Man, they were lucky the guy had come back alive. . . .
As his memory coughed up images from that mansion on the river, he saw Wrath going down to the floor, and V with his gun up to Assail's head. . . and Tohr going body-shield over the king. Then he and Qhuinn were searching the house. . . arguing next to that sliding glass door. . . fighting over his best friend going out into the night, uncovered and alone.
You need to let me do what I can.
Qhuinn's eyes had been resolute and utterly unafraid, because he knew his capabilities, knew that he could go out on a Hail Mary and rough shit up, knew that even though there was a chance he wasn't coming home, he was strong enough and sure enough of his fighting skills that he would do everything possible to decrease that risk.
And John had let him go. Even though his heart had been screaming and his head had been ringing and his body prepared to block the way out. Even though it hadn't just been lesser new recruits out there, but the Band of Bastards, who were highly trained, very experienced, and brutal as hell. Even though Qhuinn was his best friend, a male who mattered to him in this world, someone whose loss would rock him for life. . . .
Shit.
John put his palms to the front of his face and gave himself a good buffing.
Except no amount of rubbing was going to change the revelation that was creeping up on him, unwelcome and undeniable.
He saw Xhex in that meeting with the Brotherhood back in the spring, when she had offered to find Xcor's lair: I can take care of that - especially if I hit them in the daytime.
She had been utterly hard eyed and clearheaded, sure of herself and her capabilities. You people need me to do what I can.
When it had been his best friend? He hadn't liked it, but he'd stepped aside and let the male do what he had to for the greater good - even though there was mortal danger involved. If something had happened to the guy and he'd died? John would have been crushed. . . but that was the code of soldier, the code of Brotherhood.
The code of males.
Losing Xhex would be so much worse, of course, because he was a bonded male. But the reality was, in trying to save her from some violent fate, he'd lost her completely: They had nothing left, no passion, no conversation, no warmth. . . little contact. And it was all because his protective urge had taken over.
It was all his fault.
He had mated a fighter - and then freaked when the risk-of-injury thing had gone from the hypothetical into the actual. And Xhex was right - she didn't want him dead or in the hands of the enemy, and yet she was allowing him to go out there every night.
She was letting him do what he could to help.
She wasn't permitting her emotions to try to stop him from executing his job - and if she had? Well, then he would have explained patiently and with love that he was born to fight, and he was careful with himself, and. . .
Kettle, black, much?
Besides, how would he have felt if someone had viewed his being mute as a rate limiter for fighting? How would he have reacted if he'd been told, in spite of all his other qualifications and skills, in spite of his natural talent and instincts, that because he couldn't speak, he wasn't allowed on the field?
Being female was not a disability in any sense of the word. But he had treated it as such, hadn't he. He had decided that because she was not male, in spite of all her qualifications and skills, she couldn't go out into conflict.
As if breasts suddenly made shit more dangerous.
John restarted with the rubbing, his head beginning to thump with pressure. His bonded side was ruining his life. Strike that - it had ruined his life. Because he wasn't sure, no matter what he did now, whether he could get Xhex back.
He was, however, certain about one thing.
Abruptly, he thought about Tohr and that oath.
And knew what he had to do.
As Tohrment walked toward her, No'One became breathless: His massive body was shifting from side to side to the rhythm of his gait, his burning eyes fixing on her as if he meant to consume her in some vital way.
He was ready to mate, she thought.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was coming to take her.
I want to fuck you.
Her hand went to the tie on her robe, and it was a shock to realize that she was prepared to open her clothing at this moment. Not here, she told her fingers. Somewhere else, though. . .