The Chosen

by J. R. Ward

  Commercial. Commercial--

  Oh, this was good. While You Were Sleeping.

  Where was Xcor, though?

  Finally, after what seemed like a hundred years, she heard him coming down the stairs. "I turned the security system on," he said.

  She muted the volume on Sandra Bullock trying to pull a Christmas tree into her apartment through an open window and then attempted to arrange her and her robing in a suitably come-hither fashion on the sofa. The robe was frustrating. When the doggen had refreshed the house, they had delivered several of the Chosen uniforms for her, not knowing she didn't wear them anymore. Too bad it hadn't been lingerie. With the loose folds swallowing the contours of her body, she was hardly beauty queen material.

  Although her male did seem to prefer her naked.

  When he wasn't stuffing her with food, that was--

  "Oh," she said as she took a gander at the tray he'd brought with him.

  Xcor might as well have lugged the kitchen table down to the cellar. He'd toasted the rest of the loaf, scrambled more eggs, and made a teapot full of hot stuff. He'd also included the cream, even though she hadn't used it, and the honey pot, which she had.

  "Well, that's...just lovely," she said as he set it all down on the low coffee table.

  Sitting himself next to her, he took a piece of toast off the stack and began the buttering process.

  "I can do that," she muttered.

  "I should like to serve you."

  Then drop your pants, she thought as she eyed the huge thighs that strained the seams of the black nylon sweats he was wearing. And then there was the way the bottom of the sleeve of his T-shirt struggled to hold the thick circumference of his bicep. And the shadow of beard growth that darkened his jaw.

  Sinking her nails into her knees, she looked at his mouth. "Xcor."

  "Hmm?" he asked as he moved a mathematically precise layer of butter over the toast with a knife.

  "Enough with the food."

  "I'm almost finished here."

  And I'm totally finished over here, she thought.

  Sitting forward, Layla tried to distract herself with pouring some tea, but it was a lost cause. She did, however, note the way the lapels of her robing loosened.

  Take it, run with it.

  Bringing her hands to the tie at her waist, she released the knot and pulled the two halves apart, exposing the translucent sheath that was the traditional undergarment of the Chosen. Okay, that had to go, too--and what do you know, as she slipped the tiny seed-pearl buttons free of their eyelets, they followed the prompting with an ease that suggested they were determined to be of aid in her endeavor.

  Taking her cue from them, she then slipped herself out of all that covered her and lay back into the nest of the robing.

  Yet him still with the frickin' toast.

  As he sat back a little and contemplated the buttering job he'd done, she had a thought that although the bonded-male-feeding-his-female thing clearly had its evolutionary advantages, this was ridiculous.

  What was he going to do next? Get a ruler to check the verticality?

  "You know what would be good on toast?" he said as he went in again with the knife tip.

  Yup, 'cuz there was a millimeter on that left upper edge that was underserved.

  "What?"

  "Honey," he murmured. "I think it would be rather good indeed."

  Layla looked at the honey pot.

  "I believe you're right." Reaching forward, she picked the thing up and arched her back. "Honey is good on a lot of things."

  Swirling the dipper, she took the thing out and held it over her breast, and as the honey spooled and fell, her nipple caught the sweetness. The tickle made her bite her lip, and then more of the amber glow dripped onto her skin, a river of it easing down to her abdomen.

  "Xcor...?"

  "Yes--"

  When he glanced over at her, he did a double take--and dropped the toast on the tray. Which was a relief because, really, if she couldn't win a competition with carbohydrates for his attention she was seriously in trouble.

  His navy blue eyes were instantly hot and very, very locked on the way the honey slowly, tantalizingly hit her breast drop by drop and meandered down, down...down.

  "I wonder," she said in a husky voice, "whether honey is sweeter than me?"

  With that, she cocked one knee up and flashed her core at him.

  Her male shoved that tray away so fast it was like the plate on it had said something bad about his fighters.

