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And he had brought her the thing she cherished most in the world—her locket.
She wept anew.
***
Jean-Pierre held heaven in his arms. His heart pounded in his ears. All he heard was thump, thump, thump. Desire flowed over his body, waves one after the other, washing over him, receding, only to crash again.
Was he holding her too tightly?
Was she falling out of his arms because he wasn’t holding her tightly enough?
He could not tell.
He was lost in the sensation of her nearness, her quiet sobs, the grief she had lived with for over a century.
He heard voices behind him, gentle voices, the kind that belonged to healers. He wasn’t surprised when Alison addressed him. “Jean-Pierre, Horace and I think the women should go to the hospital for a day or so. I’ve contacted Colonel Seriffe and he’s going to send several squads of Militia Warriors to guard them in case Rith tries to reacquire them.”
“Bon,” he murmured. But he did not want to let the woman go.
Alison put a hand on Fiona’s back. “We think you should go as well, Fiona.”
“Of course.”
Without another word, Fiona withdrew from him and moved back inside. She did not look back, which was just as well. She must still be in shock. Both Horace and Alison followed behind her. He did not wait too long before returning to the rotunda as well.
His gaze, however, remained fixed on the back of Fiona’s head. He watched her like a hawk after prey, except that she was not prey. She was the woman meant for him, his breh. Already the bonds were forming, tightening. He could feel them, and for a moment he could not breathe.
She returned to Kaitlyn, the young one pregnant with child. She helped her to her feet but the woman collapsed. They were both surrounded very quickly, healers anxious to help. Within less than a minute, a medical team had the pregnant woman on a gurney and was rolling her in the direction of the east entrance, where a long, long drive led to the valley floor below.
He did not attempt to follow. He remained in the center of the rotunda, alone, bereft, and angry, such a strange combination of emotions. But above all he did not wish to be with the woman Fiona, he did not wish for this entanglement and bonding. Whatever the breh-hedden might be, he knew in the depth of his soul that this was not the right path for him. He loved the company of women, a lot of women, and he was a warrior. Why did he need anything else?
Fiona would have a new life here, but that did not mean he had to be part of it. He was a Warrior of the Blood, and his duties would always keep him at the Borderlands, battling death vampires. Fiona’s path lay elsewhere.
The difficulty seemed to be, as he breathed in through flared nostrils, he could scent her on his skin, the sweet smell of croissants, the heady aroma of a boulangerie.
But the scent would fade. In time, as she left his warrior world, he could forget her as well.
***
Medichi had his arm around Parisa’s shoulders. He watched the last of the women being transported to the hospital, not by folding, but by ambulance. He felt peaceful and full, like he’d feasted at a banquet, an odd sensation, but it felt right.
They’d brought the women home. They’d done some good. Six women and a baby would survive now because of Parisa.
The healers departed.
Kerrick had his arm around Alison as they dematerialized together. Then Marcus and Havily. Havily had apparently taken a break from her nightly darkening work with Endelle to meet the survivors and offer what comfort she could.
One by one, the warriors folded away, heading with Thorne to the Blood and Bite for a drink before taking up arms at the Borderlands again.
Endelle never did emerge from her meditation room. She hadn’t stopped working in the darkening long enough to come and see the women.
Jean-Pierre was the only warrior left in the rotunda. He stood off to the side, his expression blank, eyes hollow, lost. He looked like a man with nowhere to go. He’d brought his breh back to safety, and now she was headed to the hospital.
Medichi whispered to Parisa, “Shall we try to comfort him?”
“Yes. Of course.”
He let his arm slide off her shoulder, but not without his fingers catching and pressing her arm. He followed her to the Frenchman.
“Jean-Pierre,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
He turned toward her, his brow furrowed, eyes full of pain. “Cherie?” he murmured. He didn’t appear to have heard her.
“Thank you,” she said again, but before he could stop her, she slid an arm around his neck and hugged him.
Both of his arms found her back.
Medichi felt the deep growl form in his throat, an ancient response he tried hard to control. Earlier, at the villa, he’d almost gone mad when Jean-Pierre had dared to hug Parisa, but something in the expression of the warrior’s eyes, so full of pain as though he’d had his heart ripped from his chest, stopped him. He didn’t like that another man was touching his woman but the part of him that could think, that could recognize his warrior brother was hurting—well, that man crossed his arms over his chest, and hid his clenched fists beneath those arms.
Jean-Pierre met his gaze. He began to smile as though he realized what he was doing. Maybe it was something that he saw on Medichi’s face, but Jean-Pierre flipped him off with Parisa still in his arms.
It was so Jean-Pierre. Medichi wasn’t surprised that a moment later, he released Parisa, then without a word lifted his arm and vanished.
“Oh,” Parisa cried. “I wish you boys would give a girl a warning. That just creeps me out. One minute he’s hugging me and the next, poof, he’s gone.”
She turned to face Medichi but he still had his arms crossed. She looked at his arms, then up at his face, and rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding me? You’re mad because I hugged Jean-Pierre?”
“Uh … yeah. New dimension here. Vampires. Warrior, caught in the breh-hedden.”
But Parisa shook her head, chuckled, then walked toward him in a way that meant if he didn’t unfold his stubborn arms she was going to bang her head against them. What do you know, his arms opened like automatic sliding doors. He wrapped her up and a wave of something very close to his earlier sense of peace flowed through his chest. He couldn’t believe he was feeling like this—almost … happy.
“I’m so proud of you” were the first words that left his lips.
She wiggled to free herself enough to look up at him. “We brought them home, Antony.” Then she smiled even though tears flooded her eyes. “We brought them home, out of slavery, out of certain death.”
