Lover At Last tbdb-11

by J. R. Ward

  Beth laughed tightly. “That is not exactly where he’s at.”

  “Surely he must want an heir?”

  “I think he’ll give me one. But only because I want a child as badly as I do.”

  “Oh.”

  “‘Oh’ is right.” Beth gave Layla’s palm a squeeze. “He just worries too much. I’m strong and healthy, and ready for it. Now, if I could just get my body to get in gear—hopefully, it will take your cue.”

  Layla smiled and rubbed her flat belly. “Did you hear that, little one? You need to help your queen. It’s important for the royal family to have a young.”

  “But it’s not for the throne,” Beth interjected. “Not on my part. I just want to be a mom, and I want to have my husband’s kid. At the core, it’s as simple as that.”

  Layla fell silent. She was so glad to have Qhuinn with her on this journey—but it would have been wonderful to have a proper mate to lie beside her and cradle her during the day, to love her and hold her and tell her that she was precious not solely for what her body could do, but for what she inspired in his heart.

  An image of Xcor’s harsh face flashed into her mind’s eye.

  Shaking her head, she thought, no, she mustn’t dwell on that. She needed to keep herself calm and relaxed for the young as surely her stress was transmitted to that which her womb nurtured. Besides, she had already been blessed with much, and if this pregnancy went to term and she lived through the birth?

  She had been granted a true and abiding miracle.

  “I’m sure it will work out with the king,” she announced. “Fate has a way of giving us what we need.”

  “Amen, sister. Amen.”

  * * *

  Sola pulled her Audi directly into the driveway of the glass house on the river, and she parked right at the rear door of the damn thing.

  Getting out, she planted her boots in the snow, put her hand inside her parka on the butt of her gun, and shut the door with her hip. As she marched up to that back entrance, she made eye contact with the roofline.

  There had to be security cameras up there.

  She didn’t bother to ring the doorbell or knock on the door. He would know she was here. And he if he wasn’t home? Well, then she’d think of a nice little calling card of some sort to leave him.

  Maybe a security alarm that went off? An open window or cupboard?

  Or something missing from inside…

  The door opened and there he was, live and in person—exactly as he had been the night before, and yet, as ever, somehow taller, more dangerous, and sexier than she remembered.

  “Isn’t this a bit obvious for you?” he drawled.

  He was dressed in a dark suit of some designer variety—and the thing had to have been hand-tailored as well, given the way it fit him so perfectly.

  “I’m here to set something straight,” she said.

  “And you appear to want to dictate terms.” As if this were a quaint idea. “Anything else? Did you happen to bring dinner? I’m hungry.”

  “Are you going to let me in, or do you want to do this in the cold?”

  “Is your hand on a weapon, by any chance?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “In that case, do come in.”

  As he stepped aside, she rolled her eyes. Why the fact that she could shoot him would encourage the man to let her into his house was a mystery—

  Sola froze as she looked into a modern kitchen. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder were two men who were identical images of each other. They were also as big as the man she’d come for, just as dangerous—and they each had a gun in their hand.

  They had to be the ones who’d been with him under the bridge.

  The door clapped shut, and even though her adrenal glands let out a burst of warning, she kept the reaction to herself.

  The one she had come to see smiled as he brushed past her. “These are my associates.”

  “I want to speak with you alone.”

  The man eased back against a granite counter, put a cigar between his teeth, and lit it with a gold lighter. As he clipped the top shut, he exhaled a puff of blue smoke and looked over at her. “Gentlemen, will you excuse us for a moment.”

  The twin Mr. Happys didn’t look pleased with the dismissal. Then again, you could probably have tried to give them both a winning lottery ticket and they would have eaten your hand clean off your wrist. Just on principle.

  They did walk off, however, moving in a synchronized way that was highly unsettling.

  “Where’d you find that pair?” she asked dryly. “The Internet?”

  “It’s amazing what one can secure on eBay.”

