Текст книги "The Shadows"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

“It has been the way for generations,” she said in a hollow voice.

“Doesn’t make it right. In fact, that makes it even more offensive. Think of how much has been ruined.”

maichen’s chest got tight as he spoke out loud things that she had been thinking about . . . ever since she had learned many years ago that the male she was to mate had found his fate so distasteful that he had escaped the Territory under threat of death and upon punishment of expulsion.

“Enough with this talk,” he said. “It isn’t what we came here for. Is it.”

Her eyes shifted to his under her mesh. “No, it is not.”

His stare went to her robing, as if in his mind, he was getting her naked already.

Her heart started to hammer again, her palms growing sweaty. “I must have you know that I haven’t . . . I am not . . .”

“Neither have I.”

She recoiled. She couldn’t help it. He was just so masculine, so beautiful of form, so . . .

“Change your mind?” he clipped out. “Not sexy, is it—”

“How is that possible,” she blurted. “You’re so phearsom.”

There was a pause. And then without warning, he threw back his head and laughed. The sound was so unexpected and . . . captivating . . . she nearly pulled back in surprise again.

When he leveled his eyes on her once more, he smiled for the first time. And he took her breath away.

“That is the nicest compliment I have ever received.”

She felt herself break into a smile under the mesh—but then as he grew serious once more, she did, too.

There would be no going back, she thought. If she didn’t leave now, before he took her hood off . . . she was not going to go until the deed was done.

maichen’s hands lifted to her masking, her decision made.

Gripping the bottom of the mesh, she began to raise it. Anxiety made her heart skip beats, but she didn’t slow; she didn’t stop.

Planets should not rule the choices of the quick or the legacies of the dead, she thought as the cooler air hit her throat, her jaw . . . her mouth.

She was choosing this.

She was choosing him.

FIFTY-FOUR

iAm felt like he was suspended in time as maichen’s face was revealed inch by inch. Her lips were full and deep red, her skin smooth and slightly darker than his, her cheeks wide and high—

He stopped being able to form a thought as her eyes were uncovered.

Deeply set and with heavy lashes, they were a brilliant peridot green. But then again, she was in high emotion and that was a sign of it, something that the stares of Shadows did.

Maybe his were that way, too.

And then there was her hair. Tightly waved, it flowed from the crown of her head and covered her shoulders and beyond. It was so long that he couldn’t see where it ended.

She was, quite simply, the most extraordinary thing he had ever seen.

She was both exotic, because he had been living among humans for so long and had missed the features of his people—and completely normal, because her beauty and her coloring were so much like his own.

“It is a crime to keep you covered,” he breathed.

The blush that ran up from her throat made his fangs descend, and his hands curled from the need to touch her.

“In truth?” she whispered.

“On my blood.”

As if his regard gave her courage, she put the mesh aside, and continued with her uncovering, releasing the simple brass clasp at her collarbone and letting the first layer of robes fall from her shoulders.

She was delicately built, but she was all female, and as much as he tried not to linger on what her body looked like, his eyes refused to go anywhere else.

That flickering pulse at the side of her neck was an invitation to bite.

The swell of her breasts was an entreaty to touch.

The scent of her sex was a call to be answered.

iAm swallowed the curse that wanted to escape from his mouth. She was too much, too beautiful, too alive. His heart was pounding and his cock was hard as marble behind his fly.

He wished he’d had a drink before he’d come here.

Or six.

“You’re hungry,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Would you care to take my . . .”

He couldn’t believe where she was going with that. “Your vein?”

“If you should care for it.”

Oh, fuck him, yes. “I would beg for such. . . .”

“There is no need for that.”

He expected her to offer him her wrist, but as she lifted her chin and exposed her throat, he was rendered really fucking stoopid.

iAm knew he should ask if she was sure, press her to think this through. This was going to move very fast if he struck her with his fangs.

Instead, he groaned, “Please tell me your name.”

“It is maichen. I told you. That is the only name I feel is mine.”

He ground his molars. “maichen, you need to know . . . I don’t think I can stop. If I get in there.”

“I know. That is why I want you at my throat. No going back.”

His eyes rolled and his torso swayed. “But don’t you have a father back home? Someone who will care that you’re . . .”

He knew the standards were different for members of the servant class—females were not expected to be virgins, as they were required to be of service in whatever way was demanded of them. But still.

“Are you certain of this?” he said.

