Lover Unleashed bdb-9

by J. R. Ward

  Why had he never asked her that?

  The return of the surgeon’s face cut off his thinking. “Your hip’s dislocated. I’m going to have to set it before I work on the knee because I’m worried about your circulation. Okay?”

  “Just fix me,” V moaned. “Whatever it takes.”

  “Good. I’ve put the knee in a temporary brace for this.” The human looked over to Butch, who, shower-request notwithstanding, had propped himself up against the wall no less than two feet away. “I need your help. There’s no one else around with free hands.”

  The cop was right on it, shoring up his strength and coming over. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Hold his pelvis in place.” The human hopped up onto the stainless-steel table at V’s legs, crouching down to avoid banging his head on the chandelier. “This is going to be a muscle job—there’s no other way to do it. I want you facing me, and I’ll show you where to put your hands.”

  Butch got right with the program, sidling in close and reaching down. “Where?”

  “Here.” V had some vague sensation of warm weight on both sides of his hips. “Little more to the outside—right. Good.”

  Butch looked around his own shoulder at V. “You ready for this?”

  Silly question. Like asking someone if they were prepared for a head-on collision.

  “Stoked,” V muttered.

  “Just focus on me.”

  And V did . . . seeing the flecks of green in the cop’s hazel eyes and the contours of that busted nose and the five-o’clock shadow.

  When the human grabbed V’s lower thigh and started lifting, V jacked up against the table, his head kicking back, his jaw straining.

  “Easy, there,” the cop said. “Focus on me.”

  Uh-huh, right. There was pain, and then there was PAIN. This was PAIN.

  Vishous labored for breath, his neural pathways crammed with signals, his body exploding even as his outer skin stayed intact.

  “Tell him to breathe,” someone said. Probably the human.

  Yeah, that was going to happen. Not.

  “Okay, on three I’m going to force the joint back into place—you ready?”

  V had no clue who the guy was talking to, but if it was him, there was no way to answer. His heart was jumping and his lungs were stone and his brain was Las Vegas at night and—

  “Three!”

  Vishous screamed.

  The only thing that was louder was the pop as the hip was relocated, as it were. And the last thing he saw before he checked out of the Conscious Inn & Suites was Jane’s head whipping around in a panic. In her eyes was stark terror, as if the single worst thing that she could imagine was him in agony. . . .

  And that was when he knew that he still loved her.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Up at the mansion, in Qhuinn’s bedroom, there was nothing but a whole lot of silence—which was typical when you dropped a bomb, be it real or metaphorical.

  Jesus Christ, he couldn’t believe he’d said the words: Even though only he and Layla were in here, he felt like he’d gone to the top of a building in downtown Caldwell and bullhorned the announcement.

  “Your friend,” Layla whispered. “Blaylock.”

  Qhuinn’s heart froze. But after a moment, he forced himself to nod. “Yeah. It’s him.”

  He waited for some kind of disgust or grimace or . . . even shock. Coming from where he did, he was all too versed in homophobia—and Layla was a Chosen, for godsakes, which made that old-school-glymera bull crap look positively enlightened.

  Her beautiful stare lingered on his face. “I think I knew. I saw the way he looked at you.”

  Well, that was no more. And . . . “It doesn’t bother you? That he’s another male?”

  There was a slight pause. And then the answer she gave him transformed him in a curious way: “Not in the slightest. Why would it?”

  Qhuinn had to look away. Because he worried about what was shining in his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Whatever for?”

  All he could do was shrug.

  Who’d have thought acceptance would be as curiously painful as all that rejection had always been.

  “I think you’d better go,” he said roughly.

  “Why?”

  ’Cause he was strongly considering a job as a lawn sprinkler, and he didn’t want to go all weeping-willow in front of anyone. Even her.

  “Sire, it is all right.” Her voice was rock-solid serious. “I judge you not by the sex of whom you love . . . but by how you love them.”

  “Then you should hate me.” Christ, why the hell was his mouth still going? “Because I broke his fucking heart.”

  “So . . . he knows not how you feel?”

  “Nope.” Qhuinn narrowed his eyes at her. “And he’s not going to, clear? No one knows.”

  She inclined her head. “Your secret is safe with me. But I know well the way he regarded you. Mayhap you should tell him—”

  “Let me save you from a lesson I learned the hard way. There are times when it is too late. He’s happy now—and he deserves that. Fuck it, I want him to have love, even if I’m just watching it from on the sidelines.”

  “But what about you?”

  “What about me.” He went to drag his fingers through his hair and realized he’d cut it all off. “Listen, enough with this . . . I only told you because I need you to know that this shit between you and me isn’t about you not being good enough or attractive enough. Honestly? I’m done with being with other people sexually. I’m not doing that anymore. It gets me nowhere and . . . yeah. I’m finished with all that.”

  How ironic. Now that he wasn’t with Blay, he was being faithful to the fucker.

  Layla came across to him and sat down on the bed, arranging her legs and smoothing her robe with her elegant, pale hands. “I am glad you told me.”

