by J. R. Ward
After her first orgasm, she shifted around—with his help—and straddled his hips. She needed to stay relatively still to keep locked on his throat, but he took care of the motion side of things, pumping up against her, closing in and retreating, creating that friction they both wanted.
When she came a second time, she had to retract her mouth from his flesh and call out his name. And as he pulsed deep within her, she stopped moving and absorbed the sensation of the kicking and jerking, so familiar, and yet so fresh.
Jesus… what an expression he had… his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth bared, the muscles in his neck straining, all while a streak of delicious red left the puncture marks she had yet to lick closed.
When his lids finally opened, she stared hard at the blissed-out haze in those blue eyes of his. His love for her wasn’t just emotional; there was an undeniable physical component to it. That was the way bonded males worked.
Maybe he couldn’t have stopped himself in that alley, she thought. Maybe that was the beast inside the civilized shell, the animal part of vampires that separated the species from those watered-down humans.
Dipping low, she licked at his neck, lapping the wounds shut, savoring the taste that clung to the inside of her mouth and the expressway of her throat. Already she could feel the power coursing out from her gut, and this was just the beginning. As her body absorbed what he had given her, she was just going to feel stronger and stronger.
“I love you,” she said.
With that, she drew him up off the pillows so she was sitting in his lap, his arousal pushing even deeper inside her core. Palming the back of his neck with her free hand, she brought him to her vein and held him in place.
He didn’t need any more urging than that—and the pain that came with his strike was a sweet sting that carried her right back over the edge of release, her sex milking him into another orgasm, working against his shaft, squeezing him, pulling at him.
John’s arms locked around her, and the sight of them out of the corner of her eye made her frown. They were huge, bulging limbs that, in spite of how strong she was, could lift more, strike harder, punch faster. They were bigger than her thighs, thicker than her waist.
Their bodies were not, in fact, created equal, were they. He was always going to be more powerful than her.
A reality, sure. But how much someone could bench-press was not the determining factor when it came to competence in the field; nor was it the only way to judge a fighter. She was just as accurate a shooter, just as good with a dagger, and equally furious and tenacious when faced with prey.
She simply had to make him see that.
Biology was one thing. But even males had a brain.
When the sex was finally over, John lay beside his mate, utterly sated and sleepy. It would probably be a good idea to scrounge up some food, but he didn’t have the energy or inclination.
He didn’t want to leave her. At this moment. Ten minutes from now. Tomorrow, next week, next month…
As she curled into him, he snagged a blanket from the side table and draped it over the two of them, even though the combination of their body heat was keeping them pretty damn toasty.
He was well aware of when she fell asleep—her breathing changed and her leg twitched from time to time.
He wondered if she was kicking him in the ass in her dreams.
He had shit to work on; that was for sure.
And no one to go to talk about it—it wasn’t like he could ask Tohr for anything more than the advice he’d gotten on the fly tonight. And everybody else’s relationships were perfect. All he ever saw at the dining table were happy, smiling couples—hardly the sounding board he was looking for.
He could just picture the response: You’re having problems? Really? Huh, that’s weird… maybe you could call in to the radio or some shit?
The only thing that would change would be whether that was delivered by someone with a goatee, a pair of wraparounds, a mink duster, a Tootsie Roll in his piehole.…
He had this moment of peace, though. And he and Xhex could build on it.
They were going to have to.
You were okay with me fighting. Right before we were mated, you said you were cool with it.
And he really had been. But that was before he’d seen her cut right in front of him.
The thing was… and as much as it pained him to admit this… the last thing he wanted to be was the Brother he admired the most. Now that he had Xhex properly, the idea of losing her and stepping into Tohr’s boots was the single most terrifying thing he’d ever faced.
He had no idea how the Brother was getting out of bed every night. And frankly, if he hadn’t already forgiven the guy for taking off and disappearing right afterward, he would have now.
He thought of that moment when Wrath and the Brotherhood had come to them in a group. He and Tohr had been in the office here at the training center, with the Brother calling home time and time again, hoping, praying for something other than voice mail.…
In the corridor outside the office, there were fissures in the massive concrete walls—in spite of the fact that the damn things were eighteen-inch-thick concrete: Tohr’s release of energy from his anger and pain had been so great he had literally exploded himself to God only knew where, shaking the subterranean foundation until it cracked.
John still didn’t know where he’d gone. But Lassiter had brought him back in bad shape.
He remained in bad shape.
Selfish though it was, John didn’t want that for himself. Tohr was half the male he had once been—and not just because he’d lost weight—and though no one would have shown pity to the guy’s face, each and every one of the fighters felt it behind closed doors.
Hard to know how much longer the Brother was going to last out there with the enemy. He was refusing to feed, so he was weakening, yet every night he went into the field, his need for revenge getting sharper and more consuming.
He was going to get himself killed. End of.
It was like triangulating the impact of a car into an oak tree: a simple matter of geometry. You just drew out the angles and trajectories and boom! There was Tohr, dead on the pavement.
