by J. R. Ward
John’s eyes flutter open and he tries to sit up, but Wellsie puts her hands on his cheeks and murmurs to him to stay down. As she talks to John softly, Tohr leans forward and puts his head on her shoulder. He’s exhausted, I realize, no doubt from staying up and worrying about John.
Looking at the three of them together, I am so happy for John, but also a little shaken. It’s hard not to picture him in his decrepit studio apartment in that rat-infested building, sick and alone. The what-if’s are just too disturbing. To keep my head from rattling, I focus on Tohr and Wellsie and the fact that they’ve made him part of a family now.
After a moment Wellsie sits down next to Tohr, who makes room for her by drawing up his legs. His free hand, the one John is not holding, goes to her belly.
Wellsie leaves and I hang in the doorway, feeling useless. God, there were all kinds of questions I had to ask Tohr, but now none of them matter.
Wellsie returns, and the verdict from the doctor is that John has to go in. Fritz is called to come pick me up, but it’s going to take him time to get back, so I’m told how to lock the house after I leave. I follow as Tohr carries John in his arms down the hall, through the living room, and out to the kitchen. Instead of making the boy put on a jacket, John is wrapped in a duvet, and he has slippers on his feet that are like the L.L. Bean moccasins I’ve been lent—only smaller.
Wellsie gets into the back of the Range Rover, seat-belts herself in, and when Tohr settles John in her lap, she cradles the boy to her. As the door is shut, she looks up at me through the window’s glass, her face and red hair obscured by the reflection of the wall of the garage behind me. Our eyes meet and she lifts up her hand. I lift up mine.
Tohr puts his huge palm on my shoulder for a brief moment before he gets behind the wheel, puts the SUV in reverse, and backs out into the storm. The chains rattle on the concrete floor of the garage until they reach the lip of the snow; then all I hear is the deep growl of the engine and the crunch of millions of tiny flakes compacting under the tires.
Tohr K-turns and heads out, triggering the garage door. As the panels trundle shut, I have a last image of the Range Rover, its taillights flaring red through the billowing snow.
I go back into the house. Shut the door behind me. Listen.
The silence is scary. Not because I think there’s someone else in the house. But because the people who should be here are gone.
I go into the living room, sit down on one of the silk couches, and wait by the windows, as if maybe being able to see where Fritz is going to pull up will mean he comes a little faster. My parka’s in my lap and my boots are back on.
It seems like years until the Mercedes turns into the drive. I get to my feet, go to the front door as instructed, and step out. As I pivot around to lock up, I look way down the hall, to the stove where Wellsie had been cooking about a half hour ago. The pot that had John’s rice in it is where she left the thing, and so is the spoon she used.
I’m willing to bet that on a normal night, those things would never be left out like that. Wellsie keeps a tight ship.
I signal to Fritz that I need a sec; then I race back to the kitchen, clean the pot and the spoon, and put them to dry next to the sink because I don’t know where they belong. This time when I go out the front door, I lock it behind me. After a quick test to make sure I did it right, I piff through the snow toward the sedan. Fritz comes around and holds my door open for me, and just before I slide into all that leather, I look at the house. The glow from the windows doesn’t seem welcoming anymore . . . it strikes me now as if the light is plaintive. The house is waiting for them all to come back, so that its roof shelters more than just inanimate objects. Without its people? It’s merely a museum full of artifacts.
I get into the back of the sedan, and the butler takes us out into the storm. He drives carefully, just as I know Tohr did.
Excerpt from Lover Avenged
From the # 1 New York Times bestselling author
of the BLACK DAGGER BROTHERHOOD series
comes a sneak preview of her hardcover debut
Lover Avenged
On sale May 2009
REHVENGE, AS A HALF-BREED SYMPHATH, is used to living in the shadows and hiding his true identity. As a club owner and a dealer on the black market, he’s also used to handling the roughest nightwalkers around—including the members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood.
He’s kept his distance from the Brotherhood, since his dark secret could make things complicated on both sides—but now, as head of the vampire aristocracy, he’s an ally that Wrath, the Blind King, desperately needs. Rehv’s secret is about to get out, though, which will land him in the hands of his deadly enemies—and test the mettle of his female, turning her from a civilian into a vigilante. . . . As bad ones went, her father’s paranoia attack hadn’t been that bad.
