by J. R. Ward
She hadn’t slept for even an hour since her mother had reanimated her, and though at first that had seemed odd, she didn’t give it much thought anymore. It just was.
More than likely her body had had enough repose to last a lifetime.
As she went by the Primale Temple, she didn’t go inside. Same with the entrance to her mother’s courtyard—it was too early for Wrath to arrive and her sparring with him was the only reason she ever went therein.
When she came to the sequestering temple, however, she did breach the door, although she couldn’t have said what drew her to turn the knob and step o’er the threshold.
The bowls of water the Chosen had long used to stare into and thereby bear witness to the events that transpired on the Other Side were lined up in perfect order on the many desks, the rolls of parchment and quill pens likewise laid out, ready for use.
A glint of light caught her eye and she walked over to its source. The water in one of the crystal basins was moving in ever-slowing circles, as if the thing had been used just now.
She looked around. “Hello?”
There was no answer, just the sweet smell of lemon, which suggested No’One had been by recently with her cleaning cloth. Which was a bit of a waste of time, really. There was no dust, no grime, no dirt to be dealt with here, but then No’One was a part of the great Chosen tradition, wasn’t she.
Nothing to do but make-work that served no great purpose.
As Payne turned to leave and passed by all the vacant chairs, the sense of her mother’s failure was as prevalent as the silence that abounded.
She didn’t like the female, for truth. But there was a sad reality to all the plans that had been made that had come to naught: Design a breeding program to weed out defects so that the race was strong. Face the enemy on the field on earth and win. Have her many children serve her with love, obedience, and joy.
Where was the Scribe Virgin now? Alone. Unworshiped. Unliked.
And the coming generations were even less likely to follow her ways, given the manner in which so many parents had strayed from tradition.
Leaving the empty room, Payne stepped out into the pervasive milky light and—
Down by the reflecting pool, a brilliant yellow shape shifted and danced like a tulip in a breeze.
Payne strode toward the figure and as she got closer, she decided Layla had evidently lost her mind.
The Chosen was singing a song that had no words, her body moving to a rhythm that had no fiddle, her hair swinging around like a flag.
It was the first and only time the female had not worn a chignon in the fashion of all Chosen—at least that Payne had seen.
“My sister!” Layla said, coming to a halt. “Forgive me.”
Her brilliant smile was brighter than the yellow of her robing and her scent was louder than it had ever been, the fragrance of cinnamon ringing in the air as sure as her lovely voice had.
Payne shrugged. “There’s nothing to forgive. Verily, your song is pleasing to the ear.”
Layla’s arms resumed their elegant swinging. “’Tis a lovely day, is it not?”
“Indeed.” From out of nowhere, Payne felt a bolt of fear. “Your mood is much improved.”
“’Tis, ’tis.” The Chosen pirouetted around, pointing her foot in a lovely arch before springing up into the air. “Verily, ’tis a lovely day.”
“Whatever has pleased you so?” Although Payne knew the answer. Transformations of disposition, after all, were rarely spontaneous—most required a trigger.
Layla slowed her dance, her arms and hair drifting downward and coming to a rest. As her elegant fingers lifted to her mouth, she seemed at a loss for words.
She has been of proper service, Payne thought. No longer was her experience as an ehros just theory.
“I . . .” The blush on those cheeks was vibrant.
“Say no more, just know I am happy for you,” Payne murmured, and that was largely true. But there was a part of her which felt curiously dejected.
Was it now just her and No’One who were of no use? Seemed so.
“He kissed me,” Layla said, looking toward the reflecting pool. “He . . . laid his mouth upon mine.”
With grace, the Chosen sat upon the lip of marble and trailed her hand through the still water. After a moment, Payne joined her because sometimes it was better to feel something, anything. Even if it was an ache.
“You enjoyed it, yes?”
Layla stared at her own reflection, her blond hair trailing over her shoulder until the blunt ends hit the silvery surface of the pool. “He was . . . a fire within me. A great burning rush that . . . consumed me.”
“So you are virgin no longer.”
“He stopped us both after the kissing. He said he wanted me to be sure.” The sensuous smile that touched the female’s face was a clear echo of the passion. “I was certain, and still am. So is he. Indeed, his warrior’s body was ready for me. Hungry for me. To be desired in such a way was a gift beyond measure. I had thought . . . fulfillment in my education was what I was in search of, but now I know there is so much more waiting for me on the Other Side.”
“With him?” Payne murmured. “Or through the pursuit of your duty?”
This caused a deep frown.
Payne nodded. “I ascertain that it is more of him than your position you seek.”
There was a long pause. “Such passion betwixt us is surely indicative of a certain destiny, is it not?”
“On that I have no opinion.” Her experience with fate had led her to one shining, bloody moment of activity . . . followed by a pervasive inaction. Neither of which enabled her to comment on the kind of passion to which Layla was referring.
Or reveling in.
“Do you condemn me?” Layla whispered.
Payne lifted her eyes to the Chosen and thought of that empty seeing room with all the vacant desks and the bowls left unwarmed by well-trained hands. Layla’s joy now, rooted as it was in goings-on outside of the Chosen life, seemed another inevitable defection. And that was not a bad thing.
