Lover Unbound (Black Dagger Brotherhood 5)

The air had a smell here that was not usual, the scent recalling certain spices. She had a feeling it was because the Brothers had actually come to this room on occasion and had lingered among their history, taking books out, perhaps about themselves, perhaps about their forebears. She tried to imagine them here and couldn't, as she'd never seen one of them. She had never seen a male in person, actually.

Cormia worked fast to discover the order of the volumes. It appeared that they were arranged by year - Oh, wait. There was a biography section, as well.

She knelt down. Each set of these volumes was marked with a number and the name of the Brother, along with his paternal lineage. The first of them was an ancient tome bearing symbols with an archaic variation she recalled from some of the oldest parts of the Scribe Virgin's diary. This initial warrior had several books to his name and number, and the next two Brothers bore him as their sire.

Farther down the line, she randomly took out a book and opened it. The title page was resplendent, a painted portrait of the Brother surrounded by script detailing his name and birth date and induction into the Brotherhood as well as his prowess on the field by weapon and tactic. The next page was the warrior's lineage for generations, followed by a listing of the females he'd mated and the young he'd sired. Then chapter by chapter his life was detailed, both on the field and off.

This Brother, Tohrture, had evidently lived long and fought well. There were three books on him, and one of the last notations was the male's joy when his one surviving son, Rhage, joined the Brotherhood.

Cormia put the book back and kept going, trailing her forefinger over the bindings, touching the names. These males had fought to keep her safe; they were the ones who had come when the Chosen were attacked those decades ago. They were also the ones who kept civilians protected from the lessers. Mayhap this Primale arrangement would be well after all. Surely one whose mission was to shield the innocent would not hurt her?

As she had no idea how old her promised was or when he had joined the Brotherhood, she looked at each book. There were so many of them, whole stacks...

Her finger stopped on a spine of a thick volume, one of four.

The Bloodletter

356

The name of the Primale's sire made her go cold. She had read about him as part of the history of the race, and dear Virgin, perhaps she was wrong. If the stories about that male were true, even those who fought nobly could be cruel.

Odd that his paternal line wasn't listed.

She kept going, tracing over more spines and more names.

VISHOUS

Son of the Bloodletter

428

There was only one volume, and it was thinner than her finger. As she slid it free, she smoothed her palm over the cover, her heart pounding. The binding was stiff as she opened it, as if the book had been rarely breached. Which indeed it had not been. There was no portrait nor carefully penned tribute to his fighting skills, only a birth date that indicated he'd be three hundred and three years old soon, and a notation of when he was inducted into the Brotherhood. She turned the page. There was no mention of his lineage save for the Bloodletter, and the rest of the book was blank.

Replacing it, she returned to the father's volumes and pulled out the third in the set. She read about the sire in hopes of learning something about the son that might allay her fears, but what she found was a level of cruelty that made her pray the Primale took after his mother, whoever that might be. The Bloodletter was indeed the right name for the warrior for he was brutal on vampires and lessers alike.

Flipping to the back, she found on the last page a recording of his death date, though no mention of the manner. She took out the first volume and opened it to see the portrait. The father had had jet-black hair and a full beard and eyes that made her want to put the book away and never open it again.

After replacing the tome, she sat down on the floor. At the conclusion of the Scribe Virgin's sequester the Bloodletter's son would come for Cormia, and he would take her body as his rightful possession. She couldn't imagine what the act entailed or what the male did, and dreaded the sexual lessons.

At least as Primale he would lay with others, she told herself. Many others, some of whom who had been trained to pleasure males. No doubt he would prefer them. If she had any luck at all, she would be rarely visited.

Chapter Thirteen

As Butch stretched out on Vishous's bed, V was ashamed to admit it, but he'd spent a lot of days wondering what this would be like. Feel like. Smell like. Now that it was reality, he was glad he had to concentrate on healing Butch. Otherwise he had a feeling it would be too intense and he'd have to pull away.

As his chest brushed against Butch's, he tried to tell himself he didn't need this. He tried to pretend that he didn't need this feel of someone beside him, that he wasn't eased as he lay head-to-toe with another person, that he didn't care about the warmth and the weight against his body.

That the healing of the cop didn't heal him.

But that was, of course, all bullshit. As V wrapped his arms around Butch and opened himself up to take in the Omega's evil, he needed it all. With the visit from his mother and the shooting, he craved the closeness of another, needed to feel arms that returned his embrace. He to have the beat of a heart against his own.

He spent so much time keeping his hand away from others, keeping himself apart from others. To let down his guard with the one person he truly trusted made his eyes sting.

Good thing he never cried or his cheeks would be wet as stones in a river.

As Butch shuddered in relief, Vishous felt the trembling in the male's shoulders and hips. Knowing it was illicit, but unable to stop himself, V took his tattooed hand and buried it deep in Butch's thick hair. While the cop let out another groan and moved closer, V shifted his eyes over to his surgeon.

She was over by the chair, watching them, her eyes wide, her mouth open slightly.

The only reason V didn't feel awkward as hell was because he knew that when she left she would have no memories of this private moment. Otherwise he couldn't have handled it. Shit like this didn't happen often in his life - mostly because he didn't let it. And he was damned if he'd have some stranger remembering his private biz.

Except... she didn't really feel like a stranger.

His surgeon's hand went to her throat, and as she sank down into the seat of the chair. As time stretched out languidly, uncurling like a lazy dog on a hazy summer night, her eyes never left his, and he didn't look away either.

That word came back to him: Mine.

Except which one was he thinking of? Butch or her?

Her, he realized. It was the female across the room who was bringing that word out of him.

Butch shifted, his legs brushing against V's through the blankets. With a stab of guilt, V recalled the times he'd imagined himself with Butch, imagined the two of them lying as they were now, imagined them... well, healing wasn't the half of it. Strange, though. Now that it was happening, V wasn't thinking anything sexual toward Butch. No... the sexual drive and the bonding word were directed toward the silent human woman across the room, the one who was clearly shocked.

Maybe she couldn't handle two men being together? Not that he and Butch were ever going to be.

For some ridiculous f**king reason, V said to her, "He is my best friend."

She seemed surprised that he'd offered any explanation. Which made two of them.

Jane couldn't take her eyes off the bed. The patient and Red Sox were glowing together, a soft light emanating from their bodies, and something was happening between them, some kind of exchange. Jesus, that sweet smell was fading, wasn't it.

And best friends? She looked at the patient's hand buried in Red Sox's hair and the way those heavy arms held the man close. Sure they were buddies, but how much further than that did it go?

After God only knew how long, Red Sox let out a long sigh and lifted his head. With their faces separated by a mere matter of inches, Jane braced herself. She had no problem with men being together, but for some insane reason she didn't want to see her patient kiss his friend. Or anybody else.

"Are you okay?" Red Sox asked.

The patient's voice was low and soft. "Yeah. Tired."

"I'll bet." Red Sox got up off the bed in a lithe move. Holy hell, he looked as if he'd spent a month at a spa. His color was back to normal, and his eyes were unclouded and alert. And that air of malevolence was gone.

The patient repositioned himself on his back. Then rolled to his side with a wince. Then tried his back again. His legs scissored under the covers the whole time, as if he were trying to outrun whatever feeling was in his body.