couldn’t hold on to the lashes. Slipping free, it meandered downward, getting lost in dark hair at the temple.

Blay wanted to kick himself in his own ass. “Shit, let me get Doc Jane—you must be in pain. I’ll be right back.”

Qhuinn called out his name, but he was already turning away.

Idiot. Stupid-ass idiot. The poor male was there suffering on a hospital bed, looking like an extra on Sons of Anarchy—last thing he needed was company. More painkillers—that was what he required.

Jogging down the corridor, he found Doc Jane logged in at the clinic’s main computer, entering notes into medical records.

“Qhuinn needs a shot of something. Come quick, will you?”

The female was on it, snagging an old-fashioned doctor’s bag and going back down the hall with him.

While she went inside, Blay gave them some privacy, pacing back and forth in front of the door.

“How is he?”

Stopping and pivoting around, he tried to smile at Saxton—and failed. “He decided to be a hero… and I think he might have actually been one. But, God…”

The other male came forward, moving elegantly in his bespoke suit, his Cole Haan loafers making soft impacts, as if they were too refined to ever make much noise—even on linoleum.

He didn’t belong in the war. Never would.

He would never be like Qhuinn, jumping out of safety into the thick of a fight, going up against the enemy with his bare, clawing hands to take down an aggressor and serve him his own balls for lunch.

It was probably part of the reason Saxton was easier to deal with. No extremes. Plus the male was intelligent, refined, and funny… had lovely manners, and lots of exposure to the very best in life… always dressed well.…

Was fantastic in bed…

Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself of something?

As he explained what had gone down in the field, Saxton stopped right up close, his Gucci cologne a calming scent. “I’m so sorry. You must be a mess in the head over it all.”

Annnnnd the male was a saint. A selfless saint. Never to be jealous?

Qhuinn wasn’t like that. Qhuinn was jealous and possessive as hell—

“Yes, I am,” Blay said. “A total wreck.”

Saxton reached out and took his hand, giving it a subtle squeeze and then retracting his warm, smooth palm.

Qhuinn was never that discreet about anything. He was a marching band, a Molotov cocktail, a bull in a china shop who didn’t care what kind of mess he made in his wake.

“Does the Brotherhood know?”

Blay shook himself. “I’m sorry?”

“What he did? Do they know?”

“Well, if they’ve heard about it, it wasn’t from him. John looked upset and I asked him—and that’s the way I heard the story.”

“You should tell Wrath… Tohr… someone. He should get credit for this—even though it’s not his style to care about that sort of nonsense.”

“You know him well,” Blay murmured.

“I do. And I know you just as well.” Saxton’s expression tightened, but he smiled nonetheless. “You need to take care of him in this.”

Doc Jane emerged from the room, and Blay wheeled around. “How’s he doing?”

“I’m not sure—what exactly did you think was wrong? He was resting comfortably when I went in there.”

Well, shit, he wasn’t about to say the male had been crying. But the fact of the matter was, Qhuinn would never have shown that kind of weakness unless he was in some serious pain.

“I guess I misread him.”

Over Jane’s shoulder, Blay happened to notice the way Saxton’s hand passed through the thick blond waves that were sculpted up off his forehead.

It was the strangest thing… Sax may have been related by blood to Qhuinn, but at the moment, he looked a lot like Blay had for years.

Then again, unrequited was the same, no matter the features that reflected the emotion.

Crap.

FORTY-FOUR

Down the hall, Tohr sat in a chair across from the hospital bed Wrath had been laid out in. It was probably time to go.

Had been a while ago.

For God’s sake, even the queen had fallen asleep next to her mate on the bed.

Guess it was a good thing Beth didn’t mind his kibitzing. Then again, they had come to an accord years ago, proving just what a Godzilla marathon would do for a relationship.

Over in the corner, on a huge round Orvis bed the color of oatmeal, George stretched out of the curl he’d been in and glanced up at his master. Getting no response, he put his head down and sighed.

“He’s gonna be okay,” Tohr said.

The dog’s ears pricked and he gave two thumps of his feathered tail.

“Yup. I promise.”

Taking a cue from the canine, Tohr repositioned himself, and then rubbed his eyes. Man, he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was dog-bed it like George and sleep for a day.

The problem was, even though the drama was over, his adrenal gland still piped up every time he thought of that bullet. Two inches to the right and it would have hit the jugular, turning Wrath’s light out for good. In fact, according to Doc Jane and Manny, where that lead had been lodged by pure chance had been the only “safe” place—assuming the guy was with someone who could, oh, say, do a tracheotomy in a moving van with nothing but a section of hollow tubing and a black dagger.

Jesus Christ… what a night.

And thank the Scribe Virgin for that angel. Without Lassiter showing up to drive? He shuddered—

“Waiting for Godot?”

Tohr’s eyes snapped over to the bed. The king’s lids were low but open, his mouth cracked in a half smile.

Emotion came on thick and quick, flooding Tohr’s neurotransmitters, stealing his voice from him.

And Wrath seemed to understand. Opening his free hand, he beckoned, even though he couldn’t lift up his arm.

Tohr’s feet felt sloppy as he stood up and approached the bed. As soon as he was in range, he knelt by his king and took that big palm, turned it over… and kissed the gigantic black diamond that flashed on Wrath’s finger.

Then, like a pussy, he laid his head down on the ring, on his brother’s knuckles.

All could have been lost tonight. If Wrath had not lived… everything would have changed.

As the king squeezed his hand back, Tohr thought about Wellsie’s dying, and felt nothing but fresh dread. To realize that there were as yet others to lose was not reassuring in the slightest. If anything, it made the churning, ambient anxiety in his gut swirl faster.

You’d think after his shellan’s passing he’d be exempt from the grief pool.

Instead, it appeared that he just had a deeper bottom to look forward to.

“Thank you,” Wrath whispered hoarsely. “For saving my life.”

Tohr lifted his head and shook it. “It wasn’t just me.”

“It was a lot you. I owe you, brother mine.”

“You’d have done the same.”

That patented autocratic tone came out: “I. Owe. You.”

“So buy me a Sam some night and we’ll call it evens.”

“You’re saying my life is only worth six bucks?”

“You vastly underestimate how much I love a good longneck—” A big blond dog head shoved its way under his armpit. Glancing down, he said, “See? I told you he’d be all right.”

Wrath laughed a little, then grimaced as if things hurt. “Hey, big man…”

Tohr moved out of the way so master and canine could reconnect… then ended up scooping the ninety-pound bale of hay-colored fur up and settling it next to the king.

Wrath positively beamed as he looked back and forth between his shellan, who was asleep, and his animal, who was ready to be his nurse.

“I’m glad that’s our last meeting,” Tohr blurted.

“Yeah, I like to go out with a bang—”

“I can’t let you do shit like this anymore. You realize that, don’t you.” Tohr stared down at the king’s forearms, tracing those ritualistic tattoos that spelled out his lineage. “You need to be alive at the end of every night, my lord. The rules are different for you.”

“Look, I’ve been shot at before—”

“And it’s not happening again. Not on my watch.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? You going to chain me in the basement?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Wrath’s brows dropped low, and his voice grew stronger. “You can be a real prick, you know that.”

“It’s not a matter of personality. And it’s obvious or you wouldn’t be getting your panties in a wad.”

“I’m not wearing any.” The king cracked another smile. “I’m naked under here.”

“Thanks for that picture.”

“You know, technically you can’t order me to do shit.”

Wrath was right; you didn’t tell the leader of the race a good goddamn thing. But as Tohr met the male’s blind eyes, he wasn’t talking to the ruler of them all; he was talking to his brother.

“Until Xcor is neutralized, we’re not taking any risks with you—”

“If there’s a Council meeting, I’m going. Period.”

“There won’t be. Not unless we want there to be—and right now? Nobody needs you anywhere but here.”

“Fucking hell! I’m the king—” As Beth frowned in her sleep, he calmed his voice out. “Can we talk about this later?”

“No reason to. We’re done on the subject—and every one of the brothers is behind me on this.”

Tohr did not look away as he got hit with a glare that, in spite of those eyes being blind, was strong enough to burn a hole in the back of his skull.

“Wrath,” he said roughly, “look at what’s next to you. Do you want to leave her on her own? You want her to have to mourn you? Fuck all of us—what about your Beth?”

It was a low-down dirty to play the shellan card, but any weapon in a fight.…

Wrath cursed and closed his eyes.

And Tohr knew he’d won when the male turned his face into Beth’s hair and breathed in deeply, as if he were smelling her shampoo.

“Are we in accord,” Tohr demanded.

“Fuck you,” the king murmured against his beloved.

“Good, I’m glad that’s settled.”

After a moment, Wrath looked over again. “Did they get the bullet out of my neck?”

“They did. All we need is the rifle that goes with it.” Tohr gave George’s boxy head a stroking. “And it’s got to be the Band of Bastards’—Xcor’s the only one who would try something like that.”

“We need to find where they live.”

“They’re cagey. Smart. It’s going to take a miracle.”

“Then start praying, my brother. Start praying.”

Tohr replayed the attack in his mind yet again. The brazenness was off the chain—and suggested Xcor was capable of just about anything.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said in a low voice.

“Xcor?” When he nodded, Wrath said, “I think you’re going to have to get in line for the job—assuming we can tie him to the shooter. The good news is that as head of the B.o.B., he can be held accountable for his fighters’ actions—so as long as one of his soldiers was at the trigger of that rifle, we can nail him.”

As Tohr thought shit over, that grinding in his gut tightened to an unbearable level. “You said you owed me a favor—well, this is what I want. I want Xcor’s death to be at my hands and no one else’s.”

“Tohr…” When he just stared straight ahead, Wrath shrugged. “I can’t give him to you until we have proof.”

“But you can stipulate that if he is responsible, he’s mine.”

“Fine. He’s all yours—if we have proof.”

Tohr thought about the expressions on the faces of the brothers out in the hall. “You need to make it official.”

“Oh, come on, if I say—”

“You know what they’re like. Any one of them crosses paths with that shithead and they’ll peel him like a grape. Right now that male’s got more targets on the back of his ass than a shooting range. Besides, a proclamation won’t take long.”

Wrath’s lids closed briefly. “Okay, okay… stop arguing the point and go get a witness.”

Tohr went over and stuck his head out of the room—and as luck would have it, the first person he saw… was John Matthew.

The kid was parked by the recovery room across the way, butt on the floor next to a worried Blaylock, hands on his head like there was a fire alarm going off in his skull.

Except he snapped right to and signed, Is Wrath still all right?

“Yeah.” Tohr glanced down the corridor as Blay murmured a prayer of thanks. “He’s going to be fine.”

You looking for someone?

“I need a witness—”

I’ll do it.

Tohr shot up his brows. “Okay. Thanks.”

As John Matthew got to his feet, a loud crack sounded out, like his back was playing DIY chiropractor. And when he limped over, Tohr realized the kid had been injured.

“You have Doc Jane take a look at that?”

John bent down and lifted the pant leg of the scrubs he had on. His calf was wrapped in white gauze.

“Bullet or blade?” Tohr asked.

Bullet. And yes, they kept it as well.

“Good. How’d you fare, Blay?”

“Just a surface wound on my arm.”

That it? Tohr thought. Because the fucker looked a little hollow—then again, it had been a long night and day for everyone.

“I’m glad, son. We’ll be right back.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

As John came over to the wide-open door, Tohr stepped aside, and then followed him in.

“How you doing, son?” Wrath asked as the kid approached him and bent down to kiss his ring.

As John signed, Tohr translated, “He says just fine. He says… if it would not offend, he has something he and Blay need you to know?”

“Yeah, sure. G’head.”

“He says… he was with… Qhuinn at the house… after you were shot, before the Brotherhood arrived.… Qhuinn went out alone.… ah, Blay spoke with the guy a little while ago. Blay said that… Qhuinn told him he’d engaged with… Xcor… so that—wait, John, slow down. Thanks… Okay, engaged with Xcor… so that you could get free in the van—”

Beth stirred, her eyes opening, her brows tightening as if she were catching the drift of the conversation.

“Are you serious?” the king blurted.

