Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (34 page)

God, Layla was white as a sheet. Then again, fear and blood loss would do that to a female.

Doc Jane was in midsentence as she took her bag from him. “I think I should start by taking your

vitals—”

Boom!

As the thunderous noise rang throughout the room, Qhuinn’s first thought was to throw himself on

both the females as a shield.

But it wasn’t a bomb. It was Phury throwing the door wide.

The Brother’s yellow eyes were glowing, and not in a good way, as they went from Layla to Doc

Jane to Qhuinn…and back again.

“What the hell is going on in here?” he demanded, nostrils flaring as he clearly caught the same

scent Qhuinn had. “I see the doctor going up the stairs at a dead run. Then it’s Qhuinn with her bag.

And now…someone had better start talking. This goddamn minute.”

But he knew. Because he was looking at Qhuinn.

Qhuinn faced the Brother. “I got her pregnant—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Barely got through the p-word, as a matter of fact.

The Brother all but picked him up and threw him against the wall. As his back absorbed the

impact, his jaw exploded in pain—which suggested the guy had also corked him a good one. Then

rough hands pinned him in place with his feet dangling about six inches from the nice Oriental rug—

just as people started to pool in the doorway.

Great. An audience.

Phury shoved his face into Qhuinn’s and bared his fangs. “You did
what
to her?”

Qhuinn swallowed a mouthful of blood. “She went into her needing. I serviced her.”

“You don’t deserve her—”

“I know.”

Phury slammed him again. “She’s better than this—”

“I agree—”

Bang!
Again with the wall. “Then why the fuck did you—”

The growl that permeated the room was loud enough to rattle the mirror on the wall next to

Qhuinn’s head—as well as the silver brush set on the bureau and the crystals on the sconces by the

door. At first he was sure it was Phury…except then the Brother’s brows came down hard and the

male looked over his shoulder.

Layla was out of bed and closing in on the pair of them—and holy fucking shit, the look in her

eyes was enough to melt paint off a car door: In spite of the fact that she was not well, her fangs were bared, and her fingers were curled into claws…and the icy draft that preceded her made the back of

Qhuinn’s neck prickle in warning.

That growl was nothing that should have come out of a male…much less a delicate female of

Chosen status.

And if anything, her nasty tone of voice was worse: “
Let. Him. Go.
”

She was looking up at Phury as if she were fully prepared to rip the Brother’s arms out of their

sockets and beat him with the stumps if he didn’t do exactly what she said. Pronto.

And hey, what do you know—suddenly Qhuinn could breathe right, and now his Nikes were back

on the floor. Just like magic.

Phury put his palms out in front of him. “Layla, I—”

“You do not touch him. Not about this—are we clear with each other?” Her weight was on the

balls of her feet, as if she could lunge for the guy’s throat at any second. “He was the father of my young, and he will be accorded all the rights and privileges of that station.”

“Layla—”

“
Do we understand each other?
”

Phury nodded his multicolored head. “Yes. But—”

In the Old Language, she hissed, “
If any harm shall befall him, I will come after you, and find

you where you sleep. I do not care where you lay your head or who with, my vengeance shall rain
upon you until you drown.
”

That last word was drawn out, until its syllable was lost in more growling.

Dead silence.

Until Doc Jane said dryly, “Annnnd this is why they say the female of the species is more

dangerous than the male.”

“Word,” someone muttered from out in the hall.

Phury threw his hands up in frustration. “I just want what’s best for you, and not only as a

concerned friend—this is my fucking job. You go through your needing without telling anyone, lay

with him”—like Qhuinn was dog shit—“and then not tell anyone you’re in medical trouble. And I’m

supposed to be happy about this? What the fuck?”

There was some kind of conversation between the pair of them at that point, but Qhuinn didn’t

hear it: All of his consciousness had retreated deep into his brain. Man, the Brother’s happy little commentary shouldn’t have hurt like a bitch—it wasn’t like he hadn’t heard that stuff before, or hell, even thought it about himself. But for some reason, the words triggered a fault line that rumbled right down into the core of him.

