Lover Reborn

Chapter Eight

  The first thing Xhex did when she checked back into consciousness was look for John in the recovery room.

  He wasn't in the chair across the way. Wasn't on the floor, propped up in the corner. Wasn't on the bed beside her.

  She was alone.

  Where the hell was he?

  Oh, yeah, sure. He crawled all over her in the field, but then he left her here? Had he even come back for her operation?

  With a groan, she considered rolling onto her side, but with all the IV lines in her arm and wires on her chest, she decided not to fight her plug-ins. Well, and then there was the happy fact that someone had drilled a large bore hole in her shoulder. A number of times.

  Lying there with a snarl on her face, everything about the room annoyed her. The blow of the heat from the ceiling, the whirring sound of the machines behind her head, the sheets that felt like sandpaper, the rock-hard pillow and the too-soft mattress. . .

  Where the fuck was John?

  For the love of God, she may have made a mistake mating him. The loving him thing was what it was - no changing that, and she wouldn't want to. But she should have known better than to make things official. Even though the traditional sex roles of vampires were changing, thanks in large part to Wrath loosening up the Old Ways, there was still a load of patriarchal shit surrounding shellans. You could be a friend, a girlfriend, a lover, a coworker, a car mechanic, for fuck's sake, and expect your life to be your own.

  But she feared that once your name was in the back of a male - and worse, a full-blooded warrior male - things changed. Expectations shifted.

  Your mate started getting up in your face and thinking you couldn't take care of yourself.

  Where was John?

  Fed up, she shoved herself off the pillows, took out her IV and clipped the end so that the saline and whatever else didn't drip all over the floor. Next she silenced the heart monitor behind her, and then ripped the pads off her chest with her free hand.

  She kept her right arm immobilized against her rib cage - she just needed to walk, not wave a flag.

  At least she didn't have a catheter.

  Putting her feet on the linoleum, she stood up carefully and gave herself props for being such a good little patient. In the bathroom, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, used the loo.

  When she came back out, she expected to see John in one of the two doorways.

  Nope.

  Going around the end of the bed, she took things slowly, because her body was logy from the drugs, the operation, and the fact that she needed to feed - although shit knew, scoring John's vein was the last thing she was interested in. The longer he stayed away, the more she didn't want to see his hairy ass.

  Goddamn it.

  Over at the closet, she opened the paneled doors, ditched her johnny, and changed into some scrubs - which, of course, were not her size, but male-sized. And wasn't that a metaphor. As she struggled to dress with one hand, she cursed John, the Brotherhood, the role of shellans, females in general. . . and especially the shirt and pants, as she struggled to one-handedly roll up the bottoms that pooled around her feet.

  As she marched for the door, she studiously ignored the fact that she was looking for her mate, and instead focused on the songs going through her head, little a cappella versions of such happy Top 40 hits as "What Gave Him the Right to Call Her Out on the Field," "How in the Hell Could He Have Left Her Down Here Alone," and the ever-popular standby "All Males are Morons. "

  Doo-dah, doo-dah.

  Tearing open the door, she -

  Across the corridor, John was sitting on the hard floor, knees peaked like tent poles, arms crossed around his chest. His eyes met hers the instant she made an appearance - not because he looked her way, but because he had been focused on the space she would fill long before she had actually come out.

  The ranting in her brain silenced: He looked like he had been through hell and had carried the flames of the devil's living room back in his bare hands.

  Unwrapping his arms, he signed, I thought you might like your privacy.

  Well, shit. There he went, ruining her bad temper.

  Shuffling over, she eased herself down beside him. He didn't help her, and she knew he was doing that on purpose - as a way to honor her independence.

  "Guess this was our first fight," she said.

  He nodded. I hated it. The whole thing. And I'm sorry - I just. . . I can't explain what came over me, but when I saw you injured, I snapped.

  Her exhale was long and slow. "You were okay with me fighting. Right before we were mated, you said you were cool with it. "

  I know. And I still am.

  "You sure about that. "

  After a moment, he nodded again. I love you.

  "Me, too. I mean, you. You know. "

  But he hadn't really answered her, had he. And she didn't have the energy to follow up any further. The pair of them just sat on that floor in silence until eventually she reached out and took his hand.

  "I need to feed," she said roughly. "Will you. . . "

  His eyes shot to hers and his head bobbed. Always, he mouthed.

  She got to her feet without his aid and extended her free hand to him. When he took her palm, she summoned her strength and pulled him up. Then she led him into the recovery room, and locked the doors with her mind as he sat down on the bed.

