by J. R. Ward
His other hand, the one that had been stroking her, returned to below his waist. “I think you’d better go.”
His voice was so deep, she frowned as she tried to decipher the words. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, but I’m about to.” He grit his white teeth as his hips moved up and back under the sheet. “I have to… Fuck.”
And that was when his meaning became clear.
“No’One, please… I’ve got to… I can’t keep it back much longer.…”
His massive body was so beautiful in this particular agony: Even though he was bloodied and wounded and bruised, there was something undeniably sexual about the way he ground his teeth and arched upon the table.
For a moment, her nightmare with the symphath threatened to come back, terror trying to gain traction at the edge of her consciousness. But then Tohrment moaned and bit down on his lower lip, those long white canines tearing into the soft pink flesh.
“I do not want to go,” she said roughly.
His face squeezed up tight, another curse breaching his lips. “You stay and you’re going to have a hell of a show.”
“So… show me.”
That got his attention, his eyes snapping back to hers, his body freezing. As he blinked, he did not otherwise move.
In a harsh tone, he blurted, “I’m going to make myself come. Do you know what that means? Orgasm?”
Thank the Virgin Scribe for the chair, No’One thought. Because between that graveled voice, and his heady scent, and the erotic way he was holding on to himself, even her good leg had no strength to support what little weight she had.
“No’One, do you understand?”
The part of her that had woken up was what answered: “Yes. I do. And I want to watch.”
He shook his head as if he intended to argue. Except then he said no more.
“Ease yourself, warrior,” she told him.
“Oh, Jesus…”
“Now.”
As she commanded him, a thrall appeared to come over him: Below his waist, under the sheeting, one of his knees came up toward his body, his thighs splitting wide as his grip secured that vital place that defined him as uniquely male.
What happened next defied description. He worked himself against the balled sheeting, rolling his hips, pushing down, his body gathering momentum—
Oh, the sounds: from the rasp of his breath to his moans to the squeak from under the table.
This was the male animal in the throes of passion.
And there was no going back.
For either of them.
Faster. Greater pressure with his hands, until his chest stood out, the anatomy appearing carved, rather than made of flesh. And then he cursed in an explosion of breath and jerked up against the grasp he had on his sex. His spasms had her clutching her own chest and breathing in a pant, as if what was happening to him was replicated within her own form. Indeed, what miracle was this? Tohrment appeared to be in pain, and yet showed no evidence of wanting what racked him to end—if anything, he drew it out, shifting his hips ever more.
Until it was done.
In the aftermath, the only sound in the room was their breathing, at first quite loud, then growing quieter and quieter, until they were still.
As her heightened senses receded, her mind came forth, and the same seemed to be true for him. Releasing his hands from below his waist, he revealed a wetness on the sheeting that had not been there before.
“Are you okay?” he said roughly.
She opened her mouth. Her voice lost, all she could do was nod.
“You sure about that?”
It was so hard to put into words what she was feeling. She was not threatened, to be sure. But she was also not… right.
She was spinning and antsy. Inside her head. Outside of it. “I am so… confused.”
“What about?”
The bullet wounds in his flesh had her shaking her head. This was not the time to talk. “Let me get the healers. You need to be attended to.”
“You’re more important than that. Are you all right?”
Given the stubborn line of his jaw, it was clear he wasn’t budging. And no doubt if she left to get the surgeon, he would follow her and leave a trail of blood he did not have to spare.
She shrugged. “I just never expected to…”
As she went no further, the realities of their situation returned to her. That arousal, that satisfaction that he’d found… it had been about his shellan, hadn’t it. She had told him that Wellesandra was welcome between them, and he’d made it amply clear that he wanted no one but that female: Whilst he had appeared to be focusing on her, in all likelihood he had merely projected the image of someone else.
It had had nothing to do with her.
Which really shouldn’t have bothered her. It was, after all, exactly what she had told him she wanted.
So why did she feel so curiously deflated?
“I am fine.” She met him in the eye. “I swear to it. Now, may I please get the healers? I will take no true full breath until they care for you.”
His eyes narrowed. But then he nodded. “Okay.”
She smiled stiffly and turned away.
Just as she got to the door, he said, “No’One.”
“Yes?”
“I want to return the favor to you.”
Well, didn’t that stop the female in her tracks.
Kind of made Tohr’s heart freeze, as well.
As No’One stood at the door with her back to him, he couldn’t believe what had come out of his mouth—but it was the goddamned truth, and he was determined to follow through on it.
“I know you go to the Sanctuary to take care of your blood needs,” he said, “but that can’t be enough. Not tonight. I’ve taken so much from you in the last twenty-four hours.”
When she didn’t reply, he caught her scent and had to tamp down an answering growl in his throat. He wasn’t sure she knew it in her mind, but her body was clear: It wanted what he could provide to her.
Badly.
Except… God, what was he getting into? He was going to feed someone other than his Wellsie?
God help you if she ever wanted you back.…
No, no, noooooo, this wasn’t about sex. It was about him taking care of her after she had allowed him at her vein. It was just blood—which was unsettling enough, fuck him very much.
