by J. R. Ward
No clutter anywhere, no casually thrown newspapers, bills, letters, receipts. No coats cast over the back of a chair or pair of shoes kicked off by a sofa.
Each and every ashtray was clean as a whistle.
One and only one person came to his mind.
“Benloise,” he whispered to himself.
THIRTY-SIX
Based on the regular vibrations that came from his breast pocket, Xcor knew his presence was being sought by his fighters.
He did not respond.
Standing outside the facility that his Chosen had been taken into, he was powerless to leave even as a regular flow of others of his kind drove up or materialized before the portal she had been taken through. Indeed, as so many came and went, there was no doubt this was a health clinic.
At least none appeared to notice him, too preoccupied were they with whate’er ailed them—in spite of the fact that he was standing all but out in the open.
Fates, the very thought of what had brought his Chosen here made him nauseated to the point of clearing his throat—
Dragging icy air into his lungs helped fight the gag reflex.
When had her needing come? It must have been fairly recently. He had last seen her…
Who was the sire? he thought for the hundredth time. Who had taken what was his—
“Not yours,” he told himself. “Not yours.”
Except that was his mind talking, not his instincts. At the core of him, in the most male part of his marrow, she was his female.
And ironically, that was what kept him from attacking the facility—with all of his soldiers, if necessary. As she was receiving care, the last thing he wanted to do was interrupt the process.
Whilst time passed, and the information void tortured him to the point of madness, he realized that he hadn’t even known about this clinic. If she had been his? He wouldn’t have known where to take her for help—certainly he would have sent Throe to find someplace, somehow, to ensure her care, but in the event of a medical emergency? An hour or two spent hunting for a healer could mean the difference between life and death.
The Brotherhood, on the other hand, had known exactly where to deliver her. And when she was released from the facility, they would undoubtedly return her to a warm, safe home, where there would be food aplenty, and a soft bed, and a stout force of at least six full-blooded warriors to protect her as she slept.
Ironic that he found ease in that vision. But then again, the Lessening Society was a very serious adversary—and say what one would about the Brotherhood, they had proven over the aeons to be capable defenders.
Abruptly, his thoughts shifted to the warehouse where he and his soldiers stayed. Those cold, damp, inhospitable environs were, in fact, a step up from some of the other places they had all made camp. If she were with him, wherever would he keep her? No males could e’er see her in his presence, especially if she were to change clothes or bathe—
A growl percolated up his throat.
No. No male would cast his eye upon her flesh or he would flay him alive—
Oh, God, she had mated with another. Had opened herself up and accepted another male within her sacred flesh.
Xcor put his face in his palms, the pain in his chest making him weave in his combat boots.
It must have been the Primale. Yes, of course she had lain with Phury, son of Ahgony. That was the way the Chosen propagated, if memory and rumor served.
Instantly, his mind was clouded by the image of her perfect face and her slender frame. To think that another had disrobed her and covered her with his body—
Stop it, he told himself. Stop it.
Dragging his mind away from that insanity, he challenged himself to define any appropriate living quarters he could have provided her. In any circumstance.
The only thought that came to him was going back and killing that female his soldiers had fed from. That cottage had been quaint and lovely….
But where would his Chosen go during the day?
And besides, he would never shame her by allowing her to so much as walk upon that rug where all that sex had gone down.
“Pardon us.”
Xcor went for the gun inside his jacket as he wheeled around. Except there was no need for force—it was simply a diminutive female with her young. Apparently, they had gotten out of a station wagon parked about ten feet away from him.
As the young cowered behind its mother, the female’s eyes flared in fear.
Then again, when a monster was stumbled upon, its presence was not often greeted with joy.
Xcor bowed deeply, in large measure because the sight of his face surely could not be helping the situation. “But of course.”
At that, he backed away from them both and then pivoted, returning to the original spot he’d occupied. Indeed, he had not realized how exposed he’d become.
And he did not want to fight. Not with the Brotherhood. Not with his Chosen as she was. Not…here.
Closing his eyes, he wished he could go back to that night when Zypher had taken him out to the meadow and Throe, under the guise of saving him, had condemned him to a kind of walking death.
A bonded male who was not with his mate?
Dead though animated—
Without warning, the portal pulled back and his Chosen appeared. Instantly, Xcor’s instincts screamed for action, in spite of all the reasons to leave her be.
Take her! Now!
But he did not: The grim expressions of those who shepherded her with such care froze him where he stood—bad news had been imparted during their tenure inside.
As before, she was all but carried to the vehicle.
And even still, there was the scent of her blood upon the air.
His Chosen was resettled in the back of that sedan, with the female at her side. Then Phury, son of Ahgony, and the warrior with the mismatched eyes got into the front. The vehicle was turned about slowly, as if out of concern for the precious cargo in its rear compartment.
