Back at the library in Naasha’s hellren’s vast mansion, Throe took the female by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “Listen to me. You must listen to me.”
Even as he sought to quell her incessant ranting, he had to confess, though only to himself, that he was likewise frustrated beyond measure. He had wasted how long in this household? Bedding her, catering to her, seducing her into a false sense that they were in some kind of enduring relationship. And all along, she had assured him of the fealty of her “beloved” hellren. Spoken of how the money would flow like wine all over her when the old male finally passed. Related to Throe her love for him regardless of her mated status or her other lovers.
Assail had entered the picture, however—and that bastard’s presence had created such a flush in between Naasha’s thighs that Throe had had to act earlier than he would have liked: The proper sequence would have been first to change Naasha’s own will, naming Throe her next of kin—under the guise that he would be mating her as soon as the mourning period for her current hellren had passed. And then for Throe to arrange for the death of the old male. Followed by a “suicide” for her.
Whereupon Throe’s coffers would be set and he could use the funds to imbed himself in the glymera properly and set up a strategy for taking Wrath off that ridiculous elected throne he had created for himself.
Assail, that fucking slut, however, had changed the order, forcing Throe’s hand such that forgeries were going to become necessary. It was either early action, though, or him running the risk that Naasha’s rather oily affections could transfer to her newest suitor, upsetting the applecart all over the market square, as it were.
Throe had seen the way she looked at Assail.
Had felt the pull to that male himself, goddamn them both.
And, now, this mess.
That old hellren of hers had left everything to a distant relation, a male whose name Throe did not recognize.
“Naasha, my love,” Throe said urgently. “I need you to be logical.”
This looked so bad. That solicitor waiting out in the foyer, no doubt coming to all kinds of conclusions that were both accurate and unhelpful. Her falling apart to anger. Him getting increasingly frustrated.
Taking another tactic, Throe walked over to the ornate desk and placed his hand upon the stack of papers that Saxton had brought with him. “This. This is your only focus. Anything other than successfully challenging these provisions is an unacceptable distraction.”
“I have been shamed! To be forsaken like this is an abomination! It is—”
“Do you want to be reasonable? Or poor? Your choice is now.” That shut her up. “Imagine all of this gone, yourself surrounded by none of this, your clothes, the jewels, the servants, this very roof o’er your head—gone. Because that is what is going to happen unless you get some control over yourself. The abomination is not what your hellren did to you. The abomination is your letting it happen. Now, I am going to get the attorney back in here. You are going to shut up and listen to what he says. Or you can continue to prance and stamp around here, wasting time and strategy, just so that you can enhance your victim status—to absolutely no cash avail.”
It was rather like zipping up a ballgown, he reflected. All at once, a composure stilled her and transformed her face from flushed and crazed to, if not placid exactly, certainly something far more even-keeled.
Throe walked back over to her. Taking her shoulders, he kissed her. “That is my female. Now you are ready to proceed. No more outbursts. No matter what else is contained therein, you will allow the solicitor to finish this presentation. We do not know how to fight if we do not know what we have to fight against.”
For the Virgin Scribe’s sake, let this stick, he thought.
“Now, I shall bring him back in, yes?” When she nodded, he stepped back. “Be aware of all you have to lose. That can be remarkably clarifying.”
“You are right.” She took a deep breath. “You are very strong.”
You have no idea, he thought as he turned away.
Back at the double doors, he opened them—
Sniffing the air, he frowned and glanced around the foyer. Saxton was over by a Flemish painting, inspecting the depiction of dewy flowers upon a black background, his hands clasped behind his back, his lean torso tilted forward.
“Are we ready then?” the solicitor asked without looking up. “Or does she need even more time to compose herself? It has been over an hour.”
Throe looked about. The doors of the parlor and the study were all in the same positions they had been in. There was no one rushing anywhere. All looked … as it had.
But why was there a prevailing scent of fresh air all around … fresh air and … something else.
“Is there aught wrong?” Saxton inquired. “Do you wish me to return at another time?”
“No, she is ready.” He stared at the attorney, searching for some sign of … he knew not what. “I have calmed her.”
Saxton straightened. Adjusted his tie. And came over in a gait that was unhurried. Totally natural. Without any airs.
“Mayhap she shall allow me to finish this now.” Saxton stopped. “Although, if you’d prefer, I can just leave the papers and the two of you can go through them. My verbalizing the provisions, or not, shall not change a thing.”
“No,” Throe said smoothly. “It is best that she have an opportunity to ask questions. Do come in again, and please pardon our delay.”
As he stepped to one side and indicated the way, his instincts pricked and refused to be quieted. “In fact, perhaps it is better if you take a moment with her privately. Mayhap my presence is the problem.”
Saxton inclined his head. “As you wish. I am here to serve—or not—at her behest.”
“We are ever in your debt,” Throe murmured. In a louder tone, he said into the room, “Naasha, darling, I shall go see about some victuals. Perhaps that will be of aid to this tedious process.”
He waited as she placed her hand across her bosom and sighed dramatically. “Yes, my love, I am feeling weakened from the news.”
“But of course.”
Shutting the doors behind the attorney, he sniffed the air again. Too fresh. And too cold. Someone had opened a door or a window.
Striding across to the front entrance of the manse, he opened it wide—and stepped out to regard the parking area.
Saxton had come in a car. He’d seen the male arrive from up in his bedroom.
Wheeling around, he strode back into the house and went directly to the study doors, sliding one side back. “Assail,” he snapped.
Alas, the room was empty.
SIXTY
Qhuinn held his breath as the anesthesia was administered to Layla and a dark brown, pungent-smelling antiseptic was splashed across her round belly. And he further did not breathe as Manny, Jane, Ehlena, and Vishous clustered around the operating table, two on each side, their gloved fingers picking up and trading instruments back and forth.
You could scent the blood in the air as the cut was made, and Qhuinn felt the floor go into a wave pattern under his feet, sure as if the tile had liquefied.
As Blay’s hold bit into his arm, it was hard to tell whether that was because the male was worried about Qhuinn fainting, or because he himself was likewise unsteady. Probably some of both.
How did it come to this? Qhuinn wondered silently.
But as soon as the thought hit him, he shook his head. What the fuck had he assumed was going to happen with two young in there?
“Is she all right?” he barked. “Are they alive?”
“Here comes one,” Blay said roughly.
“Baby A,” Manny pronounced as he handed a little purple bundle to Ehlena.
There wasn’t even a chance to look at the kid. The nurse moved fast, rushing the infant over to one of two triage beds that had been set up.
Too silent. Motherfucker—it was too damn quiet.
“Is it alive!” Qhuinn yelled. “Is it alive!”