by J. R. Ward
Darius breached the arch of the grand entrance, and the sound of his boots brought up the head of the family’s patriarch.
Sampsone broke away from his loyal doggen and he didn’t bother to stop his tears or obscure his sorrow as he came forward.
Before Darius could speak, the male said, “I shall pay you.”
Darius frowned. “For what?”
“ To . . . take her away and see that she is provided with a roof o’er her head.” The master turned to the servant. “Go unto the coffers and—”
Darius stepped forth and took Sampsone’s shoulder in a tight grip. “Whatever are you saying? She lives. Your daughter is alive and she should well render herself under this roof and within these walls. You are her father.”
“Go and take her with you. I beg of you. Her mother . . . could not live through this. Permit me to provide—”
“You are a scourge,” Darius spat. “A scourge and a disgrace to your bloodline.”
“No,” the male said. “She is. Now and evermore.”
Darius was momentarily stunned into silence. Even knowing the debased values of the glymera, and having been subjected to them, he was as yet shocked anew. “You and that symphath have much in common.”
“How dare thee—”
“Neither of you has the heart to mourn your offspring.”
Darius headed for the door and didn’t stop as the male called out, “The money! Permit me to give you the money!”
Darius did not trust himself to respond and dematerialized back unto the wooded glen he had left mere minutes ago. Taking form by the carriage, his heart was afire. As one who had been discarded, he knew well of the hardship of being rootless and unsupported in the world. And that was without the extra burden the female carried, literally, within her body.
Although the sun was threatening to break free of the earth’s edge, he required a moment to compose himself and formulate what he could say—
The female’s voice emerged from behind the carriage’s window drapery. “He told you to keep me away, didn’t he.”
Indeed, Darius found that there was no manner of expression with which he could cast what had transpired in better light.
He laid his palm on the cool wood of the carriage door. “I shall care for you. I shall provide and protect.”
“Why . . .” came the aching response.
“Verily . . . it is right and proper to do so.”
“A hero you are. But what you seek to save cares not for the gift you offer.”
“You will. In time . . . you will care.”
When there was no reply, Darius hopped up onto the driving seat and took the reins. “We shall go unto mine home.”
The jangle of the horse’s tack and the clapping of shod hooves on packed dirt accompanied them out of the woods and on their way. He took them a different route, keeping them far from the mansion and that family whose social expectation was thicker than blood.
And as for the money? Darius was not a rich male, but he would have sooner cut off his own dagger hand than accept a pence from that weak-souled father of hers.
SIXTY
As John went to sit up on the gurney, Xhex helped him and he was amazed at how strong she was: The instant her hand went to the middle of his back, he felt as though his entire upper weight was totally supported.
Then again, as she’d often said, she wasn’t just your normal female.
Doc Jane came over and started talking to him about what was doing under his bandage and what he needed to do to care for the incision . . . but he wasn’t tracking.
He wanted to have sex. With Xhex. Right now.
It was pretty much all he knew or cared about—and the carnal need went waaay deeper than just a hard-on looking for a garage to park in. A brush with death had a way of making you want to live out loud, and sex with the person you wanted to be with was the best way of expressing that noise.
Xhex’s eyes flared as she caught the scent he clearly was putting off.
“You’re going to stay put for another ten minutes,” Doc Jane said as she started to put instruments in the autoclave. “And then you can crash down here in the clinic’s bed.”
Let’s go, he signed to Xhex.
Swinging his legs off the table gave him a shot of whoa-nelly pain, but the owie shit didn’t make him rethink his plan in the slightest. It did, however, get the attention of everyone else in the room. As Xhex steadied him with a curse, the good doctor started in with a whole lot of lie-down-big-guy—except John wasn’t having any of that prone stuff.
Would you have a robe I could wear out of here? he signed, well aware that he had a massive erection and not a lot over his hips.
There was some arguing after that, but eventually, Doc Jane threw her hands up and allowed as how if he wanted to be an idiot, she couldn’t stop him. When she gave the nod, Ehlena disappeared and returned with something that was fluffy and thick and big enough to cover him up . . . from collarbone to maybe midthigh. It was also pink.
Clearly, this was the sleepwear version of a dunce cap, payback for his refusing to stay in the clinic. And you’d think all the Barbie would pull a deflate on his arousal—but not a chance.
His cock was standing firm against the assault on his masculinity.
Kind of made him proud of the bastard.
Thank you, he signed, slipping the robe onto his shoulders. With some straining, he managed to get it to fold over his chest and cover up his southern exposure. Barely.
Doc Jane leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “Isn’t there any way I can get you to stay longer? Or go back with crutches? Or . . . get you to stay longer?”
I’m good—thanks, though.
Doc Jane shook her head. “You Brothers are all a pain in the ass.”
Abruptly, a stinging shaft went through him that had nothing to do with his leg. I’m not a Brother. But I don’t think I’m going to argue the second part with you.
“Wise male. And you should be. A Brother, that is.”
