The Beast

FIFTY-NINE

Assail sat in a fairly comfortable chair in a room that was of a rather nice temperature—and yet felt as though his skin was being burned off his bones.

Across the shallow space, the slave he had rescued was on a hospital bed, looking more like a pretrans than a full-grown adult male. Sheets and blankets had been set upon his naked form in order to warm him. Nutrients and fluids were being introduced into his veins via tubing. Various machines assessed the performance of his organs.

He was asleep.

Markcus had fallen asleep. Or passed out.

And so Assail sat in the hospital room of a total stranger, as incapable of leaving as if his own blood were under those covers, hooked up to those monitors, resting on that mattress.

Rubbing his arms, he wanted the sensation of heat to stop in his own flesh so he could concentrate more fully on Markcus’s health. But he had already removed his suit jacket and taken off his tie. Next stop was naked.

It took him a while to realize what the problem was.

With a curse, he extracted his vial of cocaine, and held it in his palm, looking at the brown transparent belly and the black screw on top.

He took care of his gnawing need quickly, feeling embarrassed that he had to snort the drug no more than a matter of feet away from the male.

How long before Naasha discovered what had been taken from her? he wondered.

And how could she have done that to another? Especially considering she had a stable of vital young males to service not only her sex, but her blood needs.

Indeed, every time Assail closed his eyes, he saw that cell, smelled that stench, re-lived bursting into that underground prison.

Where had she stolen him from? Was his family looking for him?

How long had he suffered down there, naught but a meal to be tapped into?

The diagnosis thus far was malnourishment, a kidney infection, fluid in the lungs and a sinus infection. But the medical staff had indicated there were further tests to be done.

The horror of it all made it difficult to breathe, and Assail had to sit forward in the chair.

Outside, he heard the Brothers talking and pacing in the hall. Clearly, someone was injured seriously, given the anxiety level, but he had not asked and no one had offered an explanation. Further, Vishous had had to go be of aid to whatever emergency was being dealt with, although he had promised to return—

The knock was soft.

“Do come in,” Assail murmured, even though he felt as though he had no right to invite or disinvite visitors for Markcus.

It was a while before the door opened even a little.

“Hello?” Assail called out.

When he saw who it was, he recoiled.

Zsadist was a Brother he had long heard tales of. After all, such was the warrior’s history and behavior that his reputation, even in the New World, had traveled to ears all around the Old Country. And yes, the male’s scarred face was something to fear, the ragged, badly-closed old wound distorting his upper lip whilst his narrowed eyes glowed with malice. Standing just inside the room, with his nearly shaved head and his tremendous body, he appeared to be exactly what gossips had suggested he was—a sociopath to be avoided at all costs.

Assail had learned, however, that things had changed for him, of late. That he had mated. Had a young. Retracted from the murderous rage that had defined him ever since he, too, had been held against his will.

In fact, as his yellow eyes locked on the male upon the bed, he crossed his arms over his chest, rather as if he were seeking to comfort himself.

“I found him . . .” Assail had to clear his throat. “Chained to the wall.”

Zsadist walked slowly to the bed and stared down at Markcus. He stayed there for the longest time, barely blinking, only the rise and fall of his chest and an occasional twitch of his eyebrows suggesting he was not a statue of some sort.

Assail could imagine what memories had perhaps come for him.

Those slave bands around the Brother’s neck and wrists seemed black as the evil that had put the ink into his skin.

“His name is Markcus,” Assail offered. “That is all I know about him.”

Zsadist nodded. At least, Assail thought he did. Then the fighter spoke. “Let me . . . help. In some way. In any way?”

It was on the tip of Assail’s tongue to say that there was naught to be done. But then a curling fury licked into his chest.

Assail was not a savior. Never had been. His interests had always been his own and no one else’s. He was also not one to form attachments, quickly or permanently.

But Assail found himself narrowing his eyes on the Brother. “Exactly how far does that invitation extend?”

Instantly, that yellow stare flashed black, those eyes becoming soul-less pits of Dhund. “As far as is required. And then a hundred thousand feet farther.”

“Even if it puts you in conflict with the King? For the manner I shall be seeking to exact justice does not involve edicts or resolves. And it will not be with Wrath’s permission.”

“There will be no conflict.”

Assail’s first thought was to rise out of his chair, ask for further arms, and proceed immediately back to that house.

But no, upon further reflection, that was not strategic enough. And not violent enough.

“I pray that you mean that, kind gentlemale.”

“I am not gentle or kind.”

Assail nodded. “Good. And worry not. I sense the outlet you are in search of, and I shall provide it to you, posthaste.”

Back at the library in Naasha’s hellren’s vast mansion, Throe took the female by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “Listen to me. You must listen to me.”

Even as he sought to quell her incessant ranting, he had to confess, though only to himself, that he was likewise frustrated beyond measure. He had wasted how long in this household? Bedding her, catering to her, seducing her into a false sense that they were in some kind of enduring relationship. And all along, she had assured him of the fealty of her “beloved” hellren. Spoken of how the money would flow like wine all over her when the old male finally passed. Related to Throe her love for him regardless of her mated status or her other lovers.

