Qhuinn dropped down and whispered into her ear.
Not even a second later, she was on her feet. “I gotta go, Vishous.”
The Brother’s diamond eyes lifted. Apparently, one look at Qhuinn’s face was all it took: he didn’t ask any questions, just nodded once.
Qhuinn and the physician hurried out together.
To Doc Jane’s infinite credit, she didn’t waste time with any how-did-this-pregnancy-happens. “How long has she been bleeding?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“How heavily?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any other symptoms? Fever? Nausea? Headaches?”
“I don’t know.”
She stopped him as they came to the grand staircase. “Go to the Pit. My bag’s on the counter by the bowl of apples.”
“Roger that.”
Qhuinn never ran so fast in his life. Out of the vestibule. Across the courtyard in the snow. Punching in the code to the Pit. Racing into V and Butch’s place.
Ordinarily, he would never have entered without knocking—hell, without a prearranged appointment time. Fuck that tonight, though—
Oh, good, that black bag was in fact by the Fujis.
Grabbing the thing, he raced out, shot back past the parked cars, and stamped his feet as he waited for Fritz to open the way into the mansion.
He nearly plowed the doggen over.
As he got up to the second floor, he bolted past the open doors to Wrath’s study and broke into the guest room Layla had been using. Closing the door, he panted on his way over to the bed, where the good doctor was sitting where he just had been.
God, Layla was white as a sheet. Then again, fear and blood loss would do that to a female.
Doc Jane was in midsentence as she took her bag from him. “I think I should start by taking your vitals—”
Boom!
As the thunderous noise rang throughout the room, Qhuinn’s first thought was to throw himself on both the females as a shield.
But it wasn’t a bomb. It was Phury throwing the door wide.
The Brother’s yellow eyes were glowing, and not in a good way, as they went from Layla to Doc Jane to Qhuinn…and back again.
“What the hell is going on in here?” he demanded, nostrils flaring as he clearly caught the same scent Qhuinn had. “I see the doctor going up the stairs at a dead run. Then it’s Qhuinn with her bag. And now…someone had better start talking. This goddamn minute.”
But he knew. Because he was looking at Qhuinn.
Qhuinn faced the Brother. “I got her pregnant—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Barely got through the p-word, as a matter of fact.
The Brother all but picked him up and threw him against the wall. As his back absorbed the impact, his jaw exploded in pain—which suggested the guy had also corked him a good one. Then rough hands pinned him in place with his feet dangling about six inches from the nice Oriental rug—just as people started to pool in the doorway.
Great. An audience.
Phury shoved his face into Qhuinn’s and bared his fangs. “You did what to her?”
Qhuinn swallowed a mouthful of blood. “She went into her needing. I serviced her.”
“You don’t deserve her—”
“I know.”
Phury slammed him again. “She’s better than this—”
“I agree—”
Bang! Again with the wall. “Then why the fuck did you—”
The growl that permeated the room was loud enough to rattle the mirror on the wall next to Qhuinn’s head—as well as the silver brush set on the bureau and the crystals on the sconces by the door. At first he was sure it was Phury…except then the Brother’s brows came down hard and the male looked over his shoulder.
Layla was out of bed and closing in on the pair of them—and holy fucking shit, the look in her eyes was enough to melt paint off a car door: In spite of the fact that she was not well, her fangs were bared, and her fingers were curled into claws…and the icy draft that preceded her made the back of Qhuinn’s neck prickle in warning.
That growl was nothing that should have come out of a male…much less a delicate female of Chosen status.
And if anything, her nasty tone of voice was worse: “Let. Him. Go.”
She was looking up at Phury as if she were fully prepared to rip the Brother’s arms out of their sockets and beat him with the stumps if he didn’t do exactly what she said. Pronto.
And hey, what do you know—suddenly Qhuinn could breathe right, and now his Nikes were back on the floor. Just like magic.
Phury put his palms out in front of him. “Layla, I—”
“You do not touch him. Not about this—are we clear with each other?” Her weight was on the balls of her feet, as if she could lunge for the guy’s throat at any second. “He was the father of my young, and he will be accorded all the rights and privileges of that station.”
“Layla—”
“Do we understand each other?”
Phury nodded his multicolored head. “Yes. But—”
In the Old Language, she hissed, “If any harm shall befall him, I will come after you, and find you where you sleep. I do not care where you lay your head or who with, my vengeance shall rain upon you until you drown.”
That last word was drawn out, until its syllable was lost in more growling.
Dead silence.
Until Doc Jane said dryly, “Annnnd this is why they say the female of the species is more dangerous than the male.”
“Word,” someone muttered from out in the hall.
Phury threw his hands up in frustration. “I just want what’s best for you, and not only as a concerned friend—this is my fucking job. You go through your needing without telling anyone, lay with him”—like Qhuinn was dog shit—“and then not tell anyone you’re in medical trouble. And I’m supposed to be happy about this? What the fuck?”
There was some kind of conversation between the pair of them at that point, but Qhuinn didn’t hear it: All of his consciousness had retreated deep into his brain. Man, the Brother’s happy little commentary shouldn’t have hurt like a bitch—it wasn’t like he hadn’t heard that stuff before, or hell, even thought it about himself. But for some reason, the words triggered a fault line that rumbled right down into the core of him.
Reminding himself that it was hardly a tragedy to have the obvious pointed out, he pulled free of the shame spiral and glanced around. Yup, everyone had shown up at the open door—and once again, things he would have preferred remain private were happening in front of a cast of thousands.
At least Layla didn’t care. Hell, she didn’t even seem to notice.
And it was kind of funny to see all these professional fighters unwilling to get within a mile of the female. Then again, if you wanted to survive doing the work they did, accurate risk assessment was something you developed early—and even Qhuinn, who was the object of the protective instinct the Chosen was rocking, wouldn’t have dared touch her.
“I hereby renounce my Chosen status, and all the rights and privileges thereto. I am Layla, fallen from this heartbeat onward—”
Phury tried to cut her off. “Listen, you don’t have to do this—”
“…and evermore. I am ruined in the eyes of both tradition and practicality, virgin no more, conceived of a young, even though I am losing it.”
Qhuinn banged the back of his head into the wall. Goddamn it.
Phury dragged a hand through his thick hair. “Fuck.”
When Layla wobbled on her feet, everyone went for her, but she pushed all hands away and walked under her own steam back to the bed. Lowering her body gingerly, as if everything hurt, she hung her head.
“My die is cast, and I am prepared to live with the consequences, be as they may. That is all.”
There were a number of brows going up at her dismissal of the whole crowd, but nobody said boo: After a moment, the peanut gallery shuffled off, although Phury stayed put. So did Qhuinn and the doctor.
The door was shut.
“Okay, especially after all that, I really need to check your vitals,” Doc Jane said, easing the female back against the pillows and helping to resettle the covers that had been thrown off.