by J. R. Ward
The Brother all but picked him up and threw him against the wall. As his back absorbed the impact, his jaw exploded in pain—which suggested the guy had also corked him a good one. Then rough hands pinned him in place with his feet dangling about six inches from the nice Oriental rug—just as people started to pool in the doorway.
Great. An audience.
Phury shoved his face into Qhuinn’s and bared his fangs. “You did what to her?”
Qhuinn swallowed a mouthful of blood. “She went into her needing. I serviced her.”
“You don’t deserve her—”
“I know.”
Phury slammed him again. “She’s better than this—”
“I agree—”
Bang! Again with the wall. “Then why the fuck did you—”
The growl that permeated the room was loud enough to rattle the mirror on the wall next to Qhuinn’s head—as well as the silver brush set on the bureau and the crystals on the sconces by the door. At first he was sure it was Phury…except then the Brother’s brows came down hard and the male looked over his shoulder.
Layla was out of bed and closing in on the pair of them—and holy fucking shit, the look in her eyes was enough to melt paint off a car door: In spite of the fact that she was not well, her fangs were bared, and her fingers were curled into claws…and the icy draft that preceded her made the back of Qhuinn’s neck prickle in warning.
That growl was nothing that should have come out of a male…much less a delicate female of Chosen status.
And if anything, her nasty tone of voice was worse: “Let. Him. Go.”
She was looking up at Phury as if she were fully prepared to rip the Brother’s arms out of their sockets and beat him with the stumps if he didn’t do exactly what she said. Pronto.
And hey, what do you know—suddenly Qhuinn could breathe right, and now his Nikes were back on the floor. Just like magic.
Phury put his palms out in front of him. “Layla, I—”
“You do not touch him. Not about this—are we clear with each other?” Her weight was on the balls of her feet, as if she could lunge for the guy’s throat at any second. “He was the father of my young, and he will be accorded all the rights and privileges of that station.”
“Layla—”
“Do we understand each other?”
Phury nodded his multicolored head. “Yes. But—”
In the Old Language, she hissed, “If any harm shall befall him, I will come after you, and find you where you sleep. I do not care where you lay your head or who with, my vengeance shall rain upon you until you drown.”
That last word was drawn out, until its syllable was lost in more growling.
Dead silence.
Until Doc Jane said dryly, “Annnnd this is why they say the female of the species is more dangerous than the male.”
“Word,” someone muttered from out in the hall.
Phury threw his hands up in frustration. “I just want what’s best for you, and not only as a concerned friend—this is my fucking job. You go through your needing without telling anyone, lay with him”—like Qhuinn was dog shit—“and then not tell anyone you’re in medical trouble. And I’m supposed to be happy about this? What the fuck?”
There was some kind of conversation between the pair of them at that point, but Qhuinn didn’t hear it: All of his consciousness had retreated deep into his brain. Man, the Brother’s happy little commentary shouldn’t have hurt like a bitch—it wasn’t like he hadn’t heard that stuff before, or hell, even thought it about himself. But for some reason, the words triggered a fault line that rumbled right down into the core of him.
Reminding himself that it was hardly a tragedy to have the obvious pointed out, he pulled free of the shame spiral and glanced around. Yup, everyone had shown up at the open door—and once again, things he would have preferred remain private were happening in front of a cast of thousands.
At least Layla didn’t care. Hell, she didn’t even seem to notice.
And it was kind of funny to see all these professional fighters unwilling to get within a mile of the female. Then again, if you wanted to survive doing the work they did, accurate risk assessment was something you developed early—and even Qhuinn, who was the object of the protective instinct the Chosen was rocking, wouldn’t have dared touch her.
“I hereby renounce my Chosen status, and all the rights and privileges thereto. I am Layla, fallen from this heartbeat onward—”
Phury tried to cut her off. “Listen, you don’t have to do this—”
“…and evermore. I am ruined in the eyes of both tradition and practicality, virgin no more, conceived of a young, even though I am losing it.”
Qhuinn banged the back of his head into the wall. Goddamn it.
Phury dragged a hand through his thick hair. “Fuck.”
When Layla wobbled on her feet, everyone went for her, but she pushed all hands away and walked under her own steam back to the bed. Lowering her body gingerly, as if everything hurt, she hung her head.
“My die is cast, and I am prepared to live with the consequences, be as they may. That is all.”
There were a number of brows going up at her dismissal of the whole crowd, but nobody said boo: After a moment, the peanut gallery shuffled off, although Phury stayed put. So did Qhuinn and the doctor.
The door was shut.
“Okay, especially after all that, I really need to check your vitals,” Doc Jane said, easing the female back against the pillows and helping to resettle the covers that had been thrown off.
Qhuinn didn’t move as a blood-pressure cuff was slid up a slender arm and a series of puff-puff-puffs sounded.
Phury, on the other hand, paced around—at least until he frowned and took out his phone. “Is this why Havers called me last night?”
Layla nodded. “I went there looking for help.”
“Why didn’t you come to me?” the Brother muttered to himself.
“What did Havers say?”