  Abruptly, she cut the crap: “I want you to stop following me.”

  The man took a pull on that cigar, the fat end glowing bright orange. “Do you.”

  “You’ve got no reason to. I’m not going to come here again—in any capacity.”

  “Really.”

  “You have my word.”

  There was nothing Sola hated more than admitting defeat—and disengaging from the surveillance of this guy and his property was a kind of quitting. But that run-in last night, while she’d been on a date with an innocent bystander, for godsakes, had told her things were getting out of control. She was perfectly capable of playing cat and mouse—she did it all the time in her profession. With this man, however? There was no ultimate goal to be won; no payday awaiting her for information gathered; no intention for her to rob him.

  And the stakes were escalating.

  Especially if they ever kissed again—because she doubted she would stop it, and the definition of stupid was sleeping with someone like him.

  “Your word?” he said. “And exactly how much is that worth.”

  “It’s all I have to offer you.”

  His eyes, those laser beams, narrowed on her mouth. “I’m not so certain of that.”

  His accent and that deep, delicious voice turned the syllables into a caress—something that she could almost feel on her skin.

  Which was precisely why she was doing this. “You’ve got no reason to follow me. Effective right now.”

  “Mayhap I like the view.” As his eyes traveled down her body, another shock went through her, but not the anxious kind. “Yes, I find that I do. Tell me something, did you enjoy your evening out? Food to your liking? Companionship…to your liking?”

  “I’m stopping this tonight. You’re not going to see me again.”

  As that was all she had to say, she went to turn away.

  “Do you honestly think it ends here between you and me?”

  His dark, beautiful voice held an ominous threat in it.

  Sola looked over her shoulder. “You asked me not to trespass or spy—I’m not going to.”

  “And I say to you once again, do you honestly think it ends like this.”

  “I’m giving you what you want.”

  “Not even close,” he growled.

  For a moment, that connection that had been forged in the cold, when their lips had locked in her car and their bodies had strained, sprang back to life.

  “It’s too late to retreat.” He took another puff. “Your chance to get away has come…and gone.”

  She turned to face him. “Not to put too fine a point on it—but bullshit. I’m not afraid of you, or anyone else—so come at me. But know that I will hurt you to defend myself—”

  An abrupt sound vibrated through the air between them.

  Purring? Was the man actually purr—

  He took a step forward. Then another. And as a gentleman might, he held his cigar to the side, like he didn’t want to burn her or get smoke in her face.

  “Tell me your name,” he said. Or commanded, more like it.

  “I find it hard to believe you don’t already know it.”

  “I do not.” This was said with an arch of the brow, as if information seeking was beneath him. “Tell me your name, and I will let you leave here now.”

  God…his eyes…t
hey were moonlight and shadow intertwined, an impossible color somewhere between silver and violet and pale blue.

  “As our paths will not be crossing, it’s not relevant—”

  “Just so you know…you will give yourself to me—”

  “Excuse me—”

  “But you will beg me for it first.”

  Sola jutted forward, her temper blowing all her let’s-be-reasonable right out of the water. “Over my dead body.”

  “Sorry, not to my taste.” He dropped his chin and stared at her from beneath lowered lids. “I prefer you hot…and wet.”

  “Not going to happen.” She pivoted away and headed for the door. “And we’re done.”

  Just as she entered the anteroom, her eye caught something on the bench that ran down the squat space’s far wall.

  Her head whipped around, and her feet faltered. It was a knife, a very long knife, so long it was nearly a sword.

  There was bright red blood on the blade.

  “Rethinking your departure?” he said in that dark voice from directly behind her.

  “No.” She shot over to the door and yanked it open. “I’m right on target with it.”

  Slamming the thing behind her, she wanted to run to her car, but refused to give in to panic even as she expected him to come after her.

  And yet the man stayed put, looming in the window of the door she had put to good use, watching her while she got in, started her engine and put the Audi into gear.

