Lover Reborn

Leaping up, he threw his body between his mate and the enemy, and as he shoved her out of the way, he took a hit meant for her—a solid swing with a baseball bat that rang his church bell and made him momentarily lose his balance.

Exactly the kind of thing that would have knocked her flat and put “paid” to her coffin.

With a quick shift, he reestablished equilibrium, and then caught the second try at turning him into a homer with both hands.

Quick punch forward and he slammed the lesser in the face with its own Louisville slugger, giving the undead a split second of show tunes in its head. Then it was domination time.

“What the hell!” Xhex hollered at him as he forced the slayer onto the ground.

No good way to communicate, considering his hands were locked on the lesser’s throat. Then again, it wasn’t going to help them for her to know what was on his mind.

With a quick stab, John dispatched the slayer back to the Omega and got up. His left eye, the one that had gotten corked with the bat, was starting to swell, and he could feel his heartbeat in his face. Meanwhile, Xhex was still bleeding.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” she hissed.

He wanted to jab his finger in her face, but if he did, he couldn’t talk. Then don’t fight when you’re injury-injer-injured!

Christ, he couldn’t even communicate, his fingers clogging up over words.

“I was just fine!”

You’re fucking bleeding—

“It’s a flesh wound—”

Then why can’t you lift up your arm!

The pair of them were closing in on each other, and not in a good way, their jaws jacked forward, their bodies hunched in aggression. And when she didn’t counter him on his last potshot, he knew he’d guessed right— knew, too, that she was hurting.

“I take care of myself, John Matthew,” she spat. “I don’t need you looking over my shoulder because I’m a female.”

I would have done the same for one of the Brothers. Well, mostly he would have. So don’t push that feminist bullshit on me—

“Feminist bullshit?!”

You’re the one making it about your sex, not me.

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, really. Funnily enough, I’m not persuaded. And if you think my standing up for myself is a goddamn political statement, you mated the wrong goddamn female.”

This is not about your being female!

“The fuck it isn’t!”

On that note, she inhaled deep, as if to remind him that his bonding scent was so strong, it knocked out even the stench of all the lesser blood splattered around.

John bared his fangs and signed, It’s about your stupidity creating a liability on the battlefield.

Xhex’s mouth cranked open—but then, instead of countering, she just stared up at him.

Abruptly, she crossed her good arm over her chest and focused out over his left shoulder, slowly shaking her head back and forth.

Like she was regretting not just what had happened a moment ago, but maybe meeting him in the first place.

John cursed and went to pace around, only to find that everyone else in the alleyway—and that would be Tohr, Qhuinn, Rhage, Blaylock, Zsadist, and Phury—was watching the show. And what do you know, each of the males wore an expression that suggested he was really, truly, completely, and utterly glad that John’s last statement hadn’t come out of his piehole.

Do you mind, John signed with a glare.

On cue, the bunch of them started milling about, looking up at the dark sky, down at the pavement, across at the brick walls of the alley. Manly muttering floated over on the stinky breeze, as if they were a convention of movie critics discussing what had just been screened.

He didn’t care what their opinions were.

And in this moment of anger, he didn’t care what Xhex’s was, either.

Back at the Brotherhood mansion, No’One had her daughter’s mating dress in her arms—and a doggen planted in front of her, thwarting her quest for directions to the second-story laundry room. The former was welcome; the latter was not.

“No,” she said again. “I shall take care of this.”

“Mistress, please, it is a simple thing to—”

“Then letting me tend to the gown will be no problem for you.”

The doggen’s face fell so far, it was a wonder he didn’t have to look up to meet her eyes. “Perhaps… I shall just check with Superior Perlmutter—”

“And perhaps I shall tell him how helpful you were in showing me the cleaning supplies—and how much I appreciated your fine service unto me.”

Even though her hood was up and shielding her face, the doggen seemed to gauge her intention clearly enough: She wasn’t budging. Not to this member of the staff or any other. His only option was to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off—and that would never happen.

“I am—”

“Just about to lead the way, aren’t you.”

“Ah… yes, mistress.”

She bowed her head. “Thank you.”

“May I take the—”

“Lead? Yes, please. Thank you.”

He was not holding the dress for her. Or cleaning it. Or hanging it up. Or redelivering it.

This was between her and her daughter.

With dejection worthy of a castaway, the servant spun about and started walking, taking her down the long corridor that was marked by beautiful marble statuary of males in various positions. Then it was through a pair of swinging doors at the end, to the left, and through another set of doors.

At this point, everything changed. The runner on the hardwood flooring was no longer an Oriental, but a plain, well-vacuumed cream. There was no art on these pristine creamy walls, and the windows were covered not with great swaths of color with fringe and tassels, but heavy bolts of cotton in the same pale color.

They had entered the servant portion of the mansion.

The juxtaposition had been the same at her father’s manse: One standard for the family. One standard for the staff.

Or at least she had heard it was as such. She had never gone to the back side of the house when she had lived therein.

“This should be”—the doggen opened a pair of doors—“everything you seek.”

The room was the size of the suite she had had at her father’s estate, big and spacious. Except there were no windows. No grand bed with a matching set of handmade furniture. No needlepoint rugs in peaches and yellows and reds. No closets full of fashions from Paris or drawers of jewels or baskets of hair ribbons.

This was where she belonged now. Especially as the doggen described the sundry white contraptions as washing machines and dryers, and then detailed the operation of the ironing boards and irons.

Yes, the servants’ quarters rather than the guest accommodations were her home, and had been ever since she had… found herself in a different place.

In fact, if she could convince someone, anyone, to let her have a room down in this part of the mansion, it would be preferable. Alas, however, as the mother of the mated shellan of one of the household’s prime fighters, she was accorded privilege that she did not deserve.