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Authors: J.R. Ward

Lover Mine (72 page)

BOOK: Lover Mine
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And yet . . . as her mind churned beneath the leaden weight and still surface of her unconscious body, she had the sense that everything had worked out as it was supposed to, that the path she had been set upon had taken her precisely where she was supposed to go:
Back to John.
Even though that made no sense whatsoever.
After all, she’d met him only a year or so ago. Which hardly justified the sprawl of history that seemed to unite them.
But then, maybe that did make sense. While you were unconscious on morphine and teetering on the brink of the Fade . . . things looked different. And time, like priorities, shifted.
 
 
On the other side of the door to Xhex’s recovery room, Payne blinked hard and tried to ascertain where she had been moved to. There was naught to inform her, however. The chamber’s walls were tiled in a pale green and gleaming fixtures and storage casings abounded. But she hadn’t a clue what it all meant.
At least the transport had been slow, careful, and relatively comfortable. But then something had been put into her veins to calm her and ease her—and verily, she was grateful for whatever potion it was.
Indeed, the specter of her dead was more agitating than her discomfort or whether she had a future on this side. Had the good doctor truly spoken the name of her twin? Or had that been a figment of her scattered, muddled mind?
She knew not. But cared a great deal.
In the periphery of her vision, she saw many attending upon her arrival herein, including the doctor and the Blind King. There was also a blond female of comely visage . . . and a dark-haired warrior who people were calling by the name Tohrment.
Exhausted, Payne closed her eyes, the patter of voices carrying her off into a drifting sleep. She did not how long she was out . . . but what brought her back was the sudden awareness of a new arrival within the hushed space.
The personage was one whom she knew so very well, and the appearance was a greater source of shock than the reality that she was away from her mother.
As Payne opened her eyes, No’One approached her, her limp shifting her across the smooth flooring, the hood of her robe shielding her face from view. The Blind King loomed behind the female, arms crossed over his chest, his beautiful blond dog and his beautiful brunette queen on either side of him.
“Whatever . . . are you here?” Payne said hoarsely, aware she was making more sense on the inside of her head than her words would suggest.
The fallen Chosen seemed very nervous, although how that was exactly evident, Payne wasn’t sure. It was something sensed but not seen, given that the Chosen’s black robes were covering all of her.
“Taketh my hand,” Payne said. “I should want to ease you.”
No’One shook her head beneath her hood. “It is I who have come to ease you.” As Payne frowned, the Chosen glanced back at Wrath. “The king has permitted me to tarry in his household for to serve as your maid.”
Payne swallowed, but her dry mouth offered no relief to her parched throat. “No serve me. Be here . . . but serve yourself.”
“Indeed . . . there is that as well.” No’One’s soft voice grew tight. “Verily, upon your departure from the Sanctuary, I approached the Scribe Virgin—and my request was granted. You inspired me to long o’erdue action. I have been cowardly . . . but no longer, thanks to you.”
“I . . . am . . . glad . . .” Although what she could have done to justify such motivation escaped her. “And I am grateful you are here—”
With an explosive shove, the door in the far corner was thrown open, and a male dressed in black leather and smelling of sickly death burst into the room. Right on his heels was the private physician, and as he jerked to a halt, the ghostly female put her hand upon his shoulder as if to soothe him.
The male’s diamond eyes locked on Payne, and though she hadn’t seen him in forever, she
knew
who he was. Sure as if she was staring at her own reflection.
Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes for last she had known, he breathed no longer. “Vishous,” she whispered desperately. “Oh, brother mine . . .”
He was at her side in a flash, taking form right next to her. His incredibly intelligent stare traced her features and she had the sense that their expressions were as identical as their coloring: her surprise and incomprehension were likewise upon his harsh, handsome features.
His eyes . . . oh, his diamond eyes. They were her own; she had seen them staring back at her in countless mirrors.
“Who are you?” he said roughly.
