Lover Enshrined (18 page)

Blay whispered, “Let’s go, Qhuinn.”

Qhuinn gritted his teeth. “You need to shut your hole, Lash. For real.”

John stepped into his buddy’s grille and signed,
Let’s just go to Blay’s and chill, okay?

“Hey, John, a question just occurred to me. When you were raped in the stairwell by that human guy, did you scream with your hands? Or just breathe really hard?”

John went devastation-still. As did his two friends.

No one moved. No one breathed.

The locker room became so quiet that the dripping from the communal shower sounded like a snare drum.

Lash shut his locker door with a smile and looked at the two others. “I read his medical file. It’s all in there. He was sent to Havers’s for therapy because he was exhibiting symptoms of”—Lash did air quotations—“ ‘post-traumatic stress.’ So come on, John, when the guy fucked you, did you try to scream? Did you, John?”

Surely. This. Was. A. Nightmare, John thought as his balls shriveled up.

Lash laughed and shoved his feet into combat boots. “Look at you. All three of you struck stupid. It’s the cock-sucking Retardateers.”

Qhuinn’s voice took a tone it never had before. There was no bravado, no heated anger. It was stone-cold nasty. “You better pray this doesn’t get out. To anyone.”

“Or what? Come on, Qhuinn, I’m a firstborn son. My father is your father’s eldest brother. Do you really think you can touch me? Hmm . . . nah, not so much, my boy. Not so much.”

“Not one word, Lash.”

“Whatever. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get ghost. The bunch of you are sucking the will to live right out of me.” Lash shut his locker and walked over to the door. Naturally, he paused and looked over his shoulder, smoothing his blond hair. “Bet you didn’t scream, John. Bet you asked for more. Bet you begged the—”

John dematerialized.

For the first time in his life, he moved from one spot to another right through the air. Taking form in front of Lash and planting his body against the door to block the guy’s exit, he looked back at his friends and bared his fangs. Lash was his and his alone.

When they both nodded, the beat-down began.

Lash was ready for the first punch, all braced with his hands up and his weight on his thighs. So instead of throwing a fist, John ducked, lunged forward, and bear-hugged the bastard’s waist, crashing him back into a wall of lockers.

Lash wasn’t fazed in the slightest and recovered with a knee crack that nearly broke John’s face. Recoiling from the smash, John stumbled back, then reengaged, grabbing Lash’s throat, jamming his thumbs up under the guy’s chin, and locking in tight. He head-butted Lash’s nose, busting that fucker open like a geyser, but Lash didn’t give a shit. He smiled through the blood that ran down into his mouth and threw a low rightie gut punch that kicked John’s liver up into his lungs.

Fists were traded back and forth, back and forth, as the two of them plowed into banks of lockers and benches and trash bins. At some point, a couple of trainees tried to come in, but Blay and Quinn forced them out and locked the door.

John grabbed onto Lash’s hair, reared back, and bit him on top of the shoulder. As he pulled away, flesh tore free, and the two of them spun around while Lash welded his palms together and swung a two-hander square into John’s temple. The impact sent him tap-dancing into the shower, but he caught himself before he fell. Unfortunately, his re flexes weren’t fast enough to keep him from getting cracked in the jaw.

It was like getting hit with a baseball bat, and he realized Lash had somehow slipped on a pair of old-fashioned brass knuckles—probably because he needed the advantage given that John was bigger. Another hit landed somewhere on John’s face, and suddenly it was the Fourth of July in his head, fireworks everywhere. Before he could blink clear his vision, he got slammed face-first into the tiled wall in the shower and held in place.

Lash reached around to the front of John’s pants.

“How about a replay, John-boy?” the guy rasped. “Or do you only like humans in your ass?”

The feel of a big body pressing into his from behind froze John solid.

It should have energized him. It should have sent him wild. Instead, he became the frail boy he’d been, helpless and terrified and at the mercy of someone much, much bigger. He was instantly where he’d been in that decrepit stairwell, pushed against the wall, trapped, overpowered.

Tears sprang to his eyes. No, not this . . . not this again— From out of nowhere, a war cry came, and the weight was lifted from him.