You sure about that, the small voice shot back.
Just as he was about to fuck-off himself again, Lassiter’s fakakta lecture came back to him: You are alive. She is not. And your hanging on to the past is putting you both in an In Between.
Tohr cleared his throat. “I mean it. I want to be there for you now. It’s simple biology—”
Oh, really? that voice demanded.
Fuck off—
“Excuse me?” she said, shooting a stare over her shoulder, her brows to the ceiling.
Great, so he wasn’t just talking to himself.
“Look,” he said, “come to me after they’re done patching me up. I’ll be in my room right afterward.”
“You may be more injured than you know.”
“Nah, I’ve been here before. Lots of times.”
She lifted the hood into place. “You need your strength to recover.”
“You’ve given me more than enough for the two of us. Come with me—I mean—” Shit. Fuck. “Come to me.”
There was a long pause. “I’ll get the healer.”
As No’One left, he let his head fall back—and as it slammed into the gurney’s hard pillow, the thud reverberated through his skull. The sting felt good. So he did it again.
Manello strode into the exam room. “You two finished in here?”
The guy’s tone was snark-free, something Tohr would have appreciated more if it didn’t just dawn on him that he’d come all over the sheet.
“Okay, let’s do this, big man.” The surgeon snapped on a pair of latex specials. “I took X-rays while you we
re out cold, and I’m happy to report you only have two slugs in you. Chest and shoulder. So I’m going to go in, perform a lead-ectomy, and then stitch up the other sets of entrance and exit wounds. Piece of cake.”
“I need to clean up first.”
“That’s my job, and trust me, I got enough distilled water to hose all that dried blood off and still wash a car afterward.”
“Yeah… um… I’m not talking about that kind of mess.”
Cue the screeching tires. As Manello’s expression went from relaxed to resolutely professional, it was obvious that the message had been received.
“Sounds good. How about I get you another sheet?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Fucking hell. He was blushing. Either that or he’d been shot in the face, too, and was only just now noticing.
As a clean sheet awkwardly changed hands, neither one looked at the other—and then Manello got studiously busy over at a stainless-steel rolling table, checking the needles and thread and scissors and sterile packs that had been laid out.
Amazing how sex could turn two fully grown adult males into teenagers.
Tohr tidied himself up and told his hard-on to can it. Unfortunately, his cock seemed to be speaking another language, because the thing stayed hard as a crowbar. Maybe it was deaf?
He was kind of done throwing fists at it.
Dumping the dirty cloth on the floor, he covered himself with the fresh one. “I’m, ah, ready.”
The good news was that at least he hadn’t been hit in the thigh, so Manello was going to stay above the waist.
“Good,” the doc said as he came back over. “Now, I think we can handle this all locally, and the fewer drugs the better. So I’d like to take a shot at not putting you out cold, okay?”
“I don’t care, Doc. You just do you.”
“I like your attitude. And we’re going to start with this one on your upper chest. This may sting as I numb you up—”
“Fuuuuck.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Nothing you can do.” Well, other than taking a spike and nailing him to the table.
As Manello settled into his work, Tohr closed his eyes and thought of No’One. “I don’t have to stay down here after this, do I?”
“If you were a human? Absolutely. But this shit’s already healing up. Goddamn, you guys are amazing.”
“So I can go right back to the mansion.”
“Well, yeah… eventually.” There was a resounding bonk!—as if the guy had dropped one of the lead slugs on the tray. “I think Mary wanted to check in with you first.”
“Why?”
“She just wants to, you know, check in.”
Tohr focused a glare on the guy. “Why.”
“Do you realize how lucky you are that you didn’t end up—”
“I don’t need to ‘talk’ to her, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Look, I’m not going to get in the middle of this.”
“I’m fine—”
“You got yourself shot up tonight.”
“Hazard of the job—”
“Bullshit. You are not ‘fine,’ and you do need to ‘talk’ to someone. Asshole.” On the fine and the talk, the human gestured with his hands, doing air quotes in spite of the fact that his fingers were busy holding instruments.
Tohr shut his eyes in frustration. “Look, I’ll follow up with Mary when I can… but right after this, I’m busy.”
In reply, the surgeon covered all kinds of mental health territory, most of which was punctuated by f-bombs.
Not Tohr’s problem, though.
TWENTY-NINE
Over to the east, in the thick of Caldwell’s farm country, Zypher sat in silence upon his top bunk. He was far from alone in the Band of Bastards’ basement accommodations. The three cousins were with him, each as capable of conversation as he was, but likewise not inclined to indulge.
There was no real movement among them. No sounds except for the whispers of his whittling knife as he cleaved it into soft wood again and again.
No one was sleeping.
Whilst dawn settled over the land and claimed its illuminative dominion, their thoughts were similarly subsumed, the weight of the actions of their leader settling heavily upon them.
It was not at all unfathomable that Xcor had so brutally stabbed Throe for his insubordination. It was not unbelievable that he had then ordered the rest of them away such that their fellow soldier was left for dead for the enemy.
