Lorelei nodded. “I suppose I am.”
Quinlan looked down at Batya, whose eyes were closed. He felt her weakness and his need to take care of her deepened to an almost painful level. He didn’t quite understand why he’d felt desperate to get Henry’s hands off her or why, even now, his sole concern was seeing her restored.
He’d hurt her by invading her battle frequency.
Now he needed to heal her.
To Anthea, he said, “I want soup brought to my chambers and bread. Some cheese and white wine. She’ll be with me through the daylight hours.”
If Anthea’s eyes widened once more, he drew a long breath ignoring the truth that for the first time ever a woman would share his stronghold bed.
“Please take Lorelei to the best guest suite and give her whatever she needs. She’s under my protection.” To Henry, he said, “I want you to have one of your men work to contact Mastyr Seth and as soon as you’re able to make contact, tell him I need to talk to him. After that, get Rafe on the line. We’ve got a disaster in the making.”
“Yes, Mastyr.” Henry inclined his head, and on swift troll feet disappeared into the arched stronghold doorway.
He slid an arm beneath Batya’s knees and lifted her up, cradling her against his chest. Anthea preceded him, her arm hooked around Lorelei’s as the elf spoke in low tones, asking about her preferences for food, sleeping arrangements, bathing needs, everything. Her warm, confiding nature had already set Lorelei at ease.
With everything taken care of, Quinlan turned his full attention to Batya, who still hadn’t regained consciousness.
Chapter Four
Batya reclined against soft pillows in a fairly upright position, but her eyes remained closed.
She couldn’t seem to open them.
Something in the center of her realm-ness hurt like she’d been battered for hours. One of her frequencies cramped and seized, the one Quinlan had accessed earlier. Her battling frequency.
Something delectable, however, reached her nose and her brows rose. Her eyes almost opened, but another slice of pain gripped her and she gasped, breathing through, trying to get past the spasm.
“You must eat.” The words rumbled over her.
Quinlan.
A shiver went through her and a different frequency began vibrating.
“Eat,” the voice commanded.
She parted her lips and creamy soup slid into her mouth. She drew every drop off the spoon. She tasted potatoes, onion, celery, a bit of ham and the finest cream. “Oh-h-h-h. More.”
A bass chuckle floated over her.
The spoon tapped her lips again. She opened and the savory goodness slid once more into her mouth.
She kept parting her lips. More soup arrived.
Heaven.
And the more she ate, the less her frequency spasmed.
“Wine?”
“Yes, please.”
A cool glass touched her lips. She drank cold, sweet white wine.
More heaven.
A bite of bread with the best butter ever created.
Soup, wine, bread.
Repeat.
Eventually, the pain in her frequency ceased altogether. Sometimes a good meal made the miracle.
Eventually her eyes opened and she met Quinlan’s concerned gaze, while his brows pulled together in a tight line. She lifted a hand and pressed her finger in the furrow between.
She felt so much better except for the heaviness in her chest that in the last few days kept turning into a thudding heart. She suspected she’d begun having serious feelings for the vampire at her bedside.
“Better?”
“Much. Did I pass out?”
“Yes.”
She chuckled. “That, too.” But her amusement slid away as fast as it had come. “I’m not good at this, you need to know that. I’ll want my own way.”
He nodded. “We’ll lock horns over the next few days. Then we’ll part.”
“I couldn’t bear a life in Grochaire.”
“And this is my home, my heart.”
“I know that. I watched you while you looked at the map. You slid your hand over the entire stretch of Grochaire with the most loving caress. I don’t think I’d ever understood you so well before, or known how much a mastyr could love his realm.”