Xcor followed in their wake, materializing apace to the steady speed that was gained first upon the rural road at the end of the lane, and then upon the highway. When the car approached the suspension bridge, he once again spotted it from atop the highest girder, and then after his female passed beneath him, he jumped from rooftop to rooftop as the sedan circumvented downtown.
He tracked the vehicle north until it exited the highway and entered the farmland area.
He stayed with her the whole time.
And that was how he found the location of the Brotherhood.
THIRTY-SEVEN
As Blay twisted his family’s signet ring around on his forefinger, his lit cigarette smoldered gently in his other hand, and his ass grew numb…and no one came back in through the vestibule’s doors.
Sitting on the bottom step of the mansion’s grand staircase, he wasn’t going to fulfill his promise to his mother and head home. Not tonight, at least. After the craziness of the evening before, what with the crash landing and the attendant drama, Wrath had ordered the Brotherhood and the fighters to take twenty-four off. So technically, he should have called the ’rents and told his mom to bust out the mozzarella and the meat sauce.
But there was no way he was leaving the house. Not after hearing yelling from Layla’s room, and then seeing her all but carried down the grand staircase.
Naturally, Qhuinn had been with her.
John Matthew had not.
So whatever had gone down apparently trumped the ahstrux nohtrum thing, and that meant…she had to be losing the young. Only something that serious would get a pass.
As he continued to bump-on-a-log it, with nothing but worry to keep him company, naturally his mind decided to make things worse: Shit, had he really slept with Qhuinn last night?
Taking a hard drag off his Dunhill, he exhaled a curse.
Had it really happened?
God, that question had been banging around his skull from the moment he’d woken up out of a hot-as-hell dream, w
ith an erection that seemed to think the other male was sleeping next to him.
Replaying the scenes, for the hundredth time, all he could think was…talk about a plan misfiring. After he’d turned Qhuinn down when the guy had been on his knees, he’d gone back to his room and paced around, a debate he wasn’t interested in having with himself turning his brain to foie gras.
But he’d made the right decision in leaving. Really. He had.
The problem was, it hadn’t stuck. As the daylight hours had worn on, all he’d thought about was the time he’d gotten caught by his father stealing a pack of cigarettes from one of the family’s doggen. He’d been a young pretrans, and as a punishment, his dad had made him sit outside and smoke every one of those unfiltered Camels. He’d been horribly sick, and it had been a year or two before he’d been able to stomach even secondhand smoke.
So that had been the new plan.
He’d wanted Qhuinn so badly for so long, but it had all been a hypothetical, parceled out in fantasies in ways he could handle. Not all at once, not the full-bore, overload, wrecking-ball stuff—and he’d known damn well that in real life, Qhuinn wasn’t going to hold back or be easy. The “plan” had been to have the actual experience, and learn that it was just rough sex. Or hell, find out that it wasn’t even good sex.
You weren’t supposed to smoke all the cigarettes in the pack…and only want more.
Jesus Christ almighty, it had been the first time reality had been better than a fantasy, the absolute best erotic experience of his life.
Afterward, however, the kindness that Qhuinn had shown had been unbearable.
In fact, as Blay recalled that tenderness, he burst up from where he’d been sitting and marched around the apple tree—as if he had somewhere to go.
At that moment doors opened. Not the vestibule ones, however.
The library.
As he glanced over his shoulder, Saxton stepped out from the room. He looked like hell, and not just because, as fast a healer as the male was, he still had some residual jaw swelling thanks to Qhuinn’s attack.
Good one, Blay thought. Way to express disappointment in someone’s behavior: Let them fuck the shit out of you after they tried to strangle your ex.
Soooo classy.
“How are you?” Blay asked, and not in a social way.
It was a relief as Saxton came over. Looked him in the eye. Smiled a little like he was determined to make an effort.
“I’m exhausted. I’m hungry. I’m restless.”
“Would you like to eat with me?” Blay blurted. “I’m feeling exactly that way, too, and the only thing I can do anything about is the need for food.”
Saxton nodded and put his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “That is a stellar idea.”
The pair of them ended up in the kitchen at the battered oak table, sitting side by side, facing out into the room. With a happy smile, Fritz immediately flipped into provide-sustenance mode and what do you know. Ten minutes later, the butler provided each of them with a bowl of steaming beef stew, as well as a crusty baguette to share, a bottle of red wine, and a stick of sweet butter on a little plate.
“I shall be back, my lords,” the butler said on a bow. And then he proceeded to shoo everyone else out of the place, from the doggen who were prepping vegetables to the ones who were polishing silver to the window cleaners in the alcove beyond.
As the flap door shut behind the last of the staff, Saxton said, “All we need is a candle and this would be a date.” The male leaned forward and ate with perfect manners. “Well, I suppose we would need a few other things, wouldn’t we.”
Blay glanced over as he put his cigarette out. Even with bags under those eyes and that mostly faded bruise on his neck, the attorney was something to look at.
Why the hell couldn’t he—
“Do not say you’re sorry again.” Saxton wiped his mouth and smiled. “It really isn’t necessary or appropriate.”
