“This is so beautiful,” she murmured.
“I agree.”
As she glanced at V, he wasn’t looking at the heavens. He was staring at her.
And even though his expression was remote, his eyes were anything but.
With her heart starting to beat hard, she turned away from him. “We better get inside.”
The door into the kitchen opened before they stepped up onto the back porch, the Chosen Cormia putting her head out. “Just in time! Scones are fresh out of the oven.”
The blond-haired female was wearing an Irish knit sweater that was so big, it ended below her knees, and her smile was as beautiful as a sunrise, warm and welcoming. Phury’s mate was that rare combination of kindness without the cloy, a genuinely caring person who was a perfect match to Z’s twin brother—and without her, Phury would never have beaten his addiction demons.
Oh, for the love of a good woman. Wasn’t that how the saying went?
Great. Now her chest ached again as that treacherous part of her, that sniveling, girl-not-a-woman, weak-ass whiner portion of her character, wondered why she had not been enough for Vishous.
Except that was some rank bullshit right there.
“Thanks,” she said to the Chosen as she went in. “I am hungry.”
Liar, liar, she thought as she made a show of checking out the baking sheet resting on the top of the gas stove.
After living with the Brotherhood for as long as she had, she had grown used to huge, professional kitchens. This was a much more personal-sized setup, with a reasonable six-burner Viking, and a regular refrigerator, and a potbellied stove that was throwing off BTUs like a priest handing out benedictions at Easter. And the rest of the space had been renovated with an eye toward keeping things as authentic to the period of the house as possible, the hutch in the corner an antique, the exposed beams painted garnet and gray, the old floorboards varnished, but not stained, to show their age.
“So what brings you up here?” Cormia asked as she went over and started transferring the scones into a basket with a fork and fingertips. “Your text didn’t say much, Vishous—not that you ever need a reason. You’re always welcome.”
As V started to explain the attack, Jane took a seat at the butcher-block island and watched the happy drain out of the Chosen.
“I’ll get everyone down here,” the female said when he’d finished.
After throwing a dishtowel over the basket to keep the scones warm, Cormia left, her footfalls growing dim and then transitioning to overhead as she hit the second floor.
Left alone, Jane found herself trying to remember the last time she and Vishous had been together in the same room—when they had both been properly awake.
It had been back during Xcor’s abduction, she decided. When she had gone to the Tomb to do an assessment on the Bastard and Vishous had been on guard duty. They had talked about how neither one of them wanted kids. Which had been a relief at the time.
Now? That accord just seemed like more distance, more separateness.
When Vishous cleared his throat, she looked up at him—and as if he had been waiting for her attention, he said, “I owe you an apology. For the way I spoke to you at the penthouse the other night. I was obnoxious and defensive.”
She focused on the basket. The dishtowel on top was red, the one lining the inside was blue, and the combination made her think of the Fourth of July.
“It’s okay,” she said eventually. “We were both pretty upset.”
“I am really sorry that that happened. The whole thing.”
“You know what hurts?” she blurted. “The fact that you carved out time and made arrangements and thought about…someone else. It makes me feel like I’m not here. I’m not significant to you. I mean, yes, there’s the whole cheating thing. But over and above the mechanics of the sex, what kills me is that you prioritized somebody—when all I want is to be seen by you. Really, truly…seen.”
There was a rustle and a creak…and when she looked up again, he was right beside her, looming in his black leather jacket and broad shoulders, his weapons mostly hidden, his face full of sharp angles as he stood beneath the old-fashioned wrought-iron light fixture.
“I didn’t want anyone else,” he said. “I don’t want anyone else. Just you.”
As her throat got tight, she whispered, “Then why did you do it?”
“I will never forgive myself.” He reached out and touched her cheek; not with his gloved hand, though. With the one that was warm and bare. “And you’re right. It was not about you—until I decided I couldn’t go through with it. Then it was all about you.”
Their eyes met and held as there was more walking up above, many footsteps crossing the floorboards as Cormia gathered the Chosen.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a voice that cracked. “More than you will ever know. I love you, Jane. It’s always been you…I did a horrible, stupid, unforgivable thing. And as for the sex, I swear on my soul that I didn’t touch her. As soon as she came, I sent her away. I couldn’t do that shit. I could not.”
She searched his face, his cruelly beautiful, tattooed face.
“You hurt me.” Her voice was so rough, it didn’t sound like her own.
“I know.”
“Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You have my word.”
As he straightened, something dawned on her—and she let out an awkward laugh. Then a giggle. “Oh, my God.”
“What?”
“I can’t believe I just quoted Pretty Woman to you.” She put her hands to her face and laughed more. “I was Julia Roberts, right there.”
He smiled, his goatee widening. “I’ve never seen the movie—wait, no. Lassiter was watching it once. It’s where that red-haired chick goes shopping or something?”
“That’s the one. Anyway, I didn’t think I would ever walk in those shoes.”
V got serious quick. “I’m sorry I was the one who put you in them.”
“I’m not going to say it’s okay.” She took a deep breath. “Because it’s not.”
“I know. And I agree.”
As female voices grew louder, Cormia walked into the kitchen and pointed over her shoulder. “We’ve gathered in the living room by the big hearth because it’s warmest there?”
“Good call,” V said as he stepped back and let Jane get to her feet. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
—
Nothing.
None of the Chosen had heard of anything such as that shadow entity, either as they had functioned as scribes or as part of any conversation about the race.
After meeting with the sacred females, V stepped out of Rehv’s old and wonderful house and held the door wide for Jane to follow him.
“I’m not surprised,” he said.
“I thought for sure they’d know something.”
The two of them walked forward through the snow, their breaths leaving in puffs, their boots crunching through the icy top layer to the soft stuff underneath.
Shit, he thought. There was no reason to check social damn media. If the Scribe Virgin’s females didn’t know about it, the Joe Schmoes on the planet wouldn’t…
Then again, Phury had released the Chosen of their lockdown up in the Sanctuary quite a while ago. So there had been a lag between when the seeing bowls had been in regular use, and when tall, dark, and see-through had showed up in that alley.
“I guess we go back,” V said as he slowed to a stop.
Fuck. He didn’t want to leave, because Jane was going to pull out if they returned to Caldwell—
“What about Amalya?” she asked.
As he turned to her, he got caught up in the way the moonlight fell over her features and made her blond hair glow. Goddamn, he wanted to kiss her. Wanted to do even more to her.
“Sorry, what?” he murmured.
“She’s up in the Sanctuary, still, as the Directrix. Maybe she knows something?”
“Will you go with me?”
“Ah, yeah. Sure. I think I can get up there. I haven’t tried.”