“So?” Wrath demanded.
V waited until the double doors were closed again.
“I know where Xcor is.”
Layla sat in the padded armchair across from Xcor as he ate all of the soup, all of the Carr’s water crackers, and then all of the frozen pepperoni pizza she’d slipped into the oven before she’d brought the first load of food down here to the basement.
He didn’t speak, and with no talk going on, she found herself staring at him with an absorption so complete, she felt like apologizing for it.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, he had lost so much weight, and yet even though he was starving, he used his silverware with a polite precision—even cutting the pizza with a knife and fork. He also wiped his lips regularly with his napkin, chewed with his mouth closed, and wasn’t sloppy about any of it even though he was consuming the calories at quite a clip.
When he was finally finished, she said, “There is some mint chocolate chip ice cream? A half gallon of it? Upstairs … you know, in the refrigerator.”
What, like they’d keep it on a bookshelf?
He simply shook his head, folded his napkin, and sat back on the sofa. There was a sizable bulge in his stomach, and he exhaled as if he needed to make room for everything in his torso—and air was a commodity less desirable than the pizza.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
As their eyes met, she was very aware that the two of them were alone … and for a moment, she entertained a fantasy that this was their house, and her young were asleep upstairs, and they were about to enjoy some time by themselves.
“I need to go.” With that, he stood up and took the tray along with him. “I … have to leave.”
Layla rose to her feet and wrapped her arms around herself. “All right.”
She expected to follow him up the stairs. And then what? Well, perhaps they would share a lingering embrace and then a good-bye that would nearly kill her—
Xcor put the tray back down.
When he came around the table to her and put out his arms, she went to him in a rush. Going up against his body, she held onto him as hard as she could. She hated the feel of his bones, the pads of his muscle having wasted away, but as she turned her head and put her ear to the center of his chest, his heart rate was strong, even. Powerful.
His hands, so big, so gentle, stroked up and down her back.
“It’s safer for you,” he said into her hair.
She pulled away and looked up at him. “Kiss me. Once before you go.”
Xcor closed his eyes as if he were in pain. But then he took her face in his palms and dropped his mouth to hers—almost.
Lingering just a hairsbreadth from her lips, he whispered in the Old Language, “My heart is ever yours. Where’er I go, it is with you, through the darkness and into the light, from all my waking hours to those in which I sleep. Always … with you.”
The kiss, when it came, was like the fall of snow, silent and soft, but it was warm, so very warm. And as she leaned into him, his arms went around her waist and his hips came up against hers. He was instantly aroused—she could feel his hard erection against her belly—and she had wanted him for so long she teared up.
Dreams. So many dreams she had had, situations she had conjured up in her mind where he had finally come to her, and undressed her, and taken her under himself, his sex going deep into hers. There had been countless fantasies, each more impossible than the last, of them making love out on the grounds of the compound, in bathrooms, in the back of a car, under the tree in their meadow.
Her sex life was non-existent in the real world. In her imagination, however, it had flourished.
But none of that was to be.
Xcor broke the contact, even though she could tell he was fighting his instinct to mark her. Indeed, a scent was emanating from him, the dark spices rich in her nose, turning her on as much as the feel of his arousal, his body, his hands, his mouth.
“I cannot have you,” he said in a husky voice. “I’ve done enough damage to you as it stands.”
“This could be our only chance,” she heard herself beg. “I know … I know you will not come back to me.”
He seemed impossibly sad as he shook his head. “It is not to be for us.”
“Says who.”
Acting on a desperate surge, she grabbed his nape and brought him back to her mouth—and then she kissed him with everything she had, her tongue entering him such that he gasped, her body arching into his, her thighs splitting so that he could get even closer to her core.
“Layla,” he groaned. “Dearest Fates … this isn’t right …”
He was perfectly correct, of course. This wasn’t right at all, assuming they used the abacus of the rest of the world. But here and now, in this otherwise empty house, it was—
All at once, he set her back from him—and just as she was about to protest, she heard the footsteps overhead. Two sets. Both very, very heavy.
“Vishous,” she whispered.
The Brother’s disembodied voice came down the stairwell. “Yeah, and I came with a friend.”
Layla put herself in front of Xcor, but he was having none of that. He moved her bodily behind him, his protective side clearly refusing to allow her to be before him.
The Brother came down the stairwell first, and he had both his guns out—and at first, she couldn’t comprehend who was behind him. But there was only one set of legs that was that long. Only one chest that was that broad. Only one male vampire on the planet who had black hair that fell down to his hips.
The King had come.