Sitting beside the guy, it seemed just as unlikely that they had broken up as it was that he had been with Qhuinn. Had any of the last couple of nights happened?
Well, duh. What had gone down with Qhuinn wouldn’t have if he and Sax were still together. That he was very clear on—it was one thing to jerk off in secret, and that was bad enough. The full bifta? NFW.
Shit, in spite of the fact that he and Saxton had split up, he still felt like he should confess the transgression…although if Qhuinn was right, Saxton had already moved on in one sense of the word.
As they ate in silence, Blay shook his head, even though he hadn’t been asked a question and there was no conversation. He just didn’t know what else to do. Sometimes the changes in life came at you so fast, and with such fury, there was no way to keep up with reality. It took time for things to sink in, the new equilibrium establishing itself only after some period of your brain sloshing back and forth against the walls of your head.
He was still in the slosh zone.
“Have you ever felt as though hours were more properly measured in years?” Saxton said.
“Or maybe decades. Yes. Absolutely.” Blay glanced over again. “I was actually just thinking that very same thing.”
“Such a morbid pair we are.”
“Maybe we should wear black.”
“Armbands?” Saxton prompted.
“Whole deal, head to toe.”
“Whatever shall I do with my flare for color?” Saxton flicked at his orange Hermès kerchief. “Then again, one can accessorize anything.”
“Certainly explains the theory behind dental grilles.”
“Pink plastic flamingos.”
“The Hello Kitty franchise.”
All at once, they both burst into laughter. It wasn’t even that funny, but the humor wasn’t the point. Breaking the ice was. Getting back to a new kind of normal was. Learning to relate in a different way was.
As things settled into chuckles, Blay put his arm around the male’s shoulders and gave him a quick hug. And it was nice that Saxton leaned in for a brief moment, accepting what was offered. It wasn’t that Blay thought that just because they’d sat down together, shared a meal, and had a laugh, all of a sudden everything was going to be smooth sailing. Not at all. It was awkward to think Saxton had been with someone else, and utterly incredible to know he’d done the same—especially given who it had been.
You didn’t downshift from being lovers for nearly a year to doing the pally-pally thing in the matter of a day or two.
You could, however, start forging a new path.
And put one foot after the other on it.
Saxton was always going to have a place in his heart. The relationship they’d shared had been the first one he’d had—not just with a male, but with anyone. And there had been a lot of good times, things he would carry with him as memories that were worth the brain space.
“Have you seen the back gardens?” Saxton asked as he offered the bread.
Blay broke off a piece and then passed the butter plate over as Saxton took a section for himself.
“They’re bad, aren’t they.”
“Remind me never to attempt to weed with a Cessna.”
“You don’t garden.”
“Well, if I ever do, then.” Saxton poured some wine in his glass. “Vino?”
“Please.”
And that was how it went. All the way from the stew through to the peach cobbler that miraculously appeared before them thanks to Fritz’s perfect timing. When the last bite had been taken and the final napkin swipe made, Blay leaned back against the built-in bench’s cushions and took a deep breath.
Which was about so much more than just a filled stomach.
“Well,” Saxton said, as he laid down his napkin beside his dessert plate, “I do believe I’m finally going to take that bath I talked about nights ago.”
Blay opened his mouth to point out that the salts the male preferred were still in his bathroom. He’d seen them in the cupboard when he’d taken his backup shavin
g cream out at nightfall.
Except…he wasn’t sure he should mention it. What if Saxton thought he was asking the male to come and bathe in his suite? Was it too much of a reminder of how things had changed—and why? What if—
“I have this new oil treatment I’m dying to try,” Saxton said as he slid out his side of the bench. “It finally arrived from overseas in today’s mail. I’ve been waiting for ages.”
“Sounds awesome.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Saxton resettled his jacket on his shoulders, pulled his cuffs into place, and then lifted his hand in a wave, striding out without any sign of complication or strain on his face.
Which was helpful, actually.
Folding his own napkin up, he placed it beside his plate, and as he scooted free of the table, he stretched his arms over his head and bent backward, his spine cracking in a good way.
The tension in him returned as soon as he stepped into the foyer again.
What the hell was going on with Layla?
Damn it, it wasn’t like he could call Qhuinn. The drama wasn’t his own, or anything he was connected to: When it came to that pregnancy, he was no different from the others in the house who had also seen and heard the show and were no doubt just as worried as he was—but had no right to emergent updates.
Too bad his now-full gut didn’t buy that. The thought of Qhuinn losing the young was enough to make him studiously consider the locations of the bathrooms. Just in case an evac order was issued by the back of his throat.
In the end, he found himself upstairs in the second-floor sitting room pacing around. From that vantage point, it was no problem to hear the vestibule door, and yet it wasn’t like he was waiting out in the open—
The double doors of Wrath’s study were pushed wide, and John Matthew emerged—from the king’s sanctum.