His erection was screaming for him to STFU, but his conscience was even stronger than that roaring drive.

“I am.”

Those peridot eyes of hers were steady, strong, certain.

Time to stop talking.

iAm went for her, lunging forward, grabbing onto the nape of her neck, bending her backward, holding her in his arms and putting his mouth to her flesh. He had never taken from a female this way, and he didn’t immediately strike. He was overcome by the scent of her, by the soft skin under his lips as he extended his tongue and licked up her vein.

He intended to nuzzle at her further, but as her hands took hold of his shoulders and she arched into him, he couldn’t wait any longer. He hissed and penetrated her skin.

At the bite, she cried out, but instead of pushing him away, she pulled him even closer.

Her blood was a blast in his mouth, tasting of dark wine and promising an intoxication that started to take hold the instant he swallowed. Sucking at her, he swept his hand down her body, finding the curve of her waist and the flare of her hip. More, he took more as his pelvis pushed forward, seeking that vital juncture of hers that was still under folds of fabric.

Dizzy and hyper-focused at the same time, he laid her out flat and straddled her body, as a wild animal might protect its prey. But he wanted to give to her as well. Moving one of his arms up, he put his wrist over her mouth, rubbing at her lips.

Taking the cue, she struck as well, taking his vein as he took hers, completing a circle that exploded the heat between them.

Before he knew what he was doing, he went to work on her robes, pulling up, higher and higher, the hem, the folds, the weight. Her thighs were smooth and supple, and they opened for him, giving him access to what he wanted most.

No panties. Shadows didn’t wear them.

When he swept his hand over her sex, she moaned and pulled harder on what he was providing her—and he wanted her to drain him dry. But not the other way around. Forcing himself to release her vein, he licked the puncture wounds closed and then found himself drawing his lips downward, crossing over the graceful wing of her collarbone. Heading for her breasts, he gripped the top of her robing with his fangs and ripped it apart, the fabric giving way until—

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” he gasped.

Her breasts were high and tight and tipped with little nipples that he didn’t spend a lot of time looking at. No, he went for them with his mouth, worshiping them while she continued to take from his wrist.

And still, he wanted more of her.

Just as he was getting greedy to head lower—even though he had no idea what he was doing—she released his vein and freed him up. Without giving her a chance to seal where she had struck, he reared up over her and took both sides of what he had begun to tear in his hands.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

With that, the under robing was in two halves, and she was naked before him.

Writhing dark skin was bathed in firelight, and her body was marked with smudges of his red blood—and didn’t that make him want to put other things of his on her.

So that all would know she was his.

Dimly, in the back of his addled brain, he was astounded that the stories he had heard and assumed were fiction—those tales of males being around a given female and bonding instantly—were in fact totally and absolutely true.

He had seen her face but moments ago, and now he had gone down the wormhole, lost and found by turns, overwhelmed and starved for more at the same time.

“Mine,” he growled.

* * *

Bared to her lover’s eyes, maichen had expected to feel self-conscious or embarrassed. Only her female bathers had ever seen what iAm was looking at.

Instead?

She kicked the robing free from her hands and brought her palms up to cup her breasts. “Yours,” she heard herself say. Then she moved down and touched her exposed sex. “Yours.”

His upper lip curled back and he let out a growl that was both reverent and a little evil.

Then he took off his coat, his shirt. His shoes and pants.

Firelight moved over his skin, casting shadows under the cuts of muscle that ribbed his arms, his chest, his abdomen.

His arousal was enormous.

It was all so out-of-control, this extraordinary series of events—and the culmination was yet to come. What next, she wondered? She had been nominally instructed in sex in preparation for her mating, the healer giving her an anatomical overview of how things were going to go—and there had been what she had seen of s’Ex and those humans. But neither of those awkward exchanges had done anything to explain how electric it was going to be. How much she was going to want the joining. How desperate she would feel.

Planting his hands on either side of her, iAm suspended himself above her body and slowly brought his lips to hers. The contact was featherlight and fleeting, leaving her wanting more—but then he gradually laid himself on top of her, his weight impossibly erotic, his hard contours cutting into her.

His hard sex brushing at her core.

She began to arch under him, sawing her legs, searching for something although she did not know what.

“I gotchu,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

But he didn’t. He just kissed her and made it all worse, leisurely licking at her mouth, rocking against her breasts, her inner thighs—all without joining them.

