Lover Unleashed

THIRTY

The whistle was hard and sharp, and as it bulleted around the mansion’s foyer, Qhuinn knew the shrill demand had been made by John Matthew.

Fuck knew he’d heard it enough over the last three years.

Stopping with one foot on the grand staircase’s bottom step, he mopped up his sweaty face with his balled-up shirt and then caught his balance on the massive carved banister. His head was as light and fluffy as a pillow after his workout—which was in direct contrast to the rest of him: His legs and ass felt like they weighed as much as this goddamned mansion—

When the whistle came again, he thought, Oh, right, someone was talking to him. Pivoting around, he got an eyeful of John Matthew standing in between the ornate jambs of the dining room doorway.

What the hell did you do to yourself, the guy signed before pointing at his own dome.

Well, check his shit out, Qhuinn thought. In the past, a question like that would have covered a fuck of a lot more than a change in hairstyle.

“It’s called a trim.”

You sure about that? I’m pretty sure it’s called a hot mess.

Qhuinn rubbed the fade he’d given himself. “It’s no big deal.”

At least you know toupees are an option. John’s blue eyes narrowed. And where is all your metal?

“In my gun closet.”

Not your weapons, the shit that was on your face.

Qhuinn just shook his head and turned to go, uninterested in discussing all the piercings he’d taken out. His brain was tangled and his body was exhausted, so stiff and sore from his daily runs—

That whistle came again and nearly had him tossing a fuck-off over his shoulder. He cut the crap, though, because it would save time: John never let up when he was in this kind of mood.

Glancing back, he growled, “What.”

You need to eat more. Whether it’s at meals or on your own. You’re turning into a skeleton—

“I’m fine—”

—so either you start working the chow or I will have that gym locked and not give you the key. Your choice. And I called for Layla. She’s in your room waiting for you.

Qhuinn spun completely around. Bad idea; it turned the foyer into a Tilt-A-Whirl. Grabbing for the banister again, he bit out, “I could have done that.”

But you weren’t going to, so I did it for you—short of slaughtering a dozen lessers, it’s going to be my good deed for the week.

“You want to be Mother Teresa, you’ll have more luck practicing that shit on someone else.”

Sorry. I picked you, and you’d better shake a leg—don’t want to keep the lady waiting. Oh, and while Xhex and I were in the kitchen, I had Fritz make you a meal and take it up. Later.

As the guy walked off in the direction of the butler’s pantry, Qhuinn called out, “I’m not interested in being saved, asshole. I can take care of myself.”

John’s response was a middle finger flipped up and held over his head.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Qhuinn muttered.

He so didn’t want to deal with Layla right now.

Nothing against the Chosen, but the idea of being in an enclosed space with someone who was interested in sex just shut him right down. Which was ironic as shit. Up until now, fucking had not just been a part of his life; it had all but defined him. For the last week? The idea of being with someone left him nauseous.

Christ, this kept up, and the last person he was going to be with in his whole life was a redhead. Har-har, hardy-har-har: Clearly the Scribe Virgin had a nasty-ass sense of humor.

Forcing his deadweight up the stairs, he was ready to tell Layla as politely as he could that she needed to go on about her business—

The light-headedness that hit on the second landing stopped him in his tracks.

Over the past seven nights, he’d gotten used to the perma-float that came with running as much as he was and eating as little as he did, and he looked forward to the stoned disassociation. For godsakes, it was cheaper than drinking, and it never wore off—at least, not until he ate.

This was something different. He felt like someone had bulldozed him from behind and swept his legs out from under him—except his line of vision told him he was still standing. As did the fact that his hips were against the banister—

Without warning, one of his knees buckled and he went down like a book from the shelf.

Throwing out a hand, he pulled himself up over the damn rail, until he was all but hanging off it. Glaring at his leg, he kicked the thing a couple of times and breathed deeply, willing his body to get with the program.

Didn’t happen.

Instead, he slowly slid from the vertical and had to turn around so it looked like he was just copping a squat on the bloodred carpet. He couldn’t seem to breathe . . . or rather, he was breathing but it wasn’t doing shit. God . . . damn . . . Pull it together. . . .

Fucking hell.

“Sire?” came a voice from above.

Make that a double hell.

As he squeezed his eyes shut, he thought Layla’s showing up right now was Murphy’s frickin’ Law alive and in color.

“Sire, may I help you?”

Then again, maybe there was a bright side to this: better her than one of the Brothers. “Yeah. My knee’s off. Hurt it running.”

