Xcor glanced over at the action. The female was lying on her back, her arms T’d out from her torso, her neck exposed, her legs spread wide. Zypher had mounted her and was rhythmically thrusting into her, her head moving back and forth on the white fur as she absorbed the pounding. Two of the cousins had latched onto her wrists, and the other had taken out his cock and was fucking her mouth with it. Indeed, there was little of her that was not covered with male vampire, and her ecstasy at being used was obvious not only to the eye, but to the ear: Around the erection that was going in and out of her plump lips, her heavy breathing and erotic moans escaped into the balmy, sex-scented air.
Xcor walked over to the kitchen sink. There was nothing in the deep belly of it, no lingering remnants of a meal, no half-filled, abandoned glasses. There were dishes in the cupboards, however, and when he opened the European-size refrigerator, bottles of white wine were lined up horizontally on the shelves.
A male curse brought his eyes back to the fun and games. Zypher was just orgasming, his body bowing forward while his head kicked back—and in the midst of his release, one of the cousins was shoving him out of the way, taking his place, lifting the hips of the female and digging his arousal into her wet, pink sex. At least Zypher seemed entirely content to trade places; he beared his fangs, ducked his head under the now-heaving chest of his comrade, and nipped the breast of the female so he could feed close to her nipple.
The one at her mouth orgasmed as well, and she swallowed his release, sucking the head of the fighter’s cock in desperate pulls, then letting go and licking at her slick mouth as if she were still hungry. Somebody else soon obliged, yet another arousal plunging in between her lips, the counterthrusting rhythm of what was going on at her head as well as between her legs bouncing her back and forth in a way she seemed to get off on.
Xcor went over and double-checked the bathroom, but his first assessment had been correct: There was nowhere to hide in its tight confines.
Having secured the interior, he had naught to do but lean back against the corner that offered the greatest visual access and witness the feeding. As things intensified, his fighters lost what semblance of civility they had, taking swipes at one another as lions would over a fresh kill, their fangs flashing, their eyes wild with aggression as they jockeyed for access. They did not completely lose their heads, however. And they took care of the female.
Soon enough, someone scored his vein and put it to her lips.
Xcor dropped his eyes to his boots and allowed his peripheral vision to monitor the environs.
There was a time when he would have become aroused at the sight—not because he was particularly interested in the sex, but more in the same manner that when he saw food, his stomach would grumble. And accordingly, in the past, when he had had the need to take a female, he had done just that. Usually in the dark, of course, so the dear girl wouldn’t be offended or afeared.
He could well imagine the strained expressions males sported when they were in their erotic throes did little to improve his looks.
Now, though? He felt curiously unplugged from it all, as if he were watching a team of males move some heavy furniture or perhaps rake a lawn.
It was his Chosen, of course.
Having had his lips against her pure skin, having looked into her luminous green eyes, having smelled her delicate scent, he was utterly uninterested in the well-used charms of that female in front of the fire.
Oh, his Chosen…he had never known such grace existed, and moreover, he could not have e’er surmised that he would be touched so completely by that which was antithetical to him. She was his opposite, kind and giving when he was brutal and unforgiving, beautiful to his ugliness, ethereal to his filth.
And she had marked him. Sure as if she had struck him and left a scar deep within his flesh, he was wounded and weakened by her.
There was naught to be done.
Lo, even the memory of the moments he had shared with her, when she had been fully clothed, and he had been so gravely injured, were enough to stir him at his hips, his sorry sex stiffening for no good reason a’tall: Even if they had not been on different sides of the war for the throne, she would never have let him come to her as a male does when he is enthralled with a female of worth. That breezy autumn night when they had met under that tree, she had been performing a valid service in her own mind. It had naught to do with him in particular.
But oh, he wanted her nonetheless….
Abruptly, the female before the fire arched under the shifting, orgasming weights atop her, and he refocused on her. As if she sensed his sexual arousal, her blissed-out, fuzzy stare drifted over in his direction, and brief surprise flickered across her face—or what little he could see of it around the thick forearm offering her nourishment.
Shock widened her eyes. She evidently had failed to notice his presence—but now that she had, fear, not passion, clearly flared within her.
Unwilling to disrupt the action, he shook his head and flashed her his palm in a stop motion to reassure her that she was not going to have to bear his bite—or worse, his sex.
The messaging apparently worked, because the dread left her expression, and as one of his soldiers presented his cock for attention, she reached out and began stroking it over her head.
Xcor smiled to himself in a nasty way. This whore wouldn’t have him, and yet his body, in all its biological stupidity, insisted on responding to that Chosen as if the sacred female would e’er look twice at him.
So silly.
Checking his watch, he was surprised to find that the feeding had been going on for an hour already. So be it. Provided his males complied with his two basic rules, he was content to let this continue: They had to remain substantially clothed, and their weapons had to be holstered with the safeties off.
That way, if the tenor changed, they could defend themselves quickly.
He was more than willing to give them the time.
After this interlude? The lot of them were going to be at their full strength—and with the way things were going with the Brotherhood…they were going to need to be.
EIGHTEEN
“No. Fucking no way.”
Qhuinn had to agree with Z’s read on Rhage’s bright idea.
The bunch of them had struggled through the woods, with Rhage bearing most of Z’s weight while everyone else circled the pair, ready to pick off anything or anyone who threatened from the fringes. They were now back at the airplane hangar, and Hollywood’s solution to their mobility problem seemed like a complication with mortal implications, not anything that was actually going to help.
“How hard can it be to fly a plane?” As everyone, including Z, just looked at him, Rhage shrugged. “What. Humans do it all the time.”
Z rubbed his chest and slowly sank to the ground. After gathering his short breath, he shook his head. “First of all, you don’t know if…the damn thing…can even get airborne. It probably has no gas…and you’ve never flown before.”
“You wanna tell me what our other option is? We’re still miles from any plausible pickup location, you’re not improving, and we could get ambushed. Let me at least get in there and see if I can get the engine to turn over.”
“This is a bad call.”
In the quiet that followed, Qhuinn did the math himself, and glanced over at the hangar. After a moment, he said, “I’ll cover you. Let’s do this.”
Bottom line, Rhage was right. This foot-race of an evac was taking too long, and that lesser had disappeared before they’d stabbed him, not the other way around.
Had the Omega given his boys some special powers?
Whatever—a smart fighter never underestimated the enemy—especially when one of his own was down. They needed to get Z to safety, and if that meant an airlift, so the fuck be it.
He and Rhage filed into the hangar and flicked on their flashlights. The airplane was right where they’d left it in the back corner, looking like it was the ugly stepchild of some much prettier mode of transportation that had long since fled the scene. Closing in, Qhuinn saw that the propeller appeared to be sound, and, although the wings were dusty, he could hang his weight off of them.
The fact that the door hatch squeaked like a bitch when Rhage opened the way in was less than good news.
“Whew,” Rhage muttered as he recoiled. “Smells like something died in there.”
Man, must have been one hell of a stinky if the Brother could differentiate it from the rest of the smell inside the hangar.