Lover Reborn (39 page)

“Come back with me. See him. Rejoin your family. Much as it might pain you this night, you are as lost without us as we are without you.”

In response, Throe could only stare out over the city, its lights like that of the stars that were eclipsed up above.

“I cannot trust him,” he heard himself say.

“He has given you your freedom this night. Surely that means something.”

“We are all facing death sentences if we continue. I saw the Brotherhood—if they were formidable before in the Old Country, that is nothing compared to their resources now.”

“So they live well.”

“They live smart. I couldn’t find them even if I wished. And they have extensive facilities—they are a force to be reckoned with.” He glanced over. “Xcor will be disappointed with what I have learned—which is nothing.”

“He said no.”

Throe frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“He stated he wishes to know none of it. You shall never get an apology from him directly, but he has given you the key to the binds that entangle you, and he will accept no information from you.”

A brief anger shafted through him. Then what had it all been for?

Except… mayhap Xcor hadn’t considered that he’d feel the way he did. And Zypher was right; the idea of not being with those males was… like a death. After all these years, they were all he had.

“If I come back, I could be a security risk. What if I’ve made a secret pact with the Brotherhood. What if they are here.” He motioned around. “Or perhaps waiting elsewhere to follow me?”

Zypher shrugged with complete disregard. “We’ve been trying to meet up with them for months. Such a confluence would be welcome.”

Throe blinked. And then started to laugh. “You people are crazy.”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘we’?” Abruptly, Zypher shook his head. “You would never betray us. Even if you hated Xcor with your whole being, you would never compromise the rest of us.”

That was true, he thought. As for hating Xcor…

He stared down at the box in his arms.

There had been many times over the years when he had wondered at the turns and twists of his fate.

And it appeared tonight he was going to wonder anew at his destiny.

He had been unsure about the course against Wrath, but now that he had seen that Chosen female, he rather liked the idea of o’ertaking the throne and finding her and claiming her for himself.

Bloodthirsty? Yes, indeed—his earlier self would have never thought in such ways. But his newer self had gotten used to taking what he wanted, the cloak of civility having grown threadbare after years without his tending its delicate fibers.

If he could get to Wrath, he could find her again.…

Abruptly, he felt his mouth move and heard his own voice in the wind: “He is going to have to allow me to buy cell phones.”

Xcor stayed home all night long.

The problem was the damage to his forearms. He hated the fact that they had yet to heal, but he was smart enough to know that he could barely use them. Indeed, just gripping the spoon to feed himself soup was proving difficult.

A dagger against an enemy would be an impossibility. And then there was the infection risk.

It was the damn blood thing. Again. Mayhap if he had taken the time to feed from that whore back in the… fates, had it been in the spring?

Frowning, he performed an uneasy addition, one that yielded far too great a sum. No wonder he remained in difficult straits… and good thing he wasn’t completely blood crazed.

Or was he? Thinking back upon what he had wrought with Throe, it was difficult not to judge his actions by that condemning catchall.

With a curse, he hung his head, exhaustion and a strange kind of ennui settling upon his shoulders—

The back door at the kitchen opened, and given that it was too early for his soldiers to return, he knew that it was Zypher with the update on Throe’s departure.

“Was he all right?” Xcor asked without looking up. “Did he get off safely?”

“He is and he did.”

Xcor’s eyes shot up. Throe himself was in the archway, standing tall and proud, his eyes alert, his body strong.

“And he returneth safely,” the male finished in a grim tone.

Xcor immediately refocused on his soup and blinked hard. From a vast distance, he watched as the spoon in his hand shook out its contents.

“Did Zypher not tell you,” he muttered gruffly.

“That I was free? Aye. He did.”

“If you wish to fight, I shall set aside my meal.”

“I don’t know that you’re up to anything but feeding yourself the now.”

Damn sleeveless shirts, Xcor thought as he turned his arms inward so that less of the damage showed. “I could muster if need be. Where are your boots?”

“I don’t know. They took everything I had.”

“Were you treated well.”

“Well enough.” Throe came forward, the boards beneath his feet creaking. “Zypher said you wanted to know none of what I’ve seen.”

Xcor just shook his head.

“He also said that I would never get an apology out of you.” There was a long pause. “I want one. Now.”

Xcor put aside his soup and found himself searching the wounds he
had given himself, recalling all that pain, all that blood—which had dried brown on the floorboards beneath him.

“And then what,” he said in a rough voice.

“You’ll have to find out.”

Fair enough, Xcor thought.

Without grace—not that he had any, anyway—he rose to his feet. At his full height, he was unsteady for too many reasons to count, and the off-balance feeling got even worse as he met the eyes of his… friend.

Looking Throe in the face, he stepped up and put out his palm. “I am sorry.”

Three simple words spoken loud and clear. And they didn’t go nearly far enough.

“I was wrong to treat you as I did. I am… not as much of the Bloodletter as I thought—as I have e’er wanted to be.”

“This is not a bad thing,” Throe said quietly.

“When it comes to the likes of you, I would agree.”

“And the others?”

“The others as well.” Xcor shook his head. “That would be as far as it goes, however.”

“So your ambitions have not changed.”

“No. My methods, though… they will ne’er be the same.”

In the silence that followed, he had no clue what he was going to get in return: a curse, a punch, a wretched row. The instability struck him as more than fair.

“Ask me to return to you as a free male,” Throe demanded.