He looked up as the Chosen floated down to him, her white robe a shock against the deep color of the carpet and the resonant golden glow of the foyer’s artwork.

Feeling like a right moron as she reached down for him, he tried to pull himself to his feet . . . only to get nowhere. “I, ah . . . I warn you, I weigh a lot.”

Her lovely hand took his and he was astonished to find that his fingers were shaking as he accepted her help. He was also surprised to get hauled to his feet on a oner.

“You’re strong,” he said as her arm hitched around his waist and hefted him to the vertical.

“We walk together.”

“Sorry I’m sweaty.”

“I do not mind.”

On that note, they were off. Moving slowly, they inched up the stairs and headed down the second-floor corridor, gimping by all kinds of blissfully closed doors: Wrath’s study. Tohrment’s room. Blay’s—not looking at that. Saxton’s—not busting that down and boot-licking his cousin out the window. John Matthew and Xhex’s.

“I shall open the way,” the Chosen said as they stopped at his own.

They had to turn sideways to get through the jambs because of his size, and he was grateful as shit when she closed them in together and took him to the bed. No one needed to know what was doing, and chances were good the Chosen would buy his just-an-owie excuse.

Sitting upright was the plan. Except the second she let go of him, he flopped back onto the mattress and made like a welcome mat. Looking down his body toward his running shoes, he wondered why he couldn’t see the car that was parked on top of him. Definitely wasn’t a Prius. More like a Chevy-fucking-Tahoe.

Whatever, try Suburban.

“Ah . . . listen, can you go into my leather coat? I’ve got a protein bar in there.”

Abruptly, there was a shift of metal on porcelain from over by the door. And then a whiff of something dinner-ish. “Perhaps you would like this roast beef, sire?”

His stomach clenched hard as a fist. “God . . . no . . .”

“There is rice.”

“Just . . . one of those bars . . .”

A subtle squeaking sound suggested she was rolling a tray over, and a second later, he got so much more than a mere sniff of whatever Fritz had prepared.

“Stop—stop, fuck—” He lurched over and dry-heaved into a wastebasket. “Not . . . the food . . .”

“You need to eat,” came the surprisingly strong reply. “And I shall feed you.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Here.” Instead of the meat or the rice, a small piece of bread was presented to him. “Open. You need food, sire. Your John Matthew said so.”

Sinking back against the pillows, he put his arm over his face. His heart was all hopscotch behind his sternum, and on some dim level, he realized he could actually kill himself if he kept going like this.

Funny, the idea struck him as not all that bad. Especially as Blay’s face came to mind.

So beautiful. So very, very beautiful. It seemed silly and emasculating to call the guy that, but he was. Those damn lips were the problem . . . nice and cushioned on the bottom. Or maybe the eyes? So fucking blue.

He’d kissed that mouth and loved it. Seen those eyes go wild.

He could have had Blay first—and only. But instead? His cousin . . .

“Oh, God . . .” he groaned.

“Sire. Eat.”

Out of energy to fight anything, he did as he was told, opening up, chewing mechanically, swallowing down his dry throat. And then he did it again. And again. Turned out that the carbs quieted the earthquake zone in his stomach, and faster than he would have thought possible, he was actually looking forward to something a little more substantial. Next up on the menu, though, was just some bottled water, which Layla held while he took small sips.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he said, holding off on another bread run just in case the tide turned.

As he rolled over onto his side, he felt the bones in his legs knock together and realized his arm was hanging differently across his chest—less pecs to get in the way. His Nike running shorts were likewise baggy at the waistband.

He’d done all this damage in seven days.

At this rate, he wasn’t going to look like himself for much longer.

Screw that, he already didn’t. As John Matthew had frickin’ noticed, not only had he buzzed his head, he’d taken his eyebrow piercing out as well as the one on his lower lip and the dozen or so up his ears. Gone too were his nipple rings. He still had his tongue stud and the shit below, but the visi stuff was gone, gone, gone.

He was through with himself on so many levels. Sick and tired of being the odd man out on purpose. Exhausted with his slut reputation.

And uninterested in rebelling against a bunch of dead stiffs anymore. For fuck’s sake, he didn’t need some shrink to explain the psychology that had shaped him: His family had been all picture perfect, glymera-conservative—and payback had been a bisexual, metal-headed whore with a Goth wardrobe and a needle fetish. But how much of that shit was him and how much was a mismatched-eye-based mutiny?