Ehlena was only a half hour late to work, dematerializing to the clinic as soon as she was able to calm herself enough to pull the travel trick off. By some miracle, the visiting nurse had been free and able to come early. Thank the Scribe Virgin.
Going through the various checkpoints to get down into the facility, Ehlena felt the weight of her bag in her hand. She’d been prepared to cancel her date and leave the change of clothes at home, but the visiting nurse had talked her out of it. The question the female had asked struck deep: When was the last time you were out of this house for anything except work?
Caregivers had to take care of themselves—and part of that was having a life outside of whatever illness had put them in their role. God knew, Ehlena told this to the family members of her chronically sick patients all the time, and the advice was both sound and practical.
At least when she gave it to others. Turned on herself, it felt selfish.
So she was waffling on the date. With her shift ending close to dawn, it wasn’t as if she had time to go home and check on her father first. As it was, she and the male who’d asked her out would be lucky to get an hour in before the encroaching sunlight put an end to things.
She had no idea what to do. Conscience was pulling her one way, loneliness another.
After she went through the last security checkpoint, she walked into the reception area and beelined for the nursing supervisor, who was at a computer by the registration desk. “I’m so sorry I’m late—”
Catya dropped whatever she was doing and reached out. “How is he?”
For a split second, all Ehlena could do was blink. On some level, she hated that they all knew about her father’s problems, that a few had even seen him at his worst. Though the illness had stripped him of his pride, she still had some on his behalf. “He’s calmed down, and his nurse is with him now. Fortunately I’d just given him his meds when it hit.”
“Do you need a minute?”
“Nope. Where are we?”
Catya smiled in a sad fashion, like she was biting her tongue. Again. “You don’t have to be this strong.”
“Yes. I do.” Ehlena gave the female’s hand a squeeze in hopes of closing down the conversation. “Where do you need me?”
By this time several of the other nurses were coming over and expressing sympathy. Ehlena’s throat closed up, not because she was overcome with gratitude that they were thoughtful, but because she got claustrophobic. Compassion choked her like a dog chain even on a good evening. After a start like she’d had tonight? She wanted to bolt.
“I’m fine, everyone, thanks—”
“Okay, he’s back in the room,” the last nurse to arrive said. “Should I get out a quarter?”
Everybody groaned. There was only one he out of the legions of male patients they treated, and flipping a quarter was how the staff decided who had to deal with him. Furthest from the date lost.
Generally speaking, all of the nurses kept a professional distance from their patients. You had to, or you’d burn out. With some, though, you couldn’t help but get emotionally involved. With him, you stayed separate for reasons other than professiona
l ones. There was just something about the male that made them all nervous, an underlying threat that was as hard to diagnose as it was evident.
Ehlena cut through the various years being chosen for the toss. “I’ll do it. It’ll make up for my being late.”
“Are you sure?” someone asked. “Seems like you’ve already paid your dues tonight.”
“Just let me get some coffee. What room?”
“I parked him in three,” the nurse said.
Amid a chorus of atta girls, Ehlena went to the nurses’ locker room, put her things in her locker, and poured herself a mug of hot, steaming perk-your-ass-up. The coffee was strong enough to be considered an accelerant and did the job nicely, wiping her mental state clean.
Well, mostly clean.
As she sipped, she glanced around the staff area. The banks of buff-colored lockers had names over them, and there were pairs of street shoes here and there under pine benches. In the lunch area, folks had their favorite mugs on the counter and snacks on the shelves, and sitting on the round table there was a bowl full of . . . what was it tonight? Little packs of Skittles. Above the table was a bulletin board covered with flyers for events and coupons and stupid comic-strip jokes and pictures of hot guys. The shift roster was next to it, the white board marked with a grid of the next two weeks, which was filled in with names.
It was the detritus of normal life, none of which seemed significant in the slightest until you thought about all those folks on the planet who couldn’t keep jobs or enjoy an independent existence or have the mental energy to spare on little distractions. Looking at it all, she was reminded yet again that going out into the real world was a privilege, not a right, and it bothered her to think of her father holed up in that shitty little house, wrestling with demons that existed only in his mind. He’d once had a life, a big life. Now he had delusions that tortured him, and though they were only perception, never reality, the voices were completely terrifying nonetheless.