John fell to his knees and threw up on the wet tile floor.

When his retching receded, he let himself fall onto his side and twisted into a fetal position, shaking like the nancy he was—

Lash was down on the tile right next to him . . . and his throat was cut wide-open.

The guy was trying to breathe, trying to hold his blood in, and it wasn’t working.

John looked up in horror.

Qhuinn stood above them both, panting. In his right hand was a bloody hunting knife.

“Oh, Jesus . . .” Blay said. “What the fuck did you do, Qhuinn?”

This was bad. This was life-altering bad. For all of them. What had started as a brawl . . . had likely ended up as a murder.

John opened his mouth to holler for help. Naturally, nothing came out.

“I’ll get someone,” Blay said, and ran out.

John sat up, whipped off his shirt, and leaned over Lash. Taking the guy’s hands away, he pressed what had been on his back to the open wound and prayed the blood would stop. Lash met his eyes, then brought his own hands up as if to help.

Lie still
, John mouthed.
Just lie still. I can hear people coming.

Lash coughed and blood came out of his mouth, spattering over his lower lip and running down his chin. Shit, the red stuff was everywhere.

But they had done this before, John told himself. The two of them had fought right here in this shower, and the drain had run red then, too, and it had been okay.

Not this time
, a voice inside of him warned.
Not this time . . .

A roar of panic flared, and he started to pray for Lash to live. Then he prayed for time to go backward. Then he wished for this to be a dream. . . .

Someone was standing over him and saying his name.

“John?” He looked up. It was Doc Jane, the Brotherhood ’s private physician, and Vishous’s
shellan
. Her translucent, ghostly face was calm, her voice even and soothing. As she knelt down, she became as solid as he was. “John, I need you to step back so I can get a look at him, okay? I want you to let go and step back. You’ve done a good job, but I need to take care of him now.”

He nodded. But even still, she had to touch his hands to get him to release his hold on his shirt.

Someone picked him up off his knees. Blay. Yeah, it was Blay. He could tell by the guy’s aftershave. Jump by Joop!

There were a lot of other people in the locker room. Rhage was just inside the shower, and next to him was V. Butch was there.

Qhuinn . . . where was Qhuinn?

John looked around and found him across the way. The bloody knife was gone from his hand, and Zsadist was next to the guy, looming.

Qhuinn was paler than the white tile, his mismatched eyes unblinking as he stared at Lash.

“You’re under house arrest at your parents’,” Zsadist said to Qhuinn. “If he dies, you’re up for murder.”

Rhage went over to Qhuinn, as if thinking that Z’s hard tone wasn’t helping the sitch. “Come on, son, let’s get your stuff from your locker.”

Rhage was the one who led Qhuinn out of the locker room, and Blay followed them.

John stayed right where he was. Please let Lash live, he thought. Please . . .

Man, he didn’t like the way Doc Jane kept shaking her head as she worked on the guy, her doctor’s bag cracked open, instruments flying as she tried to stitch up Lash’s neck.

“Tell me.”

John jumped and turned his head. It was Z.

“Tell me how it happened, John.”

John looked back down at Lash and replayed the scene. Oh, Jesus . . . he didn’t want to go into the whys. Even though Zsadist knew about his past, he couldn’t bring himself to tell the Brother the reason Qhuinn had hard-cored it.

Maybe it was because he still couldn’t believe his past had come out like that. Maybe it was because the old nightmare had just been renewed.

Maybe it was because he was a pussy who couldn’t man up for his friends.

Z’s deformed lip tightened. “Listen, John, Qhuinn’s in deep shit. Legally he’s still a minor, but that’s assault with a deadly against a first son. The family is going to come gunning for him even if Lash survives, and we’re going to need to know what happened here.”

Doc Jane stood up. “He’s closed, but he’s at risk for stroke. I want him to go to Havers’s.
Stat
.”

Z nodded and called forward two
doggen
, who had a gurney between them. “Fritz is ready with the car, and I’ll be going with them.”