  The pumping growl coming out of him was more like it, and so was the sight of the tips of his fangs descending in a rush. And then he was rearing up over her, great arms bowing out above her body, his tremendous strength barely in check as his tongue extended just under her nipple...to catch a drop.

  With a moan, his warm, slick lips captured and sucked, licked and kissed. Layla's head fell back, but she turned it to the side so she could watch her enormous male. The sensations were so erotic she could feel an orgasm coming on, but she didn't want this over with. Having been impatient to be with him, she now wanted to savor every second they were together.

  "Xcor...look at me."

  As his eyes flipped to hers, she held the wand over her mouth and let the last of the honey land on her tongue. And then she did some swirling of her own before sucking the bud in and pulling it out...sucking it in and pulling it out...

  "You'll be the death of me yet, female," Xcor cursed.

  With a deft move, he took the dipper from her and returned it to the pot, just as her body became what she had poured on herself, her bones melting away, her muscles going lax. As her legs fell even further open, he took her mouth hard, their lips clinging from the stickiness, his arousal pressing into her core through his pants.

  That didn't last.

  With rough hands, he freed his sex and then he was inside of her, pumping while he kissed her, their bodies finding a rhythm that was so rough the sofa itself rocked and banged against the wall.

  Harder, faster, deeper, until they couldn't keep their mouths together anymore. Reaching up, she held onto his surging shoulders, the muscles under his smooth skin like an ocean that was storming--

  Pleasure broke like a lightning strike, but also made her whole--and then he found his own release, pouring himself into her.

  And Xcor didn't stop.

  Or slow down.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Blay's heart tap danced as that porch door opened behind him and the scent of his one-and-only preceded the guy coming over to the railing.

  One good thing about smoking was that it gave you something to do with your hands. One bad thing about smoking was that when you decided to tap your ash as busywork, if you had a tremor going on, it showed.

  "Hi."

  Blay coughed a little. "Hey."

  "I'm glad you're here." Pause. "I didn't think you were going to be."

  For a moment, Blay just wanted to yell, Neither did I, motherfucker! But that seemed like an omission best kept to himself if he wanted to look strong, be strong...stay strong.

  God, why did Qhuinn have to smell good?

  "I brought Rhamp," Qhuinn murmured.

  "That was your plan." Except he frowned. "Where's Lyric--"

  "Oh, she's here, too. Yeah."

  As a soft breeze came in from the south, Blay thought of a ballet dancer spinning with controlled turns over the blue-tinted snowy landscape. There were no more leaves to pirouette with her, everything covered with that white blanket, but on the edges of the property, evergreen boughs that were bent under the weight of what had landed on them got some relief as snow swirls jetted off of their burden.

  In his peripheral vision, through the windows behind Qhuinn, he could see his parents moving around in the yellow, homey light of the kitchen. His mahmen had insisted on cooking for six hours straight, her excitement and happiness reinvigorating her after a trying night and day. So great was her joy, it was hard to remember that they'd had to put her
under and reset that bone. That there were stitches under her cast. That she was going to have to go back in the night after tomorrow to have Dr. Manello check everything.

  At least Fritz had been able to take them back here in the blackout van, even though it had been daylight by the time Lyric had been released from the clinic. His parents had really wanted to get home after the ordeal, and Blay sure as hell hadn't been into arguing with that--

  "I have something for you," Qhuinn said.

  As the male reached into his coat, Blay shook his head and stabbed out his half-smoked cigarette. "Let's go inside? I'm cold."

  He didn't wait for any acknowledgment, and wasn't interested in whatever it was.

  Stepping back into the house, he was hit with a warm wall of scents that reminded him of family, and made him want to vomit. Especially as Qhuinn followed him into the kitchen, the male's presence undiminished even though he wasn't in Blay's line of sight.

  Maybe even magnified.

  "How can I help?" Blay asked as he smiled at his mom.

  The elder Lyric was sitting on a stool in front of the gas stove, frying up bacon and eggs and French toast.