  As she backed out of the drive, her heart was pounding—

  Especially as a truly terrifying thought occurred to her.

  Shoving her hand into her purse, she felt around for her phone, and when she found it, she went into her contact lists, selected one, and hit send. Frazzled by fear, she put the cell up to her ear even though she was Bluetooth enabled—and it was against the law in New York not to be hands-free.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring—

  “Hi! I was hoping to hear from you.”

  Sola sagged in the driver’s seat, her head falling back against the rest. “Hi, Mark.”

  God, the sound of the man’s voice was a relief.

  “Are you okay?” her trainer asked.

  She thought of that bloody blade. “I am. Yes. Are you just getting off work?”

  As they embarked on a pleasant enough conversation, she drove off, her foot heavy on the gas pedal, the landscape streaking by: White snow. Grungy, salted road. Skeletal trees. Little old-fashioned cabin with a light on inside. Flat, bald space over the river to the left.

  Every time she blinked, she saw the shape in the windows of that door. Watching. Planning. Wanting…

  Her.

  And goddamn it, her body was desperate to be caught by him.

  SIXTY

  As Qhuinn rematerialized, his flashlight illuminated the final cabin. He didn’t wait for the others this time, just marched forward, gunning for the door, which was intact and shut tight—

  His first clue that something was off came when he grabbed the rough-hewn handle: a low-level electrical charge licked into his hand and traveled up his arm.

  Retracting his palm, he shook things out, his instincts going on high alert.

  “What is it?” Rhage asked as the Brother stalked up onto the shallow porch.

  Qhuinn glanced around, noting that Blay and John were on the periphery. “I don’t know.”

  Rhage went for the door—and had the same reaction, recoiling sharply. “What the fuck.”

  “I know, right,” Qhuinn muttered as he stepped back and ran his light around the exterior.

  The two windows on either side of the entrance had been boarded up, and as he walked over and looked down the structure’s flank, the same was true of the ones on that side, as well.

  “Fuck this,” Rhage growled. The Brother took three steps back and then rushed at the door, his heavy shoulder angled like a battering ram.

  And what do you know, the impact splintered the wooden panels—

  All at once, a blinding light seared through the night, illuminating the forest like a bomb had gone off, turning Rhage getting thrown backward into a movie.

  As Blay and John rushed across to do a damage assessment on the fighter, Qhuinn lunged forward, bracing himself as he went for the jambs, expecting to get nailed with a couple hundred volts’ worth of God-only-knows-what.

  Instead, he hit nothing but air, his forward momentum so great he had to tuck into a ball and roll to keep from landing on his face. A breath later, he punched up off the floor and landed in a crouch, gun in one hand, flashlight in another.

  Something smelled bad.

  “Behind you,” Blay said, as a second beam of light joined his own.

  The air inside the cabin was curiously warm, as if there were a heater plugged in somewhere—except that wasn’t possible. No electricity and no gas tank. And no one had been here for a while, going by the undisturbed layer of dust on the floorboards and the delicate, vertical cobwebs that hung from the ceiling as motionless as heavy ropes.

  “What’s that,” Blay demanded.

  As Qhuinn brought his beam around, he frowned. There were a number of what appeared to be oil drums up against the far wall, the grouping clustered together, as if they’d been scared by something and had circled the wagons for self-protection.

  Qhuinn walked over, all the while panning his flashlight in fat circles, and he frowned once more as he got a good look at the large-bore canisters. None of them had lids, and his light seemed to reflect off some sort of oil.

  “What…the hell is this?”

  Leaning over the closest one, he took a deep breath in through his nose, and got a sinus burn full of slayer stench. Going by the way his beam didn’t penetrate the surface of the liquid, he knew it could be only one thing, and you sure as shit couldn’t use it to power a heater or a generator.

  It was the blood of the Omega.

  “Behind you,” Rhage said, as the Brother entered.