“I don’t know because I didn’t listen to the voice mail. I thought I’d have no reason to.”
“He indicated he would deal only with you.”
At that, Phury looked over at Qhuinn, that yellow stare narrowing. “Are you going to mate her?”
“No.”
Phury’s expression grew icy again. “What the hell kind of male are you—”
“He’s not in love with me,” Layla cut in. “Nor I with him.”
As the Primale’s head whipped around, Layla continued, “We wanted a young.” She sat forward as Doc Jane listened to her heart from behind. “It began and finished there.”
Now the Brother cursed. “I don’t get it.”
“We are both orphans in many ways,” the Chosen said. “We are—were…seeking a family of our own.”
Phury exhaled, and wandered over to the desk in the corner, taking a load off in the dainty chair. “Well. Ah. I guess this changes things a little. I thought that—”
“It matters naught,” Layla interjected. “It is what it is. Or…was, as the case may be.”
Qhuinn found himself rubbing his eyes for no particular reason. Not like they were blurry or some shit. Nah. Not at all.
It was just so…damned sad. The whole fucking thing. From Layla’s condition, to Phury’s impotent exhaustion, to his own driving ache in the chest, it was just some seriously sad goddamned business.
THIRTY-ONE
“This is just what I’m looking for.”
As Trez spoke, he walked around the vast, empty space of the warehouse, his boots making loud impacts that echoed. From behind him, he could easily sense the relief that wafted out of the real estate agent standing by the door.
Negotiating with humans? Like taking candy from a baby.
“You could transform this part of the city,” the woman said. “It’s a real opportunity.”
“True enough.” Although it wasn’t like the kind of stores and restaurants that would follow him were highbr
ow: more like tattoo and piercing shops, cheap buffets, XXX theaters.
But he didn’t have a problem with all that. Even pimps could take pride in their work—and frankly, he tended to trust tattoo artists waaaaaaaay more than many so-called “upstanding citizens.”
Trez pivoted around. The space was tremendous, nearly as tall as it was wide, with rows upon rows of square windows, many of which had been broken and covered up with plywood. The roof was sound—or at least mostly so, the corrugated tin sheaths keeping the snow, although not the cold, out. The floor was concrete, but there was obviously a lower level—at various points there were trapdoors set underfoot, although none of them were easily opened. Electricals looked okay; HVAC was nonexistent; plumbing was a joke.
In his mind, however, he didn’t see the place as it was now—nope, he could picture it transformed, a club of Limelight proportions. Naturally, the project was going to require a huge capital infusion, and a number of months to get the work done; in the end, however, Caldwell was going to have a new hot spot—and he was going to have another venue to make money in.
Everybody wins.
“So would you like to make an offer?”
Trez looked over at the woman. She was Ms. Professional in her black wool coat, and her dark suit with the below-the-knee skirt—ninety percent of her flesh covered, and not just because it was December. And yet even all buttoned up with the sensible hair, she was pretty in the way that all women were to him: She had breasts and soft smooth skin, and a place for him to play in between her legs.
And she liked him.
He could tell by the way she dropped her eyes from his, and by the fact that she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands—they were in her coat pockets, then playing with her hair, then tucking her silk shirt in….
He could think of some things to keep her busy.
Trez smiled as he walked across to her—and didn’t stop until he was just inside her personal space. “Yes. I want it.”
The double entendre hit home, her cheeks reddening not from the cold, but arousal. “Oh. Good.”
“Where do you want to do it,” he drawled.
“Make the offer, you mean?” She cleared her throat. “All you have to do is tell me what you…want and I’ll…make it happen.”
Aw, she wasn’t used to casual sex. How sweet.
“Here.”
“I’m sorry?” she said, finally looking up into his eyes.
He smiled slow and tight so his fangs didn’t show. “The offer. Let’s do that here?”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.” He stepped in closer, but not so close that they were touching. He was happy to seduce her, but she had to be one hundred percent sure she was into the grind. “You ready?”
“To…make…the offer.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s, ah, it’s cold in here,” she said. “Maybe at my office? That’s where most of the…offers…get handled.”
From out of nowhere, the image of his brother sitting on the sofa at home, staring at him like he was the frickin’ problem, hit him hard—and as it stuck around, he realized that he’d had sex with almost every woman he’d come across in the last…shit, how long?
Well, obviously, if they weren’t of mateable age he hadn’t been with them.
Or fertile.
Which cut out what, like, a dozen or two? Great. What a hero.
What the fuck was he doing? He didn’t want to go back to this woman’s office—for one thing, there wasn’t enough time, assuming he wanted to be at the Iron Mask for opening. So the only option was right here, standing up, her skirt around her waist, her legs around his hips. Quick, to the point; then go their separate ways.
After he’d told her how much cash he was willing to pay for this warehouse, of course.
But then what? It wasn’t like he was going to bang her at the closing. He rarely did repeats, and only if he was seriously attracted or really itchy—which in this case he was not.
For chrissakes, what exactly was he getting out of this? It wasn’t like he was going to see her naked. Or have much skin-on-skin contact.