  "You can say hello to your kids," she tossed over her shoulder. "And set the table."

  Swallowing a burst of pain in his chest, like someone had kicked him in the sternum, Blay put his Dunhills by the house phone, went to wash his hands--and tried to prepare himself for seeing the young.

  Nope, he thought as he dried off what he had scrubbed. He couldn't look in those carriers yet. He needed to get ahold of himself somehow first or he was liable to break down.

  Busywork at the drawer where the silverware was kept. Busywork gathering red-and-white napkins. Busywork getting out four plates.

  At the island that ran down the entire middle of the kitchen, Qhuinn and his father were talking about the war, about human politics, about the NCAA football playoffs and the start of NCAA conference play in basketball.

  Qhuinn's eyes were on Blay the whole time.

  And the male was smart. He knew if he said one thing about Blay going over to the young, who had fallen asleep in their carriers on the table, it was going to backfire.

  Damn it, Blay thought finally. He couldn't keep avoiding the kids.

  Bracing himself, he made a pile of napkins and forks and knives and other stuff and walked over.

  He tried not to look. Failed.

  And the instant his eyes drifted over the young, he was stripped of his self-protection: All those lectures about how he needed to remain a disinterested third party to them so he didn't get hurt ever again went out the window.

  As if sensing his presence, the pair woke up, looked at him, and instantly did that pinwheeling thing with their arms and legs, their cherubic little faces becoming animated, soft clicking noises coming out of their mouths. They clearly recognized him.

  Maybe even had missed him.

  Slowly lowering whatever the hell he was carrying--it could have stuff to eat with and on, or maybe a toaster oven, a snow shovel, or a television--he leaned down.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His throat had closed up.

  So he was going to have to rely on touch to communicate. Which was fine. They couldn't talk, either.

  He went to Lyric first, stroking her cheek, tickling her soft neck. And he could have sworn she giggled.

  "How's my girl?" he whispered in a broken rush.

  But then he realized the pronoun he'd used--and squeezed his eyes shut. Not my children, he corrected himself. These are not my kids.

  Yeah, sure, Qhuinn was back on the family train. Except how long was it going to last? When was he going to get triggered by the Layla thing again and go off the rails? The smart thing to do was take the hit once, heal the wound up tight so the pain never had to happen again--and never look back.

  On that note, he focused on Rhamp. Such a chunk, such a little tough guy. Blay strongly believed that the traditional sex-role thing was bullshit, and that if Lyric wanted to be an ass-kicker like Payne or Xhex, he was on board with that. And likewise, if Rhamp decided to be a doctor or lawyer and stay off the field, that was fine, too. But man, they were so obviously different--although it was critical that that not define them. He believed it was vitally important that kids be free to--

  Shit. He was doing it again. Forgetting where the boundaries were.

  The sound of forks and knives knocking into each other brought his head up. Qhuinn had taken over the plate-setting thing, making nice with the napkins and the silverware, his head bowed, his face somber.

  Blay cleared his throat. "I can do that."

  "It's okay. I got it."

  At that moment, Rhamp let out a stink bomb that was enough to make a grown male's eyes water.

  "Oh...wow."

  "Yeah," Qhuinn said. "You should have smelled him right before I came over here. It's why I was late. Would you do me a favor and check him? Maybe we've lucked out and it's just gas."

  Blay locked his molars. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the guy to do it himself, but that seemed churlish. Besides, in his heart, he wanted to hold the young, and his parents were over there, watching while trying not to watch.

  As everything seemed to freeze in place, he abruptly felt as though his whole life and his concept of family boiled down to this moment--and it was weird how life came at you like that. You went along, building ties or breaking them, moving forward or backward in relationships, riding out the sea of your emotions and the emotions of others--but for the most part, it was a trees-for-the-forest kind of thing, a piecemeal one-step/two-step dance of choices and decisions more trail than marker, more random direction than compass.

