The man appeared right behind her, his feet planted on either side of the tracks her skis had made, a physical barricade to the path she had traveled from his house. As her left biceps and her right wrist burned from blood returning to the areas it had been squeezed out of, a warning tickled across the nape of her neck.
Get out of here, Sola, she told herself. Right now.
Unwilling to run the risk of another capture, she shot forward into the plowed road, the waxed, scaled bottoms of her skis struggling to find purchase on the packed, iced-over snow.
As she went, he followed her, walking slowly, inexorably, like a great cat who was tracking prey that he was content only to play with—for now.
Her hands shook as she used the tips of her poles to spring the bindings, and she struggled to get her skis back in the rack on her car. The whole time, he stood in the middle of the road and watched her, that cigar smoke drifting over his shoulder in the cold drafts that funneled toward the river.
Getting inside her car, she locked the doors, started the engine, and looked in the rearview mirror. In the glow from her brake lights, he appeared downright evil, a tall, black-haired man with a face as handsome as a prince’s, and as cruel as a blade.
Hitting the gas, she pulled off the shoulder and sped away, the car’s all-wheel drive system kicking in and giving her the traction she needed.
She glanced into the rearview again. He was still there—
Sola’s foot shifted onto the brake and nearly punched down.
He was gone.
Sure as if he had disappeared into thin air. One moment there in her sight…the next, invisible.
Shaking herself, she punched the gas again, and made the sign of the cross over her heavily beating heart.
With a crazy panic, she wondered, Just what the hell was he?
THIRTY
Just as the shutters were rising for the night, Layla heard the knock upon her door—and even before the scent drifted in through the panels, she knew who had come to see her.
Unconsciously, her hand went to her hair—and found that it was a mess, matted from her having tossed and turned all day long. Worse, she hadn’t even bothered to change from the street clothes she’d put on to go to the clinic.
She couldn’t deny him entrance, however.
“Come in,” she called out, sitting up a little higher and straightening the covers that she’d pulled up to her breastbone.
Qhuinn was dressed in fighting clothes, which she took to mean he was on rotation for the night—but mayhap not. She was not privy to the schedule.
As their eyes met, she frowned. “You don’t look well.”
He brought a hand up to the bandage over his eyebrow. “Oh, this? It’s just a scrape.”
Except it wasn’t the injury that had drawn her notice. It was his blank stare, and the grim hollows under his cheekbones.
He stopped. Sniffed the air. Blanched.
Immediately, she looked at her hands, her once again tangled hands. “Please shut the door,” she said.
“What’s happening?”
When the thing was closed as she requested, she took a deep breath. “I went to Havers’s last night—”
“What.”
“I’ve been bleeding—”
“Bleeding!” He rushed forward, all but skidding onto the bed. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Dearest Virgin Scribe, it was impossible for her not to cower in the face of his fury—in truth, she was out of strength at the moment, and unable to rally any self-preservation.
Instantly, Qhuinn dialed back on his anger, the male pulling away and walking around in a tight circle. When he faced her again, he said gruffly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell—I’m just…I’m worried about you.”
“I’m sorry. And I should have told you…but you were out fighting, and I didn’t want to bother you. I don’t know…honestly, I probably wasn’t thinking straight. I was frantic.”
Qhuinn sat down beside her, his huge shoulders curling in as he linked his fingers and put his elbows on his knees. “So what’s going on?”
All she could do was shrug. “Well, as you can sense…I am bleeding.”
“How much?”
She thought about what the nurse had said. “Enough.”
“For how long?”
“It started about twenty-four hours ago. I didn’t want to go to Doc Jane, because I wasn’t sure how private that would be—and also, she doesn’t have a lot of experience with pregnancy in our species.”
“What did Havers say?”
Now she was the one frowning. “He refused to tell me.”
Qhuinn’s head cranked around. “Excuse me?”
“Because of my Chosen status, he will speak only with the Primale.”
“Are you fucking me.”
She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t believe it, either—and I’m afraid I left there under less than optimal circumstances. He reduced me to an object, as if I am of no concern at all…naught but a repository—”
“You know that’s not true.” Qhuinn took her hand, his mismatched eyes burning. “Not to me. Never to me.”
She reached out and touched his shoulder. “I know, but thank you for saying that.” She shuddered. “I need to hear that right now. And as for what’s happening with…me…the nurse said there’s nothing anyone can do to stop this.”
Qhuinn looked down at the carpet and stayed that way for the longest time. “I don’t understand. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Swallowing that horrible sense of failure, she sat up and stroked his back. “I know you wanted this as much as I did.”
“You can’t be losing it. It’s just not possible.”
“From what I understand, the statistics are not good. Not at the start…and not at the end.”
“No, it’s not right. I saw…her.”
Layla cleared her throat. “Dreams don’t always come true, Qhuinn.”
It seemed like such a simplistic thing to say. So self-obvious as well. But it hurt to the core.
“It wasn’t a dream,” he said baldly. But then he shook himself, and looked at her again. “How are you feeling? Does it hurt?”
When she didn’t immediately answer, because she didn’t want to lie to him about the cramping, he got to his feet. “I’m going to get Doc Jane.”
She snagged his hand, holding him in place. “Wait. Think about this. If I’m losing the…young…” She paused to gather some strength after she put that into words. “There’s no reason to tell anyone anything. No one needs to know. We can just let nature—” Her voice cracked at that point, but she forced herself to go on. “—take its course.”
“To hell with that. I’m not going to jeopardize your life just to avoid a confrontation.”
“It won’t stop the miscarriage, Qhuinn.”
“The miscarriage isn’t the only thing I’m worried about.” He squeezed her hand. “You matter. So I’m going to get Doc Jane right now.”
Yeah, fuck the keep-shit-quiet for real, Qhuinn thought as he headed for the door.
He’d heard stories about females hemorrhaging out during miscarriages—and though he wasn’t about to share any of that stuff with Layla, he was going to act on it.
“Qhuinn. Stop,” Layla called out. “Think about what you’re doing.”
“I am. And clearly.” He didn’t wait for any more arguing. “You stay there.”
“Qhuinn—”
He could still hear her voice as he shut the door and took off at a run, going down the short hall and descending the stairs. With any luck, Doc Jane was still lingering over Last Meal with her hellren—the pair of them had been at the table when he’d gone up to check on Layla.
As he hit the foyer, his Nikes squeaked on the mosaic floor as he made for the archway into the dining room.
Seeing the physician right where she’d been was a stroke of luck, and his first instinct was to bark out her name. Except then he realized there were a number of Brothers at the table, eating dessert.
Shit. It was easy for him to say that he’d deal with the fallout if what they’d done got wide airtime. But Layla? As a sacred Chosen, she had a lot more to lose than he did. Phury was a pretty fair guy, so there was a good chance he would be cool with it. The rest of society?
He’d been there/done that when it came to being shut out, and he did not want that for her.
Qhuinn rushed around to where V and Jane were eased back and relaxed, the Brother smoking a hand-rolled, the ghostly physician smiling at her mate as he cracked a joke.
The instant the good doctor looked over at him, she sat forward.