Indeed, Xcor stayed away for the wrong reason, the bad reason, an unacceptable reason—in spite of all his training, he found himself choosing Throe’s life over ambition: His anger had taken him in one direction, but his regret had led him in another. And the latter one was what won out.
The Bloodletter no doubt had turned in his grave.
Decision made, he had languished in the rubble of night and his intentions when gunfire had lit up the alley even before the vehicle Throe was in had had a chance to depart.
As he’d gathered his wits, there had been a brief lull… and then Tohrment, son of Hharm, had walked out into the center of the lane, eschewing cover, becoming a target to the newly arrived lessers even as he discharged his firearms at them.
It was impossible not to respect that.
Xcor had been directly above the slayer who had commenced to fire back upon the Brother—and yet even as the enemy’s bullets had been driven into the male, Tohrment continued to lead with both barrels, undeterred, unwavering.
One shot to the head and he would be done forever.
Motivated by something he had refused to name, Xcor had dropped to his belly, snaked over to the lip of the building, and extended his own gun, emptying his clip upon the lesser who was behind cover, putting to rest any possibility of the Brother’s death. It had seemed like an appropriate reward for that manner of courage.
Then he had dematerialized out of the area and walked the streets of Caldwell for hours, the Bloodletter’s teachings banging on his inner door, demanding to be let in so that they could extinguish the sense that what he had done to Throe had been wrong.
The regret had just intensified, however, festering under his skin, redefining his relationship with his soldier… as well as the male he had once called Father.
The conception that he might not be cut from the same cloth as the Bloodletter had rankled. Especially given that he had set himself and his bastards on a collision course with the Blind King—and execution of that plan was going to require the kind of strength that came only from the compassionless.
In fact, it was too late to back out of that course now, even if he wanted to—which he did not. He still intended to take down Wrath—for the simple reason that the throne was for the taking, no matter what the Old Laws or blind tradition dictated.
But when it came to his soldiers, and his second in command…
Refocusing upon his forearms, habit and a blind search for himself had him once again applying his blade unto his flesh, dragging the point up against its cutting side so that the damage was ragged, unclean, and properly painful.
It was getting increasingly difficult to find fresh skin.
Hissing through his clenched teeth, he prayed for the pain to reach his core. He needed it to burrow through his emotions in the way the Bloodletter’s remembered voice had never failed to, strengthening him, giving him a clear mind and a cold heart.
It was not working, however. The pain just redoubled in his heart, amplifying the betrayal he had wrought upon a good male with a good soul who had served so very well.
Slick with his own blood, swimming in his own torture, he reapplied the blade again and again, waiting for the old, familiar clarity to come.…
And when it did not, he found himself arriving at the realization that, if he ever got the chance, he would set Throe free, finally and forevermore.
THIRTY
As Tohr lay in his bed alone, he was aware of nothing except the heartbeat in his cock. Well, that and the smell of fresh-cut flowers from Fritz doing his midday vase routine out in the hall.
“Is this what you want from me, angel?” he asked aloud. “Come on, I know you’re here. Is this what you want?”
To emphasize the question, he put his hand under the covers and let it drift down his chest and his belly until it got to the front of his hips. As he gripped himself, he couldn’t suppress the racking arch that rocked his spine or the groan that rose in his throat.
“Where the fuck are you?” he growled, unsure in the dim glow who he was talking to. Lassiter. No’One. The merciful Fates—if there were any.
On some level, he couldn’t believe he was waiting for another female—and the fact that the tipping balance between urgency and guilt was quickly shifting to the former was a—
“If you say my name while you do that, I’m going to throw up a little in my mouth.”
Lassiter’s voice was rough and disembodied as it came from the far corner of the room where the chaise was.
“Is this what you meant.” God, was that really him? Tohr wondered. Hungry, impatient. Cranky because he was juiced up.
“It’s a better direction than you walking out into a bullet shower—” There was a shuffling sound. “Hey, no offense, but do you mind if you put both your palms where I can see ’em?”
“Can you make her come to me.”
“Free will is what it is. And palms, motherfucker? If you don’t mind.”
Tohr outted both his arms and felt compelled to declare, “I want to feed her, not fuck her. I wouldn’t put No’One through that.”
“I suggest you let her make up her own mind about the sex.” The guy coughed a little bit—but then, yet again, fucking was an awkward subject between guys if they were talking about females of worth. “She may have her own ideas.”
Tohr thought back to the way she had looked at him in the clinic when he’d worked himself out. She had not been afraid. She had appeared captivated.…
He wasn’t sure how to handle that—
His body arched on its own, as if to say, The fuck you don’t, buddy.
As another cough sounded out, Tohr laughed a little. “You have allergies to those flowers?”
“Yeah. That’s it. I’m going to leave you now, ’kay?” There was a pause. “I’m proud of you.”
Tohr frowned. “What for?”
When there was no answer, it was clear the angel had already taken off—
A soft knocking at the door shot Tohr upright, and he barely felt the pain of his wounds: He knew exactly who this was. “Come in.”
Come to me.
The door opened a crack, and No’One slipped inside, shutting them in with each other.
As he heard the click of the locking mechanism, his body shut his mind down completely: It was going to feed her… and, God help them both, fuck her if she let him.
For one brief moment of lucidity, he thought he should tell her to go, so they could be spared the aftermath when sex cooled down and heads cleared up… and two people learned that those Molotov cocktails that had seemed like such a fun, exciting idea to make and throw, had, in actuality, decimated their landscapes.
Except he just extended his hand to her.
After a moment, she reached up and removed her hood. As he rememorized her face and form, he saw that she was nothing like his Wellsie. She was smaller and more delicately built. Fair of coloring instead of vibrant. Proper instead of blunt.
He liked her, though. And it was easier, in a strange way, that she was so different. Less of a chance of ever replacing his beloved in his heart with this female: Even though his body was aroused, that was the least important marker of connection. Males with the kind of bloodline he had, when in good health and well fed, as he now was, could get hard over a sack of potatoes.
And No’One, in spite of her opinion of herself, was a hell of a lot more attractive than root vegetables.…
Christ, the romance was just awesome all up in here. Wasn’t it.
She approached slowly, her limp barely noticeable, and when she got to the edge of the mattress, she looked down at his bare chest, his arms, his stomach… and went even lower with her eyes.