  Except then, suddenly, the camera aperture opened so fast you got existential whiplash, and you were forced to look at everything and go, okay, wow, so I'm here.

  All over a kid that had taken a crap in his pants and who was going to deal with it.

  Qhuinn came around and set a place right in front of Blay. In a voice that didn't carry, the male said, "I miss you. They miss you."

  "I'm an uncle," Blay heard himself say. "Okay? Just an uncle."

  With hands that shook, he released the straps and scooped up Rhamp. Holding that baby butt high, he put his nose right in there and breathed in deep.

  "We're clear, Houston," he said roughly. "Repeat, that was a gaseous cloud. There has been no breach of the force field."

  Transferring Qhuinn's son into the crook of his arm, Blay took a seat and played the fingertips-in-front-of-the-eyeballs game.

  "Who's hungry?" his mother said cheerfully. Like she'd decided all would be well just because he was holding a kid.

  "Look at those reflexes," his dad remarked as Rhamp's hands moved from side to side and grabbed with astonishing accuracy. "Qhuinn, that is your kid, isn't he."

  "Yes," Blay chimed in. "He really is."

  --

  Layla lost count of how many times they made love. Twice on the sofa. Then in the shower. Three more times in the bed?

  As she lay side by side with her male, stroking his heavy shoulder, feeling him breathe into her neck, she smiled in the darkness. Insatiability was an asset when it came to having a lover in your life.

  And Xcor was a very, very hungry male.

  The insides of her thighs ached. Her core had a hum in it from all the friction. And his scent was all over her, inside and out.

  She wouldn't have changed a thing.

  Well, maybe one thing--

  "What ails you?" he asked as his head popped up.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "What is wrong?"

  She shouldn't have been surprised that he could read her mood even half asleep and in total blackness. He was amazingly in tune with her, and not just sexually.

  "Layla," he prompted.

  "I just don't want you to go," she whispered. "I can't bear the idea of not..."

  As she let her voice drift, his head lowered back into position and he kissed the si
de of her throat. When he didn't say anything, she wasn't surprised. What words were there? She had her young, and as much as she loved Xcor, she was not going to take them to the Old Country. They needed their father.

  And Qhuinn would never allow that, either.

  "Do not think of it, my female."

  He was so right. She had the rest of her life to miss him. Why start now when he was still with her?

  "I know so little about you," she murmured. "How you grew up. Where you have traveled. How you came to be here."

  "There is naught to tell."

  "Or is it that you don't want me to know."

  His silence answered that question. But it wasn't as if she couldn't extrapolate from what she had read of him up in the Sanctuary. Indeed, her sadness at the cruelty shown to him was an ache that went right through to her soul--especially as she thought of Rhamp. The idea that a parent could decide to turn away an innocent young simply because they had a defect not of their own doing?

  It didn't bear thinking about, and yet she couldn't stop.

  "We don't have much time left," she said softly--even though she had just promised herself not to dwell on the parting. "As soon as you find your males, you will bring them unto Wrath and they will swear their oaths...and then you will go. I need to live a lifetime in these nights we have."

  "You will go on."

  "And so will you," she countered. "Just not together. So please let me in. While we have this time...spare nothing of both the goodness and the evil so that I know the whole of you."

  "If you don't want to waste time, let us not talk."

  Except as he tried to kiss her, she held him back. "I am not afraid of your past."

  His voice dropped. "You should be."

  "You have never been hurtful to me."

  "That is not true and you know it."

  As she remembered how he had sent her away, he sat up, turned the light on, and swung his feet out from between the sheets. He didn't leave, though.

  She wanted to touch him, smooth her hand down his spine, ease him as he put his head in his hands. She knew better, however.

  "I can feel your regrets," she whispered.

  Xcor was quiet for a long time, and then he said, "One can be influenced in directions that..." Abruptly, he shook his head. "No, I did what I did. No one forced me into any of it. I followed an evil male and behaved in evil ways, and I hold myself the now accountable for it all."

  "Tell me," she prompted.

  "No."