by J. R. Ward
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 prince’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.”
“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.
The Brother all but picked him up and threw him against the wall. As his back absorbed the impact, his jaw exploded in pain—which suggested the guy had also corked him a good one. Then rough hands pinned him in place with his feet dangling about six inches from the nice Oriental rug—just as people started to pool in the doorway.
Great. An audience.
Phury shoved his face into Qhuinn’s and bared his fangs. “You did what to her?”
Qhuinn swallowed a mouthful of blood. “She went into her needing. I serviced her.”
“You don’t deserve her—”
“I know.”
Phury slammed him again. “She’s better than this—”
“I agree—”
Bang! Again with the wall. “Then why the fuck did you—”
The growl that permeated the room was loud enough to rattle the mirror on the wall next to Qhuinn’s head—as well as the silver brush set on the bureau and the crystals on the sconces by the door. At first he was sure it was Phury…except then the Brother’s brows came down hard and the male looked over his shoulder.
Layla was out of bed and closing in on the pair of them—and holy fucking shit, the look in her eyes was enough to melt paint off a car door: In spite of the fact that she was not well, her fangs were bared, and her fingers were curled into claws…and the icy draft that preceded her made the back of Qhuinn’s neck prickle in warning.
That growl was nothing that should have come out of a male…much less a delicate female of Chosen status.
And if anything, her nasty tone of voice was worse: “Let. Him. Go.”
She was looking up at Phury as if she were fully prepared to rip the Brother’s arms out of their sockets and beat him with the stumps if he didn’t do exactly what she said. Pronto.
And hey, what do you know—suddenly Qhuinn could breathe right, and now his Nikes were back on the floor. Just like magic.
Phury put his palms out in front of him. “Layla, I—”
“You do not touch him. Not about this—are we clear with each other?” Her weight was on the balls of her feet, as if she could lunge for the guy’s throat at any second. “He was the father of my young, and he will be accorded all the rights and privileges of that station.”
“Layla—”
“Do we understand each other?”
Phury nodded his multicolored head. “Yes. But—”
In the Old Language, she hissed, “If any harm shall befall him, I will come after you, and find you where you sleep. I do not care where you lay your head or who with, my vengeance shall rain upon you until you drown.”
That last word was drawn out, until its syllable was lost in more growling.
Dead silence.
Until Doc Jane said dryly, “Annnnd this is why they say the female of the species is more dangerous than the male.”
“Word,” someone muttered from out in the hall.
Phury threw his hands up in frustration. “I just want what’s best for you, and not only as a concerned friend—this is my fucking job. You go through your needing without telling anyone, lay with him”—like Qhuinn was dog shit—“and then not tell anyone you’re in medical trouble. And I’m supposed to be happy about this? What the fuck?”
There was some kind of conversation between the pair of them at that point, but Qhuinn didn’t hear it: All of his consciousness had retreated deep into his brain. Man, the Brother’s happy little commentary shouldn’t have hurt like a bitch—it wasn’t like he hadn’t heard that stuff before, or hell, even thought it about himself. But for some reason, the words triggered a fault line that rumbled right down into the core of him.
Reminding himself that it was hardly a tragedy to have the obvious pointed out, he pulled free of the shame spiral and glanced around. Yup, everyone had shown up at the open door—and once again, things he would have preferred remain private were happening in front of a cast of thousands.
At least Layla didn’t care. Hell, she didn’t even seem to notice.
And it was kind of funny to see all these professional fighters unwilling to get within a mile of the female. Then again, if you wanted to survive doing the work they did, accurate risk assessment was something you developed early—and even Qhuinn, who was the object of the protective instinct the Chosen was rocking, wouldn’t have dared touch her.
“I hereby renounce my Chosen status, and all the rights and privileges thereto. I am Layla, fallen from this heartbeat onward—”
Phury tried to cut her off. “Listen, you don’t have to do this—”
“…and evermore. I am ruined in the eyes of both tradition and practicality, virgin no more, conceived of a young, even though I am losing it.”
Qhuinn banged the back of his head into the wall. Goddamn it.
Phury dragged a hand through his thick hair. “Fuck.”
When Layla wobbled on her feet, everyone went for her, but she pushed all
hands away and walked under her own steam back to the bed. Lowering her body gingerly, as if everything hurt, she hung her head.
“My die is cast, and I am prepared to live with the consequences, be as they may. That is all.”
There were a number of brows going up at her dismissal of the whole crowd, but nobody said boo: After a moment, the peanut gallery shuffled off, although Phury stayed put. So did Qhuinn and the doctor.
The door was shut.
“Okay, especially after all that, I really need to check your vitals,” Doc Jane said, easing the female back against the pillows and helping to resettle the covers that had been thrown off.
Qhuinn didn’t move as a blood-pressure cuff was slid up a slender arm and a series of puff-puff-puffs sounded.
Phury, on the other hand, paced around—at least until he frowned and took out his phone. “Is this why Havers called me last night?”
Layla nodded. “I went there looking for help.”
“Why didn’t you come to me?” the Brother muttered to himself.
“What did Havers say?”
“I don’t know because I didn’t listen to the voice mail. I thought I’d have no reason to.”
“He indicated he would deal only with you.”
At that, Phury looked over at Qhuinn, that yellow stare narrowing. “Are you going to mate her?”
“No.”
Phury’s expression grew icy again. “What the hell kind of male are you—”
“He’s not in love with me,” Layla cut in. “Nor I with him.”
As the Primale’s head whipped around, Layla continued, “We wanted a young.” She sat forward as Doc Jane listened to her heart from behind. “It began and finished there.”
Now the Brother cursed. “I don’t get it.”
“We are both orphans in many ways,” the Chosen said. “We are—were…seeking a family of our own.”
Phury exhaled, and wandered over to the desk in the corner, taking a load off in the dainty chair. “Well. Ah. I guess this changes things a little. I thought that—”
“It matters naught,” Layla interjected. “It is what it is. Or…was, as the case may be.”
