Lover Reborn: A Novel of the Black Dagger Brotherhood

by J. R. Ward

  In fact, she might as well have been directly in the sunshine.

  She was on fire.

  The blazing heat in her womb reminded her of the birthing of Xhexania, the agony rising to heights that made her wonder if death wasn’t coming for her, before easing off just enough so she could catch her breath and prepare for the next peak. And as with labor, the cycling persisted, the moments of relenting becoming farther and farther apart until the pain of the need filled out the contours of her body and took over all movement, all breath, all thought.

  It had not been like this before. Back when she’d been with that symphath, the needing hadn’t been half this strong.…

  Or half this long…

  After however many hours of torture, she had no more tears left, no more sobs, not even any twitches. She just lay in stillness, barely breathing, her heartbeat sluggish, her eyes closed as her body was yet assaulted internally.

  It was hard to pinpoint exactly when the tipping point came upon her, but gradually the throbbing between her legs and the burning in her pelvis drifted away, the rigors of the needing replaced with an abiding soreness in her joints and her muscles from all the straining she’d done.

  When she could finally raise her head, her neck cracked loudly, and she groaned as her face hit a wall of some sort. Frowning, she tried to orient herself… oh, indeed, she was at the foot of the bed, pressed up against the short board at its end.

  She laid her head back down for a while. With the boiling heat easing to a mere simmer, she began to feel cold, and she fumbled around for a sheet, or a blanket, or a cover of any sort. There was nothing—all was on the floor: She was naked on a bare mattress—clearly she’d ripped off even the fitted sheet.

  Summoning what little energy she had, she attempted to push her torso up and lift her head. She made little progress. It was as if there was glue holding her down…

  Eventually, she rose up.

  The trip to the bathroom was as arduous and treacherous as a hike up a mountainside, but lo, the joy with which she beheld the shower and turned it on.

  As temperate water fell generously from the spout anchored upon the wall, she sat down on the tile beneath it, tucking her heels up against her bottom, hugging herself around her knees. As she laid her head to the side, the gentle spray washed away the salt of her tears and her sweat.

  The shivers turned violent shortly thereafter.

  “Autumn?” came Doc Jane’s voice from the room beyond.

  Her rattling teeth prevented her from replying, but the shower said enough: The other female appeared in the doorway, and then ventured further into the bath, until she pulled back the cloth curtain and knelt down so they were eye-to-eye.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  Abruptly, Autumn had to shield her face as she began crying.

  Hard to know whether the outburst was because the needing had finally passed, or because she was so tired she had no boundaries left… or because the last thing she remembered before everything became a blur was the sight of Tohr driving those two needles into his thighs and falling to the floor.

  “Autumn, can you hear me?”

  “Yes…” she croaked.

  “I’d like to get you back in bed if you’re done washing up. There’s a lot of heat in here, and I’m worried about your blood pressure.”

  “I’m c-c-cold.”

  “That’s fever chills. I’m going to turn off the water now, okay?”

  She nodded, because she didn’t have the wherewithal to do anything else.

  When the warm rain stopped falling, the rattling inside her skin got worse as the cold rushed in and traveled across her tender flesh. Soon enough, however, a soft blanket was draped around her shoulders.

  “Can you stand?” When Autumn nodded again, she was helped up, dressed in a light sheath and escorted back over to the bed—which had magically been remade with fresh sheets and blankets.

  Stretching out, she was aware only of the tears that seeped from the corners of both eyes, an endless, slow stream of them, hot against her cold face.

  “Shhh, you’re okay,” the healer said, as she sat down on the edge of the mattress. “You’re all right—it’s over.…”

  As a gentle hand stroked her wet hair back, the tone of Doc Jane’s voice, more than the female’s actual words, helped the most.

  And then there was a straw sticking out of a soda can, brought close to her mouth.

  One draw of that cold, sweet nectar and Autumn’s eyes rolled back into her head. “Oh… blessed Virgin Scribe… what is that?”

  “Ginger ale. And you’re welcome—hey, not too fast.”

  After she’d finished the whole lot of it, she lay back again as a band was shuffled onto her arm and puffed up before being deflated. Next, a cold disk was pressed to her chest in a couple of places. A light was flashed in her eyes.

  “May I have some more ginger ale, please?” she asked.

  “Your wish is my command.”

  The healer did one better than that, returning not only with another chilly tin can and a straw, but some plain crackers that tasted like absolutely nothing and were total heaven in her belly.

  She was making quick work of the sustenance when she realized the healer had sat down in a chair and was saying nothing.

  Autumn stopped eating. “Do you not have any other patients?”

  “Just one, and she was fine when she got here.”

  “Oh.” Autumn picked up another of the crackers. “What are these called?”

  “Saltines. Of all the drugs I dispense down here, sometimes there’s nothing better.”

  “They’re wonderful.” She put the flaky, dusty square in her mouth and bit down. As a silence persisted, she said, “You want to know why I refused the drugs.”

  “It’s none of my business. But I do think you need to talk to someone about it.”