“Why do you wait,” she moaned.

“I need to make sure you’re ready—or it’s going to hurt.”

Her eyes flipped open. “There will be no pain. Will there?”

“How much do you . . . ah, know about . . . ?”

Her mouth started moving, and she supposed she was speaking—and he was nodding, saying something in return. But she had no idea what was being said on either side.

Except then his hand was moving down, going between them, brushing at her sex, delving in. The pleasure he brought out of her was like the firelight, hot and all over her body, taking her to some different consciousness.

Then there was pressure at her core, but nothing painful. Just a pushing, a gentle pushing that made her give way internally.

When his hand reappeared by her side, she realized it was his arousal going into her, not his fingers.

Shifting her hips to accommodate him further, she was aware of a pinching shock, a barrier breaking away—and then the joining was so deep, she felt as though he had entered her all over her body. Good, so good—she reveled in how close he was, their skin-to-skin contact warming her inside and out, a lifetime of hands-off treatment wiped away.

And then he began to move. Slow at first, with growing momentum, she was transported along with him to a rising, shimmering pleasure.

Sweeping her hands down his surging back, she loved the power of him, and the knowledge that this particular male was the one who had been the first within her body.

And then a dam broke and everything became so much more vivid, a cresting rush pushing her up against that body of his.

Her mouth opened and she cried out, but not in pain.

He shouted as well, and there was a pulsing inside her core.

But that was not the end. He didn’t stop. He just kept going, pumping against her, in her, over her.

The healer had not told her it would be this good.

Not at all.

FIFTY-FIVE

He came into her life wearing a Syracuse ball cap and blue jeans that had holes in them.

Paradise was at her desk, making entries in the system, fielding inquires on e-mail, settling visitors in the chairs, when yet another cold breeze shot through the parlor. By now, she was used to the shafts of frigid air—there was one every time the front door opened and shut as a new arrival came in.

So she didn’t actually look up until she sensed a large presence at her desk.

As she lifted her eyes, she had her professional smile in place—but promptly lost the expression.

Standing in front of her was a male about six feet, seven inches tall, with shoulders as wide as a doorway, and a jaw that was straight as an arrow. He had some kind of windbreaker on, even though it was cold enough for a proper coat, and no gloves.

And then there was the Orange ball cap and those jeans.

“May I help you?” she asked.

The brim of that hat was so low, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel the impact of them.

“I’m here about the training program.”

His voice was very deep and surprisingly quiet. Given his physical size, she would have expected something much louder.

“The training program?”

“For the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s soldiers.”

“Oh, yes. I know, but it’s not—I mean, it’s not here. At this house.”

As he looked around, she tried to catch sight of his eyes. “I know,” he said. “I mean, I need an application, and I thought there might be one here.”

“There was an e-mail that went out. Would you like me to forward it to you?”

“I, ah . . .” He glanced around again. Shoved his hands into the pockets of those jeans. “Do you have an application that’s printed out?”

“I can just send you the whole thing right now—what’s your e-mail address?”

As he seemed to focus on the wall behind her head, she decided that his hair was dark. Dark and very short.

“I don’t have an e-mail address,” he said softly.

Paradise blinked. “Hotmail is free.”

“It’s okay,” the male said, taking a step back. “I’ll find another way to get one.”

“Wait.” She opened up the desk drawer. “Here. Take mine—I mean, this one.”

He hesitated. Reached a long arm over. Accepted what she had previously taken out of the wastepaper basket.

“Thanks.” He glanced down and frowned—at least, she thought he was frowning. “This one is already filled in at the top?”

As he passed it back to her, she cursed. “Sorry. I . . . let me print you out a fresh one.”

Clicking through with her mouse, she signed into her e-mail, got Peyton the Jerk’s forward, opened the attachment, hit print.

As the machine behind the desk woke up and started whirring, the male put the application down on her desk. “You’re going into the program?”

Great. Like she needed to get The Lecture from a complete stranger.

She snatched the paperwork back. “Females are allowed to join, you know. It’s in the e-mail. We can join—”

“I think you should. Even if you choose not to fight, I think females should be trained—you don’t know when or under what circumstances you might have to protect yourself. It’s only logical.”

Paradise just stared up at him. “I . . .” She cleared her throat. “I happen to agree with you.”