Reminding himself that it was hardly a tragedy to have the obvious pointed out, he pulled free of

the shame spiral and glanced around. Yup, everyone had shown up at the open door—and once again,

things he would have preferred remain private were happening in front of a cast of thousands.

At least Layla didn’t care. Hell, she didn’t even seem to notice.

And it was kind of funny to see all these professional fighters unwilling to get within a mile of the female. Then again, if you wanted to survive doing the work they did, accurate risk assessment was

something you developed early—and even Qhuinn, who was the object of the protective instinct the

Chosen was rocking, wouldn’t have dared touch her.

“
I hereby renounce my Chosen status, and all the rights and privileges thereto. I am Layla,

fallen from this heartbeat onward
—”

Phury tried to cut her off. “Listen, you don’t have to do this—”

“…
and evermore. I am ruined in the eyes of both tradition and practicality, virgin no more,

conceived of a young, even though I am losing it.
”

Qhuinn banged the back of his head into the wall. Goddamn it.

Phury dragged a hand through his thick hair. “Fuck.”

When Layla wobbled on her feet, everyone went for her, but she pushed all hands away and

walked under her own steam back to the bed. Lowering her body gingerly, as if everything hurt, she

hung her head.

“My die is cast, and I am prepared to live with the consequences, be as they may. That is all.”

There were a number of brows going up at her dismissal of the whole crowd, but nobody said

boo: After a moment, the peanut gallery shuffled off, although Phury stayed put. So did Qhuinn and the doctor.

The door was shut.

“Okay, especially after all that, I really need to check your vitals,” Doc Jane said, easing the

female back against the pillows and helping to resettle the covers that had been thrown off.

Qhuinn didn’t move as a blood-pressure cuff was slid up a slender arm and a series of
puff-puff-puff
s sounded.

Phury, on the other hand, paced around—at least until he frowned and took out his phone. “Is this

why Havers called me last night?”

Layla nodded. “I went there looking for help.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?” the Brother muttered to himself.

“What did Havers say?”

“I don’t know because I didn’t listen to the voice mail. I thought I’d have no reason to.”

“He indicated he would deal only with you.”

At that, Phury looked over at Qhuinn, that yellow stare narrowing. “Are you going to mate her?”

“No.”

Phury’s expression grew icy again. “What the hell kind of male are you—”

“He’s not in love with me,” Layla cut in. “Nor I with him.”

As the Primale’s head whipped around, Layla continued, “We wanted a young.” She sat forward

as Doc Jane listened to her heart from behind. “It began and finished there.”

Now the Brother cursed. “I don’t get it.”

“We are both orphans in many ways,” the Chosen said. “We are—were…seeking a family of our

own.”

Phury exhaled, and wandered over to the desk in the corner, taking a load off in the dainty chair.

“Well. Ah. I guess this changes things a little. I thought that—”

“It matters naught,” Layla interjected. “It is what it is. Or…was, as the case may be.”

Qhuinn found himself rubbing his eyes for no particular reason. Not like they were blurry or some

shit. Nah. Not at all.

It was just so…damned sad. The whole fucking thing. From Layla’s condition, to Phury’s

impotent exhaustion, to his own driving ache in the chest, it was just some seriously sad goddamned business.

THIRTY-ONE

“This is just what I’m looking for.”

As Trez spoke, he walked around the vast, empty space of the warehouse, his boots making

loud impacts that echoed. From behind him, he could easily sense the relief that wafted out of the real estate agent standing by the door.

Negotiating with humans? Like taking candy from a baby.

“You could transform this part of the city,” the woman said. “It’s a real opportunity.”

“True enough.” Although it wasn’t like the kind of stores and restaurants that would follow him

were highbrow: more like tattoo and piercing shops, cheap buffets, XXX theaters.

