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Except then he cried out and his hips pushed forward and what was in her hand started to kick. Warm bursts shot out from somewhere and covered her belly.

Oh, dear Virgin, had she hurt him?

Phury woke up on top of Cormia, with her hand on his cock and an orgasm in full swing. He tried to stop his body, grappled to get a rein on the erotic currents thundering through him, but he couldn’t stop the momentum, even as he was aware he was coming all over her.

The second the sensations passed he whipped back. And then everything got worse.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, staring up at him with horror.

“For what?” Shit, his voice was shot. And he was the one who should be apologizing.

“I hurt you…until you bled.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. “Ah…that’s not blood.”

He shoved the covers aside so he could get up, realized he was totally naked, and had to fumble through the bedding to find the robe. He yanked the damn thing on, got his leg in place, and lit off the bed, heading to the bathroom for a towel.

When he came back over to her, he could only imagine how she’d want that stuff off her. He’d made a mess.

“Let me…” He caught sight of the drapery on the floor. Oh, great, she was naked, too. Fantastic. “Actually, maybe you should clean up.”

He looked away and held out the towel. “Take this. Use it.”

From the corner of his eye he watched her awkwardly swipe under the covers, and self-loathing swamped him. Jesus Christ… He was a lecher. Overwhelming the poor female.

When she handed the towel back, he said, “You can’t stay with me. It’s not right. For as long as we’re here, you’re going to be in the other room.”

There was a slight pause. Then she said, “Yes, your grace.”

Chapter Forty-seven

As night fell John was underground in the gym, lined up with the rest of trainees, a dagger in his right hand, his feet planted in the ready position. When Zsadist whistled through his teeth, John and everyone else began to move through the exercise: Swipe the weapon across the chest, slice back at an angle, step forward, and stab up under the rib cage.

“John, stay sharp!”

Shit, he was fucking this whole thing up. Again. Feeling utterly blind and mostly useless, he tried to find the rhythm in the positions, but his balance was in the crapper and his arms and legs just wouldn’t behave.

“John—stop.” Zsadist came up behind him and moved his arms around. Again. “Ladies, back in ready position.”

John settled in, waited for the whistle…and screwed it all up. Again.

This time when Zsadist walked over, John couldn’t look the Brother in the face.

“Let’s try something.” Z took the blade and put it in John’s left hand.

John shook his head. He was right-dominant.

“Just try it. Ladies? Let’s do it.”

Another ready position. Another whistle. Another fuckup—

Oh, but this time it wasn’t. Miraculously, John’s body fell into the series of positions like a perfect piano chord. Everything was in sync, all his arms and legs going where they needed to be, the dagger controlled perfectly in his palm, his muscles coalescing and working together.

When the drill was over, he smiled. Until he met Z’s eyes. The Brother was staring at him strangely, but then seemed to catch himself. “Better, John. Much better.”

John looked down at the blade in his hand. He had a quick, painful memory of walking Sarelle out to her car a couple of days before she’d been killed. As he’d been by her side, he’d wished he had a dagger, had felt like his palm was too light without one. That had been his right hand then. Why the switch after the transition?

“Again, ladies!” Z called out.

They did the sequence twenty-three more times. Then worked on another that had them getting down on one knee and lunging upward. Z patrolled the line, fixing positions, barking out demands.

He didn’t have to address John once. Everything just came together, the vein tapped, the gold extracted.

When class was over John headed to the lockers, but Z called him back and led him into the equipment