Caleb Morgan [Seven Brothers for McBride 7] (2 page)

McBride couldn’t help it, he grinned. Since Caleb matched him at six eight and three hundred pounds, if he settled in, he could keep McBride wherever he wanted him. If he sat the right way, McBride wouldn’t be all that opposed.

“Will you sit on me without clothes?” A sudden image of Caleb riding him, his angular face harshly determined to find his pleasure as he worked McBride’s cock in and out of his muscular ass, got McBride hard despite the pain.

A smirk twisted one edge of Caleb’s mouth. That secretive grin had fueled more of McBride’s fantasies than everything else about the man combined. Caleb had a way of looking like a bad boy all grown up into a dangerously wicked man.

“If you’re very, very good, I might.”

As suddenly as the intense flirting started, it disappeared when another wave of pain caused McBride to almost pass out. When he opened his eyes, Caleb was on his knees beside him.

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. It will go away on its own. It did last time.” McBride’s heart ached not knowing if Caleb had forgiven him or not. “I need to know, Caleb. Do you forgive me? Do you even still want me?”

Caleb’s mouth opened, and McBride was so keen on hearing what he had to say that the pain was forced to the background. Would he forgive him so they could move forward together, or had Caleb been so devastated by the lies he simply couldn’t let go?

“We’ve brought everything in.” Gannon hung close by the archway rather than entering the parlor. It was clear from his body language he didn’t want to interrupt Caleb and McBride. “I also had everyone get different clothes so we’re not constricted in fancy duds.”

“Good idea.” Caleb turned to all the men crowded in the archway between the dining room and the parlor.

“You should go get changed.” As much as McBride loved seeing him dressed up, he wanted him to be able to move freely if there was a fight.

“I will.” Caleb turned back to him. “I want you to stay here. I’m going to get everyone armed and then bring the rest of the weapons in. If nothing else, we can batten this place down and keep them repelled for longer than they’re going to want to lay siege.”

When the men darted questioning glances his way, McBride nodded. Below the big house, which had metal shutters that could slam down protecting all the doors and windows, there were vast tunnels of stores. All kinds of food and consumable goods—everything they needed for years—was protected by the enormous house above. The only way into or out of the tunnels was tucked safely within the house. McBride never understood what the house had been built to withstand, or perhaps it was just customary, but he was eternally grateful for it now.

After a pointed look and a reminder to stay put, Caleb rose to his feet, whipped off his shirt, and tossed it on the floor. If McBride had the energy, he would have gotten up and placed a lingering kiss on Caleb before he went off, but all he could do was lie on the couch and watch with hungry fascination as Caleb’s muscles bunched and flexed on his way out of the parlor. Dressed to the hilt, wearing only a pair of shorts, or totally naked, Caleb managed to always rivet McBride’s attention.

As he lay on the couch feeling utterly useless, his men and their mates brought in weapons from the massive shed. They also brought in any and all gear they didn’t want used against them. From the sounds of the activity, they had moved the dining room table out of the way to accommodate the influx of items.

When he heard them struggling to fill the room in an orderly fashion, McBride fought to get up and failed miserably. The pain was so crippling he couldn’t even call out suggestions on how best to organize the items. In the end, he realized it didn’t matter. The important thing was getting everything in, getting everyone armed, and later they could make it pretty.

As he lay there listening and unable to move, feeling as worthless as a washed-up grinder, McBride wondered why the slammers had returned. With his excruciating headache he couldn’t recall exactly how many days had passed since the angry men had been here last, but he remembered exactly what they wanted. Gentrymen. When the blood madness erupted, turning some gentrymen into insatiable savages, the slammers revolted, killing their old masters even if they weren’t afflicted with the disease. From what McBride had been told, the slammers then raided the thrall houses, drinking and fucking them without heed. In their glut of freedom, they’d ended up killing the very men they desired.

