by J. R. Ward
"When was the last time you got stabbed in the heart?"
She pshaw'd with her hand. "Whatever, man. I mean, it's been at least a week. Maybe two. Guess I'm just out of practice."
"That's my girl." He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Let's do this. And I'm going to hang right with you."
"I thought you said I'm medically sound?"
Dr. Manello started pushing her down the concrete corridor again. "Belt and suspenders, my friend. Belt and suspenders."
They went forth at a pace that was all about the slow and steady, and as they trundled by the weight room, she wondered whether she was ever going to work out again.
The closer they got to the gym, the louder the voices became and she gathered her long braid, holding it in the center of her chest as if it would offer her some kind of protection--even though she knew not against what.
One of the sets of doors opened before they were in range, and as Vishous stepped out, she wondered if they had been sensed by the Brother.
That diamond stare narrowed on her, the tattoos at his temple distorting. "How you."
"Ready to fight."
"That's right." He offered his knuckles out for a pound. "Gimme some."
Something about knocking her fist against his gave her some additional strength, and holy crap, it turned out she needed it. As Dr. Manello pushed her into the gym, she was stunned by the number of people who had lined up at the bleachers. It was the entire Black Dagger Brotherhood, all the fighters and her fellow trainees.
Everyone went silent.
At least until they started to clap. Those who had been seated rose to their feet, and people whistled and cheered as well--to the point where she was tempted to check and see if someone else, someone who was important or who had actually done something significant, was behind her.
"Oh, God, please stop," she muttered into the din.
What was she supposed to do? Pull a Queen Elizabeth and do a white-glove wave?
One by one, the Brothers and fighters came over to her, everybody from Rhage to Butch to Tohrment, John Matthew to Blay and Qhuinn, giving her shoulder or hand a squeeze--or in Zsadist's case, offering a brief nod. What truly saved her was that there wasn't any pity or gooey sympathy. No...it was like they were welcoming her into a club that they themselves had been a part of for quite some time.
It was a survivors' club.
Of course, she thought as she started to relax. The Brothers had all been critically injured in the field at one point or another in their long careers--likely, a number of times.
She had cut her teeth in that regard.
Phury was the last Brother to come up to her, his limp barely noticeable thanks to his state-of-the-art prosthetic lower leg.
"Don't let it get into your head," he said as he bent down. "Your body will heal more quickly than your mind. Your job is to place this in a perspective that allows you to still be effective out there. A loss of confidence is worse than going into the field unarmed. Talk to Mary if you need help, 'kay?"
His yellow eyes were warm and kind, his head of multi-colored hair reminding her of a lion's mane.
And as he went to step away, she almost called him back just so he could say that to her all over again.
But she would remember.
She had to, she thought as she put her hand to her sternum and rubbed. There was no sense getting herself killed...just because she had managed to live.
The trainees came next, Axe giving her a high five that was more like a medium to maybe a low four and a quarter. And then Boone was hugging her and Craeg and Paradise were offering words of encouragement.
Peyton was the only one who didn't make an approach. He stayed standing on the bleachers, a couple of rows up from the bottom, dressed in scrubs and tuxedo shoes. His hair was streaked back as if he had been pulling his hands through it.
She was glad he stayed put. The last thing she wanted was any of the assembled to know that they had spent all day together. That was not happening again, for one thing. And even if it was--and it most certainly was not--that was their business and no one else's.
He wasn't even looking at her, his eyes trained down on the wooden bench in front of him...as if War and Peace had been inscribed there and he was reading it word for word.
She had no idea when he'd left her room. She had woken up reaching for him, though--and she told herself she was relieved when she found that he wasn't there.
Tell me about your family. What are they like? What do they do that hurts you?
Someone was talking to the whole group now, but Novo couldn't follow the voice or the words. She hated that she was glad her surgeon was right with her, the equivalent of a comfort blanket who happened to have a medical degree and hands that were magic with a scalpel.
