The Chosen

by J. R. Ward

  In the Brotherhood's safe house, Xcor was in the shower, his face turned to the rush of water, his body regaining further strength by the minute. As soon as night had fallen, he had left Layla asleep in the bed they had shared and gone up to the kitchen, where he had located all manner of calories and set about consuming them. It mattered not to him that the combinations were unappetizing: He had orange juice with mint chocolate chip ice cream, chili out of a can without bothering to warm it, a loaf of bread with a stick of butter, both whole, all of the cold cuts and sliced cheese, and both of the pizzas from the freezer.

  Which he had had to cook in the oven because he couldn't bite into them when they were frozen.

  He was going to need to replenish the supplies, although he knew not how. He had never handled his group's money and thus had no access to any bank accounts or financial resources. And he was not a thief any longer.

  Throe had always controlled their funds. He had been among them the best face to put forward when contact with the human world was required--

  Xcor sensed Layla's presence the moment she appeared in the open doorway of the bath, and as he shifted to look at her, he nearly fell to his knees. She was gloriously naked, her high, pink-tipped breasts and her lovely hips, her long legs and perfectly made sex, bared for him, and him alone, to see.

  His cock hardened instantly.

  But he shielded it from her. Even though they had made love throughout the day, he folded the length up onto his belly and held it there with both hands.

  She padded silently over the marble floor, opening the glass door and joining him.

  Her eyes flicked down to where his palms were. "Why do you not show me yourself?"

  Indeed, he had kept his clothes on all night, pulling the sweats down when he entered her, returning them unto his hips when he cradled her against him afterward.

  "Xcor?" she whispered as the steam billowed around her and her skin sparkled from drops of moisture. "Why do you not want me to see you?"

  Shaking his head, he preferred not to speak. It was just too difficult to put into words how hard it was to have her sight upon his flesh. She had never seemed bothered by his defect, never appeared to notice it or judge him the lesser because of it--still, clothes were a mask that he preferred to wear in her presence. It had been different when he'd wanted to repel her from him, when he had sought to challenge her with his ugliness in hopes that she would turn away and stop the torture for them both. But now...

  He had been rejected all his life. None of that would matter in the slightest, however, if she turned away from him--

  Layla sank down on her knees with the grace of moonlight falling from the heavens. And his first instinct was to help her back up, as he didn't like the idea of her on the hard tile. Yet when he went to bend unto her, she stopped him.

  Leaned in toward his palms.

  Extended her tongue...

  ...and slowly licked up the middle finger of his right hand.

  Her tongue was slick, slick as the water, and soft, soft as velvet. And he collapsed back against the shower's wall.

  Layla's eyes stared up his body as she repeated the movement--and then sucked his finger into her mouth. Swirling tongue, hotter now, just like the inside of her...

  "Layla," he begged.

  One by one, she sucked at his fingers, loosening his hold on his erection, making him so weak that his hands fell away from his sex not because he willed them as such, but because he lacked the strength in his arms to do aught else.

  Freed from constraint, his cock jutted straight out from his hips, the water from the shower making the proud length glisten. Fates, he wanted her to do what she was about to, craved the feel of her lips on his head, his shaft, wanted the suction and the--

  "Fuck," he groaned as her mouth captured him.

  She didn't take all of what he had to offer. She concentrated on his tip, teasing him, backing off, then taking him in a little again--and just as he thought he was going to lose his ever-loving mind, she extended her tongue and ran it around his head, slowly, oh, so slowly. And the entire time, her green eyes looked up at him, and the water fell on her, too, dripping off her nipples, falling down her stomach, disappearing between her split thighs.

  Xcor had to grab onto whatever he could find to stay on his feet, his palms squeaking down the glass, but finding a home of sorts on the marble wall.

  "Oh, God, Layla..." He had to close his lids. "Too much..."

  She didn't stop, though. She finally sucked him in whole, taking all of him even though he had to be down her throat.

  He had to look. And the second he saw her lips stretched wide around his girth, he started to come.