John hitched up his ass and gently lowered his weight off the table, all the while keeping an eye on the front of his Miss Priss of the Year robe. Fortunately, everything stayed suitable for mixed company and remained that way as Xhex ducked under his arm.
Man . . . she was the best crutch he could ask for, taking a hell of a lot of the load as they walked to the door. Together, they went down to the office, ducked through the closet, and emerged into the tunnel.
He made it about, oh, ten yards before he stopped, moved her around so she was standing before him, and then . . .
Killed the lights. All of them.
On his mental command, the fluorescents on the ceiling went dark one by one, starting with the pair directly above their heads and then stretching out in both directions. As everything went pitch-black, he worked fast and so did she. They knew damn well that Doc Jane and Ehlena were going to be busy cleaning up in the OR for at least another half hour. And it was Last Meal up at the mansion, so no one was working out, about to work out, or taking a shower in the locker room from working out.
Limited window.
Darkness was key.
Despite the difference in their heights, which even with her being near six feet was still more than half a dozen inches, he found her mouth sure as if her lips were spotlit. As he kissed her deep and slipped her his tongue, she moaned low in her throat and held on to his shoulders.
In this glorious stretch of neither here nor there, in this one step off the path they had agreed on, he let his bonded male out, unleashing himself to ride the wave of that moment that had happened back at the farmhouse. . . .
That moment when her dagger had left her hand and flown through the air . . . and given him nights still to be lived.
His palm slipped around to her breast, finding the tight nipple, rubbing it with his thumb while he ached to put his mouth where his fingers were. Good thing she’d left her jacket and her weapons back at the house
in the foyer, so all there was between him and her skin was the muscle shirt she had on.
He wanted to rip another one down the front, but this was a quick quencher until they could make it up to the privacy of his bedroom: Instead of the grab and split, he slid both of his palms down and under, then shoved the shirt up until her breasts popped out. Shiiiiit . . . she didn’t wear a bra even to fight, and for some reason that was a gigantic turn-on.
Not that he needed the help when it came to her.
As the sounds of their kissing echoed, he tweaked the tips that were ready for his lips and ground his arousal against her. And what do you know . . . she took the hint he wasn’t even aware of making and dragged her hand down his stomach right to—
John jacked his head back, the slam of electricity bolting up his spine so great he couldn’t hold the kiss together.
Faster than he could say, Fuck me hard, Xhex pushed him back against the tunnel wall and then he felt cool air as she parted the robe. Her lips moved across his chest, her fangs making a twin trail that tingled though every single nerve in his body—especially the ones at the top of his cock.
John let out a silent shout as her warm, wet mouth found that hot, hard place, sliding down over him, taking him fully, encompassing him in heat and suction. On the withdraw, she was slow and steady, until his head popped out of her lips with a soft smack—and then her tongue lapped around. As she worked him, his eyes were open, but the darkness surrounding them made it seem as if he’d squeezed his lids shut—and oh, man, blindness was just fine in this sitch: He had a clear image of what she had to look like on her knees before his spread legs, her muscle shirt up over her breasts, her nipples still peaked, her head going forward and back, forward and back.
Her breasts would sway with every move she made.
As his breath dragged into and out of his mouth, he had a feeling his weight was equally distributed between his injured and uninjured leg, but damned if he felt anything other than what she was doing to him. Hell, he could have been on fire, for all he knew or cared.
He was on fire, as a matter of fact—and the flames got hotter as Xhex folded his erection up against his lower belly and ran the flat of her tongue down him until she got to the heavy weights below his cock. One by one they were pulled into her mouth and then she went back to lollipopping his arousal.
She found a rhythm and he didn’t last long. Stroke and suck, stroke and suck, stroke—
John’s body arched and his palms smacked against the wall as he came. After it was done, he dragged her to her feet and kissed her long and hard . . . with an inkling of returning the favor on her—
Xhex nicked his lower lip on purpose and lapped at the tiny slice she’d made. “Bed. Now.”
Roger. That.
John relit the ceiling fixtures and they all but ran up to the mansion.
Funny, that bum leg didn’t bother him in the slightest.
Blay stayed out of the room Saxton had been given during and after the feeding, but he wasn’t allowed to leave the mansion to get some head space. Qhuinn’s cousin was considered, under the Old Laws, a male guest of his within the house of the First Family, and as such, protocol demanded that he remain on the premises.
At least fighting with the others would have given him a sense of accomplishment and helped the time to pass faster.
After Phury had arrived with Selena, and introductions had been made, Blay had gone to his own room and rationalized the peace out by telling himself he had to straighten things up there. Unfortunately, the Maids R Us routine had taken all of two minutes and involved repositioning the book he’d been reading on the bedside table . . . and moving a pair of black silkies out of his colored-socks drawer to their brethren down below.
One of the curses of being neat was that there was never any major overhauling to be done on the tidy-up front.
He’d also had a haircut recently, too. Nails were clipped. No manscaping to do, thanks to the fact that vampires were hairless except for on their heads.
