You did what you had to do to get yourself through the hours. And the nights when you couldn’t go out and fight were the worst—unless, of course, you were facing off against all the day’s bright, glowing no-go. That was even more wretched.
As he came out of the office and zeroed in on the pool, he was glad he didn’t have to fake the expression on his face, or watch his language, or chill his temper.
Pushing open the door to the anteroom, his blood pressure lowered as that warm, welcoming wave of humidity came over him. The music helped, too: From out of the sound system, U2 was filling the air, old-school
His first clue that something was off was the pile of rags at the shallow end. And maybe if he hadn’t been hitting the liquor, he might have put two and two together before he—
Floating in the center of the pool, a female was faceup on the top of the water, her naked breasts glistening, her nipples tight in the warm air, her head back.
Hard to know what made the bigger noise: his f-bomb or the Goose bottle hitting the tile floor… or the splash out in the middle as No’One jacked up and spluttered, covering herself while she tried to keep her head above water.
Tohr spun around and put his hands over his eyes—
On the pivot, broken glass sliced into the ball of his bare foot, the pain pitching him off balance—not that he needed any help with that, thanks to his having sucked face with the vodka. Throwing out a hand, he went to catch himself on the tile floor—and ended up slicing open his right palm as well.
“Fucking hell,” he shouted, shoving himself free of the shards.
As he rolled onto his back, No’One scampered out of the water and dragged her robe around her naked flesh, that long braid swinging free as she jerked the hood into place.
With another curse, Tohr brought his palm up to check the injury. Great. Right in the center of his dagger hand, two inches long, and the bitch was a couple of millimeters deep.
God only knew what he’d done to his foot.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he said without looking up or over at her. “I’m sorry.”
From out of the corner of his eye, he got a visual of No’One approaching, her bare feet making appearances under the hem of her robe.
“Don’t come any closer,” he barked. “There’s glass all over the place.”
“I shall be right back.”
“Fine,” he muttered, as he brought up his foot for a look-see.
Fantastic—longer. Deeper. Bleeding more. And there was still bottle in it.
With a growl, he took hold of the little glass triangle and pulled the thing out. His blood on the shard was red as a blush, and he turned the piece from side to side, watching the light play through it.
“Thinking of taking up surgery?”
Tohr glanced over at Manny Manello, MD, human surgeon, mated
What was it with surgeons? They were almost as bad as warriors. Or kings.
The human crouched down beside him. “You’re leaking.”
“No shit.”
Just as he was wondering where No’One was, the female came in with a broom, a rolling trash bin, and a dustpan. Without looking at him or the human, she began sweeping carefully.
At least she’d put shoes on.
Jesus Christ… she had been really fucking naked.
As Manello poked and prodded at the injured hand, and then started numbing and stitching, Tohr watched the female out of the corner of his eye—no direct viewing. Especially not after—
Jesus… like,
Okay, time to stop thinking about that.
Focusing on her limp, he noticed that it was pretty damn pronounced, and wondered if she’d hurt herself in that great rush to get out of the pool and get clothed.
He’d seen her frantic before. But only once…
It had been the night they’d gotten her away from that
He’d killed the bastard. Shot her captor right through the head, dropping him like a stone. Then he and Darius had packed her into a carriage and headed back for her family’s house. The plan had been to return her to them. Take her to her blood. Give her to those who by all rights should have helped her heal.
Except when they’d gotten close to that stately mansion, she’d bolted out of the carriage even though the horses had been going at a clip. And he’d never forget the sight of her in that white nightgown, streaking across a field, running like she was being chased even though the capture part was over.
She’d known she was pregnant. That was why she’d taken off.
She’d had the limp then, too.
That had been her only attempt to escape. Well, until the one after the birth, the one that had worked.
God… he’d been nervous around her during the months they’d stayed together at Darius’s. He’d had zero experience with females of any worth: Yeah, sure, he’d grown up around them while he’d been with his mother, but that had been as a child, as a pretrans. The instant he’d gone through his transition, he’d been ripped out of his home and thrown into the sink-or-swim pit of the Bloodletter’s training camp—where he had been too busy trying to stay alive to worry about the whores.
He hadn’t even met Wellsie in person at that point. His promise to her had been an obligation his mother had assumed for him when he’d been twenty-five, before she’d even been born—
With a jerk, he hissed, and Manello looked up from his needle and thread. “Sorry. You want more lidocaine?”
“I’m fine.”
No’One’s hood shifted position sharply as she glanced over. After a moment, she resumed her broom work.
Maybe it was the alcohol kicking in, but he suddenly didn’t give a shit about pretenses. He let himself openly stare at the female as the good doctor finished up on the palm.
“You know, I’m going to have to get you a crutch,” Manello muttered.
“If you tell me what you need,” No’One said softly, “I shall bring it here for you.”
“Perfect. Go to the equipment room at the far end of the gym. In the PT suite, you’ll find the…”
As the guy gave her instructions, No’One nodded, that hood of hers moving up and down. For some reason, Tohr tried to picture her face, but it was hazy. He hadn’t seen her properly in centuries—that brief flash just now didn’t count, because it had been from a distance. And when she’d done the reveal to Xhex and him before the mating ceremony, he’d been too rocked to pay full attention.
But she was blond; he knew that. And she’d always liked the shadows—or at least, she had in Darius’s cabin. She hadn’t wanted to be looked at then, either.
“Okay, doing good,” Manello said as he inspected his repair job. “Let’s wrap this and move on to the next.”
No’One returned just as the surgeon was taping the tail end of the gauze in place.
“You can watch if you like.”
Tohr frowned until he realized that Manello was addressing No’One. The female was hanging back, and sure as if that hood of hers was a face with expressions, he could tell she was worried.
“Just a warning, though.” Manello moved downward. “This is worse than the hand—but the palm is more important, because that’s what he fights with.”
As No’One hesitated, Tohr shrugged. “You can see anything you like, assuming your stomach’s up for it.”
She went around and stood behind the doctor, crossing her arms into the sleeves of her robe so that she looked like some kind of religious statue. Except she was very much alive: When he winced as the needle went in with the anesthetic, she seemed to burrow into herself.
Like his being in pain affected her.
