Xcor inhaled long and slow, feeling his ribs expand without pain for the first time since he’d gone up against that fighter with the mismatched eyes. It was her blood in him. Indeed, what a miracle she was: That sense of drowning in his own body had alleviated, the thumping in his head dulling, his heartbeat settling to a steady rate.
And yet the power coursing through him, drawing him back from the brink, did not bode well for him and his soldiers. If this was what the Brotherhood enjoyed on a regular basis? Then they were stronger not just by virtue of bloodline, but sustenance.
At least it did not make them unbeatable. Syphon’s shot had proven that even the purebred king had his vulnerable points.
But they were even more dangerous than he’d thought.
And as for the female…
“Are you going to call upon her again?” he asked his soldier.
“No. Never.”
No hesitation in that—which suggested it was either a lie or a vow. For both their sakes, he rather hoped it was the latter—
Oh, but what was he going on about. He’d fed from her only once, and she was not his—and never would be, for too many reasons to count. Indeed, thinking back to the way even the human whore in the spring had recoiled from him, he knew someone as pure and perfect as the Chosen wouldn’t have anything to do with his likes. Throe, on the other hand, might have a chance—except, of course, he was not a Brother.
He was, however, enamored of her.
No doubt she was used to that.
Xcor closed his eyes and concentrated on his body, feeling it reknit, realign, rekindle.
He found himself wishing the same rejuvenation could occur on his face, his past, his soul. Naturally, he kept that impotent prayer to himself. For one, it was an impossibility. For another, such was a passing whimsy imparted by the vision of a beautiful female—who had no doubt been repulsed by him. In truth, there was no redemption for him or his future: He had struck a mighty blow against the Brotherhood and they would be coming after him and the Band of Bastards with all the force they could muster.
They would also be taking other actions: If Wrath was dead without issue, they would be scrambling to fill the throne with the closest male blood relation they could find. Unless the king was hanging at the edge of death by his fingertips? Or mayhap he had pulled through thanks to all that medical technology they had cultivated at their compound…?
Ordinarily, thoughts such as these would have consumed him, the lack of answers twisting up hard in his gut and causing him to pace endlessly if he wasn’t fighting.
Now, though, in the logy aftermath of the feeding, the ruminations were naught but distant screams of urgency that did not carry far and failed to energize him.
The female under the colored maple tree was what he dwelled upon.
As he retraced her features from memory, he told himself he was permitted this one night of distraction. He was in no condition to fight, even with her gift, and his soldiers were out carrying forth the mission against the lessers, so there was still some progress being made.
One night. And then upon the sunset of the morrow, he was going to cast her aside as one did with both fantasies and nightmares, thus returning to the real world to battle once again.
One night only.
That was all he would grant this futureless diversion of fancy…
Assuming, a small voice pointed out, that Throe kept his word and never again sought her out.
FIFTY-TWO
“One more?”
As Tohr returned his attentions to the silver tray of food, No’One wanted to decline the offer. Indeed, lying back against the pillows of his bed, she was stuffed.
And yet as he shifted toward her with another ripe strawberry held by its fluffy green crown, she found the fruit was too much to resist. Parting her lips, she waited, as she had learned to wait, for him to bring the food to her.
Several of the bright red berries had failed to meet his rigorous requirements, having been set aside on the edge of the tray. The same had been true for some of the slices of freshly cooked turkey, as well as parts of the green salad. The rice had all passed muster, however, as had the delicious sourdough bread rolls.
“Here,” he murmured. “This is a good one.”
No’One watched him watch her as she accepted what he provided. He was singularly focused on her consumption—in a way that was both touching and a source of fascination. She had heard of males doing this. Had even caught sight of her parents in such a ritual, her mother seated to the left of her father at the dining table, him inspecting each plate and bowl and glass and cup afore it was sent in her direction by him personally, rather than by the staff—provided the food was of high enough quality. She had assumed the practice was a quaint holdover from some earlier time. Not so. This private space here with Tohrment was the basis of exchanges such as that. In fact, she could imagine aeons ago, in the wild, a male returning with something freshly killed and doing likewise.
It made her feel… protected. Valued. Special.
“One more?” he said again.
“You shall make me fat.”
“Females should have meat on their bones.” He smiled in a distracted way as he picked up a plump berry and frowned at it.
As his words resonated, she did not take them to mean he thought her wanting in any fashion. How could she, when he had done nothing but pick through perfectly good food and weed out what he did not think was worthy enough for her?
“A last one, then,” she said softly, “and then I must decline all other offerings. I am full to bursting.”
He tossed the berry aside with the other rejects and snagged another, and whilst he all but growled at the poor thing, his stomach let out an empty howl.
“You must needs eat as well,” she pointed out.
The grunt she got back was either grudging approval of the second berry or agreement—likely the former.
As she bit down and chewed, he rested his arms in his lap and stared at her mouth as if he were prepared to help her swallow if he had to.
In the quiet moment, she thought, oh, how he had changed since the summer. He was so much bigger—impossibly so, his once large body now absolutely mammoth. And yet he had not swollen up unattractively, his muscles expanding to this outer limit without any coating of fat upon them, his form pleasing to the eye in its proportion. His face had remained lean, but it was no longer drawn, and his skin had lost the gray pallor she had not recognized until color bloomed anew in his cheeks.
The white streak remained in his hair, however, evidence of all he had been through.
How often did he think of his Wellesandra? Was he as yet dwelling upon her?
Of course he was.
As her chest ached, she found it difficult to draw breath. She had always had sympathy for him, her pain receptors firing up when he was in extremis sure as if his loss was her own.
Now, though, she had a different kind of agony behind her sternum.
Mayhap it was because they were closer still now. Yes, that was it. She was commiserating with him at an even deeper level.
“Done?” he said, his face tilting to the side, the lamplight hitting it with gentle kindness.
No, she was wrong, she thought as she dragged another breath in.
This was not commiseration.
This was something altogether different from caring about another’s suffering.
“Autumn?” he said. “You okay?”
Staring up at him, she felt a sudden chill tickle the skin of her forearms and skitter across her bare shoulders. Under the warmth of the covers, her body shimmied in its own flesh, going cold and then flushing with heat.
Which was what happened, she supposed, when your world was turned upside down.