Then again, she was losing the pregnancy, wasn’t she. So this was the end.
Reaching out, she took the white fabric and wrapped it around herself. She didn’t care about the physician’s delicate sensibilities, but if she covered herself up as they’d asked, maybe he would focus on her instead of what she was.
Almost immediately there was a knock on the door, and when Layla answered, Havers entered, looking like there was a gun to his head. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he only partially closed them in together before crossing his arms over his stethoscope. “If I had known your status, I would never have treated you.”
“I came to you willingly, a patient in need.”
He shook his head. “You are a holiness upon the earth. Who am I to intervene in such a sacred matter?”
“Please. Just put an end to my suffering, and tell me where I stand.”
He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I cannot divulge that information to you.”
Layla opened her mouth. Shut it. “Excuse me?”
“You are not my patient. Your young and the Primale are—so I will speak to him when I can—”
“No! You mustn’t call him.”
The look he gave her suggested a disdain she imagined he usually reserved for prostitutes. And then he spoke in a low, vaguely threatening voice. “You are not in a position to demand a thing.”
Layla recoiled. “I have come here of my own volition, as an independent female—”
“You are a Chosen. Not only is it unlawful for me to harbor you, but I can be prosecuted for what I did to you earlier. A Chosen’s body is—”
“Her own!”
“—the Primale’s by law, as it should be. You are unimportant—naught but a receptacle for what you are given. How dare you come in here like this, pretending to be a simple female—you put my practice and my life at risk with such duplicity.”
Layla felt a wild rage tremble along every nerve ending in her body. “Whose heart beats within this chest?” She pounded on herself. “Whose breath is drawn here!”
Havers shook his head. “I will speak with the Primale, and only him—”
“You cannot be serious! I alone live within this flesh. No one else does—”
The physician’s face tightened in distaste. “As I said, you are but a vessel for the divine mystery in your womb—the very Primale is within your flesh. That is more important—and accordingly, I will hold you here until—”
“Against my will? I don’t think so.”
“You will stay here until the Primale comes to fetch you. I shall not be responsible for setting you loose upon the world.”
The two of them glared at each other.
With a curse, Layla threw off the draping. “Well, that’s a great plan as far as you’re concerned. But I’m getting naked right now—and I will be walking out like that if I must. Stay and watch if you like—or you could try to touch me, but I believe that would be considered another violation of some sort or another for you, wouldn’t it.”
The physician left so quickly, he stumbled out into the hall.
Layla didn’t waste a second, yanking on her clothes and rushing into the corridor. Although it was unlikely that there was only the one way in and out through the reception area—there had to be escape routes, in case of an attack—unfortunately, she had no clue about the layout of the facility.
So her only choice was to head up front. And she had to do it on foot—she was too pissed off to dematerialize.
Falling into a jog, Layla went in the direction she’d come from—and almost immediately, as if they had been instructed to do so, female nursing staff jumped in her way, choking the hall, making it impossible for her to pass.
“If anyone shall touch my person,” she hollered in the Old Language, “I shall regard it as a violation of my sacred sanctity.”
All of them froze.
Meeting each one in the eye, she came forward and forced them to part, a path forming among the still figures and then closing shut behind her. Out in the waiting area, she stopped in front of the reception desk and stared hard at the female who was sitting up in alarm.
“You have two choices.” Layla nodded to the reinforced exit door. “Either you voluntarily open that for me, or I blow it apart with my will—exposing yourselves and your patients to the onslaught of sunlight that is coming in”—she checked the big-faced clock on the wall—“less than seven hours. I’m not sure you can fix that kind of damage in time—are you?”
The click of the lock being sprung sounded loudly in the resonant silence.
“Thank you,” she murmured politely as she headed out. “Your acquiescence is much appreciated.”
After all, far be it from her to forget her manners.
Sitting behind his desk, with his leather-clad ass cozied in the throne his father had had made centuries and centuries ago, Wrath, son of Wrath, was running his forefinger up and down the smooth silver blade of a dagger-shaped envelope opener. Beside him on the floor, a faint snoring rose from George’s muzzle.
The dog slept only during rare moments of downtime.
If someone knocked or entered, or if Wrath himself moved in any way, that big head rose, and that heavy collar jingled. The instanta-lert also came if somebody walked by in the hall, or ran a vacuum cleaner anywhere, or opened the vestibule door down in the foyer. Or set a meal out. Or sneezed in the library.
After the head raise, there was a sliding scale of response from nothing (dining room activity, vacuum, sneeze) to a chuff (downstairs door opening, walk-by) to an at-attention sit-up (knock, entry). The dog never was aggressive, but rather served as a motion detector, leaving the decision about what to do to his owner.
Such a gentleman the guide dog was.
And yet, although a tame nature was as much a part of the animal as his soft, long fur and his big, rangy body, Wrath had seen glimmers from time to time of the beast inside the lovely disposition: When you were around a bunch of highly aggressive, heavy-nutted fighters like the Brotherhood, heads got hot from time to time—even toward the king. And the shit didn’t bother Wrath—he’d been with the motherfuckers too long to get riled at a little chest pumping or sac grabbing.
George, however, didn’t like that. If any of them got into meathead territory toward their king, the hackles on that gentle dog would rise and he would growl in warning as he pressed his body close to Wrath’s leg—like he was prepared to show the Brothers just how long real fangs were in the event things got physical.
The only thing Wrath loved more in his life was his queen.
Reaching down, he stroked the dog’s flank; then refocused on the feel of his finger on the letter opener.
Jesus Christ. Airplanes falling out of the sky…Brothers getting injured…Qhuinn saving the day again…
At least the night hadn’t been all drama of the heart-attack variety. In fact, they’d started out on a good note with the proof that they needed to move on the Band of Bastards: V had done his ballistics testing, and gee-fucking-whiz, the bullet that had come out of Wrath’s neck had started its journey in a rifle found at Xcor’s lair.
Wrath smiled to himself, his fangs tingling at the tips.
Those traitors were now officially on the hit list, with the full backing of the law—and it was time do to a little flushing.
At that moment, George let out a chuff—and the insistent knock that followed suggested Wrath might have missed the first bang on his door. “Yeah.”
He knew who it was before the Brotherhood even entered: V and the cop. Rhage. Tohr. Phury. And at last, Z. Who, going by the thump, seemed to be using a cane.
They shut the door.
When no one sat down or made small talk, he knew exactly why they had come to him. “What’s the verdict, ladies,” he drawled as he leaned back in the throne.
Tohr’s voice answered him. “We’ve been thinking about Qhuinn.”