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It was not every day a well-dressed man came in carrying an unconscious omega covered in blood.
“Hello,” Bertram said in his most charming tone of voice. He’d hoped to win the concierge over, but judging by her wide-eyed stare, it was going to be an uphill battle.
Bugger.
Perhaps he should have found a seedy motel.
“How many rooms do you have available on the top floor?” he went on to ask, as casually as he could. He paid no attention to Sorin in the hopes she’d do the same, but try as she might to put on a professional front, her gaze kept dipping down to him, and there was a distinct aura of “oh holy shit, this is not okay” behind her corporate decorum.
“There are only two rooms on the top floor,” she informed him, seamlessly mimicking his cheerfulness. It was truly a heroic performance. If the council was ever in need of new agents, they need not look further than the closest customer service representative. This woman’s ability to fake a smile despite inexcusable levels of bullshit was inspiring.
She deserved a raise.
“They’re executive suites,” she told him, taking a step to the side to search for something on her computer. “Each includes an enclosed conference room in addition to our standard deluxe suite accommodations—a private bedroom with a king-sized bed, a separate sitting room, a kitchen, and balcony access. Both suites are presently vacant.”
“I’ll take them both.” Bertram shuffled Sorin’s weight so he was partially supported by the desk and fished his wallet from his back pocket. “In addition, I’d like to book every vacant room on the next floor down. Two nights, please.” He thumbed out a credit card and a fake ID and slid them across the desk to the concierge. “I shouldn’t need more.”
As the concierge reached to take his cards, Sorin suddenly stirred and mumbled something under his breath, opening his eyes just enough to look at her before closing them again and pushing his face against Bertram’s chest.
The concierge froze.
It looked like her eyes might bulge out of her head, but to her credit, her smile did not waver.
“For your trouble,” Bertram said without missing a beat, smoothly producing a few hundred-dollar bills from his wallet he hoped would keep her from doing something silly, like having a complete mental breakdown, or calling the police. When her expression did not change, he produced a couple more. “It’s been a rough day,” he said as he slid her the money. “My partner and I are simply hoping for some quiet while we clean ourselves up and recover. He may be down later to fetch a few things from our car. Would it be possible to have the valet on standby?”
The concierge blinked and eyed the money.
All signs of overt horror disappeared from her face.
“Here’s the valet’s cell phone number,” she said, scribbling it inside a keycard envelope. A flurry of card swiping and computer activity later, she handed it to Bertram alongside an unreasonably thick stack of labeled keycards. “He’ll be on duty until seven this evening. Feel free to call him at any time up until then—I’ll let him know to expect your call. If you need assistance after that, please let us know here at the front desk and one of my associates will arrange whatever it is you need. Enjoy your stay at Oracle Point, Mr. Udrako.”
* * *
The lock gave a cheerful beep when Bertram fed it the appropriate key card. With it disengaged, he elbowed his way into the room and pushed the door closed with his foot, locking the handle and engaging the deadbolt before carrying Sorin to the bed.
It—much like the rest of the room—was drab and uninspiring. Out of an abundance of caution, he’d brought Sorin to one of the standard rooms beneath the executive suites, knowing that if the council discovered his whereabouts and sent their agents after him, they would storm the most expensive rooms first before making their way through the others. His dragon grumbled about the choice, not very happy to know Bertram had brought their mate somewhere so beneath him, but it seemed a small price to pay for an added sense of security.
If the agents did arrive, staying here could very well buy them extra time to run.
But that would be a worry for later.
For now, Bertram was most concerned with taking care of his mate.
He laid Sorin gently on the bed, arranging the pillows with care to make sure he was as comfortable as he could be. Everard had done a great job reversing the worst of Sorin’s injuries, but he was still a dreadful sight to see—pale and soaked in blood down one side, his hair limp and stuck down to his scalp with sweat, and clothes dirty and torn.
But lord, was he beautiful.
Smiling brokenly, Bertram pushed the hair back from Sorin’s forehead.
Like a coin tarnished by time, what had happened to him was not irreversible. At his core, he was unchanged, and Bertram would make sure he shined again.
He allowed a minute to pass, waiting to see if Sorin would stir, but he did not. It wasn’t all that surprising—he had lost a lot of blood, and Everard hadn’t had the chance to fully heal him before Bertram had been forced to intervene—but it was worrisome.
Was he suffering?
Without a clear understanding of what healing there was left to be done, Bertram couldn’t say for sure, but he did know that if Sorin was entirely recovered, he wouldn’t be unconscious. There was a reason his body was keeping him subdued, and while Bertram was no healer, it was his duty to keep his mate safe. With what small magic he possessed, it was vital he finish the job.
He set his hand on Sorin’s injured arm and reached into it with his magic, exploring what damage remained. There wasn’t much. Everard had been thorough and had left but a hairline fracture. It would be easy enough to heal, but still, Bertram hesitated.