“He took on… Xcor… one-on-one—” Holy shit, Tohr thought. He’d heard the kid had gone out there, but that was it.

Wrath whistled under his breath. “That’s a male of worth, right there.”

“Wait, John, let me catch up. One-on-one… so that Xcor, who was waiting to attack the van, was neutralized.… He—John, that is—wants to know if there is some kind of official recognition that… you can give Qhuinn? Something to recognize… his above-and-beyond… service? And P.S.,” Tohr spoke for himself, “me, personally? I’m so on board with that.”

Wrath stayed quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, let me get this straight. Qhuinn went out after the brothers arrived, right?”

Tohr got back with the translating. “John says no. It was on his own, unguarded, unprotected before they came. Qhuinn said… he had to do what he could to make sure you were okay.”

“That dumb-ass idiot.”

“Hero is more like it,” Beth said abruptly.

“Leelan, you wake.” Wrath became instantly focused on his mate. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Believe me, just hearing your voice is heaven… you can wake me up with it anytime.” She kissed his mouth softly. “Welcome back.”

Both Tohr and John got busy looking at the floor as tender words were exchanged.

Then the king came back online. “Qhuinn shouldn’t have done that.”

“I agree,” Tohr muttered.

The king focused on John. “Yeah, all right. We’ll do something for him. I don’t know what… but that kind of shit is epic. Stupid, but epic.”

“Why don’t you make him a Brother,” Beth interjected.

In the silence that followed, Wrath’s mouth dropped open, and it was a join-the-club reaction—Tohr’s jaw did likewise, and so did John’s.

“What?” the queen said. “Doesn’t he deserve it? Hasn’t he always been there for everyone? And he’s lost all his family—yes, he lives here, but sometimes I get the impression that he feels like he doesn’t belong. What better way of thanking him and telling him he does? I know no one doubts his strength in the field.”

Wrath cleared his throat. “Well, according to the Old Laws—”

“Fuck the Old Laws. You’re the king—you can do anything you want.”

More pin-drop silence swept in, clearing out even the sounds of the HVAC system blowing warm air through the ceiling vents.

“What do you think, Tohr?” the king asked.

As Tohr glanced at John, he was struck by how much he wanted to bestow the honor on the closest thing to a son he had. But Qhuinn was the one they were talking about.

“I think… yeah, I think it could be a good idea,” he heard himself say. “Qhuinn should be claimed, and the brothers respect him— Shit, tonight isn’t the only time he’s shined. He’s a stellar fighter, but more than that, he’s calmed down tremendously in the last year. So, yeah, I think he could handle the responsibility now, which is not something I might have said at any other time.”

“Okay, I’ll consider it, leelan. It’s a wonderful suggestion.” The king glanced back at Tohr. “Now, about that favor. Approach me, brother mine, and render thy form unto your knees—we have two witnesses now, which is even better.”

As Tohr complied and grasped the royal hand, Wrath proclaimed in the Old Language, “Tohrment, son of Hharm, are you prepared to have proscribed unto you, and you alone, the death of Xcor, son of an unknown sire, said demise to occur by your hands and your hands only in retaliation for a mortal affront against me this previous night—if said affront can be proven to be due to Xcor’s direct or indirect order?”

Placing his free hand over his beating heart, he said gravely, “I am so prepared, my lord.”

Wrath looked at his mate. “Elizabeth, blooded daughter of the Black Dagger Brother Darius, mated of myself, your king, do you hereby agree to witness my grant should I deign to bequeath it on this matter to this male, carrying forth the representation of this moment unto all others, placing also your mark upon parchment to commemorate this proclamation?” When she answered affirmatively, he regarded John. “Tehrror, blooded son of the Black Dagger Brother Darius, also known by the names John and Matthew, do you hereby agree to witness my grant should I deign to bequeath it on this matter to this male, carrying forth the representation of this moment unto all others, placing also your mark upon parchment to commemorate this proclamation?”

Tohr translated from ASL. “Yes, my lord, he does.”

“Then by the power held sure and true by myself through mine father, I hereby command you, Tohrment, son of Hharm, to go forth and perform the now royal duty of retribution on my behalf—if it is so supported by requisite proof—returning in future with the body of Xcor, son of an unknown sire, unto me as a service to your king and your race. Your pledge is a credit to your bloodline, past, present, and future.”

Once more, Tohrment bent to the ring that had been worn by generations of Wrath’s lineage. “I am, in this and all things, yours to command, my heart and body seeking only to obey your sole authority.”

When he lifted his eyes, Wrath was smiling. “I know you’ll bring that bastard home.”

“You got it, my lord.”

“Now get the fuck out of here. The three of us need some goddamn sleep.”

Various good-byes were exchanged, and then Tohr and John were out in the corridor in an awkward silence. Blay had since fallen asleep outside that other recovery room, but he wasn’t resting—there was a deep frown on his face, like he was brooding even in the midst of his REM.

A tap on his forearm had Tohr focusing on John.

Thank you, the kid signed.

“For what?”

Supporting Qhuinn.

Tohr shrugged. “Only makes sense. Shit, the number of times that guy’s thrown himself into battle with all guns blazing? He deserves it—and that Brotherhood nomination stuff shouldn’t be about bloodline, but merit.”

Do you think Wrath will do it?

“I don’t know—it’s complicated. Lot of history to deal with—the Old Laws would have to be reworded. I’m sure the king will do something for him—”

Down the corridor, No’One stepped out of a doorway, as if she had been drawn by the sound of his voice.

The instant he saw her, he lost his train of thought, everything he had locking on her robed figure. Fucking hell… he was too raw to be around her, too hungry for life-affirming contact, too disinclined to make good decisions.

God help them both, but if he walked down to her, he was going to take her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that John was signing something.

It took every ounce of self-control to force his head toward the kid.

She was so worried about you. She’s been waiting out here with us—she thought you had been injured.

“Oh… well, shit.”

She loves you.

Okay, well, didn’t that make him want to crap in his pants. “Nah, she’s just… you know, a compassionate person.”

John cleared his throat, even though his hands were doing the talking. I guess I didn’t know that you guys were this serious.

Thinking of how upset the kid had been, Tohr waved away the comment. “No, I mean, it’s no big deal. Honest. I know who I love—and who I belong with.”

Except that brush-off didn’t feel right, not on his tongue, not to his ears… not to the center of his chest.

I’m sorry about… you know, losing it before, John signed. It’s just… Wellsie’s the only mother I had, and… I don’t know. The idea of you with someone else makes me want to throw up—even though that’s not fair.

Tohr shook his head and dropped his voice. “Don’t you ever apologize for caring about our female. And as for the love thing, I gotta say it again. In spite of what it looks like from the outside, I will love one and only one female for the rest of my life. No matter what I do, who I’m with, or how things appear, you can take that shit to the bank, son. We clear?”

John’s rough embrace was difficult to bear—because letting down the kid had been a killer, and it was tough not to worry about doing it again in some way.

It was also hard because Tohr’s convictions were heartfelt and honest… as well as Wellsie’s doom. Weren’t they.

God, was he ever going to find a way out of this mess?

As that panicky thought occurred to him, he shifted his eyes and looked down the way to No’One’s slight, still form.

Behind her, Lassiter stepped out and just stared back at him, the disappointment in the guy’s face so apparent, it was clear he’d somehow heard what had been said.

Maybe all of it.

FORTY-FIVE

As Tohr walked off toward No’One, John resumed tending his little patch of linoleum outside of Qhuinn’s room.

On some level, he didn’t want to see the Brother go down the hall to that other female. It seemed fundamentally wrong, as if one of the laws of the universe had decided to run in reverse. Hell, paralleling it with his own life, the idea that there would ever be another female aside from Xhex for him was anathema: Even though he was in constant agony without her, he still loved her so much, he was asexual.

Then again… she was still alive.

And you couldn’t argue that the relationship hadn’t been good for Tohr. He was back to the size he’d been when John had first met him, huge, hard, and strong. And come on, he hadn’t walked into a death trap of a gunfight or leaped off a bridge in, like, months.

Good thing Qhuinn had taken up the slack on that one. Yay.

Besides, No’One was tough not to approve of: She was very nonbimbo… quiet. Unassuming. Not at all bad to look at.

There were so many worse candidates out there in the world. Gold diggers. Stuck-up glymera types. Spacy, big-breasted gigglers.

Letting his head fall back against the concrete wall, he closed his eyes as he heard the pair of them talking. Soon enough, the voices stopped and he assumed they’d taken off, likely to go to bed—

Okay, he was so not going there.

Left to his little lonesome, he listened to Blay’s soft breathing and occasional repositioning of limbs, resolutely keeping his mind off Xhex.

Funny, this stretch of wait-and-worry felt like old times… he and Blay waiting on Qhuinn.

Man, they were lucky the guy had come back alive.…

As his memory coughed up images from that mansion on the river, he saw Wrath going down to the floor, and V with his gun up to Assail’s head… and Tohr going body-shield over the king. Then he and Qhuinn were searching the house… arguing next to that sliding glass door… fighting over his best friend going out into the night, uncovered and alone.

You need to let me do what I can.

Qhuinn’s eyes had been resolute and utterly unafraid, because he knew his capabilities, knew that he could go out on a Hail Mary and rough shit up, knew that even though there was a chance he wasn’t coming home, he was strong enough and sure enough of his fighting skills that he would do everything possible to decrease that risk.

And John had let him go. Even though his heart had been screaming and his head had been ringing and his body prepared to block the way out. Even though it hadn’t just been lesser new recruits out there, but the Band of Bastards, who were highly trained, very experienced, and brutal as hell. Even though Qhuinn was his best friend, a male who mattered to him in this world, someone whose loss would rock him for life.…

Shit.

John put his palms to the front of his face and gave himself a good buffing.

Except no amount of rubbing was going to change the revelation that was creeping up on him, unwelcome and undeniable.

He saw Xhex in that meeting with the Brotherhood back in the spring, when she had offered to find Xcor’s lair: I can take care of that—especially if I hit them in the daytime.

She had been utterly hard eyed and clearheaded, sure of herself and her capabilities. You people need me to do what I can.

When it had been his best friend? He hadn’t liked it, but he’d stepped aside and let the male do what he had to for the greater good—even though there was mortal danger involved. If something had happened to the guy and he’d died? John would have been crushed… but that was the code of soldier, the code of Brotherhood.

The code of males.

Losing Xhex would be so much worse, of course, because he was a bonded male. But the reality was, in trying to save her from some violent fate, he’d lost her completely: They had nothing left, no passion, no conversation, no warmth… little contact. And it was all because his protective urge had taken over.

It was all his fault.

He had mated a fighter—and then freaked when the risk-of-injury thing had gone from the hypothetical into the actual. And Xhex was right—she didn’t want him dead or in the hands of the enemy, and yet she was allowing him to go out there every night.

She was letting him do what he could to help.

She wasn’t permitting her emotions to try to stop him from executing his job—and if she had? Well, then he would have explained patiently and with love that he was born to fight, and he was careful with himself, and…

Kettle, black, much?

Besides, how would he have felt if someone had viewed his being mute as a rate limiter for fighting? How would he have reacted if he’d been told, in spite of all his other qualifications and skills, in spite of his natural talent and instincts, that because he couldn’t speak, he wasn’t allowed on the field?

Being female was not a disability in any sense of the word. But he had treated it as such, hadn’t he. He had decided that because she was not male, in spite of all her qualifications and skills, she couldn’t go out into conflict.

As if breasts suddenly made shit more dangerous.

John restarted with the rubbing, his head beginning to thump with pressure. His bonded side was ruining his life. Strike that—it had ruined his life. Because he wasn’t sure, no matter what he did now, whether he could get Xhex back.

He was, however, certain about one thing.

Abruptly, he thought about Tohr and that oath.

And knew what he had to do.

As Tohrment walked toward her, No’One became breathless: His massive body was shifting from side to side to the rhythm of his gait, his burning eyes fixing on her as if he meant to consume her in some vital way.

He was ready to mate, she thought.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was coming to take her.

I want to fuck you.