As the printer fell quiet, she pivoted in her chair and took the warm pages off the top of the HP. There was no real need to paper-clip, staple, or otherwise tie them together, but she made work out of pulling open another drawer and rifling around for something from OfficeMax.

“You can bring them back here,” she said when she handed them over. “Once you’ve filled them out, I can give them to the Brothers.”

He folded the application once and put it inside his thin windbreaker. “Thank you.”

And then he took his ball cap off and bowed to her.

As he straightened, she got a better look at him, and file that under OMG.

Make that OMFG.

His eyes were a perfect sky blue, deeply set, with dark brows and lashes. His face was hollow-cheeked, because he was a little too lean, but that just set off the masculine bone structure. And his mouth was . . .

If he’d gotten her attention before, he pretty much knocked her on her ass now.

Thank God for her chair.

“What’s your name?” she blurted as he turned away.

He put his ball cap back on. “Craeg.”

She got to her feet and stuck out her hand. “I’m Paradise—well, you probably know that already, because you read the thing I’d filled in.”

Great, she was babbling.

“Nice to meet you, Craeg,” she prompted when he made no move toward her.

He nodded once, and then walked out, leaving her palm hanging there in the breeze.

Flushing, she sat back down—and realized that ooooooh, about five people had witnessed that whole exchange. And were now busy thumbing through issues of People and Time magazine, trying to look busy. One of the older males even picked up an entire Caldwell Courier Journal and put it up to his face.

Well, she could play at the pretend-to-be-busy thing, too.

Making all kinds of tapping noises on her keyboard, she tried to camo the full-body fluster she had going on.

She’d never seen him before. Like, ever. So maybe he had just come over from the Old Country—except what were the chances of that? The vast majority of the population had been in and around Caldwell for how long? Plus no accent. So he must be . . . well, a stranger, obviously. But he had to be a member of the aristocracy if he’d heard about the training program, right?

Glancing over at the archway he’d come through, she found herself wishing he would hand-deliver that application back.

Who was he—

“Paradise?”

She jumped. And focused on her father, who’d come out of nowhere. “Yes?” Realizing her voice sounded too close to normal, and she was supposed to still be angry at him, she cleared her throat. “What may I do for you?”

Like he was simply another person she was taking care of.

“I just wanted to inquire how you were doing?”

His affect was nothing aggressive. Instead, he seemed so worried—damn it. She wanted to keep being angry at him.

She sighed. “I’m fine, Father.”

“You’re doing such a marvelous job. Truly. Everything is running so smoothly. The King is so pleased—I am so proud.”

See, this was just like him. It was impossible to be pissy when you were confronted by this . . . this earnest, his-version-of-an-apology stuff.

“May I bring you something to eat or drink?”

“You’re not a doggen, Father.”

“Perhaps you need a break?”

“No.” She rolled her eyes. Got to her feet. Walked around to him. “You drive me nuts.”

She gave him a hug because that was what he was looking for. Then she stepped back. “Oster, son of Sanye, is next.”

As she indicated the gentlemale in question, and the civilian got to his feet, her father gave her hand a squeeze and then reassumed his official duties.

Following his example, she sat down again. Looked at the computer in front of her. And still felt caged.

But what was she going to do? Even though he technically couldn’t stop her—she was of age, and there had been no specification on the application that a female had to get a male elder to approve the submission—she nonetheless found herself paralyzed.

It was hard to rebel against your parents when there was only one left.

And he was all you had in this world.

* * *

Selena hated pretty much everything about the exam, the blood draw, the X-ray process. And she felt bad about that. It wasn’t that Doc Jane was anything less than perfectly gentle and very kind. But to be in one of those hospital johnnies, getting poked and prodded, twisted and pictured, was like having the countdown to some kind of detonation happen right in front of you.

Plus, she hated the fake-lemon antiseptic they had to use on everything.

And the fact that she was cold even after they put a blanket over her legs.

And then there was that bright light hanging over her head.

Mostly, though, it wasn’t the external environment that was hard to put up with. It was the internal screaming that she found she had to hold in through force of will.

“Okay, I think that’s our last X-ray,” Doc Jane said from over by the desk.

On the computer screen, a ghostly image of Selena’s knee was front and center, but she refused to look at it.

She had to stay lying down until Doc Jane came back over and moved the X-ray arm out of the way. And as she sat up, the doctor took the plate from underneath her leg and put it aside.

“So . . . what now?” Selena asked.

She was numb. She was cold. She was sweaty.