She reached out and touched the other female’s shoulder. “Not at all. Verily, I’m pleased for you.”
Layla’s shy pleasure turned her from beautiful to something close to breathtaking. “I am so pleased to share this with you. I am full to bursting and there is no one . . . really . . . with whom to speak.”
“You may always talk to me.” Layla, after all, had never judged her or her masculine proclivities and she was very inclined to grant the female the same gracious acceptance. “Will you be going back soon?”
Layla nodded. “He said I could return unto him on his . . . How did he put it? Next night off. And so I shall.”
“Well, you must keep me informed. Indeed . . . I shall be interested to hear of how you fare.”
“Thank you, sister.” Layla covered Payne’s hand, a sheen of tears forming in the Chosen’s eyes. “I have been so long unused and this . . . this is what I have wanted. I feel . . . alive.”
“Good for you, my sister. That is . . . very good.”
With a final smile of reassurance, Payne got to her feet and took her leave of the female. As she walked back to the quarters, she found herself rubbing that ache that had formed in the center of her chest.
Wrath couldn’t get here fast enough, as far as she was concerned.
THIRTY-THREE
Xhex woke up to John Matthew’s scent.
That and fresh coffee.
As her lids lifted, her eyes found him in the dim recovery room. He was back in the chair he’d started out in, his torso twisted around as he poured coffee out of a dark green thermos into a mug. He’d put his leathers and his T-shirt on again, but his feet were bare.
When he turned toward her, he froze, his brows shooting up. And even though the java had been on the way to his mouth, he immediately put it out for her to take.
Man, didn’t that just sum him up in a nutshell.
“No, please,” she sai
d. “It’s yours.”
He paused as if considering whether or not to argue the point. But then he put the porcelain rim to his lips and sipped.
Feeling a little more steady, Xhex threw off the covers and slid her legs out from under. As she stood up, her towel fell from her and she heard John take a hissing breath.
“Oh, sorry,” she muttered, bending down and snagging the terry cloth.
She didn’t blame him for not wanting a gander at the scar that was still healing across her lower belly. Not exactly what you needed to see right before you ate your breakfast.
Wrapping herself up, she padded into the loo, used the facilities, and washed her face. Her body was rebounding well, her collection of bruises disappearing, her legs feeling stronger under her weight. And thanks to the rest and her feeding from him, her aches were no longer outright painful, but more just a series of vague discomforts.
When she came out from the bathroom, she said, “You think I can borrow some clothes from someone?”
John nodded, but motioned to the bed. Clearly he wanted her to eat first and she was on board with that plan.
“Thanks,” she said, tightening the towel around her breasts. “What you got in there?”
As she sat down, he offered her a variety of things, and she took the turkey sandwich because the need for protein was a craving she couldn’t turn down. From his chair, John watched her eat the thing, just drinking his coffee, and the second she was finished, he brought out a Danish that proved too tempting.
The combination of cherry and sweet glaze made her jones for some coffee. And what do you know, John was right there with a mug, as if he were reading her mind.
She polished off a second Danish and a bagel. And a glass of OJ. And two cups of coffee.
And it was funny. The silence of him had a bizarre effect on her. Normally, she was the quiet one in situations, preferring to keep her own council and not share her thoughts on anything. But with John’s mute presence, she felt curiously compelled to talk.
“I’m stuffed,” she said, lying back against the pillows. As he cocked a brow and lifted the last Danish, she shook her head. “God . . . no. I couldn’t manage another thing.”
And it was only then that he began to eat.
“You waited for me?” she said, frowning. When he ducked her gaze and shrugged, she cursed softly. “You didn’t have to.”
Another shrug.
As she watched him, she murmured, “You have beautiful table manners.”
His blush was the color of Valentine’s Day and she had to tell her heart to calm the fuck down as it started to beat fast.
Then again, maybe she was having palpitations because she’d just thrown close to two thousand calories into her empty gut.
Or not. When John started to lick the frosting from his fingertips, she caught sight of his tongue and for a moment, she felt a stirring in her body—
Memories of Lash crushed the fragile bloom between her legs, the images taking her back to that bedroom, back to him on top of her, forcing her legs apart with his hard hands—
“Oh, fuck . . .” Lunging off the bed, she scrambled to the toilet and just barely made it in time.
It all came up. The two Danishes. The coffee. That turkey sandwich. Complete evac of everything she’d eaten.
As she heaved, she didn’t feel the vomiting. She felt Lash’s awful mitts on her skin . . . his body inside of hers, pounding away—
Annnnd there was the orange juice.
Oh, God . . . how had she gone through that with the bastard time and time again? The fists and the struggle and the biting . . . then the brutal sex. Over and over and over . . . and then the aftermath. Washing him off of her. Out of her.
Fuck—
Another wave of heaving cut off her thoughts and though she hated throwing up, the shutdown on her brain was a relief. It was almost as if her body was trying to physically exorcise the trauma, just blow it out so that she could start over.
A reboot through booting, so to speak.
