That was no doubt protected by plenty of alarms.
It seemed unlikely she was simply going to spy on the property as she had on his own. For one, there was a ring of forested growth on the far side of that stone wall she’d traversed. She could have jettisoned the skis, negotiated that stretch of ten-to twenty-foot-high bramble, and gotten plenty of view shed to the house. For another? In that case, she wouldn’t need whatever was in the backpack she’d slung onto her shoulders.
The thing was nearly big enough to carry a body in, and it was full.
As if on cue, she stopped, got out her binoculars and surveyed the property, staying stock-still, only her head subtly moving. And then she started across the lawn proper, moving even faster than she had before, to the point where she was literally racing toward the house.
Toward him.
Indeed, she headed directly for Assail, for this juncture between the bushes that marked the front of the mansion, and the tall hedge that ran around to the rear garden.
Clearly, she knew the property.
Clearly, he had chosen the perfect spot.
And upon her approach, he stepped back only a little…because he wouldn’t have minded getting caught spying.
The woman skied right up to within five feet of where he was, getting so close he could catch her scent not only in his nose, but down the back of his throat.
He had to stop himself from purring.
After the effort of covering that stretch of lawn so quickly, she was breathing heavily, but her cardiovascular system recovered fast—a sign of her overall health and strength. And the speed with which she now moved was likewise erotic. Off with the skis. Off with the pack. Open the pack. Extract…
She was going onto the roof, he thought, as she assembled what appeared to be a speargun, aimed the thing high, and pulled the trigger on a grappling hook. A moment later, there was a distant metal clang from above.
Glancing upward, he realized that she had picked one of the few stretches of stone that had no windows in it…and it was shielded by the very long wall of tall shrubs that he himself was obstructed by.
She was going inside.
At that point, Assail frowned…and disappeared from where he’d been watching her.
Re-forming around the back of the house at ground level, he peered into a number of windows, cupping his hands on the cold glass and leaning in. The interior was mostly dark, but not completely so: Here and there, lamps had been left on, the bulbs casting a glow on furnishings that were a combination of old antiques and modern art. Fancy, fancy: In its peaceful slumber, the place looked like a museum, or something that had been photographed for a magazine, everything arranged with such precision that one wondered if rulers hadn’t been used to arrange the furniture and the objets d’art.
No clutter anywhere, no casually thrown newspapers, bills, letters, receipts. No coats cast over the back of a chair or pair of shoes kicked off by a sofa.
Each and every ashtray was clean as a whistle.
One and only one person came to his mind.
“Benloise,” he whispered to himself.
THIRTY-SIX
Based on the regular vibrations that came from his breast pocket, Xcor knew his presence was being sought by his fighters.
He did not respond.
Standing outside the facility that his Chosen had been taken into, he was powerless to leave even as a regular flow of others of his kind drove up or materialized before the portal she had been taken through. Indeed, as so many came and went, there was no doubt this was a health clinic.
At least none appeared to notice him, too preoccupied were they with whate’er ailed them—in spite of the fact that he was standing all but out in the open.
Fates, the very thought of what had brought his Chosen here made him nauseated to the point of clearing his throat—
Dragging icy air into his lungs helped fight the gag reflex.
When had her needing come? It must have been fairly recently. He had last seen her…
Who was the sire? he thought for the hundredth time. Who had taken what was his—
“Not yours,” he told himself. “Not yours.”
Except that was his mind talking, not his instincts. At the core of him, in the most male part of his marrow, she was his female.
And ironically, that was what kept him from attacking the facility—with all of his soldiers, if necessary. As she was receiving care, the last thing he wanted to do was interrupt the process.
Whilst time passed, and the information void tortured him to the point of madness, he realized that he hadn’t even known about this clinic. If she had been his? He wouldn’t have known where to take her for help—certainly he would have sent Throe to find someplace, somehow, to ensure her care, but in the event of a medical emergency? An hour or two spent hunting for a healer could mean the difference between life and death.
The Brotherhood, on the other hand, had known exactly where to deliver her. And when she was released from the facility, they would undoubtedly return her to a warm, safe home, where there would be food aplenty, and a soft bed, and a stout force of at least six full-blooded warriors to protect her as she slept.
Ironic that he found ease in that vision. But then again, the Lessening Society was a very serious adversary—and say what one would about the Brotherhood, they had proven over the aeons to be capable defenders.
Abruptly, his thoughts shifted to the warehouse where he and his soldiers stayed. Those cold, damp, inhospitable environs were, in fact, a step up from some of the other places they had all made camp. If she were with him, wherever would he keep her? No males could e’er see her in his presence, especially if she were to change clothes or bathe—
A growl percolated up his throat.
No. No male would cast his eye upon her flesh or he would flay him alive—
Oh, God, she had mated with another. Had opened herself up and accepted another male within her sacred flesh.
Xcor put his face in his palms, the pain in his chest making him weave in his combat boots.
It must have been the Primale. Yes, of course she had lain with Phury, son of Ahgony. That was the way the Chosen propagated, if memory and rumor served.
Instantly, his mind was clouded by the image of her perfect face and her slender frame. To think that another had disrobed her and covered her with his body—
Stop it, he told himself. Stop it.
Dragging his mind away from that insanity, he challenged himself to define any appropriate living quarters he could have provided her. In any circumstance.
The only thought that came to him was going back and killing that female his soldiers had fed from. That cottage had been quaint and lovely….
But where would his Chosen go during the day?
And besides, he would never shame her by allowing her to so much as walk upon that rug where all that sex had gone down.
“Pardon us.”
Xcor went for the gun inside his jacket as he wheeled around. Except there was no need for force—it was simply a diminutive female with her young. Apparently, they had gotten out of a station wagon parked about ten feet away from him.
As the young cowered behind its mother, the female’s eyes flared in fear.
Then again, when a monster was stumbled upon, its presence was not often greeted with joy.
Xcor bowed deeply, in large measure because the sight of his face surely could not be helping the situation. “But of course.”
At that, he backed away from them both and then pivoted, returning to the original spot he’d occupied. Indeed, he had not realized how exposed he’d become.
And he did not want to fight. Not with the Brotherhood. Not with his Chosen as she was. Not…here.
Closing his eyes, he wished he could go back to that night when Zypher had taken him out to the meadow and Throe, under the guise of saving him, had condemned him to a kind of walking death.
A bonded male who was not with his mate?
Dead though animated—