Her hand went to the tie on her robe, and it was a shock to realize that she was prepared to open her clothing at this moment. Not here, she told her fingers. Somewhere else, though…

There were no thoughts of that symphath, no anxiety over whether it would hurt, no sense that she might regret this. There was just a resonant peace in the midst of her body’s pounding need that this male was what she wanted; this mating was what she had waited so patiently for.

They were both ready.

Tohrment stopped in front of her, his chest pumping up and down and his hands curling into fists. “I’m going to give you the chance to get away from me. Right now. Leave the training center and I’ll stay here.”

His voice was warped, so low and deep that his words were nearly unintelligible.

Hers, on the other hand, was very clear: “I shall not depart from you.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying? If you don’t go… I’m going to be inside you in another minute and a half.”

She kicked her chin up. “I want you in me.”

A great growl rose up from him, the sort of sound that, had she heard it in another context, might have terrified her. But face-to-face with this magnificent, aroused male? Her body responded with a marvelous loosening, further preparing to accept him.

He was not gentle as he scooped down and picked her up, swinging her legs high and catching them in the crook of his arm. And he was not slow as he went forth toward the pool—as if the idea of getting them to a proper bed in the big house was simply too much to bother with.

Whilst he strode off with her captured like a prize, she stared up at his face. His brows were down hard, his mouth parted to reveal his fangs, his coloring high with anticipation. He wanted this. Needed this.

And there was no going back.

Not that she would have chosen to. She loved the way he made her feel in this moment.

Although she supposed it was treacherous to take compliment in the desperation with which he took possession of her. He was still in love with his dead mate. Then again, he did want her—and that was enough. That was, mayhap, all she would ever have—and yet, as she had told him, so much more than she could ever have prayed for.

Upon his will, the glass door to the pool’s entry hall opened wide for them, and as it eased shut in their wake, she heard its lock slip into place. Then they were traveling fast through the anteroom, and rounding the corner into the pool proper, the warmth of that thick, humid air making her body even more languid—

In a coordinated sequence, the overhead lights dimmed and the blue-green glow of the pool gathered in intensity, casting an aquamarine illumination over everything.

“No going back,” Tohrment said, as if giving her one last chance to end this.

When she merely nodded at him, he growled again and then put her down on one of the wooden benches, laying her on her back. He was true to his word. He didn’t wait or hesitate; he arched over her and fused their mouths, bringing his chest to her own, positioning his legs in between hers.

Wrapping her arms around the nape of his neck, she held him close as his lips moved against hers and his tongue entered her. The kissing was glorious and consuming, to the point where she didn’t notice he was undoing the tie of her robe.

And then his hands were upon her. Through the linen shift, his palms burned as they stroked her breasts and continued lower. Parting her thighs even farther for him, she pulled up the sheath and got what she wanted, his touch going to her core, massaging her, bringing her to that knife edge of release—but no farther.

“I want to kiss you,” he growled against her mouth. “But I can’t wait.”

She thought he was kissing her?

Before she could respond, he lifted his hips from her and worked with rough urgency at the front of his leathers.

And then something hot and blunt was bumping… nudging… slipping against her.

No’One arched up and called his name—and that was when he took her: As her voice echoed to the high ceiling, his body claimed hers, pushing inside, making its way, hard yet satin soft.

Tohrment’s head dropped down beside hers as they were joined, and then he stopped moving altogether—which was good: The sense of stretching and accommodating his size bordered on painful—not that she would have traded it for the world.

Groaning deep in his throat, his body started to move, slowly at first, then with greater speed, his hips swinging against hers as he gripped her outer thighs and squeezed. With the great wave of passion o’ertaking them both, every sensation was magnified, her mind at once fully present and totally blown away by the manner in which he dominated her without hurting her.

As the rhythm bordered on out of control, No’One held on to him for dear life, her physical form soaring even as it was pinned down under his, her heart shattering and being made whole in the same instant as the pleasure suddenly coalesced and then snapped. Indeed, her orgasm had her core gripping him and relenting in an alternating rhythm, the release entirely different from any of her previous ones—more intense, longer lasting. And it seemed to pitch him off the edge and into his own wild contractions, his pelvis shoving in and then jerking against her.

It all seemed to last forever, but as with any flight one took, they eventually eschewed the freedom of the sky and returned to earth.

Awareness was a gradual, unsettling burden.

He was still dressed, and so was she, the robe as yet draped upon her shoulders and arms. And the bench was cutting into her shoulder blades and the back of her head. And the air around her was not as warm as the passion had been.

How strange, she thought. Even though they had shared so much before, these moments just now had taken them up to and over a great divide.

She wondered how that would make him feel—

Tohrment lifted his head and stared down at her. There was no particular expression on his face, neither joy nor sorrow nor guilt.

He just looked at her.

“Are you okay?” he said.

As her voice appeared to have deserted her, she nodded, even though she wasn’t sure what she felt. Physically, her body was fine—in fact, it continued to welcome the presence inside of its recesses. But until she knew how he was, she couldn’t testify to anything else.

The last female he had been with had been his shellan.… And surely that was on his mind in this tense silence.

FORTY-SIX

Tohr stayed frozen right where he was, poised over No’One, erection still buried in her body, his sex twitching to keep going even as he put a lock on his lust.

He waited for his conscience to start screaming.

He prepared himself for an overwhelming desolation that he had been with another female.

He was… ready for something, anything to cough up out of his chest—despair, anger, frustration.

All he got was the sense that what had just happened was the beginning, not an end.

Shifting his eyes to No’One’s face, he searched her features, looking for any indication that he’d swapped her for his shellan, probing his internal wiring for signs of alarm… bracing himself for some great explosion.

All he felt was a sense of rightness.

Reaching up, he brushed back a strand of blond hair from her face. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. I kind of am.… I mean, I truly am… okay. Guess I was prepared for anything but that, if it makes any sense?”

The smile that bloomed on her face was nothing short of the sun’s radiance, the expression transforming her features into a beauty so resplendent, she took his ever-loving breath away.

So kind. So compassionate. So accepting.

He wouldn’t have been able to do this with anyone else.

“Mind if we try that again?” he said in a soft voice.

Her cheeks flushed a deeper pink. “Please…”

The tone in her voice made his cock jump inside of her, her slick, tight heat stroking it on a oner, making him ready to roar and start pounding away again.

Except it wasn’t fair to ask her to lie on that hard bench.

Tunneling his arms around her, he held her close to his chest and let his heavy thighs do the work of picking them both up. When they were on his feet, he kissed her again, tilting his head and working his mouth over hers as he palmed her bottom and braced himself to start moving. Using his arms, he lifted her up and down on his arousal, kissing what he could of her throat and her collarbones as he penetrated her at a different, deeper angle.

She was incredible, enveloping him, holding him tightly, the friction making him want to bite her just for the taste of her.

Faster. Even faster.

The robe was swinging wildly, and No’One must have hated the flapping as much as he did, because she abruptly dumped the thing, scraping it free of her shoulders and letting it fall to the tile. As her arms returned around his neck, she tightened her hold—which was just fine with him.

Digging in with his fingers, he got closer and closer to the end point—and it was the same with No’One. The sounds she was making, the incredible moans, her gorgeous scent rising up, her braid slapping—

Abruptly, he slowed down and snagged the tie that secured the plait of her hair, ripping it off and freeing the lengths. Shaking the thick waves out of their confines, he drew them over her shoulder and his own, blanketing them both.

Something about that undoing led to his own undoing: Two pumps later and his body pitched off its ledge, the release taking over everything until he cursed on an explosive breath.

Careening through the pleasure, he squeezed her hard and put his face into all that blond, breathing in, smelling the delicate shampoo that she used. Shit, the scent of her cranked him even higher, until his orgasm abruptly became the rough-and-tumble kind, racking his body, throwing his balance out of whack, rendering him temporarily blind.

It must have been the same for her—from a distance, he heard her call out his name as she locked her legs around his hips, melding them together.

Incredible. Absolutely incredible. And he rode out the pleasure for as long as it lasted—on both sides. When he finally stilled, No’One’s head flopped onto his shoulder, her body collapsing against his chest, her lovely flesh going loose as her lovely hair.

Unbidden, one of his hands found her spine and followed it upward to the base of her neck. As his breathing eased, he just… held her.

Before he knew it, he was rocking them both from side to side. She weighed next to nothing in his powerful arms, and he had the sense that he could have kept them linked and against each other… forever.

Eventually, she whispered, “I must be getting heavy.”

“Not at all.”

“You’re very strong.”

Man, that did his ego good. Matter of fact, she hit him with anything like that again, he was going to feel like he could bench-press a city bus. With a jet plane parked on its roof.

“I should get you cleaned up,” he said.

“What ever for?”

Okay, that was sexy. And it made him want to do… other things to her. All kinds of things.

Over her shoulder, he eyed the pool, and thought efficiency was actually the mother of invention.

“How about we take a dip?”

No’One lifted her head. “I could stay like this…”

“Forever?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were low-lidded and glowing in the blue-green light. “Forever.”

As he stared at her, he thought… she was so alive. Her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from his being all over her, her hair lush and a little wild. She was vital and hot and—

He started to laugh.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, he had no idea why—there was nothing funny about anything, but suddenly he was laughing like a lunatic.

“Sorry,” he managed. “I don’t know what the problem is.”

“I don’t care.” She beamed at him, showing her delicate fangs and her even, white teeth. “It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.”

Caught up in an impulse he didn’t understand, he let out a whoop and took a lunge in the direction of the pool, throwing out a long stride, then another, then a third. With a mighty leap, he sent them both flying into the still, aquamarine light source.

They landed in the warm water as one, soft, invisible arms gathering them into a temperate cushion, and insulating them from gravity’s heavy-handed pull, sparing them both any kind of hard landing.

As his head went under, he found her mouth and claimed it, kissing her under the surface as he planted his feet and pushed up so that they found the air.…

In the process, his cock found her core again.

She was right there with him, linking those legs of hers around his hips once more, echoing his rhythm, kissing him back. And it was good. It was… right.

Sometime later, No’One found herself naked, wet, and stretched out on the side of the pool on a bed of towels Tohrment had arranged for her.

He was kneeling next to her, his wet clothes clinging to his muscles, his hair glistening, his eyes intense as he stared at her body.

A sudden insecurity struck, chilling her.

Sitting up, she covered herself—

Tohrment captured her hands and gently put them at her sides. “You’re spoiling my view.”

“You like…?”

“Oh, yeah. I like.” He leaned over and kissed her deeply, slipping his tongue inside of her, easing her back down so that she was prone once more. “Mmmm, that’s what I’m talking about.”

When he eased back a little, No’One smiled up at him. “You make me feel…”

“What.” He dipped his head and brushed his lips over her throat, her collarbone… the tip of her breast. “Beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you are.” He kissed her other nipple and sucked it into his mouth. “Beautiful. And I think you should ditch that damn robe for good.”

“What will I wear?”

“I’ll get you clothes. All the clothes you want. Or you could just go naked.”

“In front of the others—” The hiss that curled out of him was pretty much the best compliment she had ever been given. “No?”

“No.”

“Then mayhap in your room.”

“Now, that I can get behind.”

His lips drifted downward and to the side, until he ran a fang over her ribs. Then he was going across her belly, the kisses soft and lazy. It wasn’t until he went even farther, lingering on her hip and then brushing very close to her sex, that she realized he had a purpose.

“Spread your legs for me,” he urged in a deep voice. “Let me see the most beautiful part of you. Let me kiss you where I want to be.”

She wasn’t completely sure what he was suggesting, but she was powerless to deny him anything when he used that tone with her. In a haze, she brought up one knee, parting her thighs… and she knew when he looked at her, because he growled in satisfaction.

Tohrment moved around between her legs and stretched out, palming either side of her and widening her further. And then his lips were upon her, warm and silky and wet. The sensation of soft on soft kicked off yet another orgasm, and he took advantage of it, entering her with his tongue, sucking at her, finding her rhythm and taking her further.

Her hands dug into his dark hair as she rolled her hips.

And to think she had liked the sex.…

Little had she known that there was so much more to discover.

He was mind-shatteringly attentive and painstakingly thorough in his explorations, taking his time unless he was taking her to the height of pleasure. And when he eventually lifted his mouth, his lips were slick and reddened, and he ran his tongue over them as he stared at her from under his lids.

