Raised to Kill

Forty-Three

Allara was stunned into silence as he carried her away. It wasn’t until Brand deposited her in his ship and then climbed in himself and removed the black, shiny helmet that she found her voice.

“What…? How…? How can you be alive?” she blurted out at last, looking at him in wonder.

“Not for lack of trying on your part, sweetheart,” he said, one corner of his mouth twitching into a wry smile. “But you stabbed me in the right side of my chest—my heart is on the left. And because you called them right away afterwards, Olivia and Sylvan were able to save me.”

“Oh Brand…” She shook her head, tears rising to her eyes again. “I am so sorry! I can never be sorry enough.”

“Don’t be, baby,” he said gently. “I know why you did it. I know all about the Unbreakable Oath and how your aunt and father pressured you to satisfy the Blood Feud.”

“I should have been strong enough to resist!” Tears were pouring down Allara’s cheeks now. “Have you come now to take your revenge on me? I would not blame you if you wished to.”

Brand looked horrified.

“Take revenge on you? Of course not, baby! I came to get you because you’re my wife and I love you.”

“How can you, after what I did?” Allara demanded, sobbing. “L-look—I still wear your b-blood on my nightdress!”

She pointed to the dried brownish stains on the white fabric, which was rapidly getting soaked from her tears.

“That doesn’t matter,” Brand told her. “None of it matters. The only thing I care about is the two of us being together again.”

He reached for her, as though to pull her into his lap and comfort her as he had in the past. But Allara eluded his arms and curled into a ball in the passenger seat. She didn’t deserve to be comforted.

She didn’t deserve anything good, ever again.

Brand felt his heart twist as he watched her crying. The pain of seeing her tears and being unable to comfort her was twice as bad as the dagger she’d stabbed into his chest.

He wanted to try again—to tell her that he didn’t blame her and that he still loved her. But he’d already said all that, and it didn’t seem to make anything better.

Sighing, he started the ship and began the lift-off sequence. When he’d won her auction, he had been certain he’d gotten to Allara in time to save her.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Forty-Four

“Well, it’s been three days since you got your bride back—how are things going?” Sylvan asked, a look of concern on his face, as Brand joined him at the small bar not far from his suite. “Here—have a drink,” he added, pushing a small glass filled with anthenian whiskey towards Brand. “You look like you could use one.”

Brand thought the stress of the last few days must be showing on his face, but it was hard not to let it show.

Ever since they’d gotten back to the Mother Ship, things had gone from bad to worse with Allara. He couldn’t even take her out anywhere to try and get her mind off things, either—the Kindred High Council had mandated that if she was allowed back on the ship, it was on the condition that she remain locked in the suite where she couldn’t hurt anyone else. So they were stuck inside with nowhere to go and Allara had nothing to do but blame herself for her assassination attempt.

“Things are not going very well,” he admitted to his commanding officer with a sigh. “Not very well at all, I’m afraid.”

“She hasn’t…tried to hurt you again, has she?” Sylvan asked hesitantly. This was obviously a situation he’d never had to deal with before. But then, none of them had. Who ever heard of a Kindred whose wife had tried to kill him?

“Oh, no—nothing like that.” Brand shook his head quickly. “But she’s tried to hurt herself plenty.”

“What?” Sylvan frowned. “What are you talking about? How?”

“The first night I got her back to our suite, I found her in the closet ripping up her wedding dress.” Brand ran a hand through his hair as he remembered his wife’s frantic motions.

“Ripping up her wedding dress?” Sylvan frowned. “Why, in the Goddess’s name?”

“That was what I wanted to know,” Brand said grimly. “Turns out, it was because she had a poison pill hidden in the hem. It was given to her by her aunt who told Allara to take it right after she killed me. She hadn’t done it when she first stabbed me—I guess because she was too upset. But when I caught her ripping into the dress, she’d decided to make use of it.” He blew out a breath. “Luckily, I stopped her and flushed the damn thing.”

“She was trying to kill herself?” Sylvan looked horrified. Suicide was almost unknown among the Kindred. Deaths of despair were rare in a community where almost everyone had a stable, loving soul-bond with a mate who cared for them, a reliable job which paid well, and excellent mental and physical health benefits.