Abruptly, she felt something in her ever-numbing body—and the great heavy weight came not from physical injury, but inner calamity. That he didn’t know who she was, that they had been kept separate by a lie, was a tragedy she could hardly bear.
Her voice became strong. “I am . . . your blood.”
“Jesus Christ . . .” He lifted a hand that was encased in a black glove. “My sister . . . ?”
“I have to go,” the doctor said urgently. “The break in her spine is beyond my expertise. I need to go get—”
“Find that goddamn surgeon,” Vishous growled, his eyes still locked on Payne’s. “Find him and bring him here . . . no matter what it takes.”
“I won’t come back without him. You have my word.”
Vishous turned to the female and captured her mouth in a quick, hard kiss. “God . . . I love you.”
The physician’s ghostly face became solid as they stared at each other. “We’re going to save her, trust me. I’ll be back the second I can—Wrath’s given his permission and Fritz is going to help me get Manny here.”
“Fucking sunlight. It’s coming all too soon.”
“I’d want you here with her anyway. You and Ehlena need to watch her vitals, and Xhex is still in critical condition. I want you to take care of them.”
When he nodded, the physician disappeared into thin air, and then a moment later, Payne felt a warm palm encompass hers. It was Vishous’s un-gloved hand against her own and the connection between them eased her in ways she couldn’t name.
Verily, she had lost her mother . . . but if she lived through this, she still had family. On this side.
“Sister,” he murmured, not as an inquiry, but a statement of fact.
“Brother mine,” she groaned . . . before her consciousness slipped from her grasp and she drifted away.
But she would come back to him. One way or the other, she would not leave her twin ever again.
SIXTY-NINE
X
hex woke up alone in the room off the OR, and yet she sensed that John wasn’t far.
The draw to find him gave her the strength to push herself up and swing her legs off the bed. As she waited for her heart to stop thumping from the effort, she noticed dimly that her hospital johnny had hearts on it. Little pink and blue hearts.
She couldn’t even marshal up the energy to be offended. Her side was killing her and her skin was prickling all over. And she had to get to John.
Glancing over, she saw that the IV in her arm was plugged into a bag that hung off the bed’s monitoring headboard. Crap. What she needed was one of those rolling poles they used to put ’em on. Could have used the help with the whole balance-while-upright thing.
When she finally put some weight on her feet, she was relieved to find she didn’t face-plant right away. And, after a moment of orientation, she slipped the bag of fluids free and carried it with her, giving herself a pat on the back for being such a good little patient.
Thing was kind of like a handbag. Maybe she’d start a new trend.
She took the door that led directly out into the corridor, as opposed to going through the OR. After all, the episode with Doc Jane and John’s procedure had helped her phobia, but she had quite enough to deal with at the moment and the last thing she needed was to walk into another operation—and God only knew what they were doing to that poor female who’d been rolled in after her.
Xhex stopped with one foot into the hallway.
John was all the way down by the office, standing outside the glass door and facing the wall across from it. His eyes were locked on the fissures that ran through the concrete and his emotional grid was dimmed to the point where it left her instincts squinting.
He was in mourning.
He didn’t know for sure whether she had lived or died . . . yet he felt as if he had already lost her.
“Oh . . . John.”
His head snapped toward her.
Shit
, he signed, hustling down to her.
What are you doing out of bed?
Xhex started to walk in his direction, but he got to her first, rushing up as if he were going to scoop her into his arms.
She held him off, shaking her head. “No, I’m steady—”
At which point, her knees buckled and he was all that kept her from hitting the floor. . . which reminded her of being in that alley and Lash stabbing her.
John was what had saved her from falling back then, too.
With smooth strength, he carried her back into the recovery room, easing her down on the bed and rehanging her IV bag.
How’re you feeling?
he signed.
She stared up at him, seeing him for all he was, the fighter and the lover, the lost soul and the leader . . . the bonded male who was nonetheless prepared to let her go.
