Page 30 of The Warrior's Captive

The cold washcloth was some version of heaven on her forehead. Her oldest brother crouched down next to her, black scuffed motorcycle boots coming into view along with grease-stained jeans and a black leather jacket over a dark t-shirt.

He swabbed her forehead and then moved the cloth to her cheeks, wiping away the tears. He cleaned her face and then provided her a fresh wet cloth for her mouth. She had too much saliva. She swallowed it back and winced at the urge to gag again.

“I can’t say that the worst of my grief didn’t manifest in the same way.” Rome’s voice had always been gravelly, but it was like what he’d been through months ago, losing the woman he loved and then killing those Rangers because they’d murdered her for violating their laws simply by loving him in return, had changed even his throat and lungs and voice box. “But you’re not throwing up because that brigand was sent back to his pack as a peace offering. You’re throwing up because you’re carrying a child.”

She twisted her eyes up to his face. She didn’t have far to go because he was still bent over her. Yes, he’d changed. The old Rome might have been the oldest child, but he was almost oblivious to anyone but himself. He was wild to the point of barely contained. He’d had emotions that swung all over the place. He’d pretty much lived for fights with anyone and everyone who would take him on. None of them had known anything about the woman he’d loved for years until it was too late. She’d thought her brother would never come back to himself, that he’d be in that berserker stage, or that horrible state of grief where he was like the living dead for the rest of his life.

“I can scent in on you,” he offered, and at least he had the grace to try to sound contrite. Rome wouldn’t be Rome without being crass to the point of cutting. He gave her a reprieve from his dark, burning stare by getting up to rinse the first cloth. “How long have you known?”

Unlike the rest of them, her oldest brother was born dark-haired with black eyes to match. Kieran had once called him the literal black sheep of the family and implied he had a black soul to match. She knew her two eldest brothers had a violent history, but neither had told her how far it had gone.

Briar May pulled herself upright and scooted back until she reached the wall. She tucked her knees up and rested her head and arms on them. She had to focus on breathing so she didn’t start retching again.

“I knew the day before I begged Kieran to let me come here.” Begged was a kind word for what she’d said that day. “I wasn’t trying to hide. I just had to get away.”

“Hmm. You’ve been here for five days now.” She could do the math, same as Rome. “I’m going to assume the assassin wolf is the one responsible?”

“Don’t call him that!” She snatched the cloth from her brother and slapped it against her forehead. Somehow, that coldness helped settle things down in her twisting insides.

Rome slapped the toilet lid down and sat on it. He sat like a typical guy, legs spread wide, his massive form bent over, impossibly large in any space, especially the small bathroom of his apartment. “Briar May.” Black eyes met hers. He didn’t blink. It was uncanny how long Rome could hold a stare. “Alright. I’m sorry. The man who kidnapped you and the one you’re very clearly in love with. He’s the father?”

She unfolded the cloth and draped it over her whole face. She kept her head back against the wall so that it didn’t fall off. “Yes.”

“And this was… this was an act that you both agreed would be mutually pleasurable.”

The cloth slapped to the floor as she jerked forward. “Yes!”

“Because if it wasn’t, you know that we’d—”

“I’m not trying to protect him. I tried to keep him in our pack to do that, but Kieran sent him away. There’s nothing I can do for him now.” She drew in a few unsteady breaths. Breathing helped the ever-present nausea. It was sometimes the only thing she could do to keep from barfing. “Castor might have been a killer, but he was an honorable man. He never did one thing to me that I didn’t want him to do, and he made me tell him in no uncertain terms that I consented, which I did and continued to do throughout the whole time. Are you satisfied now?”

Rome rolled his shoulders back and eyed her hard for a minute before he finally tilted his chin forward and grunted. “I wasn’t judging. He’s a killer. That’s a statement of fact. If he was capable of making you feel something, then he’s a better man than I’ll ever be, no matter how I’ve tried these past few months. I’m a killer too, little sister, and even though I might put on a good face, I still feel nothing.”

She shook her head, unwilling to believe that, though Rome had always been what other people would call off. He seemed to like pain more than he should. Where there was feeling or laughter, he remained callous and untouched. He seemed to enjoy the things he shouldn’t with an almost perverse satisfaction.

“You don’t kill for hire. You killed to avenge your beloved.”

“A killer all the same.” He shrugged, but he turned his hands over, like he was checking the palms for imaginary bloodstains. He didn’t have to justify what he’d done to her. She couldn’t begin to fathom what Rome had lived through and what he was still living. She didn’t judge him. She was almost grateful that he didn’t appear fazed by who or what Castor was. “You’re only three weeks along. Barely that. You shouldn’t be this sick.”

It was Rome’s peace offering, but rage rolled up inside her like an oily black smoke. “What would you know about it?” she snapped, then immediately felt a wave of guilty horror close up her throat. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing to say.” She couldn’t look at him. She had to study the floor. Brown vinyl in a hardwood pattern, even in the bathroom. It was the same throughout the place. It might be freshly redone, but it lacked imagination, then again, her brother didn’t want to live in home décor magazine, prior to finding this place he’d lived in a boarded-up house. That he’d finally moved into this apartment suggested he’d started to forgive himself a little.

Rome sat down across from her. He looked ridiculous sitting cross-legged, especially dressed like he was about to get on his huge growly bike and ride across town to the garage he’d just officially opened.

He took her hand and didn’t seem to care that her palm was damp and cold. He’d shuttered out what she said, the implications of such thoughtless words. “I want to make sure you’re okay, little sister.”

She blinked. “This isn’t you.”

He blinked right back. “I know.”

“It’s the little girl. She’s changed you.”

This time, the blinking stopped. He was back to doing that soul stare down. “No. I’m just getting better at blending in.”

She was terrified by the deadness in him when he dropped the façade he used to blend in with everyone else.

“Rome. I—”

“It’s what Delila wanted. I had no idea she had a child. My Lila was troubled. Especially before she ran with the Rangers. I wanted to give her a family and a pack. I should have. I know that. I should have left for her in order to make her my mate. I regret all of it so deeply. We were together in secret for years and when she finally realized I wouldn’t be able to give her what she wanted—a home and a family—she disappeared. I hadn’t heard from her for years. I didn’t even know she had an aunt left. I thought she had no family at all which was why she was so desperate for a pack. When she showed up again as a Ranger and we were meeting in secret, she never mentioned that she had a daughter. She never once told me that if anything should happen to her last remaining family, that she was going to leave her care to me.”

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