  "I'm...oh, fuck..."

  Even though he tried to push her back, just in case she didn't know what was happening, she wouldn't let him. She found a rhythm with the sucking and accepted his orgasm into her mouth, her hands going between his legs and cupping his balls.

  Xcor ended up on his ass. Literally.

  His thigh muscles gave out, and it was all he could do not to fall in a heap and crush her as he went down. And still she pleasured him as she repositioned with him, making him find another release right after the first, his legs cranked wide to accommodate her, his hands going to her wet hair, his head and neck getting squeezed in the corner of the shower.

  When she was finally finished, she lifted herself up and licked her lips. Meanwhile, all he could do was just catch his breath and stare at her, his skull lolling on his spine, his arms flopped loose, the shower spraying him with warm rain like he was a rock in the forest.

  "I want to do the same to you," he said in a guttural voice.

  She sat back on her heels and smiled at him. "Do you?"

  He nodded his head. Like a dumb-ass.

  "You look a little tired, warrior," she murmured. "Have I worn you out?"

  Xcor was about to deny it when she eased back, fitting her shoulders into the far corner, mirroring his pose. As her lids dropped low, she brought her knees up...and then spread them, giving him a stunning sight.

  "What would you do to me?" she drawled. "Would you kiss me here?"

  She drew her elegant hand down the side of her throat. And as he nodded like a planker, she smiled. "Here...?"

  Now her fingertips were at her collarbone, and he nodded again.

  "How about...right here?"

  As she brushed one of her nipples, he ground his molars so hard his jaw let out a crack.

  "Right here, warrior? You would kiss me here?"

  She teased her own nipple, pinching it so that she hissed and then rubbing it as if she were soothing the sensation. And then her other hand drifted over her stomach.

  "How about...here?" she whispered as she stroked down to the very top of her cleft.

  A pumping growl left him, and Xcor said in a low burst, "Yes. Right there."

  "What would you do with your mouth?" One fingertip traced the outside of her sex. "Or...no, you would use your tongue, wouldn't you, warrior. Your tongue..."

  She gasped as she touched herself, her eyes sticking with his as she had to tilt her head to the side, the sensations clearly beginning to get the best of her.

  "You would put your tongue here--"

  Xcor lunged at her, moving so fast he wasn't aware of making the decision to get on her. And he was rough, shoving her hand out of the way and sealing his mouth on her sex, taking what he wanted, what she had teased him with.

  Now she was the one throwing hands out, looking to keep herself in some semblance of physical order. But he was having none of that. He yanked her down flat on the tile, slapped his palms on the inside of her thighs, and butterflied her open, going in deep with his tongue, consuming her.

  She came hard against his face, her hands spearing into his damp hair, pulling at it until it hurt. Not that he gave a shit. All he cared about was getting into her, making her say his name, marking her with his lips and tongue.

  That wasn't enough.

 
; Even as a release claimed her and she jacked up off the tile, her shoulders jutting back, her breasts surging up, the water on her skin making her flesh gleam in the low light, he wasn't getting enough.

  Xcor mounted her and pushed his cock in deep, his fingers biting into her hip bones and holding her as he started to pound. Now her breasts were kicking this way and that, and her lower teeth clapped into her upper ones, and her arms flapped. But her eyes were like fire as the animal in him subjugated the animal in her.

  He pulled out at the last minute, rising above her, his shoulders blocking the spray of the shower. Grabbing his erection, he was even more brutal with himself than he had been with her, yanking at his sex, making himself come.

  So that he covered her.

  It was the marking of a bonded male, a practice done so that any other male in her presence would be fully warned that if he approached her, he had best beware.

  She was another's.

  Not as property. But as something far too precious for others to toy with.

  --

  By the time Xcor was finishing with her, the spray falling from the shower had started to lose its heat--not that Layla cared. She had her warrior between her legs, and he was doing what a male did when he claimed a female, an ancient instinct bred into the species to ensure its survival. It was raw and it was beautiful, it was primordial and yet very much welcome in the modern world.