Although, shit, he’d probably take his last breath with a smile, knowing he was finally going to be with his shellan.
Maybe that was why John was as stressed about the Xhex thing as he was. He was close to other people in the house, to his half sister, Beth, to Qhuinn and Blay, to the other Brothers. But Tohr and Xhex were his go-to people—and the idea of losing them both?
Fuuuuuck.
Thinking about Xhex in the field, he knew that if she was out there in those alleys, fighting the enemy, she was going to get hurt again. They all did from time to time. Most of the injuries were near misses, but you never knew when that line was going to be crossed, when a simple hand-to-hand engagement would get away from you and you’d find yourself surrounded.
It wasn’t that he doubted her or her capabilities—in spite of that potshot that had come out of his mouth tonight. It was the odds he didn’t like. Soon enough, if you rolled the dice over and over again, you were going to come up snake eyes. And in the larger scheme of things, her life was more important than one more fighter out in the field.
He should have thought about this a little more before going all, Yeah, sure, I’m tight with you fighting.…
“What are you thinking about?” she asked in the darkness.
As if what was banging through his brain had woken her up.
Rearranging himself, he put his head next to hers and shook it back and forth. But he was lying. And she probably knew it.
NINE
The following evening, Qhuinn stood in the far corner of Wrath’s study, wedged into the juncture of two pale blue walls. The room was huge, a good forty feet long and forty feet across, and it had a ceiling lofty enough to give you a nosebleed. But space was getting tight.
Then again, there were a dozen or so big people packed in ar
ound the prissy French furniture.
Qhuinn knew from the French shit. His dead-and-gone mother had liked the style, and back before he’d been disavowed from his family, he’d been yammered at ad nauseam about not sitting on her Louis-the-somethingth crap.
At least that was one area where he hadn’t been discriminated against in his own house—she’d wanted only her and his sister to park it in those delicate seats. He and his brother had not been permitted. Ever. And his father had been tolerated with a grimace, likely only because he’d paid for the stuff a couple hundred years before.
Whatever.
At least Wrath’s command central made sense. The king’s chair was as big as a car and probably weighed as much as one, its rugged yet elegant carvings marking it as the throne of the race. And the huge desk in front of him wasn’t exactly fit for a girl, either.
Tonight, and as usual, Wrath looked like the killer he was: silent, intense, deadly. Your basic anti–Avon lady. Beside him, Beth, his queen and shellan, was composed and serious. And on the other side, George, his Seeing Eye dog, was looking… well, kinda postcard-y. But then golden retrievers were like that: picturesque, pretty, and pettable.
More Donny Osmond than dark overlord.
Then again, Wrath more than made up for that one.
Abruptly, Qhuinn dropped his mismatched eyes to the Aubusson rug. He did not need to see who was standing on the far side of the queen.
Ah, hell.
His peripheral vision was working far too well tonight.
His slut of a cousin, his cocksucking, suit-wearing, Montblanc-up-the-ass cousin Saxton the Magnificent, was standing next to the queen, looking like a combination of Cary Grant and some model in a goddamn cologne ad.
Not that Qhuinn was bitter.
Because the guy was sharing Blay’s bed.
Nah.
Nope. Not at all.
The cocksucker—
With a wince, he thought maybe he should switch that insult to something a little farther away from what the two of them…
God, he couldn’t even go there. Not if he wanted to breathe.
Blay was also in the room, but the guy was staying away from his lover. He always did. Whether it was in these meetings, or outside of them, they were never closer than three feet apart.
Which was the only saving grace to living in the same house as the pair of them. Nobody ever saw them lip-locked or even holding hands.
Although… it wasn’t as if Qhuinn didn’t lie awake during the day anyway, torturing himself with all kinds of Kama Sutra shit—
The door of the study opened and Tohrment came dragging in. Man, he looked as if he’d been rolled out of a moving car on the highway, his eyes like piss holes in the snow, his body moving stiffly as he went over to stand next to John and Xhex.
At the arrival, Wrath’s voice cut through the convo, shutting everyone up. “Now that we’re all here, I’m going to can the bullshit and turn this over to Rehvenge. I got nothing good to say about any of this, so he’ll be more efficient at briefing you.”
As the Brothers got to muttering, the massive, Mohawked motherfucker plugged his cane into the floor and got to his feet. As usual, the half-breed was dressed in a black pin-striped suit—God, Qhuinn was starting to despise anything that had lapels—and a mink duster to keep him warm. With his symphath tendencies kept in control, thanks to regular hits of dopamine, his eyes were violet, and mostly un-evil.
Mostly. He really wasn’t someone you wanted as an enemy, and not just because, like Wrath, he was the leader of his people: His day job was being king of the symphath colony up north. Nights he spent here with his shellan, Ehlena, living la vida vampire. And never the twain shall meet.
It went without saying that he was a highly valuable asset to the Brotherhood.
