Z’s eyes lifted to his. They were black from pain, not yellow. “Do what you have to, son. I’ll keep it tight.”
The Brother looked away, his face screwed down hard into a grimace, the scar that made an S-curve from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his mouth standing out in harsh relief.
With a stern lecture, Blay ordered his hands to be steady and sure, and the message was somehow carried out: He tore apart the fastening strips at the shoulders, the rips louder than the screaming in his head, and then peeled off the vest, terrified of what he was going to find.
There was a big round patch directly in the center of Z’s broad, muscled chest. Right where the heart was.
But it was a bruise. Not a hole.
It was just a bruise.
“Surface wound only.” Blay dug his finger into the dense webbing of the vest and found the slug. “I can feel the bullet in the vest—”
“Then why can’t I move my—”
The smell of the Brother’s fresh blood seemed to hit everyone’s noses at the same time. Someone cursed, and Blay leaned in.
“You’ve been hit under the arm, too.”
“Bad?” Z asked.
Over the phone, Manello said, “Get in there and look around if you can.”
Blay lifted that heavy limb and flashed his penlight in at the underside. Apparently a bullet had entered the torso through the vest’s small, unprotected pocket under the pit—a one-in-a-million shot that if you’d tried to re-create, you couldn’t possibly pull off.
Fuck. “I don’t see an exit wound. It’s right on the side of his ribs, way up high.”
“He’s breathing steadily?” Manello asked.
“Labored but steady.”
“Was CPR administered?”
“He threatened to castrate Hollywood if there was any kind of liplock.”
“Look, let me just dematerialize.” Z coughed a little. “Gimme some room—”
Everyone offered a variety of opinions at that point, but Zsadist would have none of it. Shoving people away, the Brother closed his eyes and…
Blay knew they had a real problem when nothing happened. Yes, Zsadist hadn’t been killed, and he was a hell of a lot better off than he would have been without the vest. But he was not able to move himself—and they were in the middle of nowhere, so deep in the woods that even if they called for backup, nobody was going to be able to get an SUV within miles of them.
And worse? Blay had the sense that the slayer that had been taken down had been something considerably more than your run-of-the-mill lesser.
No telling when reinforcements would be coming in.
The sound of a text hitting somebody’s phone sounded, and Rhage looked down. “Shit. The others are backed up downtown. We’ve got to handle this on our own.”
“Goddamn it,” Zsadist muttered under his breath.
Yup. That about covered it.
SEVENTEEN
Xcor had not expected this.
As he and his soldiers materialized to the communal feeding’s prearranged location, he had anticipated a property that was run-down or mayhap on the verge of condemnation, a place in such financial state that a female would be forced into selling her veins and her sex to stay afloat.
No such thing.
The environs of the estate were appointed to a glymera standard, the sprawling manor house up on the hill glowing with warm light, the grounds manicured to within an inch of their lives, the smaller retainer cottage just inside the gates in perfect condition despite its obvious age.
Mayhap she was a lesser cousin of some great lineage?
“Who is this female?” he asked Throe.
His second in command shrugged. “I know not of her family personally. But I did verify her affiliation with a bloodline of worth.”
All around, his fighters were antsy, their combat boots packing the snow beneath their feet as they paced in place, their breath leaving their nostrils as if they were racehorses at the gate.
“One wonders if she knows what she volunteered for,” Xcor murmured, not particularly caring whether the female did or did not.
“Shall I?” Throe asked.
“Yes, afore the others burst free of their wills and break into that fair cottage of hers.”
Throe dematerialized over to a quaint front door, its arched top and little lantern something one would expect to find outfitting a dollhouse. His right-hand male was not persuaded by the charm, however. The overhead illumination was abruptly cut off, surely because Throe willed it so, and the soldier’s knock was hard and quick, a demand, not an inquiry.
Moments later, the portal opened. Firelight spilled out into the night, the golden yellow beams so intense they appeared at least nominally capable of melting the snow cover—and right in the middle of that lovely illumination, the figure of a female cut a dark, curvy silhouette.
She was naked. And the scent that drifted over on the icy breeze indicated that she was very ready.
Zypher growled softly.
“Keep your wits about you,” Xcor commanded. “Lest your hunger be used as a weapon against us.”
Throe spoke to her and then reached into his inner pocket to take out the cash. The female accepted what was given and then stretched one arm up high upon the jamb, angling her body so that one luscious breast was bathed in that soft light.
Throe glanced over his shoulder and nodded.
The others didn’t wait for further invitation. Xcor’s fighters converged upon the doorway, their male bodies so large, and in such number, that the female was instantly rendered invisible.
With a curse, he closed in on foot as well.
Zypher naturally went in first, taking her lips and cupping her breasts, but he wasn’t alone. The three cousins fought for position, one going behind and arching his hips, as if he were rubbing his cock against her ass, the other two reaching for her nipples and her sex, their hands worming in as she was swarmed.
Throe spoke above the rising moans. “I shall stay outside on guard.”
Xcor opened his mouth to command otherwise, and then realized it would make him look like he was avoiding the scene, and that was hardly a masculine thing to do.
“Aye, you do that,” he muttered. “I shall guard the interior.”
His males picked up the female, their dagger hands finding hold on her arms, her thighs, her waist, and en masse they carried her backward into the cozy confines. Xcor was the one who shut the door and made sure there was no locking device to pen them in. He was also the one to scope out the inside of the cottage. As his bastards carried their meal toward the fire, where a large fur rug had been laid flat upon the floor, he leaned into the closest window, lifted the drapery, and checked the panes of glass. Old and leaded, with wooden struts, not steel.
Not secure. Good.
“Someone get inside of me,” the female moaned in a deep voice.
Xcor didn’t bother to ascertain whether she was accommodated or not—although her rippling groan suggested she was. Instead, he looked around for any other doors or places from which an ambush could be staged. There appeared to be none. The cottage didn’t have a second floor, the skeleton of its roof arching up above his head, and there was only a shallow bathroom, the door of which was open, a light left on revealing a claw-footed tub and an old-fashioned sink. The open kitchen was but a stretch of countertop and a few modest appliances.