  He was rubbing his palms on his leathers as if he were nervous, and before she could go over to him, he jumped up. I need to shower. I can't get close to you like this - I'm covered in blood.

  God, she hadn't even noticed he was still in his fighting clothes. "Okay. "

  They traded places, she heading for the edge of the mattress, he going for the bathroom to turn on the hot water. He left the door open. . . so as he stripped off his muscle shirt, she watched his shoulders bunch and twist.

  Her name, Xhexania, was not just tattooed, but carved in beautiful symbols across his back.

  As he bent down to draw off his leathers, his ass made a stupendous appearance, his heavy thighs flexing as he shucked one leg and then the other. When he got in the shower, he went out of eyeshot, but he returned soon thereafter.

  He was not aroused, she realized.

  First time for that. Especially as she was about to feed.

  John wrapped a towel around his hips and tucked the end in at his waist. As he turned to her, his grave eyes made her sad. Would you like me to put on a robe?

  What the hell had happened to them? she thought. And for fuck's sake, they had been through too much just to get to what should be the good stuff only to screw it up.

  "No. " She shook her head and wiped her eyes. "Please. . . no. . . "

  As he came forward, he kept that towel right where it was.

  When he got in front of her, he sank down onto his knees and put up his wrist. Take from me. Please let me take care of you.

  Xhex leaned in and clasped his hand. Passing her thumb back and forth over his vein, she felt the connection rise between them once again, that link that had been sliced through in the alley reknitting, an injury healing.

  Reaching out, she clasped the back of his neck and brought his mouth to hers. Kissing him slowly, thoroughly, she spread her legs, making room for him as he eased forward, his hips finding the place that was his and his alone.

  When the towel hit the floor, her hand went to his sex - and found that it had hardened.

  Just as she wanted it to.

  Stroking him, she curled her upper lip, exposing her fangs. Then, tilting her head to the side, she ran one razor-sharp tip up his neck.

  His huge body shuddered - so she repeated the motion, this time with her tongue. "Come up on the bed with me. "

  John wasted no time, filling the space she vacated as she pushed herself back to make room for him.

  Lot of eye contact. As if they were both reacquainting themselves with eac
h other.

  Taking his hand, she put it on her hip as she rolled into him, and as their bodies made contact, his grip tightened, his bonding scent flaring.

  She'd intended to keep things slow and low-key. But their flesh had a different plan. Need grabbed the reins and took over, and she struck his throat with a powerful lunge, taking what she had to have to survive and be at her strongest - and also marking him in her own way. In response, his body jacked against her own, his erection wanting inside of her.

  While she took great drags on his vein, she struggled to get her scrubs off - but he took care of that for her, gripping the waist and yanking the pants so hard the fabric split on a clean, screaming rip. And then his hand was right where she wanted it to be, moving against her core, slipping and sliding, teasing and then entering her. Working herself against his long, penetrating fingers, she found a rhythm that was guaranteed to get them both off, her moans competing in her throat with the blood she was downing at an alarming rate.

  After her first orgasm, she shifted around - with his help - and straddled his hips. She needed to stay relatively still to keep locked on his throat, but he took care of the motion side of things, pumping up against her, closing in and retreating, creating that friction they both wanted.

  When she came a second time, she had to retract her mouth from his flesh and call out his name. And as he pulsed deep within her, she stopped moving and absorbed the sensation of the kicking and jerking, so familiar, and yet so fresh.

  Jesus. . . what an expression he had. . . his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth bared, the muscles in his neck straining, all while a streak of delicious red left the puncture marks she had yet to lick closed.

  When his lids finally opened, she stared hard at the blissed-out haze in those blue eyes of his. His love for her wasn't just emotional; there was an undeniable physical component to it. That was the way bonded males worked.

  Maybe he couldn't have stopped himself in that alley, she thought. Maybe that was the beast inside the civilized shell, the animal part of vampires that separated the species from those watered-down humans.

  Dipping low, she licked at his neck, lapping the wounds shut, savoring the taste that clung to the inside of her mouth and the expressway of her throat. Already she could feel the power coursing out from her gut, and this was just the beginning. As her body absorbed what he had given her, she was just going to feel stronger and stronger.

  "I love you," she said.

  With that, she drew him up off the pillows so she was sitting in his lap, his arousal pushing even deeper inside her core. Palming the back of his neck with her free hand, she brought him to her vein and held him in place.

  He didn't need any more urging than that - and the pain that came with his strike was a sweet sting that carried her right back over the edge of release, her sex milking him into another orgasm, working against his shaft, squeezing him, pulling at him.