Ordinarily if he had time to kill, he called home to catch up with his parents, but given what was going through his mind, the number to the family safe house was not something he was dialing. Bottom line? He sucked at lying and wasn’t about to loop his mom and dad: Hey, guys, you don’t know this yet, but I’m gay . . . and I’m thinking about dating Qhuinn’s cousin.
Oh, and he’s here, by the way.
Feeding.
God, the idea that Saxton was taking someone’s vein was hot as hell—even though it was Selena’s.
And except for the fact that Phury was in there with the pair of them. For decorum rather than her protection of course.
So, yeah, no way he was going anywhere near that room. Last thing he wanted was to get aroused in front of an audience.
Blay glanced at his watch. Paced. Tried to watch TV. Picked up the book he’d repositioned for a while.
From time to time his phone went off with reports from the field, none of which helped his twitchy mood. The Brotherhood always sent out regular communiqués so everyone had up-to-the-moment intel, and things were not great: John had been injured, so he and Xhex and Qhuinn were down with Doc Jane in the clinic. The infiltration at the farmhouse had been successful, but only up to a point—the suspected Fore-lesser was still at large and they had gotten many, but not all, of the new recruits they’d found. Address tied to that street racer had yielded nothing but snores. Tensions were running high.
He checked his watch. Then the clock on the wall.
And felt like screaming.
Christ, it had been so long since Saxton and Selena had started. Why had no one come and gotten him when it was done?
What if something was wrong? Doc Jane had said the guy’s injuries were not life-threatening and that feeding would put him well on the road to recovery—
Then again, if any Brother was likely to get along with Saxton, it was the Primale. Phury loved opera and art and good books. Maybe the two had gotten to talking afterward?
Eventually he couldn’t stand his own company and went downstairs to the kitchen, where the doggen of the household were getting Last Meal ready. He tried to help, offering to put out plates or silver, or chop vegetables in the kitchen, or baste the turkeys that were roasting—but the staff got so flustered, he backed off.
Man, if there was one thing guaranteed to get a doggen all turned around, it was a bid to pitch in. By nature, they couldn’t bear someone they served doing anything except getting waited on—but they also couldn’t handle denying a request from said party.
Before spinning heads led to burned dinner and possible mass suicide, he left the pantry and came out through the dining room—
The vestibule’s door opened and shut and Qhuinn stalked across the foyer’s mosaic floor.
There was red blood on the guy’s face and hands and leathers. Fresh, glistening blood.
Of the human variety.
Blay’s first instinct was to shout to his buddy, but he held back because he didn’t want to draw a ton of attention to the fact that Qhuinn had very obviously been where John wasn’t.
Noooot a lot of Homo sapiens down at the clinic in the training center.
And he’d supposedly been fighting initiates, who bled black.
Blay hit the stairs and caught up with the guy right in front of Wrath’s study—the doors of which were mercifully closed. “What the hell happened to you?”
Qhuinn didn’t stop, just powered onward to his room. Slipping inside, he made like he was going to close the door in Blay’s face.
So not having any of that, Blay thought, as he shoved himself inside. “What’s up with the blood?”
“I’m not in the mood,” Qhuinn muttered as he started to undress.
He discarded his leather jacket on the bureau, disarmed himself at the desk, and kicked his boots off halfway to the bathroom. His T-shirt got tossed over his shoulder and ended up on a lamp.
“Why’s there blood on your hands?” B
lay repeated.
“None of your business.”
“What did you do.” Even though he had a feeling that he knew. “What the hell did you do?”
As Qhuinn leaned into the shower to start the water, the corded muscles along his spine flexed above the waistband of his leathers.
God, that red blood was on him in other places, too—which made Blay wonder just how far the beat-down had gone.
“How’s your boy?”
Blay frowned. “My boy—oh, Saxton.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh. Saxton.’” Steam began to rise from the glass-encased shower, the mist boiling up and then falling between them. “How’s he doing?”
“I guess he’s been fed by now.”
Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes focused somewhere behind Blay’s head. “Hope he feels better.”
As they faced off at each other, Blay’s chest hurt so badly he had to rub it. “Did you kill him.”
“Him? Who?” Qhuinn put his hands on his hips, his pecs and his pierced nipples standing out in high relief, thanks to the lights over the sinks. “I don’t know no ‘him.’ ”
“Stop bullshitting. Saxton is going to want to know.”
“Protective of him, are you.” There was no hostility to the words. Just an uncharacteristic resignation. “Okay, fine, I didn’t kill anyone. But I gave that homophobic asshole something to think about other than the throat cancer those cigars will be giving him. I won’t have my family members being disrespected.” Qhuinn turned away. “And—well, fuck, I don’t like you upset, believe it or not. If Saxton had been left for dead and the sun came up? Or humans had found him? You’d have never gotten over it. Couldn’t not settle that score.”
God, wasn’t that just like the son of a bitch. Doing the wrong thing for the perfect reason. . . .
“I love you,” Blay whispered so quietly that the sound of the rushing water drowned out the words.
“Listen, I need a shower,” Qhuinn said. “I want to get the nasty off of me. And then I need to sleep.”
