Lover Unleashed

“Join me,” she said into all the quiet. “Please. I need your warmth right now.”

As he remained where he was, he realized the stay-sitting routine wasn’t really about her brother. It was a coping mechanism to keep him separate from her whenever he could. They were absolutely going to be hooking up again—likely soon. And he would go down on her for hours if that was what it took. But he couldn’t afford to lose himself in some fantasy that this was going anywhere permanent for them.

Two different worlds.

He just didn’t belong with her.

Manny leaned forward, put his hand on hers and stroked her arm. “Shh . . . I’m right here.”

As she turned her head toward him, her eyes were shut, and he had a feeling she was talking in her sleep. “Do not leave me, healer.”

“My name is Manny,” he whispered. “Manuel Manello . . . M.D.”

THIRTY

The whistle was hard and sharp, and as it bulleted around the mansion’s foyer, Qhuinn knew the shrill demand had been made by John Matthew.

Fuck knew he’d heard it enough over the last three years.

Stopping with one foot on the grand staircase’s bottom step, he mopped up his sweaty face with his balled- up shirt and then caught his balance on the massive carved banister. His head was as light and fluffy as a pillow after his workout—which was in direct contrast to the rest of him: His legs and ass felt like they weighed as much as this goddamned mansion—

When the whistle came again, he thought, Oh, right, someone was talking to him. Pivoting around, he got an eyeful of John Matthew standing in between the ornate jambs of the dining room doorway.

What the hell did you do to yourself, the guy signed before pointing at his own dome.

Well, check his shit out, Qhuinn thought. In the past, a question like that would have covered a fuck of a lot more than a change in hairstyle.

“It’s called a trim.”

You sure about that? I’m pretty sure it’s called a hot mess.

Qhuinn rubbed the fade he’d given himself. “It’s no big deal.”

At least you know toupees are an option. John’s blue eyes narrowed. And where is all your metal?

“In my gun closet.”

Not your weapons, the shit that was on your face.

Qhuinn just shook his head and turned to go, uninterested in discussing all the piercings he’d taken out. His brain was tangled and his body was exhausted, so stiff and sore from his daily runs—

That whistle came again and nearly had him tossing a fuck-off over his shoulder. He cut the crap, though, because it would save time: John never let up when he was in this kind of mood.

Glancing back, he growled, “What.”

You need to eat more. Whether it’s at meals or on your own. You’re turning into a skeleton—

“I’m fine—”

—so either you start working the chow or I will have that gym locked and not give you the key. Your choice. And I called for Layla. She’s in your room waiting for you.

Qhuinn spun completely around. Bad idea; it turned the foyer into a Tilt-A-Whirl. Grabbing for the banister again, he bit out, “I could have done that.”

But you weren’t going to, so I did it for you—short of slaughtering a dozen lessers, it’s going to be my good deed for the week.

“You want to be Mother Teresa, you’ll have more luck practicing that shit on someone else.”

Sorry. I picked you, and you’d better shake a leg—don’t want to keep the lady waiting. Oh, and while Xhex and I were in the kitchen, I had Fritz make you a meal and take it up. Later.

As the guy walked off in the direction of the butler’s pantry, Qhuinn called out, “I’m not interested in being saved, asshole. I can take care of myself.”

John’s response was a middle finger flipped up and held over his head.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Qhuinn muttered.

He so didn’t want to deal with Layla right now.

Nothing against the Chosen, but the idea of being in an enclosed space with someone who was interested in sex just shut him right down. Which was ironic as shit. Up until now, fucking had not just been a part of his life; it had all but defined him. For the last week? The idea of being with someone left him nauseous.

Christ, this kept up, and the last person he was going to be with in his whole life was a redhead. Har-har, hardy-har-har: Clearly the Scribe Virgin had a nasty-ass sense of humor.

Forcing his deadweight up the stairs, he was ready to tell Layla as politely as he could that she needed to go on about her business—

The light-headedness that hit on the second landing stopped him in his tracks.

Over the past seven nights, he’d gotten used to the perma-float that came with running as much as he was and eating as little as he did, and he looked forward to the stoned disassociation. For godsakes, it was cheaper than drinking, and it never wore off—at least, not until he ate.

This was something different. He felt like someone had bulldozed him from behind and swept his legs out from under him—except his line of vision told him he was still standing. As did the fact that his hips were against the banister—

Without warning, one of his knees buckled and he went down like a book from the shelf.

Throwing out a hand, he pulled himself up over the damn rail, until he was all but hanging off it. Glaring at his leg, he kicked the thing a couple of times and breathed deeply, willing his body to get with the program.

Didn’t happen.

Instead, he slowly slid from the vertical and had to turn around so it looked like he was just copping a squat on the bloodred carpet. He couldn’t seem to breathe . . . or rather, he was breathing but it wasn’t doing shit. God . . . damn . . . Pull it together. . . .

Fucking hell.

“Sire?” came a voice from above.

Make that a double hell.

As he squeezed his eyes shut, he thought Layla’s showing up right now was Murphy’s frickin’ Law alive and in color.

“Sire, may I help you?”

Then again, maybe there was a bright side to this: better her than one of the Brothers. “Yeah. My knee’s off. Hurt it running.”

He looked up as the Chosen floated down to him, her white robe a shock against the deep color of the carpet and the resonant golden glow of the foyer’s artwork.

Feeling like a right moron as she reached down for him, he tried to pull himself to his feet . . . only to get nowhere. “I, ah . . . I warn you, I weigh a lot.”

Her lovely hand took his and he was astonished to find that his fingers were shaking as he accepted her help. He was also surprised to get hauled to his feet on a oner.

“You’re strong,” he said as her arm hitched around his waist and hefted him to the vertical.

“We walk together.”

“Sorry I’m sweaty.”

“I do not mind.”

On that note, they were off. Moving slowly, they inched up the stairs and headed down the second-floor corridor, gimping by all kinds of blissfully closed doors: Wrath’s study. Tohrment’s room. Blay’s—not looking at that.