Quintus, a gentryman, had inadvertently led the slammers to the farm when he was escaping their wrath. Quintus had never even owned a slammer, but that didn’t help him when the men determined to use and abuse him wouldn’t listen. He’d gotten to safety, but only just barely. His injury wasn’t life threatening, but it had been life altering, because Quintus had fallen in love with the slammer who was tending to his wound. Renner and Quintus were a good pair. When they’d told McBride the truth of what was going on between them, they’d inspired him to confess his heart to Caleb. Rather than dwell on that fiasco, McBride turned his attention to pondering what else the slammers might be after.

The other thing the invading slammers could want were the four thralls on the property. All of them were in pristine condition except for Karsten. He had been attacked by gentrymen and then strung up and used by slammers, possibly some of the same men on their way up the long drive. Thankfully, they’d only taken Karsten’s blood. As traumatic as that had been, Karsten managed to escape them before they could violate him for sex. How Karsten had made it out to the farm was a testament to his amazing strength despite his diminutive size. The fact that he wasn’t an utter basket case was proof of his mate’s kindness and care. Ironically, it had been Devon’s determination to nurse him back to health that had caused them to fall in love, just like it had with Renner and Quintus.

“Maybe I should let Caleb keep on taking care of me since it seems to make men fall in love.” But it chafed McBride’s pride to be seen as weak in any way. He was fairly certain it was hardwired into his gentryman genes to want to be in charge of everything and lead his men from the front rather than languishing on a comfy couch in the back, but there wasn’t anything he could do about—another burst of agony made him clench his eyes closed and struggle not to vomit up what little was in his belly.

When the sickness hit, he’d just started the meal, so all he’d had was a drink and a few bites while watching Ollie put the finishing touches on everything in the kitchen. Still, it roiled around in his stomach as if looking for the way out. Desperate to get his mind off himself and onto the problems at hand, he turned his legal mind onto what the criminal element wanted from his land. They had to want something greatly, because they had seen McBride and his men with guns the last time they’d come. The slammers had been armed with slingshots. Their weapons were vastly inferior to what McBride’s men had, and they knew it. Even though they might have been able to get better weapons, they still didn’t have firearms.

“So what would push them to risk their lives?”

For some reason, McBride didn’t think they wanted gentrymen or thralls from his land. Why come here where only fourteen men lived? Although, they didn’t know their numbers. But still, they knew they were armed, and they knew they would fight to defend the farm. There must be something compelling for them to attempt another siege when they could get sex and blood from one another. By nature, slammers craved submission to a gentryman to give up their blood, and they hungered for thralls to fuck and drink their blood, but they weren’t imperatives. They wouldn’t find their own class so repellent that they couldn’t find solace or take sustenance from one another. That notion convinced McBride that they weren’t here for mates. But what? What could possibly be here that they couldn’t get in one of the surrounding four towns?

“Butler?”

The mechanical servant came into McBride’s line of sight. “Yes, sir?”

“Tell me what the valet is seeing.”

Using the electronic communications unit installed in his head, the butler conferred with the valet, who was stationed in the cupola of the big house. Within seconds of asking him to find out what was going on, the pain in his head exploded anew. The last thing he remembered was screaming in agony then blessed darkness.

“They’re just walking right up the long drive?” Caleb was in the cupola with the valet. Since he was mechanical, he was able to take what he saw with his camera eyes and project it onto the wall so Caleb could see exactly what he was seeing. If McBride hadn’t told him about this handy feature, he never would have guessed the bot capable of such a thing. “Can you zoom in on what the leader is carrying?”

After a moment, the image clarified. It wasn’t the clearest picture he’d ever seen, but it was better than anything his human eyes could detect. Since it was night with only a crescent moon lighting the darkness, the images were black and white but still amazingly vivid. Everything looked two-dimensional, but Caleb was just glad they had a heads-up about what was coming at them. If not for the valet, Caleb would have had to go out along the field to get a look. This way, he and everyone else was safe. And since the men coming didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry, Caleb had plenty of time to get ready for the inevitable assault.

