by J. R. Ward
"Tomorrow night, then," she heard herself say.
But she already knew the delay was going to change naught--even though she understood on some level that he was right. There was a careening quality to all this, as if she had ricocheted from Selena's suffering to some kind of wild expression of an inner problem of her own.
"Tomorrow," he affirmed. "And now you need to go."
Walking over to the door, she glanced back at him. He was drawn in sharp lines, his shoulders tight and high, his forearms straining, his thighs twitching as if he were going to leap forward at any moment.
"Xcor--"
"Go," he barked. "Get out of here. Get the hell out of here."
Fumbling with the latch, she got the door open and burst out into the chilly night. In comparison to the cottage's warmth, the air was harsh and icy in her nose, and her coat offered little insulation. She paid no attention to the discomfort--
Xcor shut the door behind her, and as it slammed into place with a clap, she heard the click! of a locking mechanism.
She needed to go.
She had to go.
Instead, she stayed where she was, breath leaving her open mouth in puffs that rose up until they were consumed by the cold. Looking around, there were no indications that anybody else was on the property, no sounds of people walking or talking, no lights filtering through the trees.
She could not leave.
Stepping carefully so as to avoid hitting fallen sticks that might snap and give her presence away, she went to the bay window. A gap in the fall of the curtains on one side allowed her to see inside to the fireplace and the cozy room.
Where was he?
Abruptly, Xcor came into view, pacing like a caged animal, back and forth, back and forth. His face was twisted into a snarl, his fangs elongated, muscles straining up the thick column of his neck. Finally, he pivoted around to the hearth and punched out at the chimney, pitching his fist into the pattern of mortared stones.
She winced, but he didn't seem to notice any pain.
Splaying his palms out, he braced his weight against the mantle, his body bowing as he faced away from her toward the fire. Blood ran down the back of his hand and wrist from the wounds on his knuckles, twin dark streams uniting and seeping under the cuff of his black shirt.
A moment later, his bleeding hand dropped down. At first, she thought he was shaking off the hurt. But then his pants moved, tugging left, tugging right.
His shoulders bunched up tight and his spine jerked.
He had gripped himself.
Layla bit down on her lower lip and leaned in closer, until her nose hit the cold glass. Spotlit against the fire's orange glow, Xcor's body cut a black silhouette as he widened his stance and let his head fall forward.
His elbow moved back and forth.
He was stroking himself.
Closing her eyes briefly, she sagged against the bay window. When she opened her lids again, he was working it faster. And faster.
Xcor turned his head to the side and bared his fangs. Sinking his sharp canines into his bulging shoulder muscle, he bit down through his shirt, his face wincing as if in erotic agony.
And then his hips punched forward toward the flames, over and over again as he climaxed.
Backing off, she--
--tripped over a root and fell into nothing but air. Between her big belly and her vital distraction, she tried to twist around and catch herself, throwing out her own hand to prevent herself from hitting the ground hard. Terrified for the safety of her young, she landed in a sprawl, her hip taking the brunt of the impact, her arm getting pinned.
The agony was instant and overwhelming, a sudden surge of nausea making her heave.
Groaning, she stayed perfectly still. "Okay, okay . . . you're okay. . . ."
She really had to get out of here now.
Struggling to her feet, she weaved her way over to the car while holding her arm against her body. When it came time to open the driver's side door, she had to brace the injury on the back window so she had a free hand, and she needed to catch her breath after she was behind the wheel.
Getting the Mercedes started and then turned around nearly made her faint, but she eventually made her way down the lane and out, out, out to the main road.
It was then that she realized that without Xcor's direction, she had no idea how to get home.
Tears of frustration pooled in her eyes and she envied Xcor's ability to punch something. If she could have, she would've.
But she'd already broken her arm.
Busted knuckles she did not need.
TWENTY
IAm followed s'Ex's instructions to the letter, waiting a good hour and a half before dematerializing from the condo at the Commodore to the outskirts of the Territory of the s'Hisbe. When he resumed form in the forest, he tracked in about three hundred yards to the river that made a curl around a granite rock formation in the shape of that human president Lincoln's head.
He found the garb where the executioner had told him to expect it, tucked under the cleft chin of the makeshift face. As he shed his clothes and donned the traditional farshi dress of an unmated servant male from the lower classes, he was surprised to find he felt utterly vulnerable under the loose gray garment.
Of course he kept his dagger and his gun on his body: Relying on s'Ex was a had-to in this situation, but he didn't trust the motherfucker farther than he could throw the guy.
The Territory was north of Caldwell, on the transitional lands between the peaks of the Adirondack Park and the flat area around Plattsburg. Masquerading as an artists' colony, the two-thousand-square-acre property was bordered by a substantial concrete wall that was as tall and stout as an oak all the way around. The few humans in the communities around the parcel were long used to the presence of the "artists" and seemed to take a perverse pleasure in protecting the sanctity of the property and the "art" that was being done in their midst.
Which worked for the s'Hisbe.
The irony, of course, was that a mere twenty miles farther north, on the far side of a mountain? The symphaths had established their presence as well.
