Lover Reborn: A Novel of the Black Dagger Brotherhood

by J. R. Ward

  She wasn’t completely sure what he was suggesting, but she was powerless to deny him anything when he used that tone with her. In a haze, she brought up one knee, parting her thighs… and she knew when he looked at her, because he growled in satisfaction.

  Tohrment moved around between her legs and stretched out, palming either side of her and widening her further. And then his lips were upon her, warm and silky and wet. The sensation of soft on soft kicked off yet another orgasm, and he took advantage of it, entering her with his tongue, sucking at her, finding her rhythm and taking her further.

  Her hands dug into his dark hair as she rolled her hips.

  And to think she had liked the sex.…

  Little had she known that there was so much more to discover.

  He was mind-shatteringly attentive and painstakingly thorough in his explorations, taking his time unless he was taking her to the height of pleasure. And when he eventually lifted his mouth, his lips were slick and reddened, and he ran his tongue over them as he stared at her from under his lids.

  Then he rose up and gripped her hips, tilting them up.

  His erection was impossibly thick and long, but she already knew he fit her perfectly.

  And he did again.

  This time she paid more attention to the sight of him than the feel of him. Rising above her, he moved in that powerful, potent way of his, pleasuring them both as he curled his hips up and back, moving himself in and out of her.

  His smile was dark. Erotic. “You like to watch me?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes…”

  That was as far as she got as another wave of release crested and assumed control of her thoughts, her speech, her body… her soul, wiping everything clean.

  When she finally quieted and was again able to focus, she recognized the strain in Tohrment’s face, the tightness around his jaw and his eyes, the pumping of his chest. He had not found his release yet.

  “Do you want to watch,” he gritted out.

  “Oh, yes…”

  Withdrawing from her body, his arousal was as his lips had been, glossy and swollen.

  With one big hand he gripped himself, and with the other he braced his weight against the floor so that he could stretch out over her lax, open body. Twisting his shoulders, he provided her with plenty of view as he stroked up and down, that blunt head of his appearing and disappearing in and out of his fist.

  His breath grew louder and harsher as he showed her just how it happened for him.

  When the time came, his shout rang out in her ears and his head shot back, his chin punching forward as he bared his fangs and hissed. Then with rhythmic pulses, jets sprayed out of him, hitting her sex and her lower belly, making her arch sure as if the satisfaction had been her own.

  As he finally sagged, she extended her arms. “Come here.”

  There was no hesitation as he complied, bringing his chest to her own before he turned on his side to cushion her weight.

  “Are you warm enough,” he murmured. “Your hair is wet.”

  “I do not care.” She snuggled into his body. “I’m just… perfect.”

  A rumble of approval came up his throat. “That you are… Rosalhynda.”

  At the sound of her former name, she jerked back, but he held her tight. “I can’t keep calling you No’One. Not after… this.”

  “I don’t like that name.”

  “Then another.”

  Staring into his face, she had the distinct notion that he was not going to budge on this. And he was also not going to refer to her as she had so chosen long, long ago… when that word was what she had felt she was.

  Mayhap he was right, however. She suddenly didn’t feel like no one.

  “You need a name.”

  “I cannot choose,” she replied, aware of a stout pain in her heart.

  He looked up to the ceiling. Wound some of her hair around one of his fingers. Made a clicking sound with his tongue.

  “Autumn is my favorite season of the year,” he said after a time. “It’s not that I’m chicking out or anything… but I like the leaves when they turn red and orange. They’re beautiful in the moonlight, but more to the point, it’s an impossible transformation. The green of spring and summer is just a shadow of the trees’ true identity, and all that color as the nights grow cold is a miracle every stinking time it happens. It’s like they’re making up for the loss of the warmth with all their fire. I like… Autumn.” He stared into her eyes. “You’re like that. You’re beautiful and you burn brightly—and it’s time for you to come out. So I say… Autumn.”

  In the silence that followed, she was aware of a pricking at the corners of her eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he rushed in. “Shit—you don’t like it? I could pick another. Lihllith? How about Suhannah? What… Joe? Fred? Frickin’ Howard?”

  She put her hand upon his face. “I love it. It’s perfect. I shall henceforth be known by the name you have given me, and the season of the year when the leaves burn—Autumn.”

  Lifting herself up, she pressed her lips to his. “Thank you. Thank you…”

  As he nodded solemnly, she wrapped her arms around him, and held him tightly. To be named was to be claimed, and it made her feel… reborn.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  It was a long while before Tohr and Autumn reemerged from the warm, humid confines of their pool. Man, he was never going to go into that place again without thinking of it as “theirs.”

  Holding open the door into the corridor for her, he took a deep, easing breath. Autumn… the perfect name for a perfectly lovely female.

  Walking side by side, they made their way to the office together, his feet leaving wet prints, because the damp pants he’d squeezed himself back into were dripping at the hems. She, on the other hand, left no trail, as her robe was dry.

  Last time she was going to wear the damned thing.

  Shit, her hair looked good all loose around her shoulders. Maybe he could get her to lose the braid, too.