Then he rose up and gripped her hips, tilting them up.

His erection was impossibly thick and long, but she already knew he fit her perfectly.

And he did again.

This time she paid more attention to the sight of him than the feel of him. Rising above her, he moved in that powerful, potent way of his, pleasuring them both as he curled his hips up and back, moving himself in and out of her.

His smile was dark. Erotic. “You like to watch me?”

“Yes. Oh, yes…”

That was as far as she got as another wave of release crested and assumed control of her thoughts, her speech, her body… her soul, wiping everything clean.

When she finally quieted and was again able to focus, she recognized the strain in Tohrment’s face, the tightness around his jaw and his eyes, the pumping of his chest. He had not found his release yet.

“Do you want to watch,” he gritted out.

“Oh, yes…”

Withdrawing from her body, his arousal was as his lips had been, glossy and swollen.

With one big hand he gripped himself, and with the other he braced his weight against the floor so that he could stretch out over her lax, open body. Twisting his shoulders, he provided her with plenty of view as he stroked up and down, that blunt head of his appearing and disappearing in and out of his fist.

His breath grew louder and harsher as he showed her just how it happened for him.

When the time came, his shout rang out in her ears and his head shot back, his chin punching forward as he bared his fangs and hissed. Then with rhythmic pulses, jets sprayed out of him, hitting her sex and her lower belly, making her arch sure as if the satisfaction had been her own.

As he finally sagged, she extended her arms. “Come here.”

There was no hesitation as he complied, bringing his chest to her own before he turned on his side to cushion her weight.

“Are you warm enough,” he murmured. “Your hair is wet.”

“I do not care.” She snuggled into his body. “I’m just… perfect.”

A rumble of approval came up his throat. “That you are… Rosalhynda.”

At the sound of her former name, she jerked back, but he held her tight. “I can’t keep calling you No’One. Not after… this.”

“I don’t like that name.”

“Then another.”

Staring into his face, she had the distinct notion that he was not going to budge on this. And he was also not going to refer to her as she had so chosen long, long ago… when that word was what she had felt she was.

Mayhap he was right, however. She suddenly didn’t feel like no one.

“You need a name.”

“I cannot choose,” she replied, aware of a stout pain in her heart.

He looked up to the ceiling. Wound some of her hair around one of his fingers. Made a clicking sound with his tongue.

“Autumn is my favorite season of the year,” he said after a time. “It’s not that I’m chicking out or anything… but I like the leaves when they turn red and orange. They’re beautiful in the moonlight, but more to the point, it’s an impossible transformation. The green of spring and summer is just a shadow of the trees’ true identity, and all that color as the nights grow cold is a miracle every stinking time it happens. It’s like they’re making up for the loss of the warmth with all their fire. I like… Autumn.” He stared into her eyes. “You’re like that. You’re beautiful and you burn brightly—and it’s time for you to come out. So I say… Autumn.”

In the silence that followed, she was aware of a pricking at the corners of her eyes.

“What’s the matter?” he rushed in. “Shit—you don’t like it? I could pick another. Lihllith? How about Suhannah? What… Joe? Fred? Frickin’ Howard?”

She put her hand upon his face. “I love it. It’s perfect. I shall henceforth be known by the name you have given me, and the season of the year when the leaves burn—Autumn.”

Lifting herself up, she pressed her lips to his. “Thank you. Thank you…”

As he nodded solemnly, she wrapped her arms around him, and held him tightly. To be named was to be claimed, and it made her feel… reborn.

FORTY-SEVEN

It was a long while before Tohr and Autumn reemerged from the warm, humid confines of their pool. Man, he was never going to go into that place again without thinking of it as “theirs.”

Holding open the door into the corridor for her, he took a deep, easing breath. Autumn… the perfect name for a perfectly lovely female.

Walking side by side, they made their way to the office together, his feet leaving wet prints, because the damp pants he’d squeezed himself back into were dripping at the hems. She, on the other hand, left no trail, as her robe was dry.

Last time she was going to wear the damned thing.

Shit, her hair looked good all loose around her shoulders. Maybe he could get her to lose the braid, too.

When they stepped out into the tunnel, he put his arm around her, tucking her in against him. She fit well. She was smaller than… Well, Wellsie had been much taller. Autumn’s head was lower on his pecs, her shoulders not as wide, and her gait was uneven, whereas his mate’s had been smooth as silk.

But she fit. Differently, yes, but the lock and key of their bodies was undeniable.

Approaching the door that led up to the mansion, he dropped back and let her go up the stairs first. At the top, he reached past her, punched in the code, and opened the way into the foyer, holding the heavy panels wide for her.

As she pased through, he asked, “Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Then you go upstairs and let me wait on you.”

“Oh, I can get something in the kit—”

“Nope. Don’t think so. I wait on you.” He took her around the base of the grand staircase. “You go up and get into bed. I’ll bring the food.”

She hesitated at the bottom step. “That’s really not necessary.”

He shook his head as he thought of all the exercise they’d gotten poolside. “It’s very necessary. And you’re going to humor me by losing that robe and getting in between the sheets naked.”

Her smile started out shy… ended up spectacular.

And then she pivoted and flashed him her backside.

Watching her hips sway as she ascended got him hard. Again.

Bracing one hand against the carved banister, he had to look down at the carpet and compose himself—

A nasty curse brought his head around.

Bad word, good timing…

Striding across the mosaic of an apple tree in bloom, he leaned into the billiards room. Lassiter was on the couch, focused on the wide-screen over the fireplace.

Even though Tohr was half-naked and half-wet, he strode over, getting in between the angel and the TV. “Listen, I—”

“What the fuck!” Lassiter started motioning like his hands were on fire and he was trying to flap them free of flames. “Get outta the way!”

“Did it work?” Tohr demanded.

More cursing, and then the angel jacked to the side in an attempt to get at the screen. “Just give me a minute—”

“Is she free?” he hissed. “Just tell me.”

“Aha!” Lassiter pointed at the boob tube. “You motherfucker! I knew you were the father!”

Tohr fought the urge to slap some sense into the son of a bitch. His Wellsie’s future was at stake, and this dumb-ass was worried about Maury’s paternity tests? “Are you kidding me.”

“No, I’m damn serious. Bastard has three kids by three sisters—what kind of man is that?”

Tohr smacked his own head in lieu of the angel’s. “Lassiter… come on, man—”

“Look, I’m still here, aren’t I,” the guy muttered as he muted the screaming and hopping up and down on Maury’s stage. “As long as I’m still here, there’s work to be done.”

Tohr let himself fall into a chair. Propping his head in his hand, he bit down on his molars. “I don’t fucking get it. Destiny wants blood, sweat, and tears—well, I’ve fed from her, we’ve—ah, sweated, for sure. Shit knows I’ve cried enough.”

“The tears don’t count,” the angel said.

“How is that possible?”

“It just is, my man.”

Great. Fantastic. “How much longer do I have to get my Wellsie free?”

“Your dreams are the answer to that. In the meantime, I suggest you go feed your female. I gather by your wet pants that you just gave her a helluva workout.”

The words, She’s not mine, rose up automatically into his throat, but he clamped down on them in the hopes that keeping them inside would help somehow.

The angel just shook his head back and forth, as if he were well aware of both the sentiment that had remained unspoken… and the future that was as yet unknown.

“Goddamn it,” Tohr muttered as he got to his feet and started for the kitchen. “Goddamn me.”

Some thirty miles away, at the Band of Bastards’ farmhouse, the sound of wheezing drifted up into the stale air of the cellar, rhythmic, ragged, wretched.

As Throe stared into the candlelight aimlessly, he didn’t feel good about where his leader was.

Xcor had been in one hell of a hand-to-hand contest toward the end of the engagement at Assail’s house. He had refused to say with whom, but it must have been a Brother. And naturally, he had had no medical attention since then—not that they had much to offer in that regard.

Cursing to himself, Throe crossed his arms over his chest and tried to remember the last time the male had fed. Dearest Virgin Scribe… had it been back in the spring with those three prostitutes? No wonder he wasn’t healing up… and he wouldn’t until he was better nourished—

The wheezing shifted into a rough cough… then resumed at a slower, more painful rate.

Xcor was going to die.

That dire conclusion had been dawning with relentless vigor ever since that breathing pattern had changed hours ago. To survive, the male needed one of two things, preferably both: access to medical facilities, supplies, and personnel the likes of which the Brotherhood enjoyed; and the blood of a female vampire.

There was no way of getting him the former, and the latter had proven to be a challenge over the last few months. The vampire population in Caldwell was slowly increasing, but since the raids, females had been at an even higher premium. He had yet to find one who was willing to service them, even though he was able to pay handsomely.

Although… considering Xcor’s condition, mayhap even that might not be enough. What they needed was a miracle—

Unbidden, an image of that spectacular Chosen he’d fed from at the Brotherhood’s facility came to mind. Her blood would be a lifesaver for Xcor right now. Literally. Except obviously it was not obtainable on so many levels. How would he be able to reach out to her, for one thing. And even if he could connect with her, she would undoubtedly know he was the enemy…

Or would she? She’d called him a soldier of worth to his face—mayhap the Brotherhood had kept his identity from her to insulate her delicate sensibilities—

No more sound. Nothing.

“Xcor?” he called out as he sat up in a rush. “Xcor—”

At that point, there was another round of coughing and then the labored breathing resumed.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, he had no idea how the others slept through all this. Then again, they had been fighting for so long on nothing but human blood that sleep was their only chance for any kind of recharge. Throe’s adrenal gland had overridden that imperative as of two in the afternoon, however; whereupon he had begun his vigil over Xcor’s respiratory process.

As he reached for his cell phone to check the time, he struggled to focus on the numbers that were displayed, his mind frantic.

Ever since that incident between them in the summer, Xcor had been a different male. Still autocratic, demanding, and full of calculations that could shock and stun… but his stare was different when he looked upon his soldiers. He was more connected to all of them, his eyes opened to some new level of relating, the likes of which he hadn’t appeared to have been aware previously.

Shame to lose the bastard now.

Rubbing his eyes, Throe finally got a read on the hour: five thirty-eight. The sun was probably just below the horizon, the dusk no doubt lingering in the sky to the east. It would be better to wait for the darkness to truly arrive, but he had no more time to waste—especially given that he wasn’t sure what he was doing.

Shifting off his bunk, he rose to his full height, walked across the way and shook the mound of blankets Zypher was under.

“Go ’way,” the soldier mumbled. “Still have thirty minutes…”

“You need to get the others out of here,” Throe whispered.

“Do I.”

“And you must stay behind.”

“Must I.”

“I’m going to try to find a female to feed Xcor.”

That got the soldier’s attention: Zypher’s head lifted—down at the other end. “In truth?”

Throe shuffled to the foot of the bunk so they could meet eye-to-eye. “Make sure he stays here, and be prepared to drive him to my coordinates.”

“Throe, whatever are you about?”

Without reply, he turned away and began pulling leather upon his personage, his hands shaking from Xcor’s treacherous state… and the fact that if his prayer was answered, he would be in the company of that female once again.

Glancing down at his fighting clothes, he hesitated… dearest Virgin Scribe, he wished he had something with which to clothe himself other than leather. A lovely suit of worsted wool with a cravat. Proper shoes with laces. Underwear.

“Wherever are you going?” Zypher asked sharply.

“It matters not. What I find is the only important thing.”

“Tell me you are taking weapons.”

Throe paused anew. If for some reason this backfired, he might well need armaments. But he didn’t want to frighten her—assuming he could in fact reach her somehow and get her to come to him. Such a delicate female was she…

Some concealed things, he decided. A gun or two. Some knives. Nothing that she could see.

“Good,” Zypher murmured as he began checking his weapons.

Mere minutes later, Throe ascended from the basement, and burst out the kitchen’s exterior door—

Hissing and throwing up his forearms, he was forced to jump back into the dark house. With his eyes stinging and tearing up, he cursed and went for the sink, running cold water and splashing it upon his face.

It seemed forever until his phone’s display informed him that an exit was safer to attempt, and this time he opened the door with far less bravado.