Her eyes wanted to dwell on Peyton--for reasons she knew were bad impulses to give in to. She needed to not look to him for security, safety, strength. Oskar had taught her all the reasons why that was not a good idea.
In truth, the biggest problem Peyton represented wasn't a sexual one, but something far more dangerous to her well-being.
He got into her heart? He was going to do more damage than that lesser with the dagger had, for sure.
--
Novo would not have wanted him to go down to her. Nope. No way.
As Peyton stayed on the bleachers and tried to feel comfortable with some other male rolling her around in that wheelchair--even if the guy had, okay, fine, been the one to put her heart back together--his only solace was that the distance was what she needed.
He'd never met someone more determined to be on their own.
Where did she live? Was she safe there during the day?
These things interested him way more than whatever the Brothers were talking about, but as he thought about what Mary had said to him, he forced himself to tune in.
"--more training is needed," the Brother Phury was saying, "just so that you're more clear what the proper procedures and operating principles are. So after we've talked it over"--he indicated his fellow Brothers--"we've decided to fall back into even more classroom training and take you out into the field in pairs, instead of in one whole group. This new paradigm is going to remain in place for quite some time. We were so impressed by your skills development that we jumped the gun taking you out. We're all learning here, and we're going to constantly assess and reassess how things are functioning--but we want you to know that we remain totally committed to this program--and to each and every one of you trainees."
At that, the Brother looked directly at Peyton.
"Any questions?"
Paradise put her hand up. "What will the schedule be like? For the times we're in the field. I mean, how often will we be able to get out there?"
As that question got answered, Peyton thought back to his talk with Mary...and then he looked at Novo.
The training program wasn't the only thing he didn't want to give up on. It was a good guess that Novo was going to try to pull back from him. He had seen her in her healing state and she was going to want to separate herself from that by keeping her distance from him. But he wanted to be with her again--to lie with her on some bed, somewhere, her head on his chest, his arm around her as she slept.
"Okay, so let's break for tonight," Phury announced. "This class has been working pretty much straight through since you started, and now's a good opportunity for everyone to regroup in their heads and hit it fresh on Saturday."
It wasn't until after people started to disperse that Peyton realized he'd been in an enclosed space with Paradise and hadn't given her any thought at all.
In the back of his head, notions of being proud of himself warred with the idea that maybe he'd just traded one addiction in a female form for another. Now he was all about Novo.
And yet the shit with her felt very, very different.
As he wide-stepped it down to the floor, he was not surprised to find his head was fucking pounding, and he loitered on th
e periphery as the Brothers walked out and the trainees went with them--with Novo in that chair in the middle of the pack. Like she might be using the others as a shield.
"The bus is leaving in ten minutes," Rhage called out. "We're going to beat the shit out of you first thing midnight Saturday, so sleep well, children!"
Out in the corridor, Peyton glanced to the office and wondered if he could find her address in a file or something--but that was a no-go. For one, it was automatic dismissal under the whole privacy deal. For another, it put him squarely in stalker territory.
Which he was so not.
As he trailed behind her.
Wondering how to get her alone.
Yeah, he was sooo far away from emergency-order-of-protection territory.
Besides, she was not being discharged tonight. No way.
In the end, he let her be, hanging back as her surgeon returned her to her room. And God, as that door eased shut behind her, it seemed impossible that they had spent hours together, him naked, her as soft as he had ever seen her.
Peyton was all the way down at the end of the corridor, about to go through the steel door to the bus, when he realized he'd left his tuxedo shoved into one of the lockers. Whatever. He had two more at home.
As he pushed his way into the parking garage, he decided to--
Craeg was standing by the bus. Like he had been waiting.
On the approach, Peyton did a quick review of the male's stance. Weight was down in the legs. Hands were curled into fists by his sides. Jaw was locked and loaded.
Shit. Really? They were seriously going to do this?