“Why’d you do it?” she said through an aching throat. “Back in that alley. Why did you let me kill him?”
John’s vivid blue eyes locked on hers as he shrugged.
I wanted you to have that. It was more important for you to have the . . . closure, I guess it’s called. There’s a lot of shit in this world that never comes back around right and you deserved the satisfaction.
She laughed a little. “In a weird way . . . it’s the most considerate thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
A faint blush hit his cheeks, and juxtaposed against his square jaw, it was pretty damned appealing. But then, what part of him wasn’t?
“So, thank you,” she murmured.
Well, you know . . . you’re not exactly the kind of female a guy would get flowers for. Sort of limits my options.
Her smile faded. “I couldn’t have done that without you. You realize that. You made it happen.”
John shook his head.
The mechanics don’t matter. The job got done in the right way, by the right person. That’s all that counts.
She thought back to him holding Lash down flat, pinning the fucker to the pavement to give her the best shot. Short of putting the bastard on a silver plate and shoving an apple in his mouth, John couldn’t have served her captor up any better.
He had presented her enemy to her. He’d put her needs before his own.
And as she thought about all their ups and downs, that was the one constant, wasn’t it. He always put her first.
Now Xhex was the one shaking her head. “I think you’re wrong. The mechanics were everything . . .
are
everything.”
John just shrugged again and glanced at the door he’d brought her in through.
Listen, do you want me to get Doc Jane or Ehlena? Do you need food? Help to the loo?
Annnnnnnnnnnnd there it was again.
Xhex started laughing . . . and once she lit off, she couldn’t seem to stop, even as her side began to holler and red tears sprang to her eyes. She knew John was looking down at her like she’d lost her mind and she couldn’t blame him. She too heard the high note of hysteria coming out of her mouth . . . and what do you know, not long thereafter, she wasn’t laughing; she was weeping.
Covering her face with her hands, she just sobbed until she couldn’t breathe, the emotional explosion so great that there was no sucking it up or trying to keep it in. She just fell apart and for once didn’t fight the unraveling.
When she finally eased into the station at Get-a-grip-ville, she was entirely unsurprised to find a box of Kleenex right in front of her . . . courtesy of John’s hand.
She snapped a tissue free. And then promptly went back for seconds and thirds: After that show, cleanup was going to take a lot more than one.
Hell, on that theory, maybe she should just use the sheets on the bed.
“John . . .” She sniffled as she mopped her eyes, and that, coupled with all the little hearts she was wearing, pretty much sealed the deal on her nancy status. “I have to say something to you. It’s been a long time in coming . . . so long. Too long.”
He grew so still he didn’t even blink.
“God, this is hard.” More with the frickin’ sniffles. “You wouldn’t think three little words would be so hard to say.”
John’s exhale was loud—like someone had punched him in the solar plexus. Funny, she felt the same way. But sometimes, in spite of the waves of nausea and a crushing sense of suffocation, you had to speak what was in your heart.
“John . . .” She cleared her throat. “I . . .”
What
, he mouthed.
Just tell me. Please . . . just say it.
She straightened her shoulders. “John Matthew . . . I’m
such
an ass-hat.”
As he blinked and looked like his mouth was about to unhinge, she sighed. “Guess that’s four words, huh.”
 
 
Well, yes . . . that was four words.
God, for a second there . . . John forced his head to get back to reality—because only in a fantasy would she ever I-love-you him.
You’re not an asshole
, he signed.
Hat, I mean
.
She sniffled some more and the sound was just too fucking adorable. Shit, the
sight
of her was too adorable. Lying back against the thin pillows, with crumpled tissues all around her, and her face flushed, she seemed so fragile and lovely, almost soft. And he wanted to take her into his arms, but he knew she liked her space.
Always had.
“I so am one.” She snatched out another tissue, but instead of using it, she folded the thing into precise squares, halving it and then quartering it, then working some triangles until it was nothing but a tight wedge between her fingers.
BOOK: Lover Mine
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