by J. R. Ward
She stopped dead in the dual tracks she’d made, her poles at wide angles.
He smiled at her as he blew out a cloud of smoke into the gloaming. “Fine evening for exercise. Enjoying the view—of my house?”
Her breath was quick from the exertion, but not from any fear that he could sense—which was a turn-on. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
He cut off the lie. “Well, I can tell you that at the moment, I’m enjoying my view.”
As his eyes went deliberately down her long, athletic legs in their form-fitting ski pants, she glared at him. “I find it hard to believe you can see anything with those glasses.”
“My eyes are very sensitive to light.”
She frowned and looked around. “There’s hardly any left in the sky.”
“There’s enough to see you.” He took another puff. “Would you like to know what I told Benloise last night?”
“Who?”
Now she annoyed him, and he sharpened his voice. “A piece of advice. Don’t play games with me—that will get you killed faster than any trespassing.”
Cold calculation narrowed her stare. “I wasn’t aware that property offenses carried a capital punishment.”
“With me, there’s a whole list of things that have mortal repercussions.”
She kicked up her chin. “Well. Aren’t you dangerous.”
As if he were a kitten pawing at a string and hissing.
Assail moved so fast, he knew damn well her eyes were incapable of tracking him—one moment he was yards away, the next he was standing on the tips of her skis, trapping her in place.
The woman shouted in alarm and tried to jump back, but, of course, her feet were stuck in their bindings. To keep her from falling over, he grabbed her arm with the hand that wasn’t holding his cigar.
Now her blood ran with fear, and as he inhaled the scent, he hardened. Jerking her forward, he stared down at her, tracing her face.
“Be careful,” he said in a low voice. “I take offense quite readily, and my temper is not easily assuaged.”
Although he could think of at least one thing she could give him that would calm him.
Leaning in, he inhaled deeply. God, he loved that scent of hers.
But now was not the time to get distracted by all that. “I told Benloise to send people to my home at his own risk—and theirs. I’m surprised he didn’t inform you of those, shall we say, very clear property boundaries….”
From the corner of his eye, he caught a subtle bunching of her shoulder. She was going to go for a weapon with her right hand.
Assail put his cigar between his teeth and caught that slender wrist. Applying pressure, and stopping only when pain deepened her breath, he bowed her body back so that she was completely, utterly aware of the power he had—over himself, over her. Over everything.
And that was when the arousal happened for the woman.
It had been so long, perhaps too long, since Sola had wanted a man.
It was not that she didn’t find them desirable as a rule, or that there had been no offers for horizontal encounters from members of the opposite sex. Nothing had seemed worth the aggravation. And maybe, after that one relationship that hadn’t worked out, she had regressed back to her strict Brazilian upbringing—which would be ironic, considering what she did for a living.
This man, however, got her attention. In a big way.
The holds on her arm and her wrist were nothing polite, and more than that, there was no quarter given because she was a woman, his hands squeezing to such a degree that pain funneled into her heart, making it pound. Likewise, the angle he’d forced her back into was testing the limits of her spine’s ability to bend, and her thighs were burning.
To be turned on was…a gross dereliction of self-preservation. In fact, staring up into those black glasses, she was acutely aware that he could kill her right here. Snap her neck. Break her arms just to see her scream before suffocating her in the snow. Or maybe knock her out and throw her in the river.
Her grandmother’s heavily accented voice came into her mind: Why can you not meet a nice boy? A Catholic boy from a family we know? Marisol, you break my heart with this.
“I can only assume,” that dark voice whispered with an accent and infliction she was unfamiliar with, “that the message was not passed on to you. Is that correct? Did Benloise simply fail to convey to you that information—and that is why, after I expressly indicated my intentions, you still showed up looking at my house? I think that’s what happened—mayhap a voice mail that has yet to be received. Or a text message—an e-mail. Yes, I believe that Benloise’s communication was lost, isn’t that right?”
The pressure on her was tightened even further, suggesting that he had strength to spare—which was a daunting prospect, to say the least.
“Isn’t that right,” he growled.
“Yes,” she bit out. “Yes, that’s right.”
“So I can expect not to find you on your skis around here anymore. Isn’t that right.”
He jerked her again, the pain making her eyes roll back a little. “Yes,” she choked.
The man relented enough so that she could grab some breaths. Then he kept speaking, that voice strangely seductive. “Now, there is something I need before I let you go. You will tell me what you know about me—all of it.”
Sola frowned, thinking that was silly. No doubt a man like this would be well aware of any information a third party could garner about him.
So it was a test.
Given that she very much wanted to see her grandmother again, Sola said, “I don’t know your name, but I can guess what you do, and also what you’ve done.”
“And what’s that?”
“I think you are the one who has been shooting all those penny-ante dealers in town to secure territory and control.”
“The papers and the news reports have labeled the deaths suicides.”
She just continued on—there was, after all, no reason to argue. “I know that you live alone, as far as I can tell—and that your house is outfitted with some very strange window treatments. Camouflage designed to appear as the interior of the home, but…they are something else above and beyond that. I just don’t know what.”
