J. Ward - Lover Enshrined

The male frowned, dragged in a breath, and croaked, “Nowhere to go. No favor.”

“Not your call, buddy. Or mine.” The sunshine seemed to be shaking its head, because the blurry shadows it created in the cave shifted like waves. “Unfortunately, I gotta deliver your ass back to where you belong.”

“I’m nothing to you.”

“In a perfect world, that would be true. Unfortunately, this ain’t heaven. Not by a long shot.”

The male couldn’t agree more, but the whole going-home thing was bullshit. As the energy from the food seeped into him, he found the strength to sit up, rub his eyes, and-

He stared at the sunshine. “Oh… shit.”

The sunshine nodded grimly. “Yeah, that’s pretty much how I feel about it. So here’s the deal, we can do this the hard way or the easy way. Your pick. Although I would like to point out that if I have to find your place without your help, it’s going to require some effort on my part, and that’s going to crank my shit out.”

“I’m not going back there. Ever.”

The sunshine put a hand through his long blond-and-black hair. Golden rings glinted on his fingers and flashed from his ears and winked from his nose and glittered around his thick neck. Brilliant white, pupil-less eyes flashed with a boatload of pissed off, the bright blue ring around those moonlike irises flashing navy.

“Right. The hard way. Say good night, Gracie.”

As everything went black, the male heard the fallen angel Lassiter say, “Mother. Fucker.”

"Did you see the look on Phury’s face?” Blay said.

John glanced across the island in the kitchen and nodded in total agreement. He and his buddies were sucking back relief beers. At a dead run.

He had never seen any male look like that. Ever.

“That was some bonded-male shit, for real,” Qhuinn said as he went over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and took out another three bottles from the queen’s Sam Adams stable.

Blay took the one he was offered, then winced and prodded at his shoulder.

John cracked open his freshie and took a slug. Putting down the bottle, he signed, I’m worried about Cormia.

“He won’t hurt her.” Qhuinn sat down at the table. “Nah, no way. He might have planted us in early graves, but not her.”

John peeked out into the dining room. There were doors shutting. Loudly.

“Well, there are a lot of people in this house…” Qhuinn looked around like he was tackling a bad math problem in his head. “Including the three of us. Go fig.”

John stood up. I have to go check. I won’t… you know, interrupt anything. I just want to make sure everything’s cool.

“I’ll go with you,” Qhuinn said as he started to get up again.

No, you’ll stay here. And before you gum-flap, fuck you. This is my home, and I don’t need a shadow all the time.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Qhuinn’s eyes shifted to Blay. “Then we’ll hit the PT suite. Meet us there?”

“Why are we going to the PT suite?” Blay asked without looking at the guy.

“Because you’re still bleeding and you don’t know how to get to the first-aid shit from here.”

Qhuinn stared hard at Blay. Blay stared hard at his beer.

“Why don’t you just tell me how to get there,” Blay muttered.

“And how are you going to handle your back?”

Blay took a long suck on his Sam. “Fine. But I want to finish my beer first. And I have to have something to eat. I’m starved.”

“Fine. What kind of food do you want.”

The two were a pair of Joe Fridays, stiff and staying to the facts.

I’ll meet you guys down there , John signed, and turned away. Man, the two of them not getting along upset the whole world order in a way. It was just wrong.

John left through the dining room and was all but jogging by the time he made it to the top of the grand staircase. Up on the second floor, he smelled red smoke and heard opera coming from Phury’s room-the poetic-sounding one he usually played.

Hardly the accompaniment for hard-core marking. Maybe they’d just gone to their separate bedrooms after an argument?

John crept up to Cormia’s room and listened. Nothing. Although the draft drifting out into the hall was perfumed by a lush, flowery fragrance.

Figuring it couldn’t hurt just to see if Cormia was okay, John lifted his knuckles and rapped on her door softly. When there was no answer, he whistled.

“John?” her voice said.

He opened the door because he assumed he was meant-

John froze.

Cormia was lying across her bed on a tangled mess of duvet covers and sheets. She was naked, with her back to the door, and there was blood… on the insides of her thighs.

She lifted her head over her shoulder, then scrambled to cover herself. “Dearest Virgin!”

As she snapped the duvet up to her neck, John stood stock-still, his brain trying to process the scene.

He’d hurt her. Phury had hurt her.

Cormia shook her head. “Oh… damn.”

John blinked and blinked again… only to see his younger self in a grungy hallway after what had been done to him had finished.

There had been things on the insides of his thighs, too.

Something in his face must have alarmed the hell out of her, because she reached for him. “John… oh, John, no… I’m okay… I’m okay-trust me, I’m-”

John turned and walked calmly out her door.

“John!”

Back when he’d been small and helpless, there had been no vengeance to be had against his attacker. Now, as he stalked the ten feet to Phury’s door, he was in a position to do something about his past and Cormia’s present. Now he was big enough and strong enough. Now he could stand up for someone who’d been at the mercy of a person stronger than they were.

“John! No!” Cormia came rushing out of her room.

John didn’t knock. No, there was no knocking. At this moment, his fists were not meant for wood. They were meant for flesh.

Throwing open Phury’s door, he found the Brother sitting on his bed with a blunt between his lips. As their eyes met, Phury’s face had guilt and pain and regret in it.

Which sealed the deal.

On a soundless roar, John launched himself across the room, and Phury did absolutely nothing to stop the attack. If anything, the Brother opened himself up to the pounding, falling back against his pillows as John punched him in the mouth and the eyes and the jaw over and over again.

Someone was screaming. A female.

People came running.

Yelling. Lot of yelling.

“What the fuck !” Wrath boomed.

John heard none of it. He was focused only on pounding the bloody hell out of Phury. The Brother was no longer his teacher or his friend, he was a brute and a rapist.

Blood ran on the sheets.

Which was only fucking fair.

Eventually someone peeled John off-Rhage, it was Rhage-and Cormia ran to Phury. He held her off, though, rolling away.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Wrath bit out. “Can we get a break around here?”

The opera in the background so didn’t match the scene: The majestic beauty was at total odds with Phury’s wrecked face, and John’s shaking rage, and Cormia’s tears.

Wrath wheeled on John. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I deserved it,” Phury said, wiping off his bloody lip. “I deserved it and worse.”

Wrath’s head whipped toward the bed. “What?”

“No, he didn’t,” Cormia said, holding the lapels of her robe close to her throat. “It was consensual.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Phury shook his head. “It was not.”

The king’s whole body stiffened. In a low, tight voice, he said to the Chosen, “What was consensual?”