The Kindred
(The third book in the Servant series)
A novel by L L Foster
Chapter 1
For long minutes, what began to feel like an eternity, Gabrielle Cody fought the inevitable. Naked on Luther’s king-sized bed, she stretched taut as sweat beaded on her skin and her teeth locked.
The agony grew.
And she fought it.
As her heart pounded too hard in her chest, she repeatedly fisted her hands, clenching and unclenching the smooth, clean sheets beneath her. Exiguous moonlight snaked through a part in his heavy bedroom drapes, sending a silvery dart to cross the floor and crawl, with painstaking slowness, up the wall.
Clean. Organized. Masculine. Everything about Luther’s home, a
So inappropriate to the likes of her.
That Gaby could hear Luther in the bathroom finishing up a hot shower was the only salvation, the only measure to fight the staggering call. It dragged at her, commanding acceptance, gnarling her muscles, relentless in its claim on her.
She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of Luther, remembered his pleasure as she’d capitulated to his demands.
Demands to join him, to try for a normal life—to give them, as a couple, a chance.
He was a fool.
Before excusing himself for the shower he’d smiled at her, thrilled to have her in his home, anticipation bright in his eyes. Luther thought he’d gotten his way. He thought he had Gaby where he wanted her.
Another shaft of pain pierced her. It was always this way—the bid to fulfill her duty was a wrenching agony she couldn’t fight. Whenever she’d tried, the pain had grown insurmountable.
As it did now.
Sweat trickled down her temple to soak into Luther’s pillow. Already she’d soiled his fine home. If she stayed, she’d turn his entire existence black with depravity.
Her breath caught as the shower turned off. Luther would not expect to find her in his bed. No, he thought she was downstairs, waiting, where she should have been, where he’d left her. He wanted to go slow, to give her time.
But, God knew, time wasn’t always something she had.
Tonight, right now, her time had run out before she’d even begun.
Damn her plight. Damn her
For so long now, Detective Luther Cross had tried to worm his way into her dysfunctional, psychotic life—and she’d resisted.
With good reason.
No matter his claims of “knowing” her, of “accepting” her and her strange eccentricities. He might think he had an inkling of what she did as a paladin, and why, but he didn’t, not really. He couldn’t.
Why had she come here?
Tears, salty and hot, trickled along her temples, mingling with the sweat. Her body strained as she tried to find just a few minutes more, just enough time to have Luther. Once. A memory she could keep forever . . .
But the relentless pull and drag on her senses, the encompassing pain that twisted and curdled inside her told her to stop being fanciful.
Should she leave without telling him? Make a clean break of it and let him wonder, let him worry?
Let him give up. On her.
On them.
Or should she try trusting him?
The pain lashed her, impatient for obedience, and Gaby knew she couldn’t resist it any longer. As she sat up, she cried out—and the bathroom door opened.
Luther stepped out, buck naked, tall and strong and oddly beautiful for a man. That stunning golden aura swirled around him, bright with optimism, with the promise of all that was good.
All that was the opposite of her.
Seeing her, he drew up short, stared for a moment. His hot gaze moved over her body, but not with lust as much as concern. “Gaby?”
“I was waiting . . .” She gasped, nearly doubled over with the physical torment of the calling. “For you. I was willing, Luther. I was anxious. But . . .” She staggered to her feet, unseeing, choked with the need for haste. “But now I have to go.”
He remained steadfast, still, watching her. “Where?”
How could he remain so composed, so . . . detached, in the face of what she was, what she had to do? “I don’t know yet.”
She fumbled for her shirt and dragged it on.
Words hurt. Leaving felt like death.
But she was a paladin, and being interested in a man, even a man as irreproachable as Luther, didn’t change that.
Luther didn’t ask any more questions, he just dried with the speed of a man on a mission—all the while keeping his gaze glued to the naked parts of her.
To her shock, he said, “I’m coming with you.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid.” She stepped into jeans, almost fell, and had to stop, had to gnash her teeth and squeeze her eyes shut in an attempt to contain the overpowering draw, but she knew the only relief would be to give in.
And she would—once she was away from Luther.
It was his nearness now that made the pain bearable at all, that gave her the opportunity to delay, to explain. “I work alone.”
“Not tonight, you don’t.” Already dressed in a black T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, he reached for her. His hand touched her face, smoothed back her damp hair and some of the awful, distorting agony dissipated.
How could he affect her so strongly? How could a simple touch from him alleviate the agony?
Almost sad, definitely accepting, he reiterated, “Not tonight.”
From the day she’d met him, he’d always influenced her this way, bringing clarity in the midst of the turbulent summons, easing her misery, calming her heart.
With the short reprieve, Gaby slapped his hand aside and after stepping into her sandals, grabbed up her knife. She secured it in a sheath at her back. “I’ll say it once, Luther. Stay out of my way.”
And then, unable to resist any longer, she gave herself over to her duty.
Once accepted, it lashed through her, jarring her body, rolling her eyes back, straining her spine. On the periphery of her senses, she felt Luther there, not touching her, not deterring her, but keeping pace as she moved forward, out of his bedroom, out of his house—and into the hell that was her life.
She raced so quickly that Luther could barely keep up. The seconds it took him to lock his front door almost allowed her to get away. Ignoring the blustery morning air and lack of sunshine, he trotted across his lawn after her. Fallen leaves scuttled over his shoes. The autumn air nipped.