As Ehlena rinsed out her mug, she couldn’t help thinking of the unfairness of it all.
Before she left the locker room, she did a quick check in the full-length mirror next to the door. Her white uniform was perfectly pressed and clean as sterile gauze. Her stockings were without runs. Her crepe-soled shoes were smudge- and scuff-free.
Her hair was as frazzled as she felt.
She did a quick pull-free, retwist, and scrunchie-again, then headed out for exam room three.
The patient’s chart was in the clear plastic holder mounted on the wall by the door, and she took a deep breath as she picked it out of its nest. The thing was curiously thin, considering how often they saw the male. His last visit had been . . . only two weeks ago.
After she knocked, she walked into the room with confidence she didn’t feel, her head up, her spine straight, her unease camo’d by a combo of posture and purpose.
“How are you this evening?” she said as she forced herself to look the patient in the eye.
The instant his amethyst stare met hers, she had no idea what had come out of her mouth.
Rehvenge son of Dragor sucked the thought right out of her head until nothing mattered except for those flashing purple eyes of his.
He was a cobra, this male, mesmerizing because he was deadly and because he was beautiful. With his cropped dark mohawk and his hard, smart face and his huge body, he was sex and power and unpredictability all wrapped up in . . . well, a black pinstriped suit that clearly had been made for him.
“I’m tight, thank you,” he said, his voice much deeper than the average male’s. Much deeper than most oceans, it seemed. “And you?”
He smiled a little, because he was fully aware that none of the nurses liked being in the same enclosed space with him, and evidently he enjoyed the fact that he made them all uncomfortable.
At least that was how she read his expression.
She put his chart down on the desk and took her stethoscope out of her pocket. “I’m very well.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.” She turned toward him. “I’m going to take your blood pressure and your heart rate.”
“My temperature, too.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to open my mouth now?”
Ehlena’s skin flushed, and she told herself it was not because that drawl of his made the question sexual. “Er—No.”
“Pity.”
Rehvenge’s shoulders rolled as he removed his suit jacket, and, with a lazy flick of the hand, he tossed the thing onto the sable coat that was carefully draped over a chair. He always had a coat like that with him no matter the season. Usually he wore them, but not always.
They were worth more than the house Ehlena rented. Apiece.
His long fingers went to the diamond cufflink on his right wrist.
“Could you please do that on the other side?” She nodded toward the wall she would have to squeeze against. “More space for me on your left.”
He hesitated, then went to work on his opposite sleeve. Rolling the black silk up past his elbow and onto his thick bicep, he kept his arm turned in.
Ehlena took the blood pressure equipment from a drawer and ripped it open as she approached him. Touching him was always an experience, and she rubbed her hand on her hip to get ready.
When she clasped his wrist, the current that licked up her arm landed in her heart, making her think of that coffee she’d just downed. It was as if the male carried an electrical charge in his body, and considering that those eyes of his alone were enough to distract the hell out of her, the voltage routine didn’t help.
Damn it, where was her usual detachment. . . . Even with him, she was typically able to keep straight and do her job.
Kicking herself into professional gear, she moved his arm into position, brought the cuff up and—“Good . . . Lord.”
The veins running through the crook of his elbow were decimated from overuse, swollen, black and blue, as ragged as if he’d been using nails, not tiny needles, on himself.
Her eyes shot to his. “You must be in such pain.”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
Tough guy. Like she was surprised? “Well, I can understand why you wanted to come in tonight.” She gently prodded at a red line that was traveling up his arm, heading in the direction of his heart. “There are signs of infection.”
“I’ll be fine.”
All she could do was raise her eyebrows. Given how calm he was, clearly he was clueless as to the implications of sepsis.
Death would not look good on him, she thought for no particular reason.
Elhena shook her head. “Let’s take your reading on the other arm. And I’m going to have to ask you to take your shirt off. The doctor’s going to want to see how far up your arm that infection goes.”
His mouth lifted in a smile as he reached for his top button. “My pleasure.”
Ehlena looked away fast.
“I’m not shy,” he said in that low voice of his. “You can watch if you like.”
“No, thank you.”
“Pity.” In a darker tone, he added, “I wouldn’t mind you watching.”