“A number of days ago, a letter was sent out to every head of the remaining bloodlines.” He reached into the mink and took out a folded sheet of what looked to be old-fashioned parchment. “Snail mail. Handwritten. In the Old Language. Mine took a while to reach me because it went to the Great Camp up north first. No, I have no idea how they got the address, and yes, I have confirmed that everybody got one.”
Balancing his cane against the delicate sofa he’d been sitting on, he opened the parchment with his fingertips, like he didn’t enjoy the feel of the thing. Then in a low, deep voice, he read each sentence in the ancient language it had been composed in.
My old, dear friend,
I am writing to advise you of my arrival in the city of Caldwell with my soldiers. Although we have long tallied in the Old Country, the dire events of the previous few years in this jurisdiction have made it impossible for us to remain, in all good conscience, where we have previously established our domicile.
As you perhaps have heard from relations overseas, our strong efforts have eradicated the Lessening Society in the motherlands, making it safe for our fair race to flourish in peace and security there. Clearly, it is time I bring this stout arm of protection to bear on this side of the ocean—the race here in these parts has sustained untenable losses, ones that mayhap could have been avoided if we had been here sooner.
I ask for nothing in return for our service to the race, although I would appreciate the opportunity to meet with you and the Council—if only to express my sincerest condolences at all you have borne since the raids. It is a shame that things have come to this—the commentary is sad upon certain segments of our society.
With kindest regard,
Xcor
When Rehv was done, he folded the paper up and disappeared it. No one said a thing.
“That was my reaction, too,” he muttered dryly.
This opened the floodgates, everybody talking at once, the curses flowing rich and heavy.
Wrath made a fist and banged on his desk until the lamp jumped, and George went into hiding under his master’s throne. When order was finally restored, it was like a stallion brought under control with a bit; a tenuous respite, more like a pause in the bucking and rearing than a true settle-down.
“I understand the bastard was out last night,” Wrath said.
Tohrment spoke up. “We engaged with Xcor, yes.”
“So this is not a fake.”
“No, but it was written by someone else. He’s illiterate—”
“I’ll teach the fucker to read,” V muttered. “By cramming the Library of Congress up his ass.”
As grunts of approval threatened to turn into more outbursts, Wrath pounded on his desk again. “What do we know about his crew?”
Tohr shrugged. “Assuming he’s kept the same ones on, they’re a total of five. Three cousins. That porn star Zypher—”
Rhage harrumphed at that. Clearly, even though he was now very happily mated, he felt like the race had one, and only one, sex legend—and it was him.
“And Throe was with him in that alley,” Tohr smoothed over. “Look, I’m not going to lie—it’s clear that Xcor’s making a play against…”
When he didn’t finish the statement, Wrath nodded. “Me.”
“Which would mean us—”
“Us—”
“Us—”
More voices than you could count uttered that one word, the single syllable coming from every corner of the room, every seat cushion, every flat plane of wall someone was up against. And that was the thing. Unlike Wrath’s father, this king had been a fighter and a Brother first—so the bonds that had been formed were not out of some artifact of prescribed duty, but the fact that Wrath had stood beside them all in the field and saved their asses personally at one time or another.
The king smiled a little. “I appreciate the support.”
“He needs to die.” When everybody looked at Rehvenge, the guy shrugged. “Plain and simple. Let’s not bullshit around with protocol and meetings. Let’s just take him out.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little bloodthirsty, sin-eater?” Wrath drawled.
“From one king to another, know th
at I’m giving you the middle finger right now.” And he was, with a smile. “Symphaths are known for efficiency.”
“Yeah, and I can feel where you’re coming from. Unfortunately, the law provides that you have to make an attempt on my life before I can bury you.”
“That’s where this is headed.”
“Agreed, but our hands are tied. My ordering the assassination of what is otherwise an innocent male is not going to help us in the eyes of the glymera.”
“Why do you need to be associated with the death?”
“And if that bastard’s innocent,” Rhage spoke up, “I’m the fucking Easter bunny.”
“Oh, good,” someone quipped. “I’m calling you Hop-along Hollywood from now on.”
“Beasty Bo Peep,” somebody else threw out.
“We could put you in a Cadbury ad and finally make some money—”
“People,” Rhage barked, “the point is that he is not innocent and I’m not the Easter bunny—”
“Where’s your basket?”
“Can I play with your eggs?”
“Hop it out, big guy—”
“Will you guys fuck off? Seriously!”
As various cottontail comments were lobbed like Jell-O at a food fight, Wrath had to pound the desk another time or two. It was obvious where the humor was coming from: The stress was so high, if they didn’t blow off a little steam, shit was going to get grim fast. It didn’t mean the Brotherhood wasn’t focused; if anything, they all felt like Qhuinn did—socked in the gut.
Wrath was the fabric of life, the basis for everything, the living, breathing structure of the race. After the brutal raids by the Lessening Society, what was left of the aristocracy had fled Caldwell to their safe homes out of town. The last thing the vampires needed was further fragmentation, especially in the form of a violent overthrow of the rightful ruler.
