J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [380]
Her breath tore in and out of her lungs and her legs burned and her arms went numb and still she ran, racing down the flank of the retaining wall toward the edge of the forest, then turning around and heading back to the gardens.
Layla and the Primale. Layla laying with the Primale. Layla naked with the Primale.
She ran faster.
He was going to choose Layla. He was awkward in his role, so he would go for the one who he’d seen around and who had served his Brothers with discretion and grace. He would go for the familiar.
He would choose Layla.
With no warning, Cormia’s legs dropped out from underneath her and she collapsed in an exhausted heap.
When she’d recovered enough to lift her head, she frowned as she panted. She’d fallen on an odd scratchy patch of the lawn, an imperfect stretch that was six feet in diameter. It was as if something had been burned there and the ground had yet to recover.
Seemed apt on a lot of levels.
Rolling over onto her back, she looked at the night sky. Her thighs burned and so did her lungs, but the real fire was in her brain. She didn’t belong on this side. She couldn’t stand the idea of going back to the Sanctuary.
She was like the summer air that stretched between the grassy green ground and the star-studded galaxy above. She was neither here nor there . . . and she was invisible.
Getting to her feet, she walked slowly back up to the mansion’s terrace. Lamps glowed in the windows of the house and as she looked around, she realized she was going to miss the palette of this world at night: The tea roses’ reds and pinks and yellows and purples were muted, as if the blooms were feeling shy. Inside the library, the deep red of the drapes was like banked fire, and the billiards room appeared to have been constructed out of emeralds, with its vivid deep green.
So lovely. It was all so lovely, this feast for the eyes.
To put off the leaving a little longer, she went to the pool.
The black water spoke to her, its shimmering surface whispering in the lilting sighs and beckoning sparkles of moonlight on gentle waves.
Dropping her robe, she plunged into the soft darkness, penetrating the weave of the pool’s surface, going deep and staying there as she stroked through the water.
When she came up at the far end, resolve entered her body on the gasping inhale of air she took. She would leave word with Fritz that she was going and ask him to tell Bella. Then she would go to the Sanctuary and seek an audience with the Directrix Amalya—wherein she would put forward a request to become a sequestered scribe.
She knew that in the course of her duties as scribe she was going to have to keep track of the Primale’s offspring, but better to deal with them in the land of letters than have to set her eyes upon legions of young with multicolored hair and lovely yellow eyes.
And there would be young. Though she had challenged him on his strength, the Primale was going to do what he needed to do. He was struggling ever harder now with his role, but his sense of duty would override his sense of self.
Bella was so very right in her assessment of him.
“Well, hello, there.”
Cormia sputtered and looked straight into a pair of gigantic, metal-toed boots. With a start, she ran her eyes up the long, rangy body of a male dressed in what they called blue jeans.
"And who are you?”he asked, settling down on his haunches, his voice smooth and warm. His eyes were arresting—deeply set and mismatched, with lashes the color of his thick black hair.
Before she could answer, John Matthew came up from behind him and whistled loudly to get his attention. As the male at the edge of the water looked over his shoulder, John shook his head and signed frantically.
“Oh . . . shit, sorry.” The dark-haired male rose to his full height and lifted his hands as if calling a stop to himself. “I didn’t know who you were.”
Another male