And yet he somehow could not understand it. And clearly, neither could the others.
Throe had always been the glue that bound, a male of worth with more honor than the rest of them had put together… as well as a way with logic that had landed him in the role of facilitator with Xcor: Throe was typically on the front lines with their cold, calculating leader, the only voice that could get through to the male—well, usually. He’d also been the translator between all of them and the rest of the world, the one with Internet access who had found this house and was trying to get them females of the race to feed from, the one who coordinated money and servants.
He was right about the technology, too.
Except Xcor had snapped, and now… if slayers hadn’t gotten Throe in that alley, the Brothers might well have killed him just on principle.
Then again, there was going to be a price on all of their heads soon. It was only a matter of time.…
Examining his carving, he thought it was a piece of crap, no more obviously a bird than it had been as a thick maple stick. Indeed, he had no artistry in his hands, his eyes, or his heart. This was just a way to pass the time whilst he was busy not sleeping.
Indeed, he wished there was a female around. Fucking was his best talent, and he’d been oft known to pass hours between the legs of a maid with great effect.
He could certainly use the distraction.
Tossing the hunk of wood to the foot of his bunk, he examined his blade. So pure and sharp, capable of so much more than poorly rendering a wretched swallow.
He hadn’t liked Throe at all at first. The male had come to the Band of Bastards on a rainy evening, and he’d looked as out of place as he was: a dear boy among death dealers, standing outside a hovel that no doubt he wouldn’t have stabled a horse in.
From his top hat to his perfectly buffed-up shoes, they had all despised every inch of him.
And then Xcor had had them draw straws to find out who would beat him down first. Zypher had won, and had smiled as he’d cracked his knuckles and gotten ready to hand the male’s masculinity to his royal self on a silver plate.
Throe had flailed at the first couple of punches that had come at him, providing no proper defense and absorbing the blows in his head and gut. But sooner than was at all expected, something had clicked within him—his stance had changed for no good reason, his fists coming up, his body filling out those fancy clothes in an altogether different way.
The turnabout had been… nothing short of extraordinary.
Zypher had kept fighting the male, throwing out combinations of punches that were abruptly parried… and, after a bit, returned, until he himself had had to step up his efforts.
That dandy had been learning, right then and there, even as his fine clothes had gotten shredded and torn, even as he had become soaked by the rain and his own blood.
During that very first fight, and at each succeeding one, he had demonstrated an uncanny ability to assimilate. Between the initial fist that had been thrown at him, to the moment when he had finally landed on his ass with exhaustion, he had evolved more as a fighter than soldiers who had spent years in the Bloodletter’s war camp.
They had all stood around Throe as he sat there in the mud, his chest heaving, his pretty face bruised, his top hat long lost.
Standing over the male, Zypher had spit the blood out of his mouth… and then he’d leaned down and offered his palm. The dandy had still had much to prove—but he’d been no lackey during that fight.
In
fact, no lackey had he e’er proved to be.
’Twas strange to feel any allegiance to someone of the aristocracy. But Throe had earned the respect time and time again. And he had long been one of them now—although that may well have ended on several levels tonight.
Zypher turned his knife back and forth, the candlelight on its blade a beautiful thing, as lovely as when it fell upon the skin of a female’s inner thigh.
Xcor had used one of these for what it was intended—to cut, to maul, to kill—but his target? Considering all that Throe did for them, their leader, in his rage, had done more harm than good. Indeed, Xcor’s blood hunger was making him mercurial. And with a mind like his and plans such as he had, that was not a good combination—
The back of Zypher’s neck tickled, one of the spiders that lived with them eight-legging across his nape. Reaching around with a curse, he scrubbed at his flesh, destroying the thing.
He should probably try for some sleep. In truth, he had been waiting up for Xcor’s return, but dawn had long since arrived and the male had not come back. Mayhap he was dead, the Brotherhood having caught him out alone. Or perhaps one of those clandestine meetings he had with that member of the glymera had gone sour.
Zypher was surprised to find he didn’t care. He rather hoped, as a matter of fact, that Xcor never arrived home again.
It was a big change in his thinking. Back when the Band of Bastards had first come together in the Old Country, they had been a mercenary lot, each out only for themselves. The Bloodletter had been the only one capable of uniting them: that killing machine, who had had no humanity to temper any of his urges, had been the rawest male to ever walk in a soldier’s boots, and they had individually followed him as a symbol of freedom and strength in the war.
After all, there was no way the Black Dagger Brotherhood would ever take any of them.
Over time, however, bonds had grown. Regardless of how Xcor thought of things, the soldiers who fought under him had developed loyalties… and they extended even to the former aristocrat, Throe.
“ ’Re ye gonna talk with him?” Syphon asked softly from down below.
He and Syphon had shared bunks for aeons, with Zypher always on top. It was the same with the females and women as well, and they were a good pair. Syphon could keep up: in the bed, on the floor, against a wall… in the field as well.