  When they stepped out into the tunnel, he put his arm around her, tucking her in against him. She fit well. She was smaller than… Well, Wellsie had been much taller. Autumn’s head was lower on his pecs, her shoulders not as wide, and her gait was uneven, whereas his mate’s had been smooth as silk.

  But she fit. Differently, yes, but the lock and key of their bodies was undeniable.

  Approaching the door that led up to the mansion, he dropped back and let her go up the stairs first. At the top, he reached past her, punched in the code, and opened the way into the foyer, holding the heavy panels wide for her.

  As she pased through, he asked, “Hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “Then you go upstairs and let me wait on you.”

  “Oh, I can get something in the kit—”

  “Nope. Don’t think so. I wait on you.” He took her around the base of the grand staircase. “You go up and get into bed. I’ll bring the food.”

  She hesitated at the bottom step. “That’s really not necessary.”

  He shook his head as he thought of all the exercise they’d gotten poolside. “It’s very necessary. And you’re going to humor me by losing that robe and getting in between the sheets naked.”

  Her smile started out shy… ended up spectacular.

  And then she pivoted and flashed him her backside.

  Watching her hips sway as she ascended got him hard. Again.

  Bracing one hand against the carved banister, he had to look down at the carpet and compose himself—

  A nasty curse brought his head around.

  Bad word, good timing…

  Striding across the mosaic of an apple tree in bloom, he leaned into the billiards room. Lassiter was on the couch, focused on the wide-screen over the fireplace.

  Even though Tohr was half-naked and half-wet, he strode over, getting in between the angel and the TV. “Listen, I—”

  “What the fuck!” Lassiter started motioning like his hands were on fire and h
e was trying to flap them free of flames. “Get outta the way!”

  “Did it work?” Tohr demanded.

  More cursing, and then the angel jacked to the side in an attempt to get at the screen. “Just give me a minute—”

  “Is she free?” he hissed. “Just tell me.”

  “Aha!” Lassiter pointed at the boob tube. “You motherfucker! I knew you were the father!”

  Tohr fought the urge to slap some sense into the son of a bitch. His Wellsie’s future was at stake, and this dumb-ass was worried about Maury’s paternity tests? “Are you kidding me.”

  “No, I’m damn serious. Bastard has three kids by three sisters—what kind of man is that?”

  Tohr smacked his own head in lieu of the angel’s. “Lassiter… come on, man—”

  “Look, I’m still here, aren’t I,” the guy muttered as he muted the screaming and hopping up and down on Maury’s stage. “As long as I’m still here, there’s work to be done.”

  Tohr let himself fall into a chair. Propping his head in his hand, he bit down on his molars. “I don’t fucking get it. Destiny wants blood, sweat, and tears—well, I’ve fed from her, we’ve—ah, sweated, for sure. Shit knows I’ve cried enough.”

  “The tears don’t count,” the angel said.

  “How is that possible?”

  “It just is, my man.”

  Great. Fantastic. “How much longer do I have to get my Wellsie free?”

  “Your dreams are the answer to that. In the meantime, I suggest you go feed your female. I gather by your wet pants that you just gave her a helluva workout.”

  The words, She’s not mine, rose up automatically into his throat, but he clamped down on them in the hopes that keeping them inside would help somehow.

  The angel just shook his head back and forth, as if he were well aware of both the sentiment that had remained unspoken… and the future that was as yet unknown.

  “Goddamn it,” Tohr muttered as he got to his feet and started for the kitchen. “Goddamn me.”

  Some thirty miles away, at the Band of Bastards’ farmhouse, the sound of wheezing drifted up into the stale air of the cellar, rhythmic, ragged, wretched.

  As Throe stared into the candlelight aimlessly, he didn’t feel good about where his leader was.

  Xcor had been in one hell of a hand-to-hand contest toward the end of the engagement at Assail’s house. He had refused to say with whom, but it must have been a Brother. And naturally, he had had no medical attention since then—not that they had much to offer in that regard.

  Cursing to himself, Throe crossed his arms over his chest and tried to remember the last time the male had fed. Dearest Virgin Scribe… had it been back in the spring with those three prostitutes? No wonder he wasn’t healing up… and he wouldn’t until he was better nourished—

  The wheezing shifted into a rough cough… then resumed at a slower, more painful rate.

  Xcor was going to die.

  That dire conclusion had been dawning with relentless vigor ever since that breathing pattern had changed hours ago. To survive, the male needed one of two things, preferably both: access to medical facilities, supplies, and personnel the likes of which the Brotherhood enjoyed; and the blood of a female vampire.

  There was no way of getting him the former, and the latter had proven to be a challenge over the last few months. The vampire population in Caldwell was slowly increasing, but since the raids, females had been at an even higher premium. He had yet to find one who was willing to service them, even though he was able to pay handsomely.

  Although… considering Xcor’s condition, mayhap even that might not be enough. What they needed was a miracle—

  Unbidden, an image of that spectacular Chosen he’d fed from at the Brotherhood’s facility came to mind. Her blood would be a lifesaver for Xcor right now. Literally. Except obviously it was not obtainable on so many levels. How would he be able to reach out to her, for one thing. And even if he could connect with her, she would undoubtedly know he was the enemy…

  Or would she? She’d called him a soldier of worth to his face—mayhap the Brotherhood had kept his identity from her to insulate her delicate sensibilities—

  No more sound. Nothing.