Unless…that was the point.
When was the last time he’d really been with a female? Like, properly. As in…nice dinner, little music, some necking that led to a bedroom…then long, slow, patient shit where he had a couple of orgasms.
And no choking sense of panic when it was over.
“You were going to say something?” the woman prompted him.
iAm was right. He didn’t need to be doing this crap. Hell, he wasn’t even attracted to the Realtor. She was standing in front of him; she was available; and that wedding ring on her finger meant she was probably not going to cause a lot of trouble after it was over—because she had something to lose.
Trez took a step back. “Listen, I—” As his phone went off in his coat, he thought, Perfect timing—and checked it. It was iAm. “’Scuse me. I have to take this. Hey, what you doing, little brother?”
iAm’s reply was soft, like he’d lowered his voice. “We got company.”
Trez’s body tensed. “What kind and where.”
“I’m home.”
Oh, shit. “Who is it.”
“It’s not your betrothed, relax. It’s AnsLai.”
The high priest. Fantastic. “Well, I’m busy.”
“He’s not here to see me.”
“Then he’d better go back where he came from, because I’m otherwise engaged.” When there was nothing but silence over the connection, all he had to do was dub in the ass-kicking. Unable to keep still, he stalked around. “Look, what do you want me to do?”
“Stop running and deal with this.”
“There’s nothing to deal with. I’ll catch you later, ’kay?”
He waited for a response. Instead, the line went dead. Then again, when you expected your brother to clean up your crap, the guy wasn’t likely to be in the mood for a protracted good-bye.
Trez hung up and glanced over at the Realtor. Smiling widely, he walked to her and looked down. Her lipstick was a little too coral for her complexion, but he didn’t care.
The shit wasn’t going to be on her mouth for much longer.
“Let me show you how warm I can make it in here,” he said with a slow smile.
Back at the Brotherhood mansion, up in Layla’s room, a kind of détente had been reached among the various interested parties.
Phury wasn’t trying to turn Qhuinn into a wall hanging. Layla was getting assessed. And the door had been shut so that anything that went down was going to have no more than a quartet of firsthand witnesses.
Qhuinn was just waiting for Doc Jane to speak.
When she finally took her stethoscope off from around her neck, she sat back. And the expression on her face gave him no hope.
He didn’t understand it. He had seen his daughter at the door to the Fade: When he’d been beaten and left for dead at the side of the road by the Honor Guard, he had gone up to God only knew where, had approached the white portal…and had seen in the panels a young female whose eyes had started out one color, and ended up blue and green like his own.
If he hadn’t been witness to that, he probably wouldn’t have lain with Layla in the first place. But he’d been so sure that destiny was spelled out that it had never dawned on him…
Shit, maybe that young was the result of another pairing—somewhere else down the line.
But like he was going to be with anyone else? Ever?
Not possible. Not now that he’d had Blay once.
Nope.
Even if he and his former friend never got between the sheets again, he was never going to be with anybody else. Who could compare? And celibacy was better than second-best—which again, was what would be offered by the rest of the planet.
Doc Jane cleared her throat and took Layla’s hand. “Your blood pressure is a little low. Your pulse rate is sluggish. I think both of these can be improved with a
feeding—”
Qhuinn all but jumped on the bed with his wrist outstretched. “I got it—right here. I got—”
Doc Jane put her hand on his arm and smiled at him. “But that’s not what I’m worried about.”
He froze—and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Phury do the same.
“Here’s the problem.” The doctor refocused on Layla, speaking gently and clearly. “I don’t know a lot about vampire pregnancies—so as much as I hate to say this, you need to go back to Havers’s.” She put her hand up, as if she anticipated arguments from all corners. “This is about her and the young—we have to get them to somebody who can treat her appropriately, even if, under other circumstances, none of us would darken that guy’s door. And, Phury”—she looked over at the Brother—“you have to go with her and Qhuinn. Your being there will make it easier on everybody.”
Lot of tight lips after that.
“She’s right,” Qhuinn said finally. And then he turned to the Primale. “And you need to say you’re the father. She’ll get more respect that way. With me? He might well refuse to treat her—if she’s fallen, and has gotten fucked by a defective? He could turn us away.”
Phury opened his mouth. Shut it.
It wasn’t like there was much else to say.
As Phury got out his phone and called the clinic to inform the staff they were coming in, his tone of voice suggested he was ready to light the place up if Havers and his crew screwed around.
With that getting sorted, Qhuinn went over to Layla.
In a low voice, he said, “It’s going to be different this time. He’s going to make things happen. Don’t worry—you’re going to get treated like a queen.”
Layla’s eyes were wide, but she kept it together. “Yes. All right.”
Bottom line? The Brother wasn’t the only one ready to throw down. If Havers turned any of that glymera distaste on Layla, Qhuinn was going to beat the ego out of that male. Layla didn’t deserve that shit—not even for choosing a reject to mate with.
Fuck. Maybe it was better that she lose the pregnancy. Did he really want to condemn a child to his DNA?
“You’re coming, too?” she asked him, like she wasn’t really tracking.