But he didn’t have a problem with all that. Even pimps could take pride in their work—and

frankly, he tended to trust tattoo artists waaaaaaaay more than many so-called “upstanding citizens.”

Trez pivoted around. The space was tremendous, nearly as tall as it was wide, with rows upon

rows of square windows, many of which had been broken and covered up with plywood. The roof

was sound—or at least mostly so, the corrugated tin sheaths keeping the snow, although not the cold, out. The floor was concrete, but there was obviously a lower level—at various points there were

trapdoors set underfoot, although none of them were easily opened. Electricals looked okay; HVAC

was nonexistent; plumbing was a joke.

In his mind, however, he didn’t see the place as it was now—nope, he could picture it

transformed, a club of Limelight proportions. Naturally, the project was going to require a huge

capital infusion, and a number of months to get the work done; in the end, however, Caldwell was

going to have a new hot spot—and he was going to have another venue to make money in.

Everybody wins.

“So would you like to make an offer?”

Trez looked over at the woman. She was Ms. Professional in her black wool coat, and her dark

suit with the below-the-knee skirt—ninety percent of her flesh covered, and not just because it was December. And yet even all buttoned up with the sensible hair, she was pretty in the way that all

women were to him: She had breasts and soft smooth skin, and a place for him to play in between her legs.

And she liked him.

He could tell by the way she dropped her eyes from his, and by the fact that she didn’t seem to

know what to do with her hands—they were in her coat pockets, then playing with her hair, then

tucking her silk shirt in….

He could think of some things to keep her busy.

Trez smiled as he walked across to her—and didn’t stop until he was just inside her personal

space. “Yes. I want it.”

The double entendre hit home, her cheeks reddening not from the cold, but arousal. “Oh. Good.”

“Where do you want to do it,” he drawled.

“Make the offer, you mean?” She cleared her throat. “All you have to do is tell me what you…

want and I’ll…make it happen.”

Aw, she wasn’t used to casual sex. How sweet.

“Here.”

“I’m sorry?” she said, finally looking up into his eyes.

He smiled slow and tight so his fangs didn’t show. “The offer. Let’s do that here?”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.” He stepped in closer, but not so close that they were touching. He was happy to

seduce her, but she had to be one hundred percent sure she was into the grind. “You ready?”

“To…make…the offer.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s, ah, it’s cold in here,” she said. “Maybe at my office? That’s where most of the…offers…get

handled.”

From out of nowhere, the image of his brother sitting on the sofa at home, staring at him like he

was the frickin’ problem, hit him hard—and as it stuck around, he realized that he’d had sex with

almost every woman he’d come across in the last…shit, how long?

Well, obviously, if they weren’t of mateable age he hadn’t been with them.

Or fertile.

Which cut out what, like, a dozen or two? Great. What a hero.

What the
fuck
was he doing? He didn’t want to go back to this woman’s office—for one thing, there wasn’t enough time, assuming he wanted to be at the Iron Mask for opening. So the only option was right here, standing up, her skirt around her waist, her legs around his hips. Quick, to the point; then go their separate ways.

After he’d told her how much cash he was willing to pay for this warehouse, of course.

But then what? It wasn’t like he was going to bang her at the closing. He rarely did repeats, and

only if he was seriously attracted or really itchy—which in this case he was not.

For chrissakes, what exactly was he getting out of this? It wasn’t like he was going to see her

naked. Or have much skin-on-skin contact.

Unless…that was the point.

When was the last time he’d really been with a female? Like, properly. As in…nice dinner, little

music, some necking that led to a bedroom…then long, slow, patient shit where he had a couple of

orgasms.

And no choking sense of panic when it was over.

“You were going to say something?” the woman prompted him.

iAm was right. He didn’t need to be doing this crap. Hell, he wasn’t even attracted to the Realtor.

She was standing in front of him; she was available; and that wedding ring on her finger meant she