Standing beside her male, Paradise was urgent. "Craeg. Come on. Get on the bus." And then she put herself in front of the guy. "Craeg. Don't be stupid."
Peyton was the one who addressed her. "Give us a minute, Paradise."
"Don't you fucking tell her what to do." Craeg's pecs swelled as he took in a deep inhale. "She is none of your fucking business."
The female reached out and touched her male's shoulder. "Come on. Let's get on the bus."
"No," Craeg said without looking at her. "Gimme a minute."
Paradise glanced back and forth between them, as if she were hoping one of them would come to his senses. But nope.
"Fine, get yourselves kicked out," she snapped. "You're a pair of hotheaded animals."
After she disappeared onto the transport, Peyton closed the distance and said in a low voice, "Do it."
"Do what," Craeg growled.
Peyton flashed his palms...then deliberately linked them behind his back and spoke in the Old Language. "I hereby offer you a rythe. I do so in recognition of my disrespect and disregard of your status as a bonded male unto the female Paradise, with whom you have been mated. It is not my intention to justify this behavior in any fashion, and I wish to make up for my lapse in judgment according to the Old Ways."
Craeg's face became remote, his anger banking.
Switching back to English, Peyton said, "Take the free shot and let's put this behind us. I'm not aggressing on your female. I recognize she is yours and you are hers. I had a knee-jerk reaction that came from a friendship situation, not a romantic one, and I'm willing to swear on that shit. But in the meantime, come on, man, just do it."
There was a period of silence, only the low hum of the bus's diesel engine filling the quiet. Dimly, Peyton was aware that Axe and Boone had crowded into the open door of the bus, the two trainees staring over.
Boone looked worried. Axe was smiling like he was filming this for Barstool Sports' Insta account.
"So be it," Craeg said.
Peyton didn't bother to brace himself. He just stood there and let that huge fist come flying at his face.
The impact was like a bomb going off on his cheek, and he spun like a top, doing a Three Stooges three-sixty on one foot as the crack echoed around all the layers of the parking area's concrete floors.
Bag. Of. Sand.
He went down--or maybe the ground came up to him--like a deadweight, his bones bouncing all tiddlywinks in the bag of his flesh. It took a minute or so before his breath came back to him, and even after it did, he just lay there, because the cold happened to be right under where he'd been hit.
A pair of combat boots came into his line of vision, and he had the random thought that they looked awfully stable, the kind of thing that built you a solid foundation on which to stand. And throw righties at assholes.
"Do you need a doctor?" Craeg asked.
"KBgfaod jkfdoo lkd."
"What?"
Peyton tried to swallow, and in doing so, he tasted the copper milkshake of blood. But none of his teeth seemed loose.
#bonus
"ImokayrealIam."
"One more time?"
"Okay. I am. Help me up."
"That's better." A huge palm came from above as if the Creator Himself were resurrecting him. "I gotchu."
Peyton grabbed on to what was offered and found himself hoisted up off the asphalt like he was a sunken ship being brought back to the surface of the ocean. And you want to talk about waves? His head went on a wobble that translated all the way through him to his ankles.
Craeg's steadying grip on his biceps was the only thing that kept him on his feet.
"Did that feel good?" Peyton mumbled. Then he pointed to his own chest. "Not hating. Swear."
"Yeah, actually it did." Craeg put his arm around Peyton's shoulders. "It felt real good."
"Good."
They mounted the shallow steps that took them up onto the bus, and oh, man, Paradise was pissed--and clearly not prepared to be quiet about it.
"You two are such goddamn good friends," she said as she crossed her arms over her chest, "you can sit together." She put her palm up to Craeg. "Don't even speak to me."
"If you need somewhere to stay," Peyton said with his new lisp, "I have plenty of space."
"May take you up on it," Craeg muttered as they slid into a seat side by side like two twelve-year-olds who were in trouble at school.
As Peyton slumped and started to slide off into the aisle, Craeg propped him up.
