“Layla?” He pulled back. “Is all well?”

She blinked quickly. “Yes, yes, very well. We had a lovely night and day. They are a wondrous sight to behold. A true blessing.”

For a moment, she entertained a fantasy about him meeting Lyric and Rhamp, of him holding them and getting to know them. But that was never going to happen, and not just because Xcor would be returning to the Old Country.

“And you?” she said. “Are you well?”

“I am now.”

His lips found hers, his arms went back around her, and he picked her up, holding her flush against his powerful body. Melding their mouths, he moved her against the wall and pinned her with her feet dangling from the ground.

With a groan, she put her legs around his waist, tilted her head to one side … and kissed the ever-living crap out of him. All of her worry, all of her concern and anxiety over him, the young, Qhuinn … her stress just went out the window as the taste and scent of him became the only thing she knew.

All too soon, Xcor eased back, his hot eyes raking over her hair, her shoulders. He was seeing her naked, she thought as he stared at her. He was remembering exactly what she looked like with nothing but bare skin and passion to clothe her—

“When did you eat last?” he asked.

Okaaaaay, so maybe he was thinking about other things. “I don’t know.” She moved her hands from his shoulders to the nape of his neck. “Kiss me again … oh, kiss me—”

“We are going to feed you now.”

With that, he set her in a chair like she weighed no more than a doll. And just as she was going to point out that there would be time after making love to bother with the whole caloric thing, he undid the black parka he was wearing.

Which was a movement in the right direction—“Is that a bulletproof vest?” she demanded.

He looked down at his chest. “Yes.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and not just from relief that he had one on. It was also because she wished that the war didn’t exist. That no one from his camp had tried to shoot Wrath. That there was no reason for him to have to worry about guns or knives or any other kind of weapon coming at him.

“What would you care for?” he inquired as he set the parka aside and started working on the straps of the vest. “And bear in mind, I am no great chef. I wish I could provide you with fare of great sophistication, however.”

Princeps or a pauper, chef or not, she thought, I do not care. Especially if you keep taking off your—“Wait, are you hurt?” she said as she stood up. “What?”

“You’re hurt.”

As he pulled the vest off of himself, she pointed to the dried blood on his side. And before he could minimize it, she got right in there, yanking the T-shirt up—and gasping at the wound.

“You were shot.” After all, what else could make that kind of stripe? Not a knife, certainly. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t feel it.”

She pushed his hands away as he tried to cover himself up. “Down to the bathroom. Right now. Come on.”

When he didn’t seem inclined to obey the order, she took his hand and pulled him along with her, forcing him to descend to the cellar and enter the bedroom they’d shared. In the bathroom, she ran warm water in the sink, got out the soap and a washcloth, and then started to remove the shirt.

“Layla—”

“Xcor,” she muttered, mimicking his bored tone. “And yes, I know better than to ask you to go see Havers or let me get Doc Jane. So in return for my sensible nature, you are going to let me clean the wound.”

“It’s healed up.”

“Has it?” She wet the washcloth and put some soap on it. “Is that why it’s bleeding anew now that you’ve taken the vest off? Now remove that shirt or I’m getting a pair of scissors.”

Xcor started to grumble, but at least he did as he was told—and then hissed as she started to gently rub the streak of inflamed and torn flesh. When she could see things better, it appeared that the bullet had just grazed him, catching his torso at the side panels of the vest that didn’t have the protective inserts in them, maybe because he had been jumping or running at the time. The vest had then shifted back into place and sealed the wound, binding it until the thing had been removed.

Or at least that was her rather inexpert conclusion. “So what happened?” she asked as she rinsed the washcloth and started blotting to get the soap off. “Well?”

When she glanced up from her work, she got a heck of a view of Xcor’s iron jaw, and the way his molars were clenched. Likewise, he had crossed his arms over his chest, a veritable picture of disapproval.

“Did you find your males?” she prompted. “No,” he clipped out. “I did not.”

Well, at least it hadn’t been one of them, angry at him for his vow unto the King.

“Was it lessers?”

After a long moment, when she was beginning to wonder whether she was going to have to drag the explanation out of him with a grappling hook, he reluctantly nodded.

Layla closed her eyes. “I hate this war. I really do.”

Dearest Virgin—um, Dearest Most-Definitely-Not-a-Virgin Lassiter, she hated to think what would have happened out there in that storm if he’d been shot somewhere else, like the head—

“I’m all right,” he said gently.

Focusing on him, she found that he’d dropped his arms and was staring at her with softness in his eyes.

“Don’t cry, my love.”

“Am I?” she whispered. “Aye.” With care, he brushed her cheeks with his thumbs. “Never cry for me.”

He urged her to straighten and come up against his body. “Besides, I am well enough. Witness me here and now.”

With that, he kissed her long and slow, his lips teasing and taking, his tongue licking and stroking at her, and soon she melted, all thoughts of nursing his wound leaving her head. Which was undoubtedly his plan—and yet she couldn’t help but give in to him.

“You are the great eraser,” she said against his mouth.

“I’m sorry?”

Shaking her head, she leaned into him even more—and then let out a curse as he moved back and out of reach.

“Food,” he announced. “Now.”

When she started to protest, he cocked an eyebrow. “I let you take care of me. So I am going to take care of you.”

With that, he snagged her hand and led her back toward the stairs. As they passed by the bed, she muttered, “You realize that’s a mattress right there. Riiiiight there.”

“And it shall be waiting for us when we finish feeding you, my female.”

FORTY-SEVEN

As Qhuinn pulled the Hummer into Blay’s parents’ driveway, he checked out all the windows in the house. There were a lot of them that were lit up, and he searched for one specific big body moving around, one large, beautifully built—

The front door was thrown open, and sure enough, the male in question’s mahmen came out with her crutches and her cast, looking for all intents and purposes like she was going to come down the walkway even though it was slick with ice and snow.

In a panic, Qhuinn reached for his door handle, prepared to dematerialize in her path to stop her, but then Blay’s dad ran out and said something.

For a moment, Qhuinn just watched their expressions as they argued, the fondness and the love they had for each other turning the conflict into a negotiation between reasonable parties.

Something to work for, he thought. “You ready, guys?” he asked as he glanced into the review mirror. “Time to go see Grandmahmen and Grandfather.”

Shutting the engine down and getting out, he waved toward the porch. “Evening all!”

“I’m so excited!” Lyric called out.

“She’s been cooking,” Blay’s dad said with a shake of the head. “She’s been cooking even though she’s on doctor’s orders to stay off her feet and those two young are on formula.”

“But I have our Qhuinn to feed!” Lyric was positively bubbling over with enthusiasm, bouncing up and down in her own skin. “And besides, the house will smell good for the young. They’ll appreciate the cinnamon and spice in the air.”