And as Wrath took the final step down into the basement, he planted both shitkickers and breathed in deep, his nostrils flaring. Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was an enormous male, and those black wraparound sunglasses, which allowed nothing to show of his eyes, made him seem like a straight-up killer.
Which, she supposed, he was.
“Well, well, well, romance is in the air,” he muttered. “Ain’t that a bitch.”
TWENTY-FIVE
As Xcor stared his previous enemy in the face, he felt no animosity toward the male. No anger, nor greed for the King’s position. No aggression toward a target.
“So,” Wrath said in a voice suitable for both the aristocrat and the warrior he was, “last time you were able to look me in the eye, I ended up with a bullet in my throat.”
Off to the side, the Brother Vishous cursed under his breath and lit up a cigarette. It was obvious that this visitation was not something the fighter supported, but it was not difficult to imagine that if the Blind King made up his mind about something, nothing would disabuse him of his notion.
“Shall I proffer an apology?” Xcor asked. “What is appropriate in situations such as this?”
“Your head on a stick,” V muttered. “And your balls in my pocket.”
With the way Wrath shook his head at the Brother, one could imagine he was rolling his eyes behind those pitch-black sunglasses. And then the King refocused. “I don’t think there’s any way of going back from something like a murder attempt.”
Xcor nodded. “I believe you are right. And thus we are left exactly where?”
Wrath glanced in Layla’s direction. “I’d ask you to leave us, but I have a feeling you won’t.”
“I would prefer to stay,” the Chosen said, “thank you.”
“Fine.” Wrath’s lips thinned to a slash of disapproval, but he didn’t force the point. “So, Xcor, leader of the Band of Bastards, traitor, murderer, yada yada yada—hell of a bunch of titles you got going for you, FYI—you mind me inquiring what your plans are?”
“I rather think that is up to you, is it not?”
“What do you know, he’s got a brain.” Wrath laughed coldly. “And let’s wait on that, actually. I’m gonna ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind? Great. Thanks for being so accommodating.”
Xcor nearly smiled a little. The King was his kind of male in so many ways.
“What are your intentions when it comes to my throne?”
As Wrath spoke, his nostrils flared and Xcor gathered the Blind King had some way of sussing out the truth. Fortunately, there was no reason to keep it from the male. o;So?” Wrath demanded.
V waited until the double doors were closed again.
“I know where Xcor is.”
Layla sat in the padded armchair across from Xcor as he ate all of the soup, all of the Carr’s water crackers, and then all of the frozen pepperoni pizza she’d slipped into the oven before she’d brought the first load of food down here to the basement.
He didn’t speak, and with no talk going on, she found herself staring at him with an absorption so complete, she felt like apologizing for it.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, he had lost so much weight, and yet even though he was starving, he used his silverware with a polite precision—even cutting the pizza with a knife and fork. He also wiped his lips regularly with his napkin, chewed with his mouth closed, and wasn’t sloppy about any of it even though he was consuming the calories at quite a clip.
When he was finally finished, she said, “There is some mint chocolate chip ice cream? A half gallon of it? Upstairs … you know, in the refrigerator.”
What, like they’d keep it on a bookshelf?
He simply shook his head, folded his napkin, and sat back on the sofa. There was a sizable bulge in his stomach, and he exhaled as if he needed to make room for everything in his torso—and air was a commodity less desirable than the pizza.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
As their eyes met, she was very aware that the two of them were alone … and for a moment, she entertained a fantasy that this was their house, and her young were asleep upstairs, and they were about to enjoy some time by themselves.
“I need to go.” With that, he stood up and took the tray along with him. “I … have to leave.”
Layla rose to her feet and wrapped her arms around herself. “All right.”
She expected to follow him up the stairs. And then what? Well, perhaps they would share a lingering embrace and then a good-bye that would nearly kill her—
Xcor put the tray back down.
When he came around the table to her and put out his arms, she went to him in a rush. Going up against his body, she held onto him as hard as she could. She hated the feel of his bones, the pads of his muscle having wasted away, but as she turned her head and put her ear to the center of his chest, his heart rate was strong, even. Powerful.
His hands, so big, so gentle, stroked up and down her back.
“It’s safer for you,” he said into her hair.
She pulled away and looked up at him. “Kiss me. Once before you go.”
Xcor closed his eyes as if he were in pain. But then he took her face in his palms and dropped his mouth to hers—almost.
Lingering just a hairsbreadth from her lips, he whispered in the Old Language, “My heart is ever yours. Where’er I go, it is with you, through the darkness and into the light, from all my waking hours to those in which I sleep. Always … with you.”
