to his name and number, and the next two Brothers bore
him as their sire.
Farther down the line, she randomly took out a book and opened it. The title page was
resplendent, a painted portrait of the Brother surrounded by script detailing his name and birth
date and induction into the Brotherhood as well as his prowess on the field by weapon and tactic.
The next page was the warrior's lineage for generations, followed by a listing of the females he'd
mated and the young he'd sired. Then chapter by chapter his life was detailed, both on the field
and off.
This Brother, Tohrture, had evidently lived long and fought well. There were three books on
him, and one of the last notations was the male's joy when his one surviving son, Rhage, joined
the Brotherhood.
Cormia put the book back and kept going, trailing her forefinger over the bindings, touching the
names. These males had fought to keep her safe; they were the ones who had come when the
Chosen were attacked those decades ago. They were also the ones who kept civilians protected
from the lessers. Mayhap this Primale arrangement would be well after all. Surely one whose
mission was to shield the innocent would not hurt her?
As she had no idea how old her promised was or when he had joined the Brotherhood, she
looked at each book. There were so many of them, whole stacks…
Her finger stopped on a spine of a thick volume, one of four.
The Bloodletter
356
The name of the Primale's sire made her go cold. She had read about him as part of the history of
the race, and dear Virgin, perhaps she was wrong. If the stories about that male were true, even
those who fought nobly could be cruel.
Odd that his paternal line wasn't listed.
She kept going, tracing over more spines and more names.
VISHOUS
Son of the Bloodletter
428
There was only one volume, and it was thinner than her finger. As she slid it free, she smoothed
her palm over the cover, her heart pounding. The binding was stiff as she opened it, as if the
book had been rarely breached. Which indeed it had not been. There was no portrait nor
carefully penned tribute to his fighting skills, only a birth date that indicated he'd be three
hundred and three years old soon, and a notation of when he was inducted into the Brotherhood.
She turned the page. There was no mention of his lineage save for the Bloodletter, and the rest of
the book was blank.
Replacing it, she returned to the father's volumes and pulled out the third in the set. She read
about the sire in hopes of learning something about the son that might allay her fears, but what
she found was a level of cruelty that made her pray the Primale took after his mother, whoever
that might be. The Bloodletter was indeed the right name for the warrior for he was brutal on
vampires and lessers alike.
Flipping to the back, she found on the last page a recording of his death date, though no mention
of the manner. She took out the first volume and opened it to see the portrait. The father had had
jet-black hair and a full beard and eyes that made her want to put the book away and never open
it again.
After replacing the tome, she sat down on the floor. At the conclusion of the Scribe Virgin's
sequester the Bloodletter's son would come for Cormia, and he would take her body as his
rightful possession. She couldn't imagine what the act entailed or what the male did, and dreaded
the sexual lessons.
At least as Primale he would lay with others, she told herself. Many others, some of whom who
had been trained to pleasure males. No doubt he would prefer them. If she had any luck at all,
she would be rarely visited.
Chapter Thirteen
As Butch stretched out on Vishous's bed, V was ashamed to admit it, but he'd spent a lot of days
wondering what this would be like. Feel like. Smell like. Now that it was reality, he was glad he
had to concentrate on healing Butch. Otherwise he had a feeling it would be too intense and he'd
have to pull away.
As his chest brushed against Butch's, he tried to tell himself he didn't need this. He tried to
pretend that he didn't need this feel of someone beside him, that he wasn't eased as he lay head-
to-toe with another person, that he didn't care about the warmth and the weight against his body.
That the healing of the cop didn't heal him.
But that was, of course, all bullshit. As V wrapped his arms around Butch and opened himself up
to
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