Who the fuck was he really?

“More now?” Layla asked.

Wasn’t that the question.

As the Chosen went front and center again with the baguette, Qhuinn decided to cut the shit. Opening his mouth, he pulled a baby bird and ate the damn stuff. And some more. And then like she read his mind, Layla brought a sterling-silver fork with a piece of roast beef on it to his lips.

“Let us try this, sire. . . . Chew slowly, however.”

Fat. Chance. Starvation immediately became the name of the game and he went T. rex on the meat, nearly biting tines off in the rush. But Layla was right on it, feeding him another round as fast as he could take it in.

“Wait . . . stop,” he mumbled, afraid he was going to throw up.

He eased over onto his back again and let one hand rest on his chest. Shallow breaths were his savior. Anything deeper and he was going to pull a Technicolor yawn all over himself.

Layla’s face appeared above his. “Sire . . . perhaps we should cease.”

Qhuinn narrowed his stare on her, and saw her properly for the first time since she’d shown up.

God, she was a looker, all that pale blond hair swept up high on her head, her face stunningly perfect. With strawberry lips and green eyes that were luminous in the lamplight, she was everything the race valued in terms of DNA—not a defect in sight.

He reached up and brushed at her chignon. So soft. No hair spray for her; it was as if the waves knew their job was to frame her features and they were eager to do their best.

“Sire?” she said as she tensed.

He knew what was under that robe of hers: Her breasts were absolutely stunning and her stomach flat as a board . . . and those hips and the silky smooth sex between her thighs were the kinds of things that a naked male would fall on glass shards for.

He knew these particulars because he’d seen all of it, touched a lot of it, and had his mouth in a few choice places.

He hadn’t taken her, though. Hadn’t gone very far, either. As an ehros, she had been trained for sex, but with no Primale to service the Chosen in that way, she was all academic learning, nothing in the “field,” as it were. And for a while he’d been happy to show her some of the ropes.

Except it hadn’t felt right.

Well, she’d felt a lot that she’d thought was right, but her eyes had had too much in them and his heart way too little for things to keep going.

“Will you take my vein, sire?” she whispered huskily.

He just stared at her.

Those red lips of hers parted. “Sire, will you . . . take me.”

Closing his lids, he saw Blay’s face again . . . but not how it was now. Not the cold stranger that Qhuinn had created. The old Blay, with those blue eyes that were somehow always pointed in his direction.

“Sire . . . I am yours for the taking. Still. Evermore.”

When he finally looked at Layla again, her fingers had gone to the lapels of her robe and she had spread the halves wide, showing him her long, elegant neck and the wings of her collarbones and all that glorious cleavage.

“Sire . . . I want to serve you.” Inching the sateen fabric even farther apart, she offered him not just her vein, but her body. “Take me—”

Qhuinn stilled her hands as they went to the tie around her waist. “Stop.”

Her eyes dropped to the duvet, and she seemed to turn to stone. At least until she pulled herself out of his hold and roughly rearranged the robe.

“You shall take my wrist then.” Her hand was shaking as she yanked up her sleeve and stuck out her arm. “Take from my wrist what you so obviously require.”

She did not look at him. Likely could not.

And yet here she was . . . shut down from a disgrace she had never earned and he had never meant to call out of her . . . still offering herself to him—except not in a pathetic way, but because she had been born and bred to serve a purpose that had nothing to do with what she wanted and everything to do with social expectation . . . and she was determined to live up to the standard. Even if she wasn’t wanted for who she was.

Christ, he knew what that was like.

“Layla—”

“Do not apologize, sire. It belittles me.”

He took her arm because he got the impression she was about to get to her feet. “Look, this is my fault. I should never have started the sex stuff with you—”

“And I say unto you, ‘stop.’” Her back was ramrod straight and her voice strident. “Do let me go, will you.”

He frowned. “Shit . . . you’re cold.”

“Am I.”

“Yeah.” He ran his hand up and down her arm. “Do you need to feed? Layla? Hello?”

“I have been over on the Other Side in the Sanctuary, so no.”

Well, that he could buy. If a Chosen was over there, she existed without existing, her blood needs suspended—and apparently refreshed: For the last couple of years, Layla alone had been servicing the Brothers who couldn’t feed from their shellans. She was everyone’s go-to Chosen.

And then it dawned on him. “Wait, you haven’t been up north at all?”