When the worst of the vomiting finished off, she sank onto her heels and rested her clammy forehead on her arm. As her breath sawed up and down her throat, her gag reflex quivered like it was considering getting organized again.
Nothing else in there, she told the damn thing. Not unless it wanted to try spring-loading her lungs.
Shit, she hated this part. Right after you’d been through hell, your mind and your environment were full of land mines and you never knew what could set off an explosion. Sure, over time, it faded, but the initial salvo back into “regular life” was a bitch and a half.
She lifted her head and hit the flusher.
As a cool washcloth brushed against her hand, she jumped, but it was just John, nothing for her to be frightened of.
And man, he had the only thing she really wanted at that moment: that clean, damp, cold washcloth was a godsend.
Burying her face in it, she shuddered in relief. “I’m sorry about that food. It was really good going down.”
Time for Doc Jane.
As Xhex sat sprawled naked on the floor in front of the toilet, John kept one eye on her and the other on the phone as he texted.
The second he hit send, he tossed the cell up onto the counter and pulled a fresh towel down from the stack next to the sink.
He wanted to give Xhex some modesty, but he was also having a hard time looking at how her spine threatened to break through the skin of her back. Wrapping her up, he let his hands linger on her shoulders.
He wanted to pull her into his chest, but he didn’t know if she’d be into getting that clo—
Xhex eased back flush against him and arranged the towel, crossing the two halves over her front. “Let me guess. You hit up the good doctor.”
Moving himself around, he set his palms on the floor to support his torso and put his knees up so she was cradled on all sides by him. Not bad, he thought. The loo wasn’t right in her face, but if she needed it, all she had to do was sit up straight.
“I’m not sick,” she said, her voice hoarse. “From the operation or anything. Just ate too fast.”
Maybe, he thought. But then, there was no harm in Doc Jane’s checking her over. Besides, they needed clearance before they went out tonight, assuming that was even possible now.
“Xhex? John?”
John whistled at the sound of the doctor’s voice, and a moment later Vishous’s female put her head into the bathroom.
“A party? And I didn’t get invited,” she said, coming in.
“Well, technically, I think you were,” Xhex muttered. “I’m okay.”
Jane knelt down and though her smile was warm, her eyes were sharp as they went over Xhex’s face. “What’s going on here?”
“I got sick after I ate.”
“Mind if I take your temperature?”
“I’d prefer not to have anything near the back of my throat right now, if you don’t mind.”
Jane took a white instrument out of her bag. “I can do it by your ear.”
John was shocked when Xhex’s hand found his and squeezed hard as if she needed some support. To let her know he was there for whatever she needed, he squeezed back, and the instant he did, her shoulders eased up and she relaxed again.
“Knock yourself out, Doc.”
Xhex tilted her head and what do you know, it ended up right on his shoulder. So he really couldn’t help but put his cheek on the downy soft curls and breathe in deep.
As far as he was concerned, the good doctor worked much too quickly. Just in, a beep, and she was pulling back—which meant Xhex put her head up again.
“No fever. Would you mind if I looked at your incision?”
Xhex pulled a reveal, parting the towel and exposing her belly and the stripe that ran across her lower abdomen.
“Looks good. What did you eat?”
“Too much.”
“Fair enough. Any pain I should know about?”
Xhex shook her head. “I fe
el better. I really do. What I need is some clothes and shoes . . . and another shot at First Meal.”
“I’ve got scrubs you can put on and then up at the house we’ll take care of feeding you again.”
“Good. Thanks.” Xhex started to get to her feet and he helped her up, keeping the towel in place when it slipped. “Because we’re going out.”
“Not to fight, you aren’t.”
John nodded his head and signed at the doctor, We’re just going to stretch our legs. Swear.
Doc Jane’s eyes narrowed. “I can only render a medical opinion. Which is that I think you”—she glanced at Xhex—“should eat something and hang around here for the rest of tonight. But you’re an adult, so you can make your own choices. Know this, though. You leave without Qhuinn and Wrath is going to have some serious issues with the pair of you.”
That’s fine, John signed. He wasn’t psyched about the babysitter routine, but he wasn’t taking chances with Xhex.
He was under no illusions about the female he loved. She could decide to bolt at any moment and if shit came down to that, he was going to appreciate the backup.
THIRTY-FOUR
Lash came awake in the same position he’d passed out in: sitting on the floor in the ranch’s bathroom, arms linked on top of his knees, head down.
When he opened his eyes, he got a look-see at his hard-on.
He’d been dreaming of Xhex, the images so clear, the sensations so vivid it was a wonder he didn’t come in his slacks. They’d been back in that room together, fighting, biting, and then he’d taken her, forcing her down on the bed, making her accept him even though she hated it.
He was so totally in love with her.
The sound of a wet gurgle brought his head up. Plastic Fantastic was coming around, her fingers twitching, her lids flickering like blinds that were broken.
As his eyes focused on her matted hair and her bloodstained basque, he felt a stinging pain at his temples, a hangover that sure as shit wasn’t tied to a good time. The bitch disgusted him, lying all flopped around in her own filth.
She’d clearly been sick to her stomach, and thank God he’d slept through that commotion.