  A soft whistle announced that John had come in as well.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Blay muttered as he stood beside Qhuinn.

  Qhuinn put his flashlight between his teeth and reached forward with his bare hand. Just as he made contact with the viscous nasty, something surged within the drum—

  “Fuck!” he shouted, jumping back.

  As his flashlight landed on the floor and rolled to the side, Blay’s beam illuminated what had moved.

  An arm.

  There was someone inside the drum.

  “Jesus Christ,” Blay breathed.

  Behind them, Rhage’s voice barked loudly, “V? We need backup out here. Stat.”

  Qhuinn bent down and snagged his light. Returning it to the oily liquid, he watched as that forearm moved again in slow motion just under the surface, the shift bringing the outside of the wrist and the back of the hand into view….

  Something flashed, the passing glint catching Qhuinn’s eye. Reangling his beam, he bent further over the drum.

  The hand wasn’t right, its joints deformed, all or part of each finger gone, as if put through a grinder….

  That glimmer broke through the cesspool of the Omega’s blood once more.

  It was…a ring?

  “Wait, wait, Qhuinn—you need to pull back—”

  Qhuinn ignored the commentary as he leaned in even farther, getting closer—closer….

  Closer…

  At first, he couldn’t believe what he was looking at. He simply couldn’t be looking at a family crest ring.

  But what else could it be? It was on the forefinger, the only digit that hadn’t been hacked off. And it was gold—even through the black oil, the yellow glow was obvious. And the ring itself had a broad face into which was pressed a—

  “Qhuinn,” Rhage said sharply. “Get the fuck away—”

  The arm moved again, the pale hand breaching the surface of the liquid, appearing as a specter’s might from out of the grave, reaching out….<
br />
  The Omega’s blood retracted from the surface of the ring, revealing…

  “Qhuinn, I am not playing—”

  Noise exploded in the cabin, filling the air.

  He was completely unaware that it was a shout coming from his own mouth.

  * * *

  At first, Blay thought that whatever was in the drum had grabbed onto Qhuinn and pulled him in—and that was why Qhuinn screamed. On instinct, he jumped forward and grabbed onto Qhuinn’s waist, throwing out his anchor and yanking back.

  What came out of that drum would haunt Blay’s nightmares for years…decades afterward.

  In fact, what was inside hadn’t latched onto Qhuinn; it was the other way around. And as Blay hauled back, a male form was extracted from the tight squeeze, the Omega’s blood pouring out in rivers, splashing onto the cold wooden planks of the cabin’s floor, hitting Blay’s shitkickers and leathers, drenching Qhuinn.

  Qhuinn had to scramble to keep his grip from slipping off, his gun and flashlight long forgotten, his gloved hands slapping and scratching to keep from losing contact….

  As they hoisted…

  The oil drum fell over onto its side as the male sprawled out flat at their feet.

  No one moved. It was as if they had all stepped in and assumed their positions in a tableau.

  Blay recognized who it was immediately.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  The dead had returned to the living…in a manner of speaking.

  Qhuinn squatted down and touched the male’s shoulders. Then he spoke his brother’s name roughly: “Luchas?”

  The response was immediate. His brother’s hands began to slowly pinwheel, his mangled legs shifting, his naked body trying to move. His skin was bruised all over, the harsh illumination from the flashlights showing every contusion and cut and black-and-blue, the stain of the Omega’s blood gradually receding from the pale skin.

  Dear God, what had they done to him? One of his eyes was swollen shut, and his mouth was lopsided, as if he’d been punched there. As he grimaced, it appeared that his teeth had all been spared, but that was about the only mercy he seemed to have been given.

  “Luchas?” Qhuinn said again. “Can you talk to me?”

  From off to the side, Rhage was on his phone again. “V? We’ve really got a situation. What’s your ETA…what? No, abso no—I need you now….No, you. And Payne.” Hollywood glanced over and mouthed, Do you guys know who he is?