“It’s not wrong to look out for the fairer sex.”
“Don’t you have to get back to your bong.”
She could feel him glaring at her from his greater height. “Don’t you remember the raids, Parry? Don’t you remember what that was like? People were slaughtered in their own homes. They had pieces of their bodies hacked off of them while they were alive. They found Lash’s parents sitting around their dining room table, the dead bodies arranged so they were upright in those chairs like they were having dinner. Why do you want to be a part of that?”
Paradise met that hard stare again. “I don’t!”
“So why are we having this fight!”
“Because I want to choose. I want to be able to assume the risk if I want—and don’t hit me with the recap on those deaths like I don’t recall every single thing that happened. Members of my bloodline were murdered, too. Am I not allowed to want revenge? Or is that a dick-only thing as well?”
He planted his hands on the desk and leaned into her. “Males can’t give birth.”
She stood up out of her chair and met him jaw-to-jaw. “You got that right. I’d like to see even one of you try to go through that experience. You’d be crying like a little bitch in ten minutes.”
Peyton’s stare dropped to her mouth for a split second, and the distraction surprised her.
In all the years of friendship, that was something that had never happened.
It hadn’t even been approached, actually.
“Fine,” he said grimly. “Put your money where your mouth is.”
“Excuse me?”
“Join the program.” He swept his hand over the desk. “Come out from behind here, put your application in, and try to pass the physical test.”
“Maybe I will—”
At that moment, her father walked in. “Oh, hello, Peyton. How are you, son?”
Immediately, Peyton disengaged. “Sir, I’m well, sir. Thank you.”
As the two shook hands, she was pretty sure her father was clueless as to the undercurrents in the parlor—and very sure Peyton was not. His shoulders were still set tightly, as if he were arguing with her in his head.
“. . . kind of you to come and support Paradise.” Her father smiled at her. “Especially on this first night. I must say, you have exceeded my expectations, my dearest one. This is going to be a wonderful way for you to keep busy before your presentation.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said, bowing.
“Well, I must needs depart. Peyton, perhaps you will keep her company until the dawn?”
Those sharp blues shot back over to her. “You’re not at home anymore?”
“Do not be alarmed,” her father interjected smoothly. “She is fully accompanied and properly chaperoned. Now, if you will excuse me, I must depart.”
To check on their “visitor,” no doubt.
“The Brothers have escorted the King off the property,” her father said as he came around the desk and embraced her. “The doggen shall be cleaning for an hour, at least. Call upon me if you need aught?”
“I will.”
And then he was gone.
“I can’t believe he’s letting you stay here,” Peyton said.
“It’s not necessarily his choice.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing.” She pulled a hand through her hair, shaking out the waves. “You don’t have to stay. As a matter of fact, I wish you wouldn’t.”
She could feel him staring at her, and when he didn’t reply, she glared at him. “What.”
Those eyes of his were heavy lidded in a way she’d never seen before. “You’ve never been so . . .”
“Obnoxious?”
“No,” he muttered. “Not that.”
“Well, what, then.” When he didn’t answer her, she shook her head. “Go home, Peyton. Just go home and light up and get ready to big-man all over the campus at the training center. It’s the role you were born to play.”
With that, she walked around him and left the parlor. She didn’t care what he did, whether he left . . . or kept standing there at her desk until the doggen Swiffered him out with the dust bunnies.
She was done.
For the night. And with males, in general.
FORTY-ONE
“No. Here. Put him by the fire—”
Xcor broke himself loose of the holds upon his arms. “I am not an invalid.”
As he limped across the shallow room of the cottage he had bought for Layla, he kept to himself the fact that he was cold to the bone, and he did, in fact, appreciate the warmth of the flames that boiled around the logs at the hearth.
“Your leg is broken,” Zypher said.
Whilst he settled himself upon the sofa, a sharp nausea threatened to empty his stomach, but he buried that response as well, swallowing down the risen bile. “It shall mend.”
“There are victuals here.”
He didn’t know who said that. Did not care. “Where is the liquor?”
“Here.”
As a bottle of God only knew what appeared before him, he took what was proffered, shucked the cap, and brought the open mouth to his lips. Vodka it was, the white bite burning the back of his throat and lighting a second set of flames in his gut.
It had been a very, very long trip home, with him dematerializing mile by mile because they had no motorized conveyances at their disposal. And now, all he wanted was to be left alone—and he feared, given that all of them were here and worrying over him, it was going to take more energy than he had to get his soldier to go in peace.
“You were nearly killed,” Balthazar said from by the door.
He drank more of the spirit. “Yourself as well—”
“Someone is here,” Syphon said by the bay window. “A car.”
Immediately, all guns were unholstered and trained upon the glass—except for his. Beneath his thin jacket, his arm was hanging limp, the joint most likely dislocated.
And he was not putting down the vodka.
“Who is it,” he demanded, thinking it was likely the doggen he had sought to hire.
“’Tis a female,” someone breathed. “And not of the servant class.”
Instantly, Xcor wrenched around and bared his fangs. But he didn’t need visual confirmation. There was only one female who knew about this place, and who would come in a car.
“Leave us,” he commanded. “Now.”
When his Band of Bastards just stood in a semi-circle, transfixed by what was out that fucking window, he released a lion’s growl. “Leave us!”
Zypher cleared his throat. “She is bonny, indeed, Xcor—”
“And she shall be the last sight e’er you behold if you don’t get out of here!”
One by one, the soldiers grudgingly dematerialized . . . such that, when his female knocked upon the door, he was by himself.
Seeking further fortification from the bottle, he drank hard; then rousted himself off the couch, walked over and opened the panels wide.
The second Layla looked at him, she exclaimed, “You’re hurt!”
The shock in her face was such that he glanced down at himself and his bloodstained clothes. “Yes, it would appear I am.” Funny, now that she was before him, he felt no more pain. “Won’t you come and warm yourself by the fire.”
As if there were nothing wrong. As if she hadn’t blown him off when they were supposed to have met at midnight—so she could give him her decision.
He knew her answer, however. Her previous absence was all the reply required—she had clearly come to her senses.
Layla stepped inside, her eyes going up and down his body. “Xcor, what happened?”
“Nothing.” He closed them in. “I thought you indicated you could not get away.”
“I saw what happened downtown. And I had to . . .”
“Had to what? Come here to see if I had died and thus set you free of your obligation?” When she didn’t answer, he chuckled and returned to the couch. “Pardon me, but I need to sit.”
He was acutely aware of that stare of hers tracking him. And no doubt her keen ears caught the groan that he did his best to hide.