In the strangest way, she was. . . ensnared. . . held captive by a deep blue stare that even in the night, and despite the fact that he was fully mortal, appeared to be lit with fire. And under that regard, her heart quickened and her eyes clung to him as if he were at once indecipherable and capable of her understanding -
Sounds came out of him, guttural and incomprehensible because of his wounds, urging her to to proceed with haste.
He needed to be cleaned. Cared for. Nursed back to health over a matter of days, perhaps weeks. Yet here he was in this field, with these males who obviously knew more about weapons than healing.
She looked at the soldier she knew. "You must take him in to be treated after this. "
Although she got a nod and an affirmation as a reply, her instincts told her it was a lie.
Males, she thought derisively, were too tough for their own good.
She refocused on the soldier. "You need me," she told him.
The sound of her voice appeared to put him further into some kind of thrall, and she took advantage of it. Weakened though he was, she had the distinct sense that he had more than enough power in his body to prevent her from bringing her vein to his mouth.
"Shhh," she said, reaching out and brushing his short hair back. "Be of ease, warrior. As you protect and serve the likes of me, allow me to return your service. "
So proud he was - she could tell by the hard thrust of his chin. And yet he appeared to listen to her, his hand dropping from her forearm, his mouth parting, as if he were hers to command.
Layla moved fast, prepared to take advantage of the relative surrender - for no doubt he would soon retreat from the submission. Biting into her wrist, she quickly brought her arm over his lips, the drops falling one by one.
As he accepted her gift, the sound he made was. . . nothing short of breathtaking: A groan laced with infinite gratitude and, in her opinion, baseless awe.
Oh, how those eyes of his held on to hers, until the field, the tree, the other two males faded away, and all she knew was the male she was feeding.
Compelled by something she was disinclined to argue with, she lowered her arm. . . until his mouth brushed her wrist: This was something she never did with the other males, even Qhuinn at this point. But she wanted to know what it felt like, this soldier's mouth upon her skin -
The instant contact was made, that sound he'd uttered returned, and then he formed a seal around the twin points. He did not hurt her; even as big as he was, as starved as he was, he did not ravage her. Not at all. He drew with care, keeping always his stare upon her own as if he were safeguarding her, in spite of the fact that he was the one who needed protection in his current condition.
Time passed, and she knew he was taking a great deal from her, but she did not care. She would have stayed forever in this meadow, beneath this tree. . . linked to this brave warrior who had nearly given his life in the war against the Lessening Society.
She could remember feeling something like this with Qhuinn, this incredible sensation of destination, even though she had not been aware she was traveling. But this pull put what she had once experienced with that other male to shame.
This was epic.
And yet. . . why should she trust such emotion? Mayhap this was just a heartier version of what she had felt for Qhuinn. Or mayhap this was simply how the Scribe Virgin ensured the survivability of the race, biology o'errunning logic.
Pushing such blasphemous thoughts aside, she focused on her job, her mission, her blessed contribution that was her only opportunity to serve now that the Chosen's role had been so diminished.
Providing blood to males of worth was all that was left of her calling. All that she had in her life.
Instead of thinking of herself, of the way she felt, she needed to thank the Scribe Virgin that she had come here in time to do her sacred duty. . . and then she had to return to the compound to find other opportunities to be of service.
Chapter Fifty
"What's changed, John. "
In the bedroom he and Xhex had once shared, John went over to the windows and felt the cold wafting through the clear glass. Down below, the gardens were bathed in security lighting, the false moon glow making the grout around the terrace's slate slabs seem phosphorescent.
As he surveyed the landscape, there wasn't much to look at. Everything had been prepped for winter, the beds of flowers quilted in mesh covers, the fruit trees bagged, the pool now drained. Stray leaves from the maples and oaks at the forest's edge skipped across the mowed, browning grass, like they were homeless and in search of shelter.
"John. What the hell is going on?"
In the end, Xhex had not committed, and he didn't blame her. One-eighties were disorienting, and real life sure as shit didn't come with seat belts or air bags.
How did he explain himself? he wondered as he scrambled for words.
Eventually, he pivoted around, brought up his hands, and signed, You were right.