  “A professional of some order?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There is nothing wrong with letting nature take its course.” Autumn glanced over. “But I begged you not to get him. I told you not to call him.”

  “I had no choice.”

  Tears threatened, but she forced them away. “I didn’t want him to see me like that. Wellsie—”

  “What about her.”

  Autumn jerked around in surprise, rattling the crackers, splashing soda out over her hand. In the doorway, Tohrment loomed, a great dark shadow that filled the jambs.

  Doc Jane rose up. “I’ll just go check on Layla again. Your vitals are good, and I’ll bring a proper meal back with me when I come.”

  And then they were alone.

  He didn’t approach the bed, but stayed by the door, settling back against the wall. With his brows down tight and his arms linked over his chest, he was self-contained and explosive at the same time.

  “What the hell was that all about,” he said harshly.

  Autumn put the crackers and the can aside, then busied herself folding and unfolding the edge of the blanket.

  “I asked you a question.”

  Autumn cleared her throat. “I told Doc Jane not to summon you—”

  “Did you think if you suffered I’d come and help you out?”

  “Not at all—”

  “You sure about that? Because what did you think Jane was going to do when you refused to be treated?”

  “If you don’t believe me, ask the healer. I instructed her specifically not to call upon you. I knew that that would be too much for you—how could it not be after—”

  “This is not about my shellan. This has nothing to do with her.”

  “I’m not so sure about that—”

  “Trust me.”

  After that, he didn’t say anything else. He just stood there with that tense body and those hard eyes, staring at her as if he had never seen her before.

  “Where are your thoughts?” she asked quietly.

  He shook his head from side to side. “You don’t want to know.”

 
; “Yes, I do.”

  “I think I’ve been fooling myself all these months.”

  As she felt the shivering from the shower return, she knew the cause was not a temperature imbalance in her bones. Not anymore. “How so.”

  “Now isn’t the time for this.”

  As he turned to go, she had the very clear sense that she was not going to see him again. Ever.

  “Tohr,” she said in a rough voice. “There was no manipulation on my part—you need to believe that. I didn’t want you to service me—I would never put you through that.”

  After a moment, he looked over his shoulder, his eyes dead. “You know what? Fuck all that. It’s almost worse that you didn’t want me in here with you. Because the other option is that you’re mentally ill.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Autumn frowned. “And I am utterly sane.”

  “No, you’re not. If you were, you wouldn’t have chosen to put yourself through that—”

  “I just didn’t want the drugs. Your extrapolation is extreme—”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, brace yourself, you’re really not going to like my next conclusion. I’m beginning to think you’re with me to punish yourself.”

  She recoiled so sharply, her neck cracked again. “I most certainly am not—”

  “What better way to steep yourself in misery than to be with a male who loves someone else.”

  “That is not why I’m with you.”

  “How would you know, Autumn. You’ve been making a martyr out of yourself for centuries. You’ve been a servant, a maid, a laundress—and you’ve been fucking me for the last few months—which brings us back to my point about clinical insanity—”

  “How dare you judge my inner convictions,” she hissed. “You know nothing of what I think or feel!”

  “Bullshit. You’re in love with me.” He pivoted to face her and put up his palm to stop her commenting. “Don’t bother denying it—you tell me in your sleep every day. So let’s build a case. You clearly like to punish yourself. And you know damn well the only reason I’m with you is to get Wellsie out of the In Between. So don’t I just fit your pattern to a T—”

  “Get out,” she snapped. “Get out of here.”

  “What—you don’t want me to stay so you can make it hurt so good some more?”

  “You bastard.”

  “You got that right. I’ve been using you, and the only person it’s working for is you—God knows it’s gotten me nowhere. The good news is that this whole thing”—he gestured back and forth between them—“is going to give you a terrific excuse to torture yourself even longer— Oh, don’t bother with the denials. That symphath was your fault. I’m your fault. The weight of the world is all your fault, because you enjoy being the victim—”

  “Get out!” she screamed.

  “You know, the whole indignant routine is a little hard to take seriously, considering you spent the last twelve hours suffering—”

  “Get out!”

  “—when you didn’t have to.”

  She threw the first thing within reach at him—the soda can. But his reflexes were so good, he just caught it in his big hand… and then walked it right back over to the rolling table.

  “You might as well own the fact that you’re a masochist.” He set the thing down with deliberate finesse, as if he were daring her to pitch it at him again. “And I’ve been your drug of choice lately. But I’m not doing that anymore… and neither are you, at least not with me. This shit between us… it’s not healthy for me. It’s not healthy for you. And it’s all we are together. All we’ll ever have.” He cursed low and hard. “Look, I’m sorry, Autumn. For the whole fucking thing—I’m really sorry. I should have stopped this long ago, long before it went as far as it did—and all I can do to make it right is to end it right now.” He shook his head, his eyes growing haunted. “I was part of you self-destructing once, and I remember all too well the blisters that came from digging your grave. I’m not doing that again. I can’t. You will always have my sympathy for everything you’ve been through, but I’ve got my own shit to deal with.”