That face above her own remained utterly impassive. Calm. At peace. As if he wasn’t muscling her in place—or threatening bodily harm. The control was…erotic.
“And?” he prompted.
“That’s it.”
He inhaled on the cigar in his mouth, the fat orange circle on the end glowing more brightly. “I’m only going to let you go once. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
He moved so quickly she had to swing her arms out to regain her balance on her own, her poles digging into the snow. Wait, where did he—
The man appeared right behind her, his feet planted on either side of the tracks her skis had made, a physical barricade to the path she had traveled from his house. As her left biceps and her right wrist burned from blood returning to the areas it had been squeezed out of, a warning tickled across the nape of her neck.
Get out of here, Sola, she told herself. Right now.
Unwilling to run the risk of another capture, she shot forward into the plowed road, the waxed, scaled bottoms of her skis struggling to find purchase on the packed, iced-over snow.
As she went, he followed her, walking slowly, inexorably, like a great cat who was tracking prey that he was content only to play with—for now.
Her hands shook as she used the tips of her poles to spring the bindings, and she struggled to get her skis back in the rack on her car. The whole time, he stood in the middle of the road and watched her, that cigar smoke drifting over his shoulder in the cold drafts that funneled toward the river.
Getting inside her car, she locked the doors, started the engine, and looked in the rearview mirror. In the glow from her brake lights, he appeared downright evil, a tall, black-haired man with a face as handsome as a prin
ce’s, and as cruel as a blade.
Hitting the gas, she pulled off the shoulder and sped away, the car’s all-wheel drive system kicking in and giving her the traction she needed.
She glanced into the rearview again. He was still there—
Sola’s foot shifted onto the brake and nearly punched down.
He was gone.
Sure as if he had disappeared into thin air. One moment there in her sight…the next, invisible.
Shaking herself, she punched the gas again, and made the sign of the cross over her heavily beating heart.
With a crazy panic, she wondered, Just what the hell was he?
THIRTY
Just as the shutters were rising for the night, Layla heard the knock upon her door—and even before the scent drifted in through the panels, she knew who had come to see her.
Unconsciously, her hand went to her hair—and found that it was a mess, matted from her having tossed and turned all day long. Worse, she hadn’t even bothered to change from the street clothes she’d put on to go to the clinic.
She couldn’t deny him entrance, however.
“Come in,” she called out, sitting up a little higher and straightening the covers that she’d pulled up to her breastbone.
Qhuinn was dressed in fighting clothes, which she took to mean he was on rotation for the night—but mayhap not. She was not privy to the schedule.
As their eyes met, she frowned. “You don’t look well.”
He brought a hand up to the bandage over his eyebrow. “Oh, this? It’s just a scrape.”
Except it wasn’t the injury that had drawn her notice. It was his blank stare, and the grim hollows under his cheekbones.
He stopped. Sniffed the air. Blanched.
Immediately, she looked at her hands, her once again tangled hands. “Please shut the door,” she said.
“What’s happening?”
When the thing was closed as she requested, she took a deep breath. “I went to Havers’s last night—”
“What.”
“I’ve been bleeding—”
“Bleeding!” He rushed forward, all but skidding onto the bed. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Dearest Virgin Scribe, it was impossible for her not to cower in the face of his fury—in truth, she was out of strength at the moment, and unable to rally any self-preservation.
Instantly, Qhuinn dialed back on his anger, the male pulling away and walking around in a tight circle. When he faced her again, he said gruffly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell—I’m just…I’m worried about you.”
“I’m sorry. And I should have told you…but you were out fighting, and I didn’t want to bother you. I don’t know…honestly, I probably wasn’t thinking straight. I was frantic.”
Qhuinn sat down beside her, his huge shoulders curling in as he linked his fingers and put his elbows on his knees. “So what’s going on?”
All she could do was shrug. “Well, as you can sense…I am bleeding.”
“How much?”
She thought about what the nurse had said. “Enough.”
“For how long?”
“It started about twenty-four hours ago. I didn’t want to go to Doc Jane, because I wasn’t sure how private that would be—and also, she doesn’t have a lot of experience with pregnancy in our species.”
“What did Havers say?”
Now she was the one frowning. “He refused to tell me.”
Qhuinn’s head cranked around. “Excuse me?”
“Because of my Chosen status, he will speak only with the Primale.”
“Are you fucking me.”
She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t believe it, either—and I’m afraid I left there under less than optimal circumstances. He reduced me to an object, as if I am of no concern at all…naught but a repository—”
“You know that’s not true.” Qhuinn took her hand, his mismatched eyes burning. “Not to me. Never to me.”
She reached out and touched his shoulder. “I know, but thank you for saying that.” She shuddered. “I need to hear that right now. And as for what’s happening with…me…the nurse said there’s nothing anyone can do to stop this.”