  “You know . . . so am I.” He reached out and took her palm. “And I’ve got an idea.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Friends. You and me. You come here, I’ll feed you, and we’ll hang together. As friends.”

  Her smile was incredibly sad. “I must say . . . I always knew you cared not for me in that special way. You touched me with great restraint and showed me things that enraptured me—but beneath the flush of passion that I felt, I knew. . . .”

  “You’re not in love with me, either, Layla. You just aren’t. You felt a lot of physical shit, and that made you think it was emotional. The trouble is, body needs a hell of a lot less than the soul does to connect.”

  She placed her free hand over her heart. “The sting is there.”

  “Because you’ve had a crush on me. That’ll fade. Especially when you meet the right guy.”

  God, check his shit out. From slut to camp counselor in a week. Next up: a guest stint on The-fucking-View.

  He extended his forearm. “Take my vein so you can stay longer on this side and figure out what it is that you want from life—not what you’re supposed to be or do, but what you want. I’ll even help you if I can. God knows I’m well-versed in being lost.”

  There was a long moment. And then her green eyes shifted to his. “Blaylock . . . knows not what he is missing.”

  Qhuinn shook his head grimly. “Oh, he’s very aware of it. it. Trust me.”

  Cleanup was not a cinch.

  As Jane rolled a bucket and mop out from the housekeeping closet, she ran through the reordering that was going to be necessary to get her supplies back where they needed to be: They’d used up a hundred packages of gauze; her needle-to-thread ratio was a joke; they were straight out of wrap bandages. . . .

  Opening the door to the exam room with her butt, she swung the pail around using the mop head and then took a breather. There was blood everywhere on the floor, and also down the walls. Wads of red-stained white gauze were the Freddy Krueger equiv of dust bunnies. Three biohazard bags were full to the point of needing an antacid for the bloating.

  And a paaaartridge in a pea
r treeeeeeeeeeee . . .

  Confronting the aftermath, she realized that if Manny hadn’t been with her, they might have lost one of the Brothers. Rhage, for instance, could have bled out. Or Tohr—because what had looked like a simple shoulder injury had turned out to be oh, so much more.

  Manny had ended up having to operate on him. After he’d finished doing surgery on Vishous.

  Closing her eyes, she propped her heavy head against the pointy top of the mop. As a ghost, she didn’t become exhausted the way she’d used to: no aches or pains, no dragging sense like someone had tied barbells to both her ankles. Now it was her psyche that grew weary, to the point where she had to shut her lids and see and do absolutely nothing—like her brain’s circuit board needed to be turned off and cooled down.

  And she did sleep then. And dreamed.

  Or . . . as probably would be the case today . . . not. Insomnia was still an issue from time to time—

  “You’re going to need to broom it first.”

  Snapping her head up, she tried to smile for Manny. “I think you’re right.”

  “How about you let me take care of this.”

  No. Way. She was not in a hurry to go lock herself in the other recovery room and stare at the ceiling. Besides, Manny had to feel as tired as she did.

  “How long has it been since you ate last?” she asked him.

  “What time is it?”

  She glanced at her watch. “One o’clock.”

  “In the afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “About twelve hours or so.” He seemed surprised at that.

  She reached for the phone on the desk. “I’ll call Fritz.”

  “Listen, you don’t have to—”

  “You must be about to fall over.”

  “Actually, I feel great.”

  Wasn’t that just like a man. Unless . . . Well, hell, he did look energized instead of drained.

  Whatever. She was still feeding him.

  The ordering didn’t take longer than a minute, and Fritz was thrilled by the request. Usually after Last Meal, the butler and his staff retired for a brief rest before the daily cleaning started, but they would much rather have been working.

  “Where’s the housekeeping closet?” Manny asked.

  “Out in the hall. To your left.”

  While she filled the bucket with Lysol and water, he found a broom, came back and took care of business.

  While they worked side by side, all she could think about was Vishous. During the rush of treating the Brothers, there had been so much to concentrate on, but now, sweeping the mop’s sloppy dreads back and forth over the tiled floor, it was as if all the angst that had been behind the scenes in her brain broke free and rushed her mental guardrails.

  Anyone but her.

  She heard him say that over and over again, saw his ashen face and his icy eyes and the way he had closed her out.

  Funny . . . the eternity she’d been granted had always seemed like the grandest blessing. Until she pictured going aeons without the man she loved.

  Now it was a curse.

  Where would she go? She couldn’t very well continue at the compound. Not if they were estranged like this. It was too hard on everyone—

  “Here.”

  Jane jumped as a tissue fluttered in front of her face. The little white square was hanging from Manny’s blunt fingertips, and he wagged it again as she just stared at the thing.

  “You’re crying,” she heard him say.

  Moving the mop handle into the crook of an elbow, she took what he offered and was surprised to find that he was right: When she blotted at her eyes and took a peek, the Kleenex was damp.

  “You know,” Manny drawled, “seeing you like this makes me wish I’d amputated that damn leg of his.”

  “This is only partially his fault.”

  “So say you. I’m allowed to look at it any way I like.”

  She glanced over. “You have another one of those?”