Oh, the relief of the night.

Leaping out from his confines, he landed upon the good earth and filled his lungs with the cold, damp air of autumn. Closing his still throbbing eyes, he focused himself inward, and spirited himself away from the house, casting his component molecules north and east until he reformed in a field of meadow grass marked in the center with a large, flame-tipped maple tree.

Standing before the great trunk, underneath the red-and-gold leaf cover, he surveyed the landscape with his razor-sharp senses. This bucolic spot was far, far away from the battleground of downtown, and not even close to any compound of the Brothers or outpost of the Lessening Society—at least that he was aware of.

To be sure of his read on the site, though, he waited, as motionless as the big tree behind him, but not nearly as serene—he was prepared to engage with anything and anyone.

Nobody and nothing came upon him, however.

Some thirty minutes later, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged upon the ground, linking his hands together, and settling in.

He was well aware of the peril of this path he was embarking upon. But in some battles, you had to make your own weapons, even if you ran the risk of them blowing up in your face: There was grave danger in this, but if there was one thing you could count on with the Brotherhood, it was an old-fashioned protection of their females.

He’d had the jaw shots to prove it.

So he was banking upon the fact that, if he did reach the Chosen, she wouldn’t know his true identity.

He was also forcing himself to push aside any guilt at the position he was putting her in.

Before he closed his eyes, he looked around again. There were deer at the far edge of the meadow by the forest of trees, their delicate hooves brushing through fallen leaves, their heads bobbing as they meandered along. An owl sounded off to the right, the hooting carried upon the light, cold breeze to his perked ears. Far in front of him, on a road that he could not see, a pair of headlights drifted along, likely a farm truck.

No lessers.

No Brothers.

No one but him.

Lowering his lids, he pictured the Chosen and recaptured those moments when her blood was going into him, reviving him, calling him back from the brink his life had trembled upon. He saw her with great clarity and focused on the taste and the scent of her, the very essence of who she was.

And then he prayed, prayed as he never had before, even when he had lived a civilized life. He prayed so hard his brows tightened and his heart pounded and he couldn’t breathe. He prayed with a desperation that left a part of him wondering whether this was to save Xcor… or simply so he could see her once again.

He prayed until he lost his train of words and all he had was a feeling in his chest, a howling need that he could only hope was a strong enough signal for her to respond to, if she indeed got it.

Throe kept it up for as long as he could, until he was numb and cold and so exhausted his head hung no longer out of reverence, but out of tiredness.

He kept at it until the persistent silence around him intruded upon his quest… and told him that he had to accept failure.

When he finally reopened his eyes, he found that moonlight had sneaked under the canopy he sat beneath, the sun’s opposite having arrived for its evening shift of watching o’er the earth—

His shout echoed loud as he jumped to his feet.

’Twas not the moon that was the cause of the light.

His Chosen was standing afore him, her robing of such a bright white, it appeared to throw off its own illumination.

Her hands extended forth as if to calm him. “I am sorry to startle you.”

“No! No, no, it’s fine—I… You are here.”

“Did you not summon me?” She appeared confused. “I was not sure what called me forth. I… simply had this urge to come here. And there you were.”

“I didn’t know if it would work.”

“Well, it did.” At this, she smiled at him.

Oh, sweet Virgin Scribe in the great heavens above, she was beautiful, her hair all coiled up high upon her head, her form so willowy and elegant, her scent… ambrosia.

She frowned and looked down at herself. “Am I not properly covered?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You stare.”

“Oh, indeed, I am… Please forgive me. My manners have been forgotten—because you are too lovely for mine eyes to comprehend.”

That made her recoil ever so slightly. As if she were unused to compliments—or mayhap he had offended her.

“I’m sorry,” he said—before wanting to curse himself. His vocabulary was going to have to expand past apologies. Fast. And it would help if he didn’t behave like a schoolboy in her presence. “I mean no disrespect.”

Now she smiled again, a stunning display of happiness. “I believe you in that, soldier. I suppose I’m simply surprised.”

That he found her attractive? Good Lord…

Reclaiming his past as a genteel member of the glymera, Throe bowed low. “You honor me by your presence, Chosen.”

“What brings you out here?”

“I wanted… well, I did not desire to risk any harm to you as I prevailed upon you for a favor of great weight.”

“A favor? Truly?”

Throe paused. She was so guileless, so delighted at being called upon, that his guilt renewed tenfold. But she was the only savior Xcor had, and this was war.…

As he struggled with his conscience, it occurred to him that there was a way to make it up to her, though, a vow he could take in return for the gift, if she chose to give it.

“I would ask…” He cleared his throat. “I have a comrade who is gravely injured. He is going to die if we do not—”

“I must go to him. Now. Show me wherever he is and I shall be of aid to him.”

Throe closed his eyes and could not draw any breath. Indeed, he even felt tears threaten. In a hoarse voice, he said, “You are an angel. You are not of this earth in your compassion and kindness.”

“Waste not pretty words. Where is your fellow fighter?”

Throe took out his phone and texted Zypher. The response he received was immediate—and the time line for arrival ridiculously short. Unless, of course, the soldier had already gotten Xcor into the vehicle and was prepared to start driving.

Such a male of worth he was.

As Throe put his cell back into his pocket, he focused on the Chosen once more. “He is coming this very moment. He must be transported by vehicle, as he is not well.”

“And then we’ll take him to the training center?”

No. Not hardly. Not ever. “You shall be enough for him. He is weakened from too little feeding more than he is injured.”

“Shall we wait here, then?”

“Aye. We wait here.” There was a long pause, and she began to fidget as if uncomfortable. “Forgive me, Chosen, if I continue to stare.”

“Oh, no need to apologize. I’m just awkward because it is rare that I hold someone’s rapt attention.”

Now he was the one recoiling. Then again, the Brothers no doubt treated any male in her presence as they had him.

“Well, permt me to persist,” he murmured gently. “For you are all I can see.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Qhuinn emerged from the hidden door under the grand stairway at around six p.m. that evening. His head was still a little fuzzy, his footfalls more shuffle than step, his body aching all over. But, hey, he was upright, he was mobile, and he was alive.

Things could be worse.

Plus he had a purpose. When Doc Jane had come in to check on him just now, she’d told him that Wrath had called a meeting of the Brotherhood. Of course, she’d also informed him that he was off rotation and had to stay in bed in the clinic—but like he was going to miss the postgame wrap-up on what had gone down at Assail’s? Negs.

She’d done her best to persuade him otherwise, naturally, but in the end, she’d dialed up and told the king to expect one more.

As he came around the carved post of the banister, he could hear the Brothers talking on the second floor, those voices loud and deep, overriding one another. Clearly, Wrath hadn’t called shit to order yet—which meant there was time to grab a drink of the alcohol variety before going up.

Because, duh, that was precisely what you needed when you were rocky on your pins to begin with.

After some careful assessment, he decided that the distance to the library was shorter than that to the billiards room. Old-manning his way to the oak doors, he froze as soon as he got to the archway.

“Holy hell…”

There were at least fifty books of the Old Law crowding the floor, and that wasn’t the half of it. Over at the trestle table beneath the leaded-glass windows, more leather-bound volumes had been cracked open and were lying with their guts exposed like soldiers shot dead on a battlefield.

Two computers. A laptop. Legal pads.

A creak from up high lifted his eyes. Saxton was on the rolling teak ladder, reaching for a book on the top shelf by the ceiling molding.

“Good evening to you, cousin,” the guy said from his lofty perch.

Just the male he needed to see. “What’s doing with all this?”

“You’re looking rather well recovered.” The ladder creaked again as the male descended with his prize. “All and sundry have been worried.”

“Nah, I’m fine.” Qhuinn went over to liquor bottles lined up on the marble-topped bombé chest. “So what are you working on?”

Do not think of him with Blay. Do not think of him with Blay. Do not think of him—

“I didn’t know you were a sherry man.”

“Huh?” Qhuinn glanced down at what he’d poured himself. Fuck. In the midst of the self-lecture, he’d picked up the wrong bottle. “Oh, you know… I’m good with it.”

To prove the point, he tossed back the hooch—and nearly choked as the sweetness hit his throat.

He served himself another only so he didn’t look like the kind of idiot who wouldn’t know what he was dishing out into his own glass.

Okay, gag. The second was worse than the first.

From out of the corner of his eye, he watched Saxton settle in at the table, the brass lamp in front of him casting the most perfect glow over his face. Shiiiiiit, he looked like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad, with his buff-colored tweed jacket and his pointed pocket square and that button-down/sweater vest combo keeping his fucking liver cozy.

Meanwhile, Qhuinn was sporting hospital scrubs, bare feet. And sherry.

“So what’s the big project?” he asked again.

Saxton glanced over with a strange light in his eyes. “It’s a game changer, as you might say.”

“Ohhhh, supersecret king stuff.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, good luck with it. Looks like you’ve got enough to keep you busy for a while.”

“I’ll be at this for a month, maybe more.”

“What are you doing, rewriting the whole goddamn law?”

“Just a part of it.”

“Man, you make me love my job. I’d rather get shot at than do paperwork.” He poured himself a third cocksucking sherry and then tried not to look too much like a zombie as he headed for the door. “Have fun with it.”

“And you with your endeavors, dear cousin. I would be up there as well, but I have been given no time to accomplish too much.”

“You’ll get through it.”

“Indeed. I will.”

As Qhuinn nodded and then hit the stairs, he thought… Well, at least that exchange hadn’t been too bad. He hadn’t imagined anything X-rated. Or entertained visions of beating the motherfucker until he bled out all over his nice threads.

Progress. Yay.

Up on the second story, the double doors of the study were wide-open, and he paused when he got a gander at the size of the crowd. Holy crap… everyone was there. As in not just the Brothers and the fighters, but the shellans… and the staff?

There were literally forty people in the room, packed in like sardines around the pansy-ass furniture.

Then again, maybe it did make sense. After that goddamn sharpshooter attack, the king was back behind his desk, sitting on his throne, all but risen from the dead. Kind of warranted a celebration, he supposed.

Before stepping into the fray, he went to take another haul of the sherry, but one whiff of the shit in his nose and his goiter went no-go. Leaning to the side, he tossed the stuff out into a potted plant, left the glass on the hall table and—

The instant they saw him come through the door, everyone shut up. Sure as if there were a remote to the room and someone had muted the picture.

Qhuinn froze. Glanced down at himself in case he was flashing something indecent. Looked behind him in the event there was someone important coming up the stairs.

Then he looked around the room, wondering what he had missed—

In the great, yawning absence of sound and movement, Wrath braced himself against his queen’s arm and grunted as he rose to his feet. He had a bandage around his neck, and he looked a little pale, but he was alive… and wearing an expression so intense, Qhuinn felt like he was being physically enveloped.

And then the king put the hand that bore the black diamond ring of the race to his own chest, right in the middle, directly over his heart… and slowly, gingerly, with the help of his shellan, bent over at the waist.

To bow at Qhuinn.

As all the blood drained out of Qhuinn’s head, and he wondered what the fuck the most important vampire on the planet was doing, someone started clapping slowly.

Clap. Clap. Clap!

Others joined in, until the entire assembly, from Phury and Cormia, to Z and Bella and baby Nalla, to Fritz and his staff… to Vishous and Payne and their mates, to Butch and Marissa and Rehv and Ehlena… were clapping for him with tears unshed in their eyes.

Qhuinn tucked his arms around himself as his mismatched stare bounced anywhere and everywhere.

Until it settled on Blaylock.

The redhead was over to the right-hand side, clapping like the rest of them, his blue eyes luminous with emotion.

Then again, he would know how much something like this meant to a fucked-up kid with a congenital defect whose family hadn’t wanted him around for the embarrassment and social disgrace.

He would know how hard the gratitude was to accept.

He would know how much Qhuinn just wanted to escape from the attention… even as he was touched beyond measure at this honor he did not deserve.

In the midst of all he couldn’t handle, he just looked at his old, dear friend.

As always, Blay was the anchor who kept him from being swept away.