  At least her modern world.

  When he finally collapsed on top of her, she wrapped her arms around slick shoulders and closed her eyes with a smile.

  "I weigh too much," he mumbled into her neck.

  Before she could stop him and tell him that she didn't care that her tailbone was aching or that she suspected she had a couple of black-and-blues in her future, he was picking her up and getting to his feet, holding her in his arms as if she were cut glass.

  Outside of the shower, he took a fluffy white towel and wrapped her up in it. Then he took a second one and patted her face dry before moving behind her. With gentle squeezes, he drew the terry cloth down the long length of her hair, rolling up the ends, getting most of the water out.

  The whole time, she watched him in the mirror, memorizing the details of his expression, his body, his still-wet hair, and his coiled power. His face was especially dear to her: The fierce planes and angles had softened--and she had a sense that he wouldn't have liked her seeing the vulnerability in him.

  "Will you be safe tonight?" he said in a low voice. "As you go to that house? And then to the Sanctuary?"

  "Yes. I promise you. They will not hurt me."

  "And no one else is welcome up there, correct? No one can get at you?"

  "No, others outside of the Chosen have to be granted access. I'm not sure how it works, but it has always been thus. Only my sisters and the Primale are permitted to come and go as we please."

  "Good. This is good."

  "Where are you going to go?"

  As she waited for his reply, her heart beat faster because she hated the idea of him out there in Caldwell, alone--and also because she dreaded the passage of the night. The sooner he found his males, the sooner he would be gone from her.

  When Xcor didn't answer, the silence between them was a palpable weight.

  "So I'm staying up there during the day, too." She said this even though she'd already told him what the plan was. "But upon the nightfall I shall return to this house."

  "And I will be here to greet you."

  As she exhaled in relief, Xcor put the towel aside and picked up a brush. Starting with the very tips, he continued to tend to her hair, carefully removing the knots.

  "I'm going to miss you," she whispered to his bent head.

  It seemed utterly incongruous that a male as hardened by war as he could wait upon her like this, that brush so small in his hands, his shoulders so big behind her, his harsh face wearing that impossibly kind expression.

  " 'Tis only a day and night." He moved to the crown of her head, seemingly enthralled with the way the black bristles went through her golden hair. "We shall be back together before we know it."

  Layla nodded only because she sensed her emotional equilibrium was of vital importance to him--and she wanted to pretend she was all right for his benefit. But their twenty-four-hour separation was not what was on her mind. The one that was going to last for the rest of their lives was.

  Closing her eyes, she tried not to think about it. Her heart had just been eased. There was no reason to rush a return of sadness.

  "I love you," she said.

  Xcor stopped, his eyes flipping to hers in the glass. "What?"

  She turned around and looked up at him. Dearest Virgin Scribe, she was never going to get tired of that face of his, his scent, his body.

  Rising on to her tiptoes, she put her arms around his neck, and as her breasts came up against his chest, she felt a now-familiar heat curl in between her thighs.

  "I love you," she repeated.

  His lids closed and he seemed to sway.

  But then he unclasped her hands and lowered her arms. "Shh..." He kissed her once, and then again. "I have to go, and so do you."

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Tohr told himself, as he stood in Wrath's French study and listened to a big bucket of piss about Xcor, that he was going to keep tight. He was just going to slap all kinds of no-problem-boss on his face, and nod at the right times, and maybe shrug once or twice.

  As if Wrath letting a known criminal walk free just because the motherfucker had kissed a ring that meant nothing to him was no BFD. Happened on the reg. NP.

  Oh, and of course, yeah, sure, bringing the Band of Bastards in to do the same was a perfectly sane idea. Yeah, one by one, that'll really cut down on the risk.

  'Cuz it wasn't like Xcor and his boys would think about coordinating an attack.

  Nah. Why would they do that?