  “Xcor?” he called out as he sat up in a rush. “Xcor—”

  At that point, there was another round of coughing and then the labored breathing resumed.

  Dearest Virgin Scribe, he had no idea how the others slept through all this. Then again, they had been fighting for so long on nothing but human blood that sleep was their only chance for any kind of recharge. Throe’s adrenal gland had overridden that imperative as of two in the afternoon, however; whereupon he had begun his vigil over Xcor’s respiratory process.

  As he reached for his cell phone to check the time, he struggled to focus on the numbers that were displayed, his mind frantic.

  Ever since that incident between them in the summer, Xcor had been a different male. Still autocratic, demanding, and full of calculations that could shock and stun… but his stare was different when he looked upon his soldiers. He was more connected to all of them, his eyes opened to some new level of relating, the likes of which he hadn’t appeared to have been aware previously.

  Shame to lose the bastard now.

  Rubbing his eyes, Throe finally got a read on the hour: five thirty-eight. The sun was probably just below the horizon, the dusk no doubt lingering in the sky to the east. It would be better to wait for the darkness to truly arrive, but he had no more time to waste—especially given that he wasn’t sure what he was doing.

  Shifting off his bunk, he rose to his full height, walked across the way and shook the mound of blankets Zypher was under.

  “Go ’way,” the soldier mumbled. “Still have thirty minutes…”

  “You need to get the others out of here,” Throe whispered.

  “Do I.”

  “And you must stay behind.”

  “Must I.”

  “I’m going to try to find a female to feed Xcor.”

  That got the soldier’s attention: Zypher’s head lifted—down at the other end. “In truth?”

  Throe shuffled to the foot of the bunk so they could meet eye-to-eye. “Make sure he stays here, and be prepared to drive him to my coordinates.”

  “Throe, whatever are you about?”

  Without reply, he turned away and began pulling leather upon his personage, his hands shaking from Xcor’s treacherous state… and the fact that if his prayer was answered, he would be in the company of that female once again.

  Glancing down at his fighting clothes, he hesitated… dearest Virgin Scribe, he wished he had something with which to clothe himself other than leather. A lovely suit of worsted wool with a cravat. Proper shoes with laces. Underwear.

  “Wherever are you going?” Zypher asked sharply.

  “It matters not. What I find is the only important thing.”

  “Tell me you are taking weapons.”

  Throe paused anew. If for some reason this backfired, he might well need armaments. But he didn’t want to frighten her—assuming he could in fact reach her somehow and get her to come to him. Such a delicate female was she…

  Some concealed things, he decided. A gun or two. Some knives. Nothing that she could see.

  “Good,” Zypher murmured as he began checking his weapons.

  Mere minutes later, Throe ascended from the basement, and burst out the kitchen’s exterior door—

  Hissing and throwing up his forearms, he was forced to jump back into the dark house. With his eyes stinging and tearing up, he cursed and went for the sink, running cold water and splashing it upon his face.

  It seemed forever until his phone’s display informed him that an exit was safer to attempt, and this time he opened the door with far less bravado.

  Oh, the relief of the night.

  Leaping out from his confines, he landed upon the good earth and filled his lungs with the cold, damp air of autumn. Closing his still
throbbing eyes, he focused himself inward, and spirited himself away from the house, casting his component molecules north and east until he reformed in a field of meadow grass marked in the center with a large, flame-tipped maple tree.

  Standing before the great trunk, underneath the red-and-gold leaf cover, he surveyed the landscape with his razor-sharp senses. This bucolic spot was far, far away from the battleground of downtown, and not even close to any compound of the Brothers or outpost of the Lessening Society—at least that he was aware of.

  To be sure of his read on the site, though, he waited, as motionless as the big tree behind him, but not nearly as serene—he was prepared to engage with anything and anyone.

  Nobody and nothing came upon him, however.

  Some thirty minutes later, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged upon the ground, linking his hands together, and settling in.

  He was well aware of the peril of this path he was embarking upon. But in some battles, you had to make your own weapons, even if you ran the risk of them blowing up in your face: There was grave danger in this, but if there was one thing you could count on with the Brotherhood, it was an old-fashioned protection of their females.

  He’d had the jaw shots to prove it.

  So he was banking upon the fact that, if he did reach the Chosen, she wouldn’t know his true identity.

  He was also forcing himself to push aside any guilt at the position he was putting her in.

  Before he closed his eyes, he looked around again. There were deer at the far edge of the meadow by the forest of trees, their delicate hooves brushing through fallen leaves, their heads bobbing as they meandered along. An owl sounded off to the right, the hooting carried upon the light, cold breeze to his perked ears. Far in front of him, on a road that he could not see, a pair of headlights drifted along, likely a farm truck.

  No lessers.

  No Brothers.

  No one but him.

  Lowering his lids, he pictured the Chosen and recaptured those moments when her blood was going into him, reviving him, calling him back from the brink his life had trembled upon. He saw her with great clarity and focused on the taste and the scent of her, the very essence of who she was.