As Xhex tooled up through the mhis on her bike, she found it hard to believe she was making the trip to the mansion under royal command: Wrath himself had extended the “invite”—and as much of an iconoclast as she was, she wasn’t about to shut down a direct order from the king.

Man, she was nauseous.

When she’d first gotten the voice mail, she’d assumed that John was dead, having been killed out on the field. A quick Hail Mary text to him had been replied to immediately, however. Short and sweet. Just Will u come @ nightfall?

That was all she got back; even after she said yes, and had expected something further from him.

So yeah, she felt like throwing up because this was probably John putting an end to them officially. The vampire equivalent of divorce was rare, but the Old Laws did provide for an out legally. And naturally, for people at John’s social level—namely, that of the blooded son of a Black Dagger Brother—the king was the only one who could give them dispensation to split.

This had to be the end.

Shit, she actually was going to throw up.

Pulling around in front of the mansion, she didn’t park the Ducati at the tail end of the orderly row of muscle cars, SUVs, and station wagons. Nope—she left the bike right at the base of the stairs. If this was a royal divorce decree, she was going to help John put an end to their misery, and then she was…

Well, she was going to call Trez and tell him she couldn’t come to work. Then she was going to lock herself in her cabin and cry like a girl. For a week or two…

So stupid. This whole thing between them was so fucking stupid. But she couldn’t change him, and he couldn’t change her, so what the hell did they have left? It had been months since they’d had anything but distance and awkard silence between them. And the trend wasn’t reversing itself; the black hole was just getting deeper and darker.…

As she mounted the steps to the grand double doors, she was breaking in half, shattering sure as if her bones had turned brittle and were collapsing under the weight of her muscles. But she kept going, because that was what fighters did. They pushed on past the pain and took out their objective—and sure as shit she and John were killing something tonight, something that had been so precious and rare she was ashamed of them both for not finding a way to nurture it in the midst of the cold, hard world.

Inside the vestibule, she didn’t step up immediately to the camera’s eye. Never a prepper-upper kind of female, she nonetheless found herself brushing fingertips under her eyes and shuffling a palm over her short hair. A quick straightening of her leather jacket—and her spine—and she told herself to suck it up.

She had gotten through legions of things worse than this.

Through pride alone, she could marshal some self-control for the next ten or fifteen minutes.

She had the rest of her natural life to lose her goddamn composure in private.

With a curse, she hit the summons button and stepped back, forcing herself to look into the camera. As she waited, she straightened her jacket again. Stomped her boots. Double-checked that her guns were where they’d been holstered.

Played with her hair.

Okay, what the hell.

Leaning to the side, she gave that button another stab. The doggen here had high standards. You rang that bell, and it was answered within moments.

On the third try, she debated how many more times she was going to have to beg for—

The vestibule’s inner door was thrown wide and Fritz looked mortified. “My lady! I am so sorry—”

A loud cacophony drowned out whatever else the butler said, and she frowned as she looked past the old male. Up over the doggen’s white head, at the top of the grand staircase, there was a tremendous crowd milling around and drifting off, as if a party had just broken up.

Maybe someone had just told everybody they were getting mated.

Good luck with that, she thought.

“Big announcement?” she asked as she stepped through into the foyer and braced herself for someone else’s happy news.

“More a recognition.” The butler put his weight, such as it was, into shutting the door. “I shall allow the others to inform you.”

Ever the dutiful butler—discreet to his very marrow.

“I’m here to see—”

“The Brotherhood. Yes, I know.”

Xhex frowned. “It was Wrath, I thought.”

“Well, yes, of course the king as well. Please come up to the royal study.”

As she crossed the mosaic floor and started her ascent, she nodded at the folks coming down… the shellans, the staff she knew, the people she had lived with for a mere matter of weeks, but who had become, in a short time, a sort of family to her.

She was going to miss them almost as much as John.

“Madam?” the butler asked. “Are you all right?”

Xhex forced a smile and guessed she had probably let out some kind of curse. “Fine, just fine.”

When she got to Wrath’s study, there was so much approval in the air, she practically had to push the shit aside to walk into the room: The Brothers were all thick chested with pride… except for Qhuinn, who was blushing so deeply he’d turned himself into a Roman candle.

John, however, appeared reserved—not looking at her at all, but at some middle ground right in front of himself.

From behind the desk, Wrath focused on her. “And now on to business,” the king announced.

As the doors shut behind her, she had no fucking clue what was doing. John still refused to even glance at her… and, shit, the king had a wound on his neck—assuming he hadn’t decided that white gauze at the throat was some kind of fashion statement.

Everyone shut up, settled down, got serious.

Oh, man, they had to do this in front of the whole Brotherhood?

Then again, what else could she have expected? The groupthink was so pervasive in this bunch of males, of course they’d all want to be present when things were finished.

She stood strong. “Let’s get this over with. Where do I sign?”

Wrath frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“On the papers.”

The king glanced over at John. Looked back. “This is not the kind of thing I’ll be reducing to writing. Ever.”

Xhex glanced around and then refocused on John, reading his emotional grid. He was… nervous. Saddened. And purposeful in such a powerful way, she was momentarily struck stupid.

“What the hell is going on here,” she demanded.

The king’s voice was loud and clear. “I have an assignment for you—if you’re interested. Something that I have on good authority you can discharge with remarkable skill. Assuming you are open to helping us.”

Xhex stared at John in shock.

He was responsible for this, she thought. Whatever wheels were turning in this room, he had set them in motion.

“What have you done?” she said directly to him.

That got him to look at her properly. Raising his hands, he signed, There are limits to what we can do. We need you for this.

Glancing at Rehv, she got a whole lot of grave coming back at her—and nothing more. No censure, no girls-not-allowed. Same for the rest of the males in the room: There was nothing but calm acceptance of her presence… and her capabilities.

“What exactly do you want from me?” she said to the king slowly.

As the male spoke, she continued to look at John while hearing things like Band of Bastards… an assassination attempt… their lair… a rifle.

With each passing sentence, her brows cranked higher and higher.

Okay, so not about a bake sale or some shit. This was locating the heart of the enemy, infiltrating their secure domain, and removing any long-range weaponry that could have been used to try to kill Wrath the night before.

Thus providing the Brotherhood, if all went as expected, with the proof they needed to condemn Xcor and his soldiers to death.

Xhex put her hands on her hips—so they wouldn’t start rubbing together with glee. This was right up her alley—an impossible proposition backed up by a principle she could get behind: revenge on someone who had fucked you.

“So what do you think?” Wrath asked.

Xhex stared over at John, willing him to look at her again. When he did not, she just reread his emotional grid: He was terrified, but he was resolved.

He wanted her to do this. But why? What the hell had changed?

“Yeah, it’s something I’m interested in,” she heard herself say.

As deep male voices growled approval, the king curled up a fist and banged it on the desk. “Good! Well-done. There’s just one thing.”

A catch. Naturally. “I work best on my own. I don’t want eight hundred pounds of babysitter sneaking around behind me.”

“Nope. You go by yourself—knowing that you have all our resources as backup if you need or want them. The one constraint is that you can’t kill Xcor.”

“No problem, I’ll just bring him in alive for questioning.”

“Nope. You can’t touch him. No one can until we analyze the bullet. And then if we find what I think we will, he’s Tohr’s to kill. By official proclamation.”

Xhex glanced over at the Brother. Jesus Christ, he looked totally different, as if he were a younger, healthy relation of the guy she had known since Wellsie had been killed. And given the way he was now? Xcor had a grave with his name on it already dug.

“What happens if I have to defend myself?”

“You have permission to do whatever you have to in order to secure your safety. In fact, in that event…” The king turned his blind eyes in John’s direction. “I encourage you to bring every weapon you have to bear in your own defense.”

Read: Use that symphath side of yours, girlfriend.

“But if possible,” Wrath added, “leave as much undisturbed as possible, and Xcor aboveground.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Xhex said. “I don’t have to touch him or any of the others. I can keep it just about the rifle.”

“Good.” As the king smiled and flashed his fangs, the others started talking in a rush. “Perfect—”

“Wait, I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” she said, shutting them all up as she looked over at John. “Not… yet.”

FORTY-NINE

“Unhand me, you fool,” Xcor blabbered as he felt himself lifted once again.

He was beyond finished with being manhandled: Up off his bunk he’d been resting on. Into the vehicle. Taken somewhere else. And now disturbed anew.

“Almost there,” Zypher said.

“Leave me be.…” That was supposed to have come out as a demand. Instead, he sounded like a child to his own ears.

Ah, how he wished for his former strength, so that he could have pushed himself free, and stood upon his own legs.

But that time had passed. Indeed, he was well gone… and mayhap done for.

His dire condition was the result of no one particular injury from that fight with that soldier—it was the culmination of all of them, the wounds covering his head and his gut, the agony something rather like the beat of his heart, a force that existed and persisted within him, over which he had no control.

Initially, he had fought the tide under the masculine just-throw-it-off theory. His body had had other plans for him, however, and more sway than his mind and will did. Now it felt as if he was owned by this pall of disorientation and exhaustion—

Abruptly, the air he breathed was cold and clear, slapping some sense into him.

Struggling to focus his eyes, he was greeted by a meadow, a rolling meadow that rose to meet a magnificent autumnal tree. And there… yes, there under the branches that were cast in red and yellow was Throe.

Next to whom was a slim figure in a white gown… a female.

Unless he was seeing things?

No, he was not. As Zypher carried him closer, she became more distinct. She was… incalculably beautiful, with pale skin and blond hair that was twisted up upon the crown of her head.

She was vampire, not human.

She was… unearthly, an illumination spilling out from her form, one so bright it o’ershadowed the moon.

Ah, so this was a dream.

He should have guessed. After all, there was no reason for Zypher to take him into the farmland parts, risking their lives for some fresh air. No cause for any female to be waiting upon his arrival. No possibility that someone as fair as she would be out alone in the world.

No, this was just a product of his delirium, and therefore he relaxed into the iron arms of his soldier, recognizing that whatever his subconscious had coughed up was not going to matter at all, and he might as well let things play out. Eventually he would wake up, and mayhap this was a sign he had finally settled into a deep, healing sleep.

Besides, the less he fought, the more he could concentrate on her.

Oh… loveliness. Oh, virtuous beauty, the kind that turned kings into serfs and soldiers into poets. This was the sort of female worth fighting for, dying for, just to gaze for a moment upon her face.

Such a shame she was but a vision…

The first sign that something was off was that she seemed taken aback at the sight of him.

Then again, his mind was probably just going for realism. He was hideous uninjured. Beaten and starving? He was lucky she did not shrink away in horror. As it was, her hands lifted to her cheeks and her head shook back and forth until Throe stepped in as if to protect her delicate sensibilities.

Didn’t that make him wish for a weapon. This was his dream. If she was going to be sheltered, he would take care of that. Well… assuming he could stand up. And she did not run away—

“He is failing,” he heard her say.

His eyes fluttered back at the pure, dulcet sound. That voice was as perfect as the rest of her, and he concentrated hard, trying to get his brain to make her speak some more in his dream.

“Aye,” Throe said. “This is an emergency.”

“What is his name?”

Xcor spoke up at this point, thinking he should be the one to make his own introduction. Unfortunately, all that came out was a croak.

“Lay him down,” the female said. “We need to do this with speed.”

Soft, cool grass rose up to meet his broken body, cushioning him sure as if the palm of the earth was mittened in wool. And when he reopened the steel doors of his eyes, he got to watch her kneel beside him.

“You are so beautiful…” was what he said. What came out of his mouth was nothing more than a gargle.

And abruptly, he had difficulty breathing, as if something had burst in his interior, perhaps as a result of all the moving?

Except this was a dream, so why would that matter?

As the female brought up her wrist, he reached out a shaking hand and stopped her before she could score her vein.

Her eyes met his own.

In the periphery, Throe once again closed the distance, as if he were worried that Xcor would do something violent.

Not to her, he thought. Never to this gentle creature of his imagination.

Clearing his throat, he spoke as clearly as he could. “Save your blood,” he told her. “Beautiful one, you save what makes you vital.”

He was too far gone for the likes of her. And that was true not merely because he was badly wounded and probably going to die.

Even in his imagination, she was far too good for even proximity to him.