As Lash was lifted up off the tile, the Brother pegged John with grim eyes. “You want to save your friend, you’re going to need to tell us what went down.”

John watched the group roll Lash out of the locker room.

As the door eased shut, his knees wobbled, and he looked at the pool of blood in the center of the shower.

Over in the corner of the locker room, there was a hose that was used for the daily cleaning of the facilities. John forced his feet to go across to where the thing was mounted on the wall. Uncoiling it, he turned the water on, pulled the head over into the shower, then twisted the nozzle open. He swept the spray back and forth, back and forth, moving inch by inch, chasing the blood away toward the drain, where it was swallowed with a gurgle.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The tile went from red to pink to white. But it didn’t clean up the mess. Not in the fucking slightest.

Chapter Thirteen

Phury felt hands on his skin, small, light- fingered hands, and they were traveling down his belly. They were headed for the juncture of his thighs, and thank God for that. His arousal was swollen and hot and hungry God for that. His arousal was swollen and hot and hungry for release, and the closer the hands got to it, the more his hips pushed up and retreated back, his ass clenching and releasing as it gave in to the thrusting he was dying to do.

His cock wept—he could feel the wetness on his stomach. Or maybe he’d already come once?

Oh, those hands, just tickling across his skin. That special feathery touch made his arousal strain even harder, as if it could reach out and get in the way if it tried hard enough.

Small hands, heading for his—

Phury woke up on a body jerk that sent his pillow popping off the bed.

“Shit.”

Underneath the roll of blankets, his cock throbbed, and not with the usual ambient need that was a male’s evening wake-up call. No . . . this was specific. His body wanted something very specific from one particular female.

Cormia.

She’s right next door,
he pointed out to himself.

And what a prize you are
, the wizard shot back.
Why don’t you go to her, mate. I’m sure she’ll be just thrilled to see you after the way you let her leave last night. Not a word to her. Not even an acknowledgment of her gratitude to you.

Not able to argue with that, Phury looked to the chaise.

It was the first time he had ever fed a female.

As he felt for her bite mark on his neck, he noted that it was gone, healed away.

One of life’s great milestones had been met . . . and it saddened him. Not that he regretted it was with her. Not at all. But he wished he had told her that she was his first at the time.

Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he looked at the clock. Midnight.
Midnight?
Man, he’d been asleep for about eight hours, clearly because of the feeding. He didn’t feel refreshed, though. His stomach was rolling and his head was pounding.

As he reached for the wake-up blunt he’d prepared before he’d crashed, he stopped short. His hand was shaking so badly, he doubted he could pick the thing up, and he stared at his palm, willing it to still, making no impression whatsoever.

It took him three tries to get the hand-rolled off the bedside table, and he watched his fumbles from a distance, as if it were someone else’s hand, someone else’s blunt. Once the twist of leaves and paper was between his lips, he struggled to get his lighter in position and work the flint wheel.

Two tokes in and the shaking stopped. The headache evaporated. His stomach calmed.

Unfortunately, another rattling went off across the room and all three came back: The Primale medallion went into its dance routine on the bureau again.

He left the thing where it was and worked his way through the blunt, thinking about Cormia. He doubted she would have told him she needed to feed. What had happened during the daylight hours in this room had been a spur-of-the -moment combustion generated by her bloodlust, and he couldn’t take it as evidence that she wanted him sexually. She hadn’t turned away from the sex last night, true, but that was very different from her wanting him, wasn’t it. Need was not the same as choice. She’d needed his blood. He’d needed her body.

The Chosen needed both of them to get with the program.

Stabbing out what little was left of the hand-rolled, he stared across his bedroom at the bureau. The medallion had finally stalled out.

It took him less than ten minutes to shower, dress in white silks, and put the Primale medallion’s leather thong over his head. As the slab of gold settled between his pecs, its weight was warm, probably because of its workout.

He traveled directly to the Other Side, having special dispensation as Primale to skip being routed through the Scribe Virgin’s courtyard. Taking form in front of the Sanctuary ’s amphitheater, where the whole thing had started five months ago, he found it hard to believe he really had taken Vishous’s place as Primale.