It took a moment and some movement of the pack of men for Caleb to realize the leader of the slammers wasn’t carrying a weapon, but the end of a leash. The other end was attached to someone wearing a long, hooded cape. Every few steps the man in the cape stumbled, prompting the leader to yank hard on the leash to get him to keep up. After a few pulls that only made the man stagger more, one of the slammers behind him put a hand on the man’s shoulder and propelled him along.

Caleb wasn’t an expert like McBride, but he didn’t need to be to see that the covered man was much smaller than the slammers around him. That led Caleb to the inevitable conclusion that he was a thrall. Gentrymen could be smaller than slammers, but this robed figure was very tiny in relation to the men around him. It was unlikely he was a member of the elite class, especially when, by all reports, the slammers had decimated any and all gentrymen within the first two days of the blood madness outbreak. Caleb had thought they’d gotten all the thralls, too, but if one had hidden out long enough for the frenzy to stop…

“I guess the question is who is the guy in the cape?” Clearly, he was a thrall, but why were they dragging him along?

“Sir?” The valet wasn’t certain if Caleb was asking him or simply asking the air.

“Nothing. Keep tracking them. I’m going to get the men situated around the upper deck.” The big house was four stories tall with a wraparound deck on the first level and another on the fourth level. He’d always thought both decks were strictly for form, but he realized they were also functional, and not just for visitors to be able to look out over the land, sip fancy drinks, and enjoy the sunsets. By placing the men along the upper decks, they could strategically monitor every vantage point.

The valet was good, and he had the best view in the cupola, but it didn’t hurt to have more eyes, and men with weapons, encircling the house.

“Can you keep an eye on them but also continue to scan the surrounding fields?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do that. Report any movement to the butler, and he’ll relay it to me.” Only gentrymen could have communication devices implanted, so Caleb didn’t have one. If McBride weren’t sick, he’d be able to stay in constant contact with the valet, but using the butler would work just as well. Before his mind could linger on McBride, Caleb climbed down to the hallway of the fourth floor. The master bedroom was all the way at the end of the hall to his left, but the bedroom where McBride actually slept was to the right. Caleb hadn’t understood why McBride wouldn’t want the fanciest bedroom in the whole house until he realized the room he’d selected actually had a far better view of Caleb’s little house. When he’d found that out, he’d been pleased, but then everything went to hell.

“And I’ve kept my mind off McBride for less than three seconds.” Caleb sighed, shook his head, then went down the stairs to the parlor. “What happened?”

The butler turned from McBride and faced Caleb. “I don’t know. He asked me to relay to him what the valet was seeing and then passed out. Presumably from pain.”

Caleb rushed to McBride’s side. He was pale, sweaty, and agony twisted his features. At that moment, Caleb swore he would sell his soul to find out what was wrong with McBride. They needed him to help with whatever in the hell was going on with the slammers, but they also just flat-out needed him.

“I need you.” Caleb kissed McBride’s forehead. He’d sat at the dining room table, listening to McBride confess the truth of his feelings and the reality behind the lies he’d told. Caleb could have stood up and done the same, but he didn’t have the guts. He and McBride had told each other more garbage in an effort to protect one another when the truth truly would have set them free and put an end to their pain much sooner.

“It’s too late now,” McBride mumbled. “I can’t seem to get anything right.”

Caleb opened his mouth to soothe him, but Quintus entered, compelling Caleb to his feet. He was so used to hiding his attraction to McBride he automatically put distance between them when he no longer needed to. After McBride’s heartfelt confession, everyone knew they weren’t strictly master and slammer.

Quintus tucked a box of shells near the archway. “We’re running out of room in there.” He pointed back into the dining room. Caleb noticed he’d taken off his dress clothes for some of Devon’s work gear. Somehow, he looked like a slammer rather than a gentryman. Caleb decided it was the scruff of dirty-blond beard that harshened his appearance. And now that the world was utterly destroyed, issues of class mattered less and less.