As Layla fell to her knees, she found it difficult to speak. The male stretched out before her was… well, injured severally, yes, of course. But he was more than that. In spite of the fact that he was on the ground and clearly defenseless, he was…

Powerful was the only word that came to mind.

Tremendously powerful.

She could tell nearly naught of his features for the swelling and the bruising, and the same was true of his coloring, because of all the dried blood. But in physical form, although he appeared to be not as tall as the Brothers, he was every bit as wide, and thick of shoulder, with arms that were brutally muscled.

Mayhap the contours of his body were the seat of her impression of him?

No, the fighter who had called her forth to this meadow was of equal size, as was the male who delivered the wounded here to her feet.

This fallen soldier was simply different from the other two—and in fact, they did defer to him in subtle ways with their movements and their eyes.

Indeed, this was not a male to toy with, but rather, like a bull, capable of crushing anything in its path.

Yet the hand that touched her was light as a breeze and even less confining—she had the distinct impression that not only was he not holding her here, but that he wanted her to go.

She was not about to leave him, however.

In the strangest way, she was… ensnared… held captive by a deep blue stare that even in the night, and despite the fact that he was fully mortal, appeared to be lit with fire. And under that regard, her heart quickened and her eyes clung to him as if he were at once indecipherable and capable of her understanding—

Sounds came out of him, guttural and incomprehensible because of his wounds, urging her to to proceed with haste.

He needed to be cleaned. Cared for. Nursed back to health over a matter of days, perhaps weeks. Yet here he was in this field, with these males who obviously knew more about weapons than healing.

She looked at the soldier she knew. “You must take him in to be treated after this.”

Although she got a nod and an affirmation as a reply, her instincts told her it was a lie.

Males, she thought derisively, were too tough for their own good.

She refocused on the soldier. “You need me,” she told him.

The sound of her voice appeared to put him further into some kind of thrall, and she took advantage of it. Weakened though he was, she had the distinct sense that he had more than enough power in his body to prevent her from bringing her vein to his mouth.

“Shhh,” she said, reaching out and brushing his short hair back. “Be of ease, warrior. As you protect and serve the likes of me, allow me to return your service.”

So proud he was—she could tell by the hard thrust of his chin. And yet he appeared to listen to her, his hand dropping from her forearm, his mouth parting, as if he were hers to command.

Layla moved fast, prepared to take advantage of the relative surrender—for no doubt he would soon retreat from the submission. Biting into her wrist, she quickly brought her arm over his lips, the drops falling one by one.

As he accepted her gift, the sound he made was… nothing short of breathtaking: A groan laced with infinite gratitude and, in her opinion, baseless awe.

Oh, how those eyes of his held on to hers, until the field, the tree, the other two males faded away, and all she knew was the male she was feeding.

Compelled by something she was disinclined to argue with, she lowered her arm… until his mouth brushed her wrist: This was something she never did with the other males, even Qhuinn at this point. But she wanted to know what it felt like, this soldier’s mouth upon her skin—

The instant contact was made, that sound he’d uttered returned, and then he formed a seal around the twin points. He did not hurt her; even as big as he was, as starved as he was, he did not ravage her. Not at all. He drew with care, keeping always his stare upon her own as if he were safeguarding her, in spite of the fact that he was the one who needed protection in his current condition.

Time passed, and she knew he was taking a great deal from her, but she did not care. She would have stayed forever in this meadow, beneath this tree… linked to this brave warrior who had nearly given his life in the war against the Lessening Society.

She could remember feeling something like this with Qhuinn, this incredible sensation of destination, even though she had not been aware she was traveling. But this pull put what she had once experienced with that other male to shame.

This was epic.

And yet… why should she trust such emotion? Mayhap this was just a heartier version of what she had felt for Qhuinn. Or mayhap this was simply how the Scribe Virgin ensured the survivability of the race, biology o’errunning logic.

Pushing such blasphemous thoughts aside, she focused on her job, her mission, her blessed contribution that was her only opportunity to serve now that the Chosen’s role had been so diminished.

Providing blood to males of worth was all that was left of her calling. All that she had in her life.

Instead of thinking of herself, of the way she felt, she needed to thank the Scribe Virgin that she had come here in time to do her sacred duty… and then she had to return to the compound to find other opportunities to be of service.

FIFTY

“What’s changed, John.”

In the bedroom he and Xhex had once shared, John went over to the windows and felt the cold wafting through the clear glass. Down below, the gardens were bathed in security lighting, the false moon glow making the grout around the terrace’s slate slabs seem phosphorescent.

As he surveyed the landscape, there wasn’t much to look at. Everything had been prepped for winter, the beds of flowers quilted in mesh covers, the fruit trees bagged, the pool now drained. Stray leaves from the maples and oaks at the forest’s edge skipped across the mowed, browning grass, like they were homeless and in search of shelter.

“John. What the hell is going on?”

In the end, Xhex had not committed, and he didn’t blame her. One-eighties were disorienting, and real life sure as shit didn’t come with seat belts or air bags.

How did he explain himself? he wondered as he scrambled for words.

Eventually, he pivoted around, brought up his hands, and signed, You were right.

“About what?”

That would be everything, he thought as he started to sign.

Last night, I watched Qhuinn go out into the suck zone—alone. Wrath was down; we were scrambling; the Brotherhood hadn’t come yet as backup—bullets were everywhere. The Band of Bastards had surrounded us, and we were running out of time because of the king’s injury. Qhuinn… see, he knew he was better off outside the house—he knew that if he could secure the garage, we might be able to get Wrath out. And… yeah, it nearly killed me, but I let him go out there. He’s my best friend… and I let him go.

Xhex went over and slowly lowered herself into a chair. “That’s why Wrath’s neck was all wrapped up… and Qhuinn was…”

He went up against Xcor, one-on-one, and gave Wrath the best shot at surviving. John shook his head at her. And again, I let him go out there because… I knew he had to do what he could. It was the right thing for the situation.

John paced around, then parked it at the foot of the bed, bracing his palms on his thighs, rubbing them up and down. Qhuinn is a good fighter—he’s strong and decisive. A heavy hitter. And because he did what he did, Wrath lived—so yeah, Qhuinn was right, even though it was dangerous.

He looked over at her. You’re the same here. We need that rifle to declare war on the Bastards—Wrath has to have the proof. You’re a hunter who can go out in daylight—none of us can do that. You also have your symphath abilities if shit gets critical. You’re the right person for the job—even though the thought of you going anywhere near them terrifies me, you are the right one to send out to wherever they are.

There was a long pause. “I don’t… know what to say.”

He shrugged. That’s why I didn’t explain anything to you beforehand. I’m done with the talking, too. At some point, it’s just hot air. Action matters. Proof matters.

As she rubbed her face as if her head hurt, he frowned. I thought… this would make you happy.

“Yeah. Sure. It’s great.” She got to her feet. “I’ll do it. Of course I will. I’m going to have to keep on top of things for Trez, but I’ll start tonight.”

John felt the pain receptors in his chest light up like a power grid—which told him how much he’d expected out of this olive branch.

He’d hoped it would bring them together.

A Ctrl-Alt-Delete that reset their system.

He whistled to get her eyes back on him. What’s wrong? I thought this would change things.

“Oh, it’s clear they already have. If you don’t mind, I’m just going to go out—” As her voice caught, she cleared her throat with a cough. “Yeah, go talk to Wrath. Tell him yes, I’m in.”

As she went for the door, she appeared to be totally discombobulated, her movements stilted and stiff.

Xhex? he signed—which did no good, because she’d turned away.

He whistled again, then popped up off the mattress and followed her into the hall. Reaching out, he tapped her on the shoulder, because he didn’t want to offend her by grabbing at her.

“John, just let me go—”

He stepped in front of her and lost his breath. Her eyes were glowing with unshed red tears.

What’s the matter? he signed desperately.

She blinked fast, refusing to let anything fall to her cheeks. “You think I’m going to be jumping for joy because you aren’t bonded to me anymore?”

He recoiled so badly, he nearly fell over. Excuse me?

“I didn’t know it could end, but in your case, clearly it has—”

Fuck that! He stamped his feet because he had to make some noise. I’m completely fucking bonded with you! And this is both totally about us—because I want to be with you again—and totally not, because whether or not I am, this is still the right thing to do! You are the right person for the job!

She seemed momentarily stunned, nothing but those quick lids of hers moving. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and stared up at him. “Are you serious?”

Yes! He forced himself not to jump up and down again. God, yes… fuck, yes… everything I’ve got—yes.

She glanced away. Looked back. After a moment, she said roughly, “I have… hated not being with you.”

Me, too. And I’m sorry. As he took a deep breath, his heart eased enough so that it didn’t feel like it was going break through his sternum. I don’t think I can ever fight side by side with you. That’s like expecting a surgeon to operate on his wife. But I’m not going to stand in your way—and no one else is either. You were right in the first place—you’ve been fighting for longer than you’ve been with me, and you should be able to do what you want. I can’t actually be there, though—I mean, look, if it happens, it happens, but I’d like to avoid that if we can.

As her lids dropped a little, he had the sense that she was scanning him in the ways of her other side, and he squared his shoulders under the scrutiny: He knew what was in his mind, his heart, and his soul.

He had nothing but love for her.

He wanted her back.

He had nothing to hide.

And those terms he’d just spilled out were ones that not only he had thought long and hard about, but knew he could live with. This was not the off-the-cuff of a newly mated guy thinking life was going to be a breeze just because he had the girl of his dreams in his arms and a future so bright he had to wear shades.

Now, as he spoke, it was as a male who had lived for months without his mate; who had suffered through the strange death valley that came with knowing the one you loved was on the planet but not in your life; who had emerged out the other side of hell with a new understanding of himself… and her.

He was ready to meet real life head-to-head… and compromise.

He just prayed he wasn’t the only one.

As Xhex stared up at John, she found herself blinking like an idiot. Shit on a shingle, she hadn’t expected any of this: the personal call from Wrath, the opportunity presented to her… and definitely not what John was saying to her now.

He was utterly sincere, though. This was not a calculated ploy to get her back into his life—although she knew that without reading his grid. Not his way.

He meant every word.

And he was still bonded to her, thank God.

The problem was… she had been to this corner with him before. She had been ready for a good stretch of happy normal. Instead? The most important relationship she had had crashed and burned.

“You sure you’re going to be okay with me heading into wherever they live and maybe fighting directly with them. Without backup.”

If anything happens to you, I’m going to be Tohr. Straight up. One hundred. But fear of that is not going to get me to try to keep you at home.

“You were pretty adamant that where Tohr is is not a place where you want to be.”

He shrugged. But see, I’m already in it if we’re not together. After you were injured, I think… I think I had this idea that if I could just get you not to fight, then I’d be safe from what he’s going through—that I wouldn’t be exposed to that shit because you wouldn’t get stabbed or… yeah, worse. But come on, downtown Caldwell is not the safest place on the planet, and it’s not like you’re working around children with that job at Trez’s. More to the point, I’m all in with you—whether it’s old age, the number nineteen bus or a bullet from the enemy… anything happens to you and I’m fucked.

Xhex narrowed her eyes. She could read his grid, but not every part of his brain, and before she opened up to him again and got her hopes up, it was critical to know that he’d thought this shit through. “What about afterward? Say I get the rifle and bring it back here and it turns out to be the weapon that was used—what if I want to go after them. Wrath is not my king, but I like the guy, and the idea that someone tried to snuff him makes me cranky.”

John’s stare didn’t waver, leading her to believe he had in fact considered that outcome. As long as I’m not on rotation with you, I’ll be okay. If I have to come in as backup—well, that’s just what it is, and we’ll deal with it—I’ll deal with it, he corrected. I just don’t want to be in the same territory as you if we can avoid it.

“What if I want to keep my job with Trez? Permanently.”

That’s your business.

“What if I wanted to keep staying at my cabin.”

I don’t really have a right to demand anything at this point.

It was, of course, everything that she had wanted to hear: no limits on her, free to choose, free to be equal.