  John's arms locked around her, and the sight of them out of the corner of her eye made her frown. They were huge, bulging limbs that, in spite of how strong she was, could lift more, strike harder, punch faster. They were bigger than her thighs, thicker than her waist.

  Their bodies were not, in fact, created equal, were they. He was always going to be more powerful than her.

  A reality, sure. But how much someone could bench-press was not the determining factor when it came to competence in the field; nor was it the only way to judge a fighter. She was just as accurate a shooter, just as good with a dagger, and equally furious and tenacious when faced with prey.

  She simply had to make him see that.

  Biology was one thing. But even males had a brain.

  When the sex was finally over, John lay beside his mate, utterly sated and sleepy. It would probably be a good idea to scrounge up some food, but he didn't have the energy or inclination.

  He didn't want to leave her. At this moment. Ten minutes from now. Tomorrow, next week, next month. . .

  As she curled into him, he snagged a blanket from the side table and draped it over the two of them, even though the combination of their body heat was keeping them pretty damn toasty.

  He was well aware of when she fell asleep - her breathing changed and her leg twitched from time to time.

  He wondered if she was kicking him in the ass in her dreams.

  He had shit to work on; that was for sure.

  And no one to go to talk about it - it wasn't like he could ask Tohr for anything more than the advice he'd gotten on the fly tonight. And everybody else's relationships were perfect. All he ever saw at the dining table were happy, smiling couples - hardly the sounding board he was looking for.

  He could just picture the response: You're having problems? Really? Huh, that's weird. . . maybe you could call in to the radio or some shit?

  The only thing that would change would be whether that was delivered by someone with a goatee, a pair of wraparounds, a mink duster, a Tootsie Roll in his piehole. . . .

  He had this moment of peace, though. And he and Xhex could build on it.

  They were going to have to.

  You were okay with me fighting. Right before we were mated, you said you were cool with it.

  And he really had been. But that was before he'd seen her cut right in front of him.

  The thing was. . . and as much as it pained him to admit this. . . the last thing he wanted to be was the Brother he admired the most. Now that he had Xhex properly, the idea of losing her and stepping into Tohr's boots was the single most terrifying thing he'd ever faced.

  He had no idea how the Brother was getting out of bed every night. And frankly, if he hadn't already forgiven the guy for taking off and disappearing right afterward, he would have now.

  He thought of that moment when Wrath and the Brotherhood had come to them in a group. He and Tohr had been in the office here at the training center, with the Brother calling home time and time again, hoping, praying for something other than voice mail. . . .

  In the corridor outside the office, there were fissures in the massive concrete walls - in spite of the fact that the damn things were eighteen-inch-thick concrete: Tohr's release of energy from his anger and pain had been so great he had literally exploded himself to God only knew where, shaking the subterranean foundation until it cracked.

  John still didn't know where he'd gone. But Lassiter had brought him back in bad shape.

  He remained in bad shape.

  Selfish though it was, John didn't want that for himself. Tohr was half the male he had once been - and not just because he'd lost weight - and though no one would have shown pity to the guy's face, each and every one of the fighters felt it behind closed doors.

  Hard to know how much longer the Brother was going to last out there with the enemy. He was refusing to feed, so he was weakening, yet every night he went into the field, his need for revenge getting sharper and more consuming.

  He was going to get himself killed. End of.

  It was like triangulating the impact of a car into an oak tree: a simple matter of geometry. You just drew out the angles and trajectories and boom! There was Tohr, dead on the pavement.

  Although, shit, he'd probably take his last breath with a smile, knowing he was finally going to be with his shellan.

  Maybe that was why John was as stressed about the Xhex thing as he was. He was close to other people in the house, to his half sister, Beth, to Qhuinn and Blay, to the other Brothers. But Tohr and Xhex were his go-to people - and the idea of losing them both?

  Fuuuuuck.

  Thinking about Xhex in the field, he knew that if she was out there in those alleys, fighting the enemy, she was going to get hurt again. They all did from time to time. Most of the injuries were near misses, but you never knew when that line was going to be crossed, when a simple hand-to-hand engagement would get away from you and you'd find yourself surrounded.

  It wasn't that he do
ubted her or her capabilities - in spite of that potshot that had come out of his mouth tonight. It was the odds he didn't like. Soon enough, if you rolled the dice over and over again, you were going to come up snake eyes. And in the larger scheme of things, her life was more important than one more fighter out in the field.

  He should have thought about this a little more before going all, Yeah, sure, I'm tight with you fighting. . . .

  "What are you thinking about?" she asked in the darkness.

  As if what was banging through his brain had woken her up.

  Rearranging himself, he put his head next to hers and shook it back and forth. But he was lying. And she probably knew it.