  He held a box forward and she snapped out a couple more. Dab. Dab. Delicate nose blow. Dab. She rounded out the crying jag with a quick one . . . two . . . three . . . tosses into the trash bin.

  “Thank you for helping me.” As she glanced up, his glower was front and center on his face and she had to smile. “I’ve missed that.”

  “Missed what.”

  “That pissed-off expression you wear so often. Reminds me of the good old days.” She regarded him steadily. “Is V going to be okay?”

  “If I don’t kick his ass for fucking with you—yes.”

  “So gallant.” And she meant that. “You were amazing tonight.”

  She meant that, too.

  He put the Kleenex aside on a counter. “So were you. That happen a lot?”

  “Not really. But I have a feeling that may be changing.”

  Getting back to work, she made some perfunctory passes with the mop, not really improving the condition of the floor, but just moving the blood around. At this point, she probably would have more luck hosing the place down.

  A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door and Fritz put his head in. “Your repast is ready. Where would you wish to dine?”

  “He’ll take it in the office,” Jane answered. “At the desk.” She glanced over at her former colleague. “Better go before it gets cold.”

  The look in Manny’s eye was the ocular equivalent of a middle finger, but she just waved bon voyage. “Go. And then get some rest.”

  Except no one told Manny Manello what to do. “I’ll be right there,” he said to the butler.

  As Fritz ducked out, her old boss put his hands on his hips. And although she braced herself for an argument, all he said was, “Where’s my briefcase.”

  When Jane blinked, he shrugged. “I’m not going to berate you into talking to me.”

  “So you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

  “Go, me.” He nodded over at the phone that was mounted on the wall. “I’m going to have to check my messages, and I want my damn cell phone back.”

  “Ah . . . okay, your car has to be in the parking garage. Just go down the corridor. Maybe it’s in your Porsche?”

  “Thanks—”

  “Are you thinking of leaving?”

  “All the time.” He turned and went for the door. “It’s all I can think about.”

  Well . . . didn’t that make two of them. But then, Jane had never imagined that she’d not be here.

  Proof positive that it wasn’t helpful to have a lot of bright ideas about your future.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Traditionally, in and among the glymera, when one entered the house of another, a calling card was to be placed upon a silver tray that was held out by the butler doggen of the host. The card was to have one’s unique name and lineage listed, and the purpose was to announce the visitor, whilst at the same time pay homage to the social mores that shaped and defined the upper classes.

  However, when one could not write or read . . . or more to the point, when one preferred methods of communication that were more visceral and less viceroy?

  Well, then one left the bodies of the dead he’d rendered in an alley for his “host” to find.

  Xcor got up from the table he had been sitting afore and took his mug of coffee with him. The others were asleep below, and he knew he should join them, but there would be no rest. Not this day. Mayhap not the next.

  Leaving those split yet writhing lessers behind had been a calculated risk. If humans found them? Trouble. And yet it was worth it. Wrath and the Brotherhood had too long ruled this continent, and to what end? The Lessening Society persisted. The vampire population had scattered. And those arrogant, flabby, feckless humans were everywhere.

  Xcor paused in the downstairs hallway and looked around his permanent accommodations. The house that Throe had secured was indeed appropriate. Made of stone, it was old and on the outskirts, two measures of value that were highly appropriate for their purposes. At some point in its life, it had
been quite a showplace, but that time had faded and so had its gentility. Now, it was a shell of what it had been, and all of what he required: stout of wall, sturdy of roof, and more than big enough to house his males.

  Not that anyone would be up in these aboveground rooms or the seven bedrooms on the second floor very often. Even though heavy drapery was pulled o’er every window, the countless panes of glass needed to be bricked in before things were really safe enough during the daylight hours.

  Indeed, all stayed underground, in the cellar.

  It was the good old days returned, he thought, for only in modern times had the conception of separate accommodations taken root. Afore they had eaten together, fucked together, and taken their repose as a group.

  As soldiers should.

  Mayhap he would require them to remain beneath the earth. Together.

  And yet he was not down there with them and had not been. Antsy and unsettled, ready to pursue but lacking prey at the moment, he’d been going from empty room to empty room, stirring dust along with his desire to conquer this new world.

  “I have them. All of them.”

  Xcor stopped. Took a grab off the lip of his mug. Turned around. “How clever of you.”

  Throe entered what had once been a rather grand parlor room, but was now naught but cold and empty. The fighter was still dressed in leather, except somehow he gave off an elegant appearance. Not a surprise. Unlike the others, his pedigree was as perfect as his golden hair and his sky blue eyes. So too were his body and visage: No defects dwelled upon him or within him.

  He was, however, very much one of the bastards.

  As the male cleared his throat, Xcor smiled. Even after all these years together, Throe was uncomfortable in his presence. How quaint.

  “And . . .” Xcor prompted.

  “There are remnants of two families in Caldwell at present. What is left of the other four main bloodlines is scattered around what is classed as New England. So some are mayhap up to five hundred to seven hundred miles away.”

  “How many are you related to?”

  More with the throat clearing. “Five.”

  “Five? That would fill your social calendar rather quickly—planning on dropping by for any visits?”