And, God, she wanted to fall into it all. Being apart from him had been the shittiest stretch of darkness she’d ever been through. But the thing was, she was used to the chronic suffering. The only thing worse than it would be having to acclimate to this kind of hell all over again. She didn’t think she could go through that—

I’m not doing this to “make up” with you, Xhex. I want that—fuck, yeah, I really want that. But this is how I expect things to be from now on. And like I said, words don’t mean shit. So how about you get to work and see what happens. Let me prove to you by actions what I’ve spoken to you now.

“You realize that I can’t go through another freak-out from you. I can’t—it’s too hard.”

I’m so fucking sorry. As he signed, he also mouthed the words, the shame on his face biting into her chest. So sorry—I wasn’t prepared for how I’d react because I’d never considered the ramifications until I was knee-deep in them. I handled it badly—and I’d like you to give me the chance to handle it better. But on your time, at your choosing.

She thought back a million years ago to Lash and that alley—when John had given her her revenge, had allowed her to be the one to kill her own personal enemy. And that had been in spite of the bonded-male thing that had no doubt made him want to rip that evil fucker apart.

He was right, she thought. Good intentions didn’t always work out, but he could prove how things were going to be over time.

“Okay,” she said hoarsely. “Let’s give it a go. Come with me to Wrath’s?”

When John nodded once, she stepped in beside him.

Together they walked down to the king’s study.

Each step they took seemed wobbly, even though the mansion was solid as a rock. Then again, she felt as though the earthquake that had been tossing her life around in a blender had suddenly stopped, and she didn’t trust her balance or the steadiness of what was below her feet.

Before they knocked on the closed doors, she turned toward the male who had had her name carved in his back. The assignment she was about to accept was a dangerous one, something vital to Wrath and the Brotherhood. But its implications to her own life, and John’s, seemed even more significant.

Stepping into him, she put her arms around his body and held on. As he returned the embrace, they fit just the same as they always did, hand in glove.

Goddamn, she hoped this worked out.

Oh, and yeah, nailing Xcor and his band of freaks?

Nice bonus.

FIFTY-ONE

The reality that the female in the white robe had not been a dream came gradually upon Xcor, rather like fog clearing over a vista to reveal contours and conceptions previously obscured from the buffering.

He was back in the van, lying on the seat that had carried him forth from their lair, his head pillowed on the meaty inner bend of his elbow, his knees bent and stacked one atop the other. Zypher was not behind the wheel this time. Throe was driving.

The male had been silent since they had left the meadow. Uncharacteristically so.

As Xcor stared straight ahead, he traced the subtle pattern in the fake leather cover of the seat Throe was in. It was a hard job, given that the only light he had was from the instrument panel up front.

“She was real, then,” he said after a while.

“Aye,” came the quiet response.

Xcor closed his eyes and wondered how it was possible a female like that actually existed. “She was a Chosen.”

“Aye.”

“How did you manage that.”

There was a long pause. “She fed me when the Brotherhood had me in their custody. They told her I was a soldier, not identifying me as their enemy to spare her worry.”

“You should not have used her,” he growled. “She is an innocent in all this.”

“What other option did I have? You were dying.”

He pushed that fact out of his mind, focusing instead upon the revelation that that which was legend in fact lived and breathed. And serviced the Brotherhood. And Throe.

For some reason, the thought of his soldier taking the vein of that female made Xcor want to reach around the headrest and snap the male’s neck. Except jealousy, however unfounded it was, was just one of his problems.

“You have compromised us.”

“They will never use her as a locator,” Throe said grimly. “A Chosen female? Entering the war in any fashion? The Brothers are too old-fashioned, and she is far too valuable. They will never take her out into the field.”

Thinking things through further, he decided Throe was likely correct—that female was priceless in too many ways to count. Besides, he and his Band of Bastards set out at the crack of night every evening—they were far from sitting ducks. And if they encountered the Brothers? They would reengage. He was no pussy to run from his enemy—better to plan an attack, but that was not always possible.

“What is her name?” he demanded.

More silence.

As he waited for the reply, the reticence told him that he was right to be jealous, at least in one respect: Clearly his second in command felt the same way he did.

“Her name.”

“I do not know.”

“How long have you been seeing her?”

“I have not. I reached out to her solely on your behalf. I prayed for her to come and she did.”

Xcor inhaled long and slow, feeling his ribs expand without pain for the first time since he’d gone up against that fighter with the mismatched eyes. It was her blood in him. Indeed, what a miracle she was: That sense of drowning in his own body had alleviated, the thumping in his head dulling, his heartbeat settling to a steady rate.

And yet the power coursing through him, drawing him back from the brink, did not bode well for him and his soldiers. If this was what the Brotherhood enjoyed on a regular basis? Then they were stronger not just by virtue of bloodline, but sustenance.

At least it did not make them unbeatable. Syphon’s shot had proven that even the purebred king had his vulnerable points.

But they were even more dangerous than he’d thought.

And as for the female…

“Are you going to call upon her again?” he asked his soldier.

“No. Never.”

No hesitation in that—which suggested it was either a lie or a vow. For both their sakes, he rather hoped it was the latter—

Oh, but what was he going on about. He’d fed from her only once, and she was not his—and never would be, for too many reasons to count. Indeed, thinking back to the way even the human whore in the spring had recoiled from him, he knew someone as pure and perfect as the Chosen wouldn’t have anything to do with his likes. Throe, on the other hand, might have a chance—except, of course, he was not a Brother.

He was, however, enamored of her.

No doubt she was used to that.

Xcor closed his eyes and concentrated on his body, feeling it reknit, realign, rekindle.

He found himself wishing the same rejuvenation could occur on his face, his past, his soul. Naturally, he kept that impotent prayer to himself. For one, it was an impossibility. For another, such was a passing whimsy imparted by the vision of a beautiful female—who had no doubt been repulsed by him. In truth, there was no redemption for him or his future: He had struck a mighty blow against the Brotherhood and they would be coming after him and the Band of Bastards with all the force they could muster.

They would also be taking other actions: If Wrath was dead without issue, they would be scrambling to fill the throne with the closest male blood relation they could find. Unless the king was hanging at the edge of death by his fingertips? Or mayhap he had pulled through thanks to all that medical technology they had cultivated at their compound…?

Ordinarily, thoughts such as these would have consumed him, the lack of answers twisting up hard in his gut and causing him to pace endlessly if he wasn’t fighting.

Now, though, in the logy aftermath of the feeding, the ruminations were naught but distant screams of urgency that did not carry far and failed to energize him.

The female under the colored maple tree was what he dwelled upon.

As he retraced her features from memory, he told himself he was permitted this one night of distraction. He was in no condition to fight, even with her gift, and his soldiers were out carrying forth the mission against the lessers, so there was still some progress being made.

One night. And then upon the sunset of the morrow, he was going to cast her aside as one did with both fantasies and nightmares, thus returning to the real world to battle once again.

One night only.

That was all he would grant this futureless diversion of fancy…

Assuming, a small voice pointed out, that Throe kept his word and never again sought her out.

FIFTY-TWO

“One more?”

As Tohr returned his attentions to the silver tray of food, No’One wanted to decline the offer. Indeed, lying back against the pillows of his bed, she was stuffed.

And yet as he shifted toward her with another ripe strawberry held by its fluffy green crown, she found the fruit was too much to resist. Parting her lips, she waited, as she had learned to wait, for him to bring the food to her.

Several of the bright red berries had failed to meet his rigorous requirements, having been set aside on the edge of the tray. The same had been true for some of the slices of freshly cooked turkey, as well as parts of the green salad. The rice had all passed muster, however, as had the delicious sourdough bread rolls.

“Here,” he murmured. “This is a good one.”

No’One watched him watch her as she accepted what he provided. He was singularly focused on her consumption—in a way that was both touching and a source of fascination. She had heard of males doing this. Had even caught sight of her parents in such a ritual, her mother seated to the left of her father at the dining table, him inspecting each plate and bowl and glass and cup afore it was sent in her direction by him personally, rather than by the staff—provided the food was of high enough quality. She had assumed the practice was a quaint holdover from some earlier time. Not so. This private space here with Tohrment was the basis of exchanges such as that. In fact, she could imagine aeons ago, in the wild, a male returning with something freshly killed and doing likewise.

It made her feel… protected. Valued. Special.

“One more?” he said again.

“You shall make me fat.”

“Females should have meat on their bones.” He smiled in a distracted way as he picked up a plump berry and frowned at it.

As his words resonated, she did not take them to mean he thought her wanting in any fashion. How could she, when he had done nothing but pick through perfectly good food and weed out what he did not think was worthy enough for her?

“A last one, then,” she said softly, “and then I must decline all other offerings. I am full to bursting.”

He tossed the berry aside with the other rejects and snagged another, and whilst he all but growled at the poor thing, his stomach let out an empty howl.

“You must needs eat as well,” she pointed out.

The grunt she got back was either grudging approval of the second berry or agreement—likely the former.

As she bit down and chewed, he rested his arms in his lap and stared at her mouth as if he were prepared to help her swallow if he had to.

In the quiet moment, she thought, oh, how he had changed since the summer. He was so much bigger—impossibly so, his once large body now absolutely mammoth. And yet he had not swollen up unattractively, his muscles expanding to this outer limit without any coating of fat upon them, his form pleasing to the eye in its proportion. His face had remained lean, but it was no longer drawn, and his skin had lost the gray pallor she had not recognized until color bloomed anew in his cheeks.

The white streak remained in his hair, however, evidence of all he had been through.

How often did he think of his Wellesandra? Was he as yet dwelling upon her?

Of course he was.

As her chest ached, she found it difficult to draw breath. She had always had sympathy for him, her pain receptors firing up when he was in extremis sure as if his loss was her own.

Now, though, she had a different kind of agony behind her sternum.

Mayhap it was because they were closer still now. Yes, that was it. She was commiserating with him at an even deeper level.

“Done?” he said, his face tilting to the side, the lamplight hitting it with gentle kindness.

No, she was wrong, she thought as she dragged another breath in.

This was not commiseration.

This was something altogether different from caring about another’s suffering.

“Autumn?” he said. “You okay?”

Staring up at him, she felt a sudden chill tickle the skin of her forearms and skitter across her bare shoulders. Under the warmth of the covers, her body shimmied in its own flesh, going cold and then flushing with heat.

Which was what happened, she supposed, when your world was turned upside down.

Dearest Virgin Scribe… she was in love with him.

She had fallen in love with this male.

When had it happened?

“Autumn.” His voice grew more forceful. “What’s going on?”

The “when” couldn’t be pinned down, she decided. The shift had occurred millimeter by millimeter, the engine of change driven by exchanges between them both big and small… until, similar to the way the lovely night fell and laid claim to the landscape of the earth, what began as imperceptible culminated in the undeniable.

He bolted up to his feet. “I’ll get Doc Jane—”

“No,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am fine. Just tired, and satiated from the food.”

For a moment, he gave her his strawberry look, that discerning eye of his narrowing and locking on.

Clearly she passed muster, however, as he sank back down.

Forcing a smile to her lips, she motioned to the second tray, the one that still had the silver covers over its dishes. “You should eat now. In fact, perhaps we should get you some fresh food.”

He shrugged. “This is fine.”

He popped the berries that hadn’t been good enough for her into his mouth as he revealed his dinner, and then ate everything that had been left behind on her tray as well as all that was on his own.

His attention diverted was a good thing.

When he was finished with his meal, and the remains of her own, he took the trays and the stands and put them outside in the hall.

“I’ll be right back.”

With that, he disappeared into the bathroom, and soon the sound of running water drifted out to her.

Curling onto her side, she stared at the closed drapes.

The lights went out and then his quiet padding came across the carpet. There was a pause before he got upon the bed—and for a moment, she worried that he had read her mind. But then she felt a cooling breeze against her and realized he’d lifted the covers. For the first time.

“Okay if I join you?”

Abruptly, she blinked back tears. “Please.”

The mattress dipped down and then his naked body came over against her own. As he gathered her in his arms, she went willingly and with surprise into him.

That odd, ambient chill went through her again, bringing with it a sense of foreboding. But then she was warm, even hot… from his flesh against her own.

He must never know, she thought as she closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest.

He must never, ever know what beat within her heart for him.

It would ruin everything.