The kiss, when it came, was like the fall of snow, silent and soft, but it was warm, so very warm. And as she leaned into him, his arms went around her waist and his hips came up against hers. He was instantly aroused—she could feel his hard erection against her belly—and she had wanted him for so long she teared up.
Dreams. So many dreams she had had, situations she had conjured up in her mind where he had finally come to her, and undressed her, and taken her under himself, his sex going deep into hers. There had been countless fantasies, each more impossible than the last, of them making love out on the grounds of the compound, in bathrooms, in the back of a car, under the tree in their meadow.
Her sex life was non-existent in the real world. In her imagination, however, it had flourished.
But none of that was to be.
Xcor broke the contact, even though she could tell he was fighting his instinct to mark her. Indeed, a scent was emanating from him, the dark spices rich in her nose, turning her on as much as the feel of his arousal, his body, his hands, his mouth.
“I cannot have you,” he said in a husky voice. “I’ve done enough damage to you as it stands.”
“This could be our only chance,” she heard herself beg. “I know … I know you will not come back to me.”
He seemed impossibly sad as he shook his head. “It is not to be for us.”
“Says who.”
Acting on a desperate surge, she grabbed his nape and brought him back to her mouth—and then she kissed him with everything she had, her tongue entering him such that he gasped, her body arching into his, her thighs splitting so that he could get even closer to her core.
“Layla,” he groaned. “Dearest Fates … this isn’t right …”
He was perfectly correct, of course. This wasn’t right at all, assuming they used the abacus of the rest of the world. But here and now, in this otherwise empty house, it was—
All at once, he set her back from him—and just as she was about to protest, she heard the footsteps overhead. Two sets. Both very, very heavy.
“Vishous,” she whispered.
The Brother’s disembodied voice came down the stairwell. “Yeah, and I came with a friend.”
Layla put herself in front of Xcor, but he was having none of that. He moved her bodily behind him, his protective side clearly refusing to allow her to be before him.
The Brother came down the stairwell first, and he had both his guns out—and at first, she couldn’t comprehend who was behind him. But there was only one set of legs that was that long. Only one chest that was that broad. Only one male vampire on the planet who had black hair that fell down to his hips.
The King had come.
And as Wrath took the final step down into the basement, he planted both shitkickers and breathed in deep, his nostrils flaring. Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was an enormous male, and those black wraparound sunglasses, which allowed nothing to show of his eyes, made him seem like a straight-up killer.
Which, she supposed, he was.
“Well, well, well, romance is in the air,” he muttered. “Ain’t that a bitch.”
TWENTY-FIVE
As Xcor stared his previous enemy in the face, he felt no animosity toward the male. No anger, nor greed for the King’s position. No aggression toward a target.
“So,” Wrath said in a voice suitable for both the aristocrat and the warrior he was, “last time you were able to look me in the eye, I ended up with a bullet in my throat.”
Off to the side, the Brother Vishous cursed under his breath and lit up a cigarette. It was obvious that this visitation was not something the fighter supported, but it was not difficult to imagine that if the Blind King made up his mind about something, nothing would disabuse him of his notion.
“Shall I proffer an apology?” Xcor asked. “What is appropriate in situations such as this?”
“Your head on a stick,” V muttered. “And your balls in my pocket.”
With the way Wrath shook his head at the Brother, one could imagine he was rolling his eyes behind those pitch-black sunglasses. And then the King refocused. “I don’t think there’s any way of going back from something like a murder attempt.”
Xcor nodded. “I believe you are right. And thus we are left exactly where?”
Wrath glanced in Layla’s direction. “I’d ask you to leave us, but I have a feeling you won’t.”
“I would prefer to stay,” the Chosen said, “thank you.”
“Fine.” Wrath’s lips thinned to a slash of disapproval, but he didn’t force the point. “So, Xcor, leader of the Band of Bastards, traitor, murderer, yada yada yada—hell of a bunch of titles you got going for you, FYI—you mind me inquiring what your plans are?”
“I rather think that is up to you, is it not?”
“What do you know, he’s got a brain.” Wrath laughed coldly. “And let’s wait on that, actually. I’m gonna ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind? Great. Thanks for being so accommodating.”
Xcor nearly smiled a little. The King was his kind of male in so many ways.
“What are your intentions when it comes to my throne?”
As Wrath spoke, his nostrils flared and Xcor gathered the Blind King had some way of sussing out the truth. Fortunately, there was no reason to keep it from the male.