  "--everybody, and I mean, everybody"--Wrath turned his head in Tohr's direction again and then swung those sunglasses of his around to Qhuinn--"to be on board with this. After the oaths, they're leaving for the Old Country and we are done with them."

  Actually, Tohr thought, maybe he should just eat the business end of a shotgun now. More efficient than waiting for his brain to explode in this solution that had STOOPID IDEA stamped all over it.

  As Wrath fell silent, there was a whole lot of quiet in the room--which indicated there were a number of people sitting hard on their opinions--and Tohr glanced over at Qhuinn. The brother's eyes were lowered to the floor like he was inspecting the structural integrity of the laces on his shitkickers.

  Tohr looked back in Wrath's direction. The King was dead fucking serious with this dumb-ass plan of his, his jaw set, his affect all kinds of don't-mess.

  And yeah, even though the rest of the brothers didn't like it, they would go along with shit, not because they were weak, but because they knew that Wrath wasn't going to budge--and they took very seriously their roles as private guard.

  So they were going to do their damnedest to keep the male alive.

  Even as he went to some safe house and expected the Band of Bastards to get on one knee like a bunch of human future bridegrooms.

  The trouble was, oaths given by males with no honor were nothing but a waste of syllables.

  "Good," Wrath muttered. "I'm glad you're all behind me on this."

  A couple of brothers coughed, and there was some feet-shuffling. Vishous lit up again, and Butch took out that huge Jesus piece he wore, rubbing the symbol of his faith back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. Like he was praying in his head.

  Smart guy.

  And then, like everything was copacetic, Wrath moved on to regular business, chatting up shit like the rotation schedule, when the next order of guns was going to be placed, and what was doing with the training program.

  "Now about this storm." Wrath shook his head. "It's ripe nasty out there. I'm calling off tonight. It's a fucking snow day, assholes."

  There was
a murmur of agreement. And then it was dismissal time.

  Tohr wanted to be the first free of the room, his anger choking the shit out of him, but he held back, filing into the center of the pack, lingering in the way he usually did. He didn't talk because he didn't trust himself to crack his pie hole, though he did try to make it seem like he gave a shit about whatever the others were planning.

  Pool tourney. Poker. Drinks. MYO sundae bar.

  That last one was Rhage.

  Tohr waited...until finally what he was looking for presented itself.

  Qhuinn came out of the study last and he was looking like he was a pro wrestler in search of a ring. As he stepped by, Tohr placed himself in the guy's path so their shoulders bumped.

  When Qhuinn glanced over, Tohr stared hard into those mismatched eyes. And then in a soft voice, he said, "Garage. Ten minutes."

  Qhuinn seemed surprised, his brows flaring. But he recovered fast.

  The brother's nod was nearly imperceptible.

  After which they went their separate ways.

  --

  Down the hall from all the happy-happy, joy-joy in the study, Trez woke up in his room and knew better than to move quick or get excited over the fact that his stomach seemed to finally be a calm sea. The true test was going to come when he tried to sit up, and after having spent a good twelve hours flat on his ass feeling like a semi's road kill, he was not in a big hurry to tempt fate and be about the vertical.

  But he couldn't stay like this forever.

  As he slowly lifted his upper body off the mattress, he tried not to hyper-focus on every little nook and cranny of his body and his head. Reading tea leaves into how this was going to go was--

  "What the fuck!"

  Trez recoiled so fast and so hard he slammed his skull into the headboard and promptly got a flashback to what the day had been like.

  There was someone sitting in his room, over on that chair--

  "Are you kidding me?" He exhaled a curse and rubbed the back of his brain. "Really? Are you fucking kidding me?"

  Across the way, like some fucked-up scarecrow, a pair of blue jeans, that Nirvana concert T-shirt of the angel's, the flannel bullshit, and a set of Nikes had been stuffed with God only knew what. The head of the "Lassiter" was made out of a nylon bag that had had potatoes in it, and the black and yellow hair was a collection of knee-high business socks--probably Butch's--and Swiffer cleaning rags that had been safety pinned in place.