Lover At Last(99)

“Nod if you understand the terms.” When the nod came, he jabbed the weapon even harder into that fleshy neck. “Now look into my eyes and know I speak the truth.”

As Trez stared down, he inserted a thought directly into that cerebral cortex, implanting it as surely as if it were a microchip he’d installed in and among the curling lobes. Its trigger would be any kind of bright idea about the woman; its effect would be the absolute conviction that the man’s own death would be inevitable and quick if he followed through.

Best kind of cognitive behavioral therapy there was.

One hundred percent success rate.

Trez jumped off and gave the fatty a chance to be a good little boy. And yup, the SOB dragged himself off the pavement, and then shook like a dog with his legs planted far apart and his loose shirt flapping around.

When he left, it was with a limp.

And that was when the sniffling registered.

Trez turned around. The woman was shivering in the cold, her look-at-me clothes offering no barrier to the December night, her skin pale, her high apparently drained—as if his putting a forty to her boyfriend’s throat had been a sobering influence.

Her mascara was running down her face as she watched Prince Chow Hound’s departure.

Trez stared up at the sky and did the internal-argument thing.

In the end, he couldn’t leave her out here in the parking lot by herself—especially looking as shaky as she was.

“Where do you live, baby girl?” Even he heard the exhaustion in his own voice. “Baby girl?”

The woman glanced his way, and instantly her expression changed. “I never had someone take up for me like that before.”

Okay, now he wanted to put his head through a brick wall. And gee, there was one right next to him.

“Lemme drive you home. Where do you live?”

As she closed in, Trez had to tell his feet to stay where they were—and sure enough, she burrowed in tight against his body. “I love you.”

Trez squeezed his eyes shut.

“Come on,” he said, disengaging her and leading her to his car. “You’re going to be all right.”





THIRTY-FIVE


As Layla was led into the clinic, her heart was pounding and her legs were shaking. Fortunately, Phury and Qhuinn had no problem supporting her weight.

However, her experience was completely different this time through—thanks to the Primale’s presence. When the facility’s exterior entry panel slid aside, one of the nurses was there to meet them, and they were immediately rushed back to a different part of the clinic from where she had been the night before.

As they were let into an examination room, Layla glanced around and hesitated. What…was this? The walls were covered in pale silk, and paintings in gold frames hung at regular intervals. No clinical examination table, such as the one she had been on the night before—here, there was a bed that was covered with an elegant duvet and layered with stacks of fat pillows. And then, instead of a stainless-steel sink and plain white cabinets, a painted screen obscured one whole corner of the room—behind which, she had to assume, the clinical tools of Havers’s trade were kept.

Unless their group had been sent to the physician’s personal quarters?

“He’ll be right with you,” the nurse said, smiling up at Phury and bowing. “May I get you anything? Coffee or tea?”

“Just the doctor,” the Primale answered.

“Right away, Your Excellency.”

She bowed again and rushed off.

“Let’s get you up on this, okay?” Phury said over by the bed.

Layla shook her head. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

“Yup.” The Primale came and helped her walk across the room. “This is one of their VIP suites.”

Layla looked over her shoulder. Qhuinn had settled into the corner opposite the screen, his black-clad body like a shadow thrown by a menace. He stayed preternaturally still, his eyes focused on the floor, his breathing steady, his hands behind his back. Yet he was not at ease. No, he appeared ready and able to kill, and for a moment, a spear of fear went through her. She had never been frightened of him before, but then again, she’d never seen him in such a potentially aggressive state.

But at least the banked violence didn’t seem directed toward her, or even the Primale. Certainly not at Doc Jane as the female sat down in a silk-covered chair.

“Come on,” Phury said gently. “Up you go.”

Layla tried to lift herself, but the mattress was too far off the floor and her upper body was as weak as her legs.

“I’ve got you.” Phury carefully slipped his arms around her back and ran them under her knees; then he lifted with care. “Here we go.”