The proximity made sense. Neither subspecies was in a big hurry to fraternize with anyone else--the sin-eaters didn't respect humans or other vampires any more than the Shadows did so the more isolated, the better. Accordingly, there had never been any envoys or diplomatic ties between the two nations. They were as separate as two strangers sitting side by side on a bus, asking nothing of each other except to be left alone.
He couldn't believe he was going back in.
Leaving his own clothes where the ones provided had been stashed, he strode off. The leather thongs on his feet were more like gloves than shoes, and as he traveled over the rough ground cover, he felt the nuances of fallen sticks, random rocks, and uneven earth. The advantage was silence: Except for the occasional snap and pop, he was as quiet as the moonlight that fell from the heavens.
It was not long before he came up to the retaining wall. Rising high, the vast construction was streaked with dirt stains and random vines, and here and there, fallen limbs were cocked at odd angles against its flank.
He wasn't fooled by the supposedly dilapidated appearance, however, and as he dematerialized up and over, he had forgotten how broad the thing was.
Re-forming, he took a moment to orient himself. It had been so long since he'd set foot on his people's land, but he shouldn't have worried that anything had changed: Unlike the face that was shown the outside world, the bulkhead on the Shadow side was pristine, the concrete pale and sun-bleached and perennially washed, not even grass blades growing out of place around its base.
And no unruly forest. Absolutely not. The trees that were permitted to grow were spaced like chess pieces on a black-and-white board, each with their own delineated spot, even the branches clipped to stay within their boundaries. The lawn was likewise kept clean as a carpet. In spite of autumn ushering in a change of color and the inevitable leaf-from-lim
b departures, there was not a single fragment of anything marring the rolling expanse.
iAm had often thought the Territory was like a snow globe, a constructed version of reality existing in an artificial encapsulation.
The impression still stood.
Picking up his pace, he jogged over the brown grass. Soon, the first of the settlements appeared, the housing units little more than pup tents made of wood that were painted black and roofed with tin panels that were left silver. Like the trees, the shelters were placed in orderly rows, no lights glowing inside, no smells of cooking, no talk percolating out of them. This was where the servants of the palace resided, and they used the flimsy constructions as places to sleep and fornicate only. Otherwise, they were fed, clothed, and bathed in the staff wing of the Queen's grand enclave.
The walls to the palace appeared some distance thereafter, and they were even taller than the first barrier. Faced in white marble and polished to a high shine, they were maintained scrupulously on both sides, hand-scrubbed during the day by groundsmen on thirty-foot-high ladders.
Assuming things were still done like that. And come on, nothing changed here.
Falling in parallel to the wall, he continued along until he came to a sunken doorway marked with symbols.
Right one on the first try.
Checking his watch, he waited. Paced back and forth. Wondered where s'Ex was.
No one was around. This was the back of the palace, far from where the aristocrats and middle class lived out in the front of the Territory--then again, because of the mourning period, all citizens were expected to be indoors, on their knees, offering their respects to the night sky for the Queen's loss.
So even a frontal approach probably would have been fine.
The plan was for the executioner to open the door and sneak him through the maze of corridors to the library. As iAm was dressed in servant garb, there would be no questions asked. s'Ex had always had free run of the palace and the staff, thanks to his position as the Queen's primary henchman--
The blow came from the back and caught iAm on the skull, ringing his bell so hard that shit went blackout in a split second.
He wasn't even aware of falling face-first to the ground. And there was no time to curse the fact that he'd made a mistake trusting that male or try to go for one of his weapons.
Too late.
*
Back at the Brotherhood mansion, Selena emerged from the underground tunnel and had to take a breather to reorient herself in the grand foyer. It seemed like a hundred years since she had last been in the grand space.
How had things ended up like this? she thought as she went around the base of the ornate staircase.
On one level, she hadn't expected to be alive, much less mobile--or even partially mobile. On the other hand? She had gone from rushing to tell Trez how she felt about him . . . to ripping his head off, as the Brothers would put it.
". . . First Meal the now. And following preparations, we shall . . ."
At the sound of Fritz, the butler's, voice, she started her ascent. Her legs were weak, her muscles straining to activate joints that remained stiff and painful. In order to maintain her balance, she had to grip the gold-leafed balustrade with one and then, as she got closer to the top, both hands. Her robing, which had been cleaned at some point, seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
A surge of relief hit her as she got to the second floor without being spotted. It wasn't that she disliked Fritz or his staff or any of the Brotherhood; she just felt rather exposed. Part of what had helped her deal with her disease had been keeping it a secret. Then, when she was around others, she could pretend that she was just like them, with a long life expectancy, and priorities that involved normal things like work, and sleep, and food.
Now? Everyone was going to know.
There was no privacy in the mansion--and that was fine. The people were lovely and supported one another. It was just . . . it had taken her years and years to come to terms with her illness.
The others were going to catch up with her reality quick, and she did not want to be pitied.
Going over to the head of the hall of statues, she paused at the discreet door to the left. Opening it with a shaking hand, she confronted yet another set of stairs, and had to wait a moment to gather her strength.