Now that Phury had freed the Chosen from their rigid and confined existence, most of them left the Sanctuary they’d been stuck in for aeons and went to the Adirondack great camp to learn about the freedoms of life over on this side.

“Layla?”

“No, I do not go there anymore.”

“Why?”

“I cannot.” She waved the conversation away and pulled up her sleeve again. “Sire? Are you taking my vein?”

“Why don’t you go there?”

Her eyes finally met his and they were flat-out pissed. Which was a strange relief. Her meek acceptance of everything made him question how smart she was. But going by her expression now? There was a whole lot of something underneath the mantle she wore—and he wasn’t just talking about her perfect body.

“Layla. Answer me. Why not?”

“I cannot.”

“Says who?” Qhuinn wasn’t totally tight with Phury, but he knew the Brother well enough to bring a problem to the guy. “Who.”

“’Tis not a who, and worry not.” She pointed to her wrist. “Partake so that you are as strong as you need to be, and then I shall leave you in peace.”

“Fine, if you want to joust about words—what is it, then.”

Frustration flared in her face. “That is not your concern.”

“I’ll decide what’s my concern.” He wasn’t into bullying females, but apparently his dormant gentlemale had gotten off its powderpuff bed and found its knickers in a bunch. “Talk to me.”

He was the last person to put the share/care card on the table, yet here he was, slapping it down. The thing was, though, he wouldn’t stand for anything hurting this female.

“Fine.” She threw up her hands. “If I tarry up north, I cannot supply all of you with what you need for blood. Therefore I go unto the Sanctuary for my recovery and I wait to be summoned. Then I come unto this side and service you and after that I must needs return. So no, I cannot go to the mountains.”

“Jesus . . .” What a bunch of users they were. They should have anticipated this problem—or Phury should have. Unless . . . “Have you talked to the Primale?”

“About what, precisely,” she snapped. “Tell me, sire, would you be in a hurry to present your failures on the field to your king?”

“How the hell are you failing? You’re keeping, like, four of us going.”

“Exactly. And I am serving you all in a very limited capacity.”

Layla burst up and walked over to the window. As she stared out, he wanted to want her: In that moment, he would have given anything to feel for her what she did for him—she was, after all, everything his family valued, the social pinnacle for a female. And she wanted him.

But when he looked inside, there was another in his heart. And nothing was going to change that. Ever . . . he feared.

“I do not know who or what I am, exactly,” Layla said, as if she were speaking to herself.

Well, looked like both of them were on the same train to nowhere with that question. “You won’t find out unless you leave that Sanctuary.”

“Impossible if I am to service—”

“We’ll use someone else. It’s just that simple.”

There was a sharp inhale, and then, “But of course. You shall do as you wish.”

Qhuinn stared at the hard line of her chin. “That’s supposed to help you.”

She glared over her shoulder. “It does not—for then you would leave me with nothing. Your choice, my repercussion.”

“It’s your life. You can choose.”

“We shall not speak of this anymore.” She threw up her hands. “Dearest Scribe Virgin, you have no idea what it is like to desire things you are not fated to have.”

Qhuinn let out a hard laugh. “The fuck I don’t.” As her brows popped, he rolled his eyes. “You and I have more in common than you think.”

“You have all the freedom in the world. What could you possibly want for?”

“Trust me.”

“Well, I want you and I cannot have you. That is not of my choosing. At least by servicing you and the others, I have a purpose other than mourning the loss of something I dreamed of.”

As Qhuinn took a deep breath, he had to respect the female. There was no pity party going on over there at the window. She was stating the facts as she knew them.

Shit, she really was precisely the kind of shellanhe’d always wanted. Even as he’d been fucking anything that walked, in the back of his mind, he had always seen himself with a female, long-term. One with impeccable bloodlines and a lot of class—the kind his parents would have not only approved of, but might have respected him a little for getting.

That had been his dream. Now that it had shown up, however . . . now that it was standing across his bedroom and looking him in the face . . . he wanted something else entirely.

“I wish I did feel something deep for you,” he said roughly, meeting truth for truth. “I would do almost anything to feel what I should for you. You are . . . my fantasy female. Everything I always wanted, but thought I could never have.”

Her eyes got so wide they were like two moons, beautiful and shining. “Then why . . .”

He rubbed his face and wondered what in the fuck he was saying.

What the fuck he was doing.

When he took his palms away, there was a slickness left behind, one that he refused to think too much about.

“I’m in love,” he said hoarsely. “With someone else. That’s why.”