"You know," the guy remarked, "I kinda feel like I'm your car seat, buddy."
"This whole soldier thing doesn't work? I think you'd make an excellent boxer. Serious."
"Thanks, man. That means a lot. You still up for helping with Paradise's birthday? And by that, I mean do everything that's supposed to be classy?"
"Hell yeah."
"Good deal."
Boy, whoever thought up the rythe thing got it right. With one non-sucker punch, the air was cleared and they were done with it.
Well, except for Paradise.
Craeg was going to be sleeping on the couch for a lot of days, that much was for sure.
With a shimmy and subtle surge, they were off for the outside world. And Peyton was not looking forward to whatever was cooking at his father's house. Given the way he had bailed on First Meal with Romina and her parents, he was going to be in trouble with his pops.
What was the saying, though?
Same shit. Different day.
Whatever.
Saxton twisted around so he could see out the back of the truck's cab. As the two human men approached Ruhn, they were on a saunter--until suddenly they weren't, their bodies rushing forward in a coordinated attack.
"The hell I'm not calling," Saxton muttered as he fumbled with his phone.
As soon as he sent the text, he flipped his eyes up just to make sure Ruhn was still alive--and caught the rather alarming sight of one of the men flying through the air, ass over teakettle. The guy landed in a heap on his head, flopping over like a loose bag of potatoes.
Ruhn grabbed the other one and slammed him face-first into the side of the truck. Then came the hits: to the gut, to the jaw in an uppercut, to the groin. Ruhn's fists were controlled, vicious weapons and he used them as if he had a repertoire of offensive and defensive moves so vast, this was just child's play.
Th
e bag of potatoes rallied and got up on loose legs, his drunk-walk back to the fray suggesting he might better head in the opposite direction. What wasn't a joke? That knife in his hand.
Saxton pounded on the rear window and then lunged for the driver's door, throwing it open and jumping out.
Ruhn was already on it. He glanced behind him at the human and then refocused on the one he was working on, bending the man's arm at a weird angle--and driving the lower part of it down onto the high, hard edge of the bed. The bones broke instantly and Ruhn was smart enough to clap a palm onto the mouth that cranked open, to muffle the scream.
Throwing the man to the side like litter, Ruhn spun around.
He wasn't even breathing hard.
And he was not the male Saxton had just had dinner with, that was for sure. His eyes were cold and curiously flat, as if his warmth and shy kindness had given his wheelhouse over to a serial killer. In fact, his face showed no expression at all. It was a frozen mask of the features Saxton had loved staring at over the French cuisine and the candlelight.
The human with the blade staggered over, a trail of bright red blood drops behind him in the snowpack. Clearly more aggressive and angry than competent, one got the sense this was not going to end well for him.
And it didn't.
Ruhn overpowered him instantly, grabbing on to the wrist that controlled the knife, and spinning the human around, so that he also banged headfirst into the side of the truck--and instantly, the knife was down in the snow.
The human was not far behind. Ruhn forced the man to the ground, mounted his back, and grabbed on to the sides of the man's head.
He was going to twist until the neck broke. Saxton saw it clear as day.
"No!" He jumped forward. "Ruhn, stop!"
At the sound of Saxton's voice, Ruhn went statue, nothing on him moving even as he was poised to snap that cranium right around.
"Let him go. We don't need the police involved--and there could be a lot of eyes on this." Saxton glanced up at the apartment over the restaurant. "Come on, we need to go."
The shades were all still down on those second-story windows, and the upper floors on either side of Premier were dark. But all it would take was a single set of curious eyes, drawn by an unusual sound, and there were going to be complications all over the place.
Saxton reached down and touched Ruhn's shoulder. "Come with me."
God, the male wasn't even breathing hard. Even as those humans were panting from exertion and pain, great puffs coming out of their mouths like steam from old trains, Ruhn was a robot, something mechanical that did not have to concern itself with oxygen.