“Please. Come back, and you have my word—though it be worth less than a pence—that you shall be accorded the respect you have long deserved.”

After a moment, his palm was engulfed. “All right then.”

Xcor released a shuddering breath, one born out of relief. “All right, indeed.”

Releasing the fighter’s hand, he bent down, picked up his mostly untouched bowl of food… and offered what little he had to Throe.

“You will allow me to transform communications,” the male said.

“Aye.”

And that was that.

Throe accepted the soup and went over to where Xcor had been sitting. Sinking down to the floor, he put the brass box on the far side of himself and began to eat.

Xcor joined him on the stain of the blood he had shed during the day, and in silence, they completed their reunion. But it was not over, at least not on Xcor’s part.

His regret stayed with him, the heaviness of the burden of his actions altering him forever, like an injury that had scarred over and healed wrong.

Or rather, in this case… healed right.

N
o’One awoke in an earthquake.

Beneath her, the mattress was all a-jumbling, the great force of the disturbance pitching pillows this way and that, sending covers flying, the cold air barging in against her skin—

Her consciousness quickly redefined the cause of the chaos. It was not the earth moving, but Tohrment. He was flailing beside her as if fighting against ties that bound him to the bed, his massive body jerking uncontrollably.

He’d had that dream again. The one he refused to speak of, and which, therefore, had to concern his beloved.

The glow from the bathroom caught his naked body as he landed on his feet, the clenched muscles of his back throwing hard-lined shadows, his hands curled in fists, his thighs engaged as if he were about to spring forward.

As he caught his breath and got his bearings, the name that was carved into his skin in a graceful arch expanded and contracted, almost as if the female was alive again:

WELLESANDRA

Without a word, Tohrment stalked into the bathroom, closing the door, cutting off the illumination… and her.

Lying in the dark, she listened to the water start to run. A quick glance to the bedside clock indicated it was about time to get up, and yet she stayed where she was.

How many days had she spent in this bed of his? A month’s worth. No, two… mayhap three? Time had ceased to have meaning to her, the nights wafting by like fragrance on a summer’s breeze.

She supposed he was her first lover.

Except… he refused to take her fully.

Moreover, even after all this time together, he did not allow her to touch him. Nor did he sleep under the covers with her. Or kiss her on the mouth. And he did not join her in the tub or the pool, or watch her dress with lingering eyes… and he did not hold her when they slept.

Still, he was generous with his sensual talents, taking her time and time again to that place of transient bliss, always so careful with her body and her releases. And she knew it pleased him, as well: His body’s reaction was too powerful to hide.

It seemed greedy to want more. But she did.

In spite of all the mad heat they called up from each other, in spite of the way he freely fed from her and she did the same from him, she felt… stalled. Trapped in a place that was short of an ultimate destination. Even though she had found structure in her nights working down at the compound, and relief and anticipation every dawn when he came back in health and strength, she was… quagmired. Restless.

Unhappy.

Which was why she had finally requested a visitor to come to the compound this evening.

At least she could make some progress somewhere. Or so she hoped.

Slipping out from the pocket of warmth she herself created, she shivered even though the heating units were on. The inconsistent temperature was one thing that she had yet to get used to on this side—and the only thing about the Sanctuary that she missed. Here, there were times when she was o’erheated, and others when she had a chill, the latter more prevalent now that September had arrived and ushered in with it the early frosts of fall.

As she pulled on her robe, its folds were cold, and she trembled within the fabric’s cloying embrace. She made sure she was always dressed whenever
she was out of bed. Tohrment had never said as much, but she had the sense that he preferred her as such: As much as he appeared to enjoy the feel of her, his eyes avoided her nakedness and ducked away, too, when they were in public—even though surely his Brothers knew that she stayed with him.

She had a feeling, even though he had said he knew it was her whom he pleasured, that he tried to find his
shellan
in her body, in their experiences together.

Any reminder to the contrary would be difficult for him.

Slipping her feet into her leather moccasins, she hesitated before leaving. She hated that he was in extremis, but he would never talk to her about it. In fact, lately, he did not speak much when she was around him, even though their bodies were fluent in whatever language it was they communicated in. Indeed, nothing good could come out of her lingering, especially given the mood he had to be in.

Forcing herself to the door, she put her hood up and her head out, looking both ways before stepping into the corridor and shutting him in by himself.

As usual, she left without making a sound.

“Lassiter,” Tohr hissed into the bathroom mirror. When there was no reply, he splashed his face with cold water again.
“Lassiter.”

As he closed his eyes, he saw his Wellsie in that gray landscape. She was even farther away from him, off now in the distance… harder than ever to reach as she sat so still among those boulders of gray stone.

They were losing ground.

“Lassiter—where the
fuck
are you?”

The angel finally made an appearance over on the edge of the Jacuzzi, a box of Freddie Freihofer’s chocolate-chip cookies in one hand, a long-tall of milk in the other.

“Want one?” he said, jogging the calorie payload. “They’re right out of the fridge. So much better cold.”

Tohr glared at the guy. “You told me I was the problem.” When all he got was chewing, he had the urge to feed the whole box to the bastard. At once. “She’s still there. She’s nearly
gone
.”

Lassiter put the spoil-your-dinner aside, like maybe he’d just lost his appetite. And when he simply shook his head, Tohr had a moment of panic.

“If you’ve bullshitted me, angel, I’m going to kill you.”