Assail had entered the picture, however—and that bastard’s presence had created such a flush in between Naasha’s thighs that Throe had had to act earlier than he would have liked: The proper sequence would have been first to change Naasha’s own will, naming Throe her next of kin—under the guise that he would be mating her as soon as the mourning period for her current hellren had passed. And then for Throe to arrange for the death of the old male. Followed by a “suicide” for her.

Whereupon Throe’s coffers would be set and he could use the funds to imbed himself in the glymera properly and set up a strategy for taking Wrath off that ridiculous elected throne he had created for himself.

Assail, that fucking slut, however, had changed the order, forcing Throe’s hand such that forgeries were going to become necessary. It was either early action, though, or him running the risk that Naasha’s rather oily affections could transfer to her newest suitor, upsetting the applecart all over the market square, as it were.

Throe had seen the way she looked at Assail.

Had felt the pull to that male himself, goddamn them both.

And, now, this mess.

That old hellren of hers had left everything to a distant relation, a male whose name Throe did not recognize.

“Naasha, my love,” Throe said urgently. “I need you to be logical.”

This looked so bad. That solicitor waiting out in the foyer, no doubt coming to all kinds of conclusions that were both accurate and unhelpful. Her falling apart to anger. Him getting increasingly frustrated.

Taking another tactic, Throe walked over to the ornate desk and placed his hand upon the stack of papers that Saxton had brought with him. “This. This is your only focus. Anything other than successfully challenging these provisions is an unacceptable distraction.”

“I have been shamed! To be forsaken like this is an abomination! It is—”

“Do you want to be reasonable? Or poor? Your choice is now.” That shut her up. “Imagine all of this gone, yourself surrounded by none of this, your clothes, the jewels, the servants, this very roof o’er your head—gone. Because that is what is going to happen unless you get some control over yourself. The abomination is not what your hellren did to you. The abomination is your letting it happen. Now, I am going to get the attorney back in here. You are going to shut up and listen to what he says. Or you can continue to prance and stamp around here, wasting time and strategy, just so that you can enhance your victim status—to absolutely no cash avail.”

It was rather like zipping up a ballgown, he reflected. All at once, a composure stilled her and transformed her face from flushed and crazed to, if not placid exactly, certainly something far more even-keeled.

Throe walked back over to her. Taking her shoulders, he kissed her. “That is my female. Now you are ready to proceed. No more outbursts. No matter what else is contained therein, you will allow the solicitor to finish this presentation. We do not know how to fight if we do not know what we have to fight against.”

For the Virgin Scribe’s sake, let this stick, he thought.

“Now, I shall bring him back in, yes?” When she nodded, he stepped back. “Be aware of all you have to lose. That can be remarkably clarifying.”

“You are right.” She took a deep breath. “You are very strong.”

You have no idea, he thought as he turned away.

Back at the double doors, he opened them—

Sniffing the air, he frowned and glanced around the foyer. Saxton was over by a Flemish painting, inspecting the depiction of dewy flowers upon a black background, his hands clasped behind his back, his lean torso tilted forward.

“Are we ready then?” the solicitor asked without looking up. “Or does she need even more time to compose herself? It has been over an hour.”

Throe looked about. The doors of the parlor and the study were all in the same positions they had been in. There was no one rushing anywhere. All looked . . . as it had.

But why was there a prevailing scent of fresh air all around . . . fresh air and . . . something else.

“Is there aught wrong?” Saxton inquired. “Do you wish me to return at another time?”

“No, she is ready.” He stared at the attorney, searching for some sign of . . . he knew not what. “I have calmed her.”

Saxton straightened. Adjusted his tie. And came over in a gait that was unhurried. Totally natural. Without any airs.

“Mayhap she shall allow me to finish this now.” Saxton stopped. “Although, if you’d prefer, I can just leave the papers and the two of you can go through them. My verbalizing the provisions, or not, shall not change a thing.”

“No,” Throe said smoothly. “It is best that she have an opportunity to ask questions. Do come in again, and please pardon our delay.”

As he stepped to one side and indicated the way, his instincts pricked and refused to be quieted. “In fact, perhaps it is better if you take a moment with her privately. Mayhap my presence is the problem.”

Saxton inclined his head. “As you wish. I am here to serve—or not—at her behest.”

“We are ever in your debt,” Throe murmured. In a louder tone, he said into the room, “Naasha, darling, I shall go see about some victuals. Perhaps that will be of aid to this tedious process.”

He waited as she placed her hand across her bosom and sighed dramatically. “Yes, my love, I am feeling weakened from the news.”

“But of course.”

Shutting the doors behind the attorney, he sniffed the air again. Too fresh. And too cold. Someone had opened a door or a window.

Striding across to the front entrance of the manse, he opened it wide—and stepped out to regard the parking area.

Saxton had come in a car. He’d seen the male arrive from up in his bedroom.

Wheeling around, he strode back into the house and went directly to the study doors, sliding one side back. “Assail,” he snapped.

Alas, the room was empty.