  As he fell silent, she wrapped her arms around herself. In a whisper, she said, “All this just because I didn’t want to be knocked out?”

  “It’s not just about the needing. You know it isn’t. If I were you, I’d take Jane’s advice and talk to someone. Maybe…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anything anymore. The only thing I’m sure of is that we can’t keep doing this. It’s getting us both worse than nowhere.”

  “You feel something for me,” she said, kicking her chin up. “I know it’s not love, but you feel—”

  “I feel sorry for you. That’s where I’m at. Because you’re just a victim. You’re no one but a victim who likes to suffer. Even if I could fall in love with you, there’s nothing about you to get truly attached to. You’re just a ghost who’s not really here… any more than I am. And in our case, two wrongs do not make a right.”

  At that, he turned his back on her and walked out, leaving her to reel in pain and loss, leaving her to confront his twisted vision of her past, her present, her future… leaving her alone in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that she was by herself.

  The door, as it shut behind him, made no sound whatsoever.

  SIXTY-ONE

  As Tohr stepped out into the hall, he was crazed, incoherent, on the verge of a violent breakdown. Jesus Christ, he had to get out of here, get away from her. And to think he’d called her insane?

  He was a fucking madman at the moment.

  When he looked up, Lassiter was right in front of him. “Not now—”

  The angel hauled back and cocked him so hard, he didn’t just see stars; he saw whole fucking galaxies of them.

  As he hit the concrete wall behind him, the angel grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him back again, rattling his molars.

  When his vision finally cleared, that pierced face was nothing short of a demon’s mask, the features distorted by the kind of anger that required a gravedigger’s cleanup.

  “You’re an asshole,” Lassiter barked. “A total fucking asshole.”

  Tohr tilted to the side and spit out blood. “Was it Maury or Ellen who taught you to judge character.”

  A long finger was shoved into his face. “Listen to me very carefully, because I’m going to say this only once.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather hit me again? I know I’d get more out of it—”

  Lassiter threw him into the wall again. “Shut up. And listen to me. You win.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve got what you wanted. Wellsie’s condemned for eternity—”

  “What the—”

  The third slam cut him off. “It’s over. Done.” He pointed to the closed door of Autumn’s room. “You just killed your chance when you ripped her apart.”

  Tohr lost it, his emotions detonating. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about—you don’t know shit! You haven’t had a clue about any of this, not me, not her—not your job! What the fuck have you done here for the last year? Nothing! You’ve been sitting on your ass watching talk shows while my Wellsie’s disappearing! You’re a goddamn waste of time!”

  “Really. Okay—you’re so fucking brilliant, how about this.” Lassiter released him and stepped back. “I quit.”

  “You can’t quit—”

  Lassiter flashed his middle finger. “I just did.”

  The angel turned away and stalked down the hall.

  “You’re fucking quitting! That’s great—fucking great! Talk about staying true to someone’s character, you selfish son of a bitch!”

  All he got was another bird flipped over the shoulder.

  With a vicious curse, Tohr made a move to go after the guy, but then stopped himself. Spinning around, he threw out a quick jab, punching the concrete so hard, he felt his knuckles break. And what do you know, the pounding pain in the back of his hand wasn’t even close to the agony in
his chest.

  He was absolutely raw, inside and out.

  Taking off in the opposite direction from that angel, he found himself at the heavy steel door that opened into the parking lot. With no clue what he was doing or where he was going, he sent it flying wide on its hinges, and marched out into the chilly air, going to the right, heading up the incline, passing the empty spaces that were demarcated with yellow paint.

  He went all the way to the back, to the farthest wall, and sat his ass down on the cold, hard asphalt, his shoulders against the damp concrete.

  As he breathed hard, he felt like he was in the goddamn tropics—likely the tail end of the needing’s effect on his body: Even though he’d been out like a light from the drugs, he had had plenty of exposure, his balls aching as if he’d put them in a vise, his cock still hard, his joints sore as if he had strained even in the morphine haze.

  Gritting his teeth, he sat alone and stared straight ahead, into the darkness.

  This was the only safe place for him at the moment.

  Probably for a while.

  When Layla heard shouting, she poked her head out of the gymnasium to see who was yelling—and immediately ducked back inside. Tohr and Lassiter were having a set-to, and that was not anything she had to get involved with.

  She had her own problems.

  In spite of Autumn’s needing, she had stayed down in the clinic for the night, knowing she had spent some time up at the Sanctuary recently, so there was no reason to worry about her cycle. More to the point, however, she had nowhere else to go. Qhuinn and John were no doubt talking to the king and the Primale at the main house, and soon enough she would be summoned to learn of her fate.

  Faced with possible exile—or worse, death for aiding a traitor—she had spent the hours upon hours upon hours walking around the edges of the gym’s honey-colored floor, passing the bleachers and the benches, and the entrances into the PT suite, and the doors out into the corridor. And then going back by them all again.

  Her anxiety was such that it spooled out tension like a wool spinner, the twisted threads reaching up to encircle her throat and winding down to constrict her gut.