But mostly she was feeling stiff. And not just in her hands.

“Let me take a good look at the X-rays with Manny. And then we’ll come talk to you.”

Selena shifted her legs off and looked over the lip of the table at her feet. She flexed one and then the other, her brain going into a tailspin of Better? Worse? The same?

“When?” she said roughly.

“Why don’t we meet around dawn? Trez could come down here with you if you like—”

The crash came from outside of the room, and both of them looked to the door across the way. When the sound repeated itself, Doc Jane raced over—and so did Selena.

After all, she wasn’t frozen stiff yet, and it seemed like a good time to remind herself of that fact.

The pair of them rushed out into the corridor and listened. The training center was otherwise silent, what with the Brothers getting their workouts in the field, and there being, fortunately, no one with injuries in the clinic rooms—

The clatter came again, and they took off, heading two doors down.

Doc Jane opened things wide.

The healer had to duck as something came flying out of the room. A tray. It was a meal tray, and it skipped along the concrete floor like the thing was really glad to be free of there—and looking to put a little extra distance in.

Inside, Luchas was out of control on the bed. Half of him appeared to be tied down, but one hand and arm were free and he was using them to destroy anything he could reach—he’d knocked over some monitoring equipment along with his IV pole, did the same duty with the rolling table that had had some sort of meal on it—and was now reaching for the back of the headboard like he wanted to tear the bed apart.

“Luchas,” Doc Jane said, with admirable calmness. “What’s going—”

“Fuck you!”

Selena recoiled. She’d been here to feed Qhuinn’s brother over the last several months, and he’d always been nothing short of a gentlemale.

“Luchas—”

“Fuck this!” He gave up on the headboard and grabbed onto the side table, shoving it so hard the thing went down, its drawers exploding out like that was its way to bleed. “Fuck you!”

Doc Jane backed out and muttered, “I’ve got to go get a sedative. Don’t go in there.”

As the doctor took off at a run, Selena stayed in the doorway.

“What are you looking at?” he screamed at her. “What the fuck do you want!”

There was a red stain on the bed. The sheeting, on one side, a little more than halfway down, was stained—he was bleeding. From some kind of wound—

“Your leg,” she breathed, well aware of the infection that had been plaguing him. “Be careful of your leg—”

“I wanted to die!” he spat. “I was trying to die!”

His face was a twisted facsimile of the features she knew well, his too-white skin stretched nearly to the breaking point over a bone structure that had no doubt been enviable before he’d been tortured by the Lessening Society.

“They took my fucking leg to save me!” He pulled the sheets off. “To save me!”

The stump was wrapped carefully in layers of surgical gauze, but underneath wasn’t doing well—blood was seeping out, everywhere.

He started to claw for what was left and that was when she had to get involved.

Marching across the room, she grabbed his flailing hands and pinned them to the bed by his head.

Luchas. Went. Wild.

Screaming, twisting, cursing at her.

All she did was shake her head and let him exhaust himself—which didn’t take long at all.

When he stopped fighting, she said, “You are so lucky. So damned lucky.”

That shut him up. Probably in a way that a direct confrontation wouldn’t have.

“What?” he stammered.

“I’m dying,” she said plainly. “And if someone could take part of my leg to save me? So I could stay here to be with the person I love? I’d do it in a heartbeat. So, yeah, I think you’re very lucky.”

He was still breathing hard, but the tension in his body left him. “Dying?”

“’Fraid so.” She released her hold and stepped back. “Don’t waste this time you have. I know you’re hurting, and I don’t doubt you’re angry at where you are. But personally, I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

Doc Jane came back—and stopped when she saw that the place wasn’t on fire or something.

“I’m going to go get dressed,” Selena said as she headed for the door. “I’m cold in this gown. Do you need help cleaning up?”

Doc Jane looked back and forth between them, clearly wondering what had been said or done to turn things around. “Ah, no, let me take care of it.”

“Okay.” Selena nodded at the doctor, and then glanced back at Luchas. “Take care of yourself.”

She could feel his eyes on her as she stepped out into the corridor. Could feel them still as she went back to change.

When she reentered the tunnel, she began to get paranoid that she’d have an attack halfway back to the main house, and get stuck dying under the fluorescent lights. Or maybe if it happened on the stairwell up to the foyer . . . or—

Okay, she’d better stop this.

She had enough to worry about without looking for more trouble.