It had been so long since he had been ’round any female of worth. Verily, he had grown too used to the whores and the prostitutes, whom he treated like ladies out of habit, but not concern.
His eyes teared up.
She reminded him of who his sister should have been.
Phury stepped up in front of her, blocking the view as he leaned down and put his mouth right to Throe’s ear. As he squeezed Throe’s biceps until it screamed in pain, the Brother growled softly, “You get hard and I’ll castrate you as soon as she leaves.”
Well… if that wasn’t crystal clear. And a quick glance around the room suggested that Phury wasn’t the only one who would come after him. The other Brothers would fight for pieces of his dead carcass if he became aroused.
Straightening to his full height, Phury smiled at the female as if there was nothing of any concern going on. “This soldier is very grateful for the gift of your vein, Chosen. Aren’t you.”
The “asshole” went unsaid. And the grip that once again tightened on Throe’s upper arm was just as hidden and emphatic.
“I am e’er grateful, your grace,” he breathed.
At that, the Chosen smiled at Throe, stealing his breath. “If I may be in even a small way helpful to a male of worth such as yourself, I am blessed. There is no greater service to the race than fighting the enemy.”
“I can think of at least one more,” somebody said under their breath.
As Phury motioned her to come to the bedside, Throe could only stare up into her face, his heart struggling to decide whether to pound or stop altogether. And whilst he imagined what she could possibly taste like, he tried not to lick his lips—for surely that would fall under the prohibited-activities list. He also sternly reminded his sex to stay flaccid or lose its two stupid best mates.
“I am not worthy,” he said softly to her.
“Damn fucking straight,” someone growled.
The Chosen frowned over her shoulder. “Oh, but surely he is. Anyone who wields a dagger with honor against the lessers is worthy.” She looked down at him again. “Sire, may I serve you now?”
Oh… damn.
Her words went straight to his cock: Right up the shaft, which thickened instantly, to the tip, which promptly stung with need.
Throe closed his eyes and prayed for strength. And bad aim for the Brothers. Neither of which would likely be granted—
Her wrist was close to his lips—he could smell it.
Eyes flaring open, he saw her fragile vein within striking distance—and, merciful Virgin Scribe save him, all he could think about was reaching out to her, caressing her smooth cheek—
A black blade forced his arm back down. “No touching,” Phury said darkly.
Well… at least if that was all the Brother was worried about, obviously he had not caught on to the issue below the waist. And short of agreeing to have himself neutered, Throe would do anything to have this happen—so no touching was good.
No touching was fine with him.…
As Tohr lay in his bed, he came awake with the thought it was a little early to be sleeping. Shouldn’t he be out fighting? Why was he—
“Get Layla in here stat,” a male voice barked. “We can’t operate until his blood pressure is up—”
Say what? Tohr wondered. Whose blood pressure was bad…?
“She’ll be there ASAP,” came a far-off response.
Were they talking about him? Nah, they couldn’t be—
As he popped opened his eyes, the industrial chandelier hanging right over his face cleared things up fast. This wasn’t his bedroom; this was the clinic in the training center. And they were talking about him.
Everything came back in a flash. Him stepping out from behind that Dumpster. His body getting drilled as he walked forward, opening fire. Him shooting until he stood over the slumped, stinking form of that slayer.
After that, he’d wobbled back and forth, like a stick only partially drilled into the ground.
Then it had been lights out.
With a groan, he went to push himself up, but his palm slipped on the padding of the gurney. Guess he was leaking—
Manello’s handsome puss popped into his line of vision, replacing the bright-and-shiny of the light fixture. Wow—check out that expression. The bastard looked like someone had just gotten him tickets to Disneyland. Surprise!
“You shouldn’t be conscious.”
“That bad, huh.”
“Maybe a little worse. No offense, but what the fuck were you thinking?” The good surgeon pivoted and jogged to the door, shoving his head out into the corridor. “We need Layla in here! Now!”
At that, there was some conversation, but he couldn’t track any of it, and not because he was injured. In spite of all the owie-owie, his body had a huge opinion about who he was going to feed from—and as far as it was concerned, as lovely as the Chosen was, it was not going to be her.
And it was a shock to realize why.
He wanted No’One. Even though it wasn’t fair—
“I shall do it. I shall take care of him.”
At the sound of No’One’s voice, Tohr gritted his teeth, and felt a surge go through him. Turning his head, he looked past the rolling tables of operating instruments… and there she was in the far corner, her hood in place, her body still, her hands churning under the robe’s sleeves.
The instant he saw her, his fangs elongated, and his body filled out its own skin, the residual numbness receding and revealing all kinds of sensation: pain at the side of his neck, his ribs, and under his arm; tingling at the tips of his canines sure as if he had already struck; hunger in his gut—for her.
Starvation in his cock—for her.
Shit.
He quickly camo’d the arousal by yanking the surgical drape around and holding it to the front of his hips.
“Okay, you shouldn’t be able to sit up,” Manny muttered.
Was he? Oh, hey, check it… And as for the doctor’s second dose of surprise? Nice guy, but he was being a dumb-ass human when it came to the feeding thing. With this kind of hunger for that particular female? Tohr was frickin’ Superman, capable of bench-pressing a Hummer while he juggled Smart Cars with his free hand.
He was worried about No’One, though. Last time had been such an epic fail.
Except from across the room, she just nodded at him, as if she knew exactly what he was worried about, and was ready to follow through anyway.
For some reason, her courage made his eyes sting.
“Leave us,” he told the surgeon without looking at the man. “And don’t let anyone in until I call for you.”
Cursing. Muttering. All of which he ignored. And as he heard the door finally shut, he took firm control of his instincts, the knowledge that he was alone with her tempering all that drive to feed: He was not going to hurt or scare her again. Period.
No’One’s reedy voice cut through the silence. “You’re bleeding so badly.”
Oh, man, they must not have cleaned him up yet. “It looks worse than it is.”
“Then you should be dead.”
He laughed a little. Then laughed a little more—and blamed the ha-has on blood loss. ’Cuz none of this shit was funny.
As he rubbed his face, he hit a raw patch and had to lie back—which made him wonder whether he might be in trouble—and not the sexed-up variety. How many bullets were in him? How close had he come to dying?
No offense, but what the fuck were you thinking?
Shaking all that off, he extended his hand and beckoned her. As she closed in on him, her limp was pronounced, and, when she reached the table, she leaned her hip against the edge like maybe her leg was bothering her.
“Let me get you a chair,” he said, making a move to get up.