John stared up at that ruined warrior face and thought about the classmate they'd lost. Hhurt died, though.#p#分页标题#e#
"Yeah, that happens, but Layla's blood is very pure. She's a Chosen. That's going to help you."
John thought of the beautiful blond. And of her dropping her robe right in front of him to show him her body for his approval. Man, he still couldn't believe she'd done that.
How will I know what to do?
Z craned his neck back and looked at the sky. "Don't need to worry about that. Your body will take charge. It will know what it wants and what it needs." Z's skull-trimmed head came back to level and he glanced over, his yellow eyes piercing the darkness sure as sunlight through a break in the clouds. "Your body is going to own you for a little while."
Though it shamed him he signed, I think I'm scared.
"Means you're smart. This is heavy-duty shit. But like I said… I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you."
Z turned away like he was feeling awkward, and John studied the male's profile against the backdrop of the trees.
As gratitude welled, Z cut off the thank-you John was gearing up to sign. "We'd better head home."
Crossing back over the river and heading for the compound, John found himself thinking about the biological father he'd never known. He'd avoided asking about Darius, because he'd been Tohr's best friend, and anything connected to Tohrment was hard for the Brothers to talk about.
He wished he knew where to go with his questions.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
When Jane came awake, her neuropathways were like cheap strands of Christmas lights, flickering randomly, then shorting out: Sounds registered and disintegrated and reappeared. Her body was languid, then tense, now twitchy. Her mouth was dry and she felt too warm, but she shivered.
Taking deep breaths, she realized she was partially sitting up. And had a screamer of a headache.
But something smelled good. God, there was an incredible scent all around her… it was part tobacco, like the kind her father had smoked, and part dark spices, as if she were in an Indian oils shop.
She cracked an eyelid. Her vision was off, probably because she wasn't wearing her glasses, but she could see enough to know that she was in a dark, barren room that had… Jesus, books stacked everywhere. She also discovered that the a chair she was in was right next to a radiator, which maybe explained the hot flashes. Plus her head was kinked at a bad angle, which accounted for the headache.
Her first impulse was to sit up, but she was not alone, so she stayed put: Across the room, multicolored hair was standing over a king-size bed that had a body lying on it. They guy was hard at work doing something… putting a glove on the hand of—
Her patient. Her patient was on that bed, the sheets down to his waist, his bare chest covered by her surgical dressing. Christ, what had happened? She remembered operating on him… and finding an incredible heart anomaly. Then there had been an exchange with Manello in the SICU, and then… Shit, she'd been abducted by the man over the bed, a sex god, and someone who wore a Red Sox cap.
Panic flared along with a good dose of pissed-off, but her emotions couldn't seem to connect to her body, the surge of feeling diffusing in the lethargy that clothed her. She blinked and tried to focus without drawing attention to herself—
Her lids popped wide.
The guy in the Red Sox hat came in with an astonishingly beautiful blond woman at his side. He stood close to her, and though they weren't touching, it was clear that they were a couple. They just belonged together.
The patient spoke up in a rasp. "No."#p#分页标题#e#
"You've got to," Red Sox said.
"You told me… you'd kill me if I ever—"
"Extenuating circumstances."
"Layla—"
"Fed Rhage this afternoon, and we can't get another Chosen here without tangoing with the Directrix. Which would take time you don't have."
The blond woman approached the patient's bed and sat down slowly. Dressed in a black suit with tailored pants, she seemed like a lawyer or a businessperson, and yet she was wildly feminine with her long, luxurious hair.
"Use me." She extended her wrist over the patient's mouth, hovering it just above his lips. "If only because we need you strong so you can take care of him."
There was no question who the "him" was. Red Sox looked sicker than he had when Jane had first seen him, and the clinician in her wondered exactly what the "taking care of" involved.
Meanwhile, Red Sox stepped back until he hit the opposite wall. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he held on to himself.
In a soft voice, the blonde said, "He and I talked about it. You've done so much for us—"