She ended up taking them slower than the main stairs. Then again, there was less of an imperative to run and hide. The only other people who used these were the First Family, who lived in a triple-locked and insulated space that no one but Fritz was allowed access to . . . and iAm and Trez.
iAm's bedroom door turned out to be wide-open, a lamp glowing in the far corner illuminating the tidy, empty space with its antiques and fine fabrics.
Trez's was shut.
Selena knocked, and then put her ear to the panels. When there was no response, she knocked again.
Maybe he hadn't come up here?
She knew he had dealings in the human world, but he'd seemed so exhausted as he'd left the clinic. It seemed only reasonable that--
"Yeah?"
Swallowing hard, she said, "It's me."
Long silence. So long that she wondered whether he'd cracked a window and dematerialized out of the room just to avoid her.
But eventually his voice came again: "Are you okay?"
"May I . . . ?"
"Hold on."
A minute later the door opened, and she had to step back. He was so big . . . and so very naked--although it wasn't like he was showing anything. He'd put a robe on, the bare, dark skin of his chest revealed in the V between the lapels.
It was impossible not to imagine what the rest of him looked like under there.
"Are you all right?" he repeated.
For some reason, she got frustrated by his concern. Which was insane. He was being polite and solicitous . . . it just made her feel like all she was was this disease inside of her.
"I, ah . . ." She glanced around. "May we do this privately?"
In lieu of answering, he moved aside and indicated the way in with his arm. After she was over the threshold, she heard the door lock click into place.
"I want to apologize." She stopped at the windows and turned around. "I'm sorry. My emotions are raw right now, and my candor got away from me."
Trez crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the exit. His face was inscrutable, his dark eyes grave, his brows down.
As the silence stuck around, she cleared her throat. Shifted her weight back and forth. Filled the time looking at the messy bed. The black clothes draped over the chaise longue. The shoes that had been kicked off over by the closet. The towel hanging off the top of the open door into the marble bathroom.
"So . . ." She cleared her throat. "That is what I came here to say."
Dearest Virgin Scribe, was this it between them?
"How long?" he asked roughly.
"I'm sorry?"
"How long do you have? Until the next . . . whatever it is. When was the last one?"
Two weeks . . . or actually thirteen days. "A month ago. Maybe longer."
His shoulders eased up. "I meant to ask that before."
Again he went quiet.
"Trez, I really am sorry--"
"There's nothing to apologize for. You're just where you're at. I'm not offended, and I'm not going to try to change your mind about how you feel."
"You seem offended."
"I'm not."
"Trez--"
"How are you doing?"
"Fine," she snapped. And then reeled in her temper. "I'm sorry. I just . . . it's like you're freezing me out."
"I'm not."
"You're not talking to me."
"Then why are my lips moving."
"How is this happening again," she muttered as she mirrored his pose, crossing her arms over her own chest. "I just want things to be . . . normal between us."
"They are."
"Bullshit! You're standing over there like a statue--that's my
job, okay? I'm the one who's supposed to be frozen. Why can't you be real, and tell me to screw off, or that I was a bitch, or--"
"You want me to be honest?"
"Yes! Damn it." God, she was sounding less and less like a Chosen. Cursing, using vernacular. Then again, she was feeling less and less like a Chosen. "Hello? You going to say something?"
"You sure?"
"For the love . . . look, do you just want me to go--"
"No. I want you on your back, in my bed, with your legs spread and my mouth all over you."
Selena stopped talking. Breathing. Thinking.
He cocked an eyebrow. "That honest enough for you? Or do you want me to go back to pretending I'm not thinking about sex right now. With you."
Okay, now she was the one being quiet. And he laughed harshly.
"Not what you had in mind, huh. I don't blame you." He turned the knob on the door and opened things up, repeating his "after you" gesture. "If you want to keep talking now, I suggest that you let me get dressed and meet up with you on neutral territory."
Selena looked down at his hips. She had known his body fully only once, when he had taken her virginity, and she was well aware that he was phearsom.
Was he hard now?
"Selena?" A flash of annoyance tightened his face. "Let me meet you downstairs. In the kitchen."
Without conscious thought, she brought her aching hands to the tie on her robe.
His eyes instantly tracked the movement.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
She pulled the knot free and let the length of silk fall loose. With every breath she took, the robe parted a little further, until a path of flesh running from her throat to her sex was exposed. Trez's stare, that dark stare, dipped low, and all at once, the scent of him surged, filling the room with an erotic spice.
Selena eased the robe from her shoulders, letting the soft fabric drift to the floor. "Close the door, would you. I'd like some privacy."
TWENTY-ONE
Trez's cock had its own heartbeat. And that was before Selena went full-frontal at him. After that reveal? The damn thing had its own conscious thought pattern.
Mine.
When he heard the door shut, he wasn't sure whether some hand of his had reclosed it, or whether he'd simply willed the thing back into place.
"You sure about this?" he growled, already taking a step toward her. "Because I won't be able to stop."