Qhuinn looked down at the carpet and stayed that way for the longest time. “I don’t understand. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Swallowing that horrible sense of failure, she sat up and stroked his back. “I know you wanted this as much as I did.”
“You can’t be losing it. It’s just not possible.”
“From what I understand, the statistics are not good. Not at the start…and not at the end.”
“No, it’s not right. I saw…her.”
Layla cleared her throat. “Dreams don’t always come true, Qhuinn.”
It seemed like such a simplistic thing to say. So self-obvious as well. But it hurt to the core.
“It wasn’t a dream,” he said baldly. But then he shook himself, and looked at her again. “How are you feeling? Does it hurt?”
When she didn’t immediately answer, because she didn’t want to lie to him about the cramping, he got to his feet. “I’m going to get Doc Jane.”
She snagged his hand, holding him in place. “Wait. Think about this. If I’m losing the…young…” She paused to gather some strength after she put that into words. “There’s no reason to tell anyone anything. No one needs to know. We can just let nature—” Her voice cracked at that point, but she forced herself to go on. “—take its course.”
“To hell with that. I’m not going to jeopardize your life just to avoid a confrontation.”
“It won’t stop the miscarriage, Qhuinn.”
“The miscarriage isn’t the only thing I’m worried about.” He squeezed her hand. “You matter. So I’m going to get Doc Jane right now.”
Yeah, fuck the keep-shit-quiet for real, Qhuinn thought as he headed for the door.
He’d heard stories about females hemorrhaging out during miscarriages—and though he wasn’t about to share any of that stuff with Layla, he was going to act on it.
“Qhuinn. Stop,” Layla called out. “Think about what you’re doing.”
“I am. And clearly.” He didn’t wait for any more arguing. “You stay there.”
“Qhuinn—”
He could still hear her voice as he shut the door and took off at a run, going down the short hall and descending the stairs. With any luck, Doc Jane was still lingering over Last Meal with her hellren—the pair of them had been at the table when he’d gone up to check on Layla.
As he hit the foyer, his Nikes squeaked on the mosaic floor as he made for the archway into the dining room.
Seeing the physician right where she’d been was a stroke of luck, and his first instinct was to bark out her name. Except then he realized there were a number of Brothers at the table, eating dessert.
Shit. It was easy for him to say that he’d deal with the fallout if what they’d done got wide airtime. But Layla? As a sacred Chosen, she had a lot more to lose than he did. Phury was a pretty fair guy, so there was a good chance he would be cool with it. The rest of society?
He’d been there/done that when it came to being shut out, and he did not want that for her.
Qhuinn rushed around to where V and Jane were eased back and relaxed, the Brother smoking a hand-rolled, the ghostly physician smiling at her mate as he cracked a joke.
The instant the good doctor looked over at him, she sat forward.
Qhuinn dropped down and whispered into her ear.
Not even a second later, she was on her feet. “I gotta go, Vishous.”
The Brother’s diamond eyes lifted. Apparently, one look at Qhuinn’s face was all it took: he didn’t ask any questions, just nodded once.
Qhuinn and the physician hurried out together.
To Doc Jane’s infinite credit, she didn’t waste time with any how-did-this-pregnancy-happens. “How long has she been bleeding?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
&n
bsp; “How heavily?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any other symptoms? Fever? Nausea? Headaches?”
“I don’t know.”
She stopped him as they came to the grand staircase. “Go to the Pit. My bag’s on the counter by the bowl of apples.”
“Roger that.”
Qhuinn never ran so fast in his life. Out of the vestibule. Across the courtyard in the snow. Punching in the code to the Pit. Racing into V and Butch’s place.
Ordinarily, he would never have entered without knocking—hell, without a prearranged appointment time. Fuck that tonight, though—
Oh, good, that black bag was in fact by the Fujis.
Grabbing the thing, he raced out, shot back past the parked cars, and stamped his feet as he waited for Fritz to open the way into the mansion.
He nearly plowed the doggen over.
As he got up to the second floor, he bolted past the open doors to Wrath’s study and broke into the guest room Layla had been using. Closing the door, he panted on his way over to the bed, where the good doctor was sitting where he just had been.
God, Layla was white as a sheet. Then again, fear and blood loss would do that to a female.
Doc Jane was in midsentence as she took her bag from him. “I think I should start by taking your vitals—”
Boom!
As the thunderous noise rang throughout the room, Qhuinn’s first thought was to throw himself on both the females as a shield.
But it wasn’t a bomb. It was Phury throwing the door wide.
The Brother’s yellow eyes were glowing, and not in a good way, as they went from Layla to Doc Jane to Qhuinn…and back again.
“What the hell is going on in here?” he demanded, nostrils flaring as he clearly caught the same scent Qhuinn had. “I see the doctor going up the stairs at a dead run. Then it’s Qhuinn with her bag. And now…someone had better start talking. This goddamn minute.”
But he knew. Because he was looking at Qhuinn.
Qhuinn faced the Brother. “I got her pregnant—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Barely got through the p-word, as a matter of fact.
