One was definitely beautiful.

Bella was beautiful.

Especially in the Primale’s eyes.

As the clock started to chime, Cormia tucked her arms in close to her body. Meals were a torture, giving her a taste of what it was going to be like when she and the Primale returned to the Sanctuary.

And he looked upon the faces of her sisters with similar admiration and pleasure.

Talk about change. In the beginning she had been terri fied of the Primale. Now, after five months, she didn’t want to share him.

With his mane of multicolored hair, and his yellow eyes, and his silky, low voice, he was a spectacular male in his mating prime. But that wasn’t what really compelled her. He was the epitome of all that she knew to be of worth: He was focused always on others, never on himself. At the dinner table, he was the one who inquired after each and every person, following up about injuries and stomach upsets and anxieties large and small. He never demanded any attention for himself. Never drew the conversation to something of his. Was endlessly supportive.

If there was a hard job, he volunteered for it. If there was an errand, he wanted to run it. If Fritz staggered under the weight of a platter, the Primale was the first out of his chair to help. From all that she’d overheard at the table, he was a fighter for the race and a teacher of the trainees and a good, good friend to everyone.

He truly was the proper example of the selfless virtues of the Chosen, the perfect Primale. And somewhere in the seconds and hours and days and months of her stay here, she had veered from the path of duty into the messy forest of choice. She now wanted to be with him. There was no had to, must do, need to.

But she wanted him to herself.

Which made her a heretic.

Next door to her, the gorgeous music the Primale always played when he was in his room cut off. Which meant he was heading down for First Meal.

The sound of a knock on her door made her jump and twirl around. As her robe settled against her legs, she caught the scent of red smoke drifting ino her room.

The Primale had come for her?

She quickly checked her chignon and tucked some of the stray hairs behind her ears. When she opened the door a crack, she stole a glance up into his face before she bowed to him.

Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe… the Primale was too glorious to stare at for long. His eyes were yellow as citrines, his skin a warm golden brown, his long hair a spectacular mélange of color, from the palest of blond to deep mahogany to warm copper.

He bowed in a short, quick body bob, a formality she knew he disliked. He did it for her, though, because no matter how many times he told her not to be formal, she couldn’t stop herself.

“Listen, I’ve been thinking,” he said.

In the hesitation that followed, she worried that the Directrix had been to see him. Everyone in the Sanctuary was waiting for the ceremony to be completed, and all were aware it hadn’t been yet. She was beginning to feel an urgency that had nothing to do with her attraction to him. The weight of tradition was growing heavier with each passing day.

He cleared his throat. “We’ve been here for a while, and I know the transition’s been tough. I was thinking you must be a little lonely and that you might like some company.”

Cormia brought her hand to her neck. This was good. It was time for them to be together. In the beginning, she hadn’t been ready for him. Now she was.

“I really think it would be good for you,” he said in his beautiful voice, “to have some company.”

She bowed low. “Thank you, your grace. I agree.”

“Great. I have someone in mind.”

Cormia straightened slowly. Someone?

John Matthew always slept naked.

Well, at least ever since his transition, he slept naked.

It saved on laundry.

With a groan, he reached between his legs and palmed his rock-hard erection. The thing had woken him up as usual, an alarm clock as reliable and stiff off the ground as Big Fucking Ben.

It had a snooze button, too. If he took care of the thing, he could rest another twenty minutes or so before it got up to stuff again. Typically the routine was three times before he left the bed and once more in the shower.

And to think he’d once wished for this.

Focusing on unattractive thoughts didn’t help, and though he suspected getting off actually made the drive worse, denying his cock wasn’t an option: When he’d backed off a couple months ago as a test pattern, within twelve hours he’d been ready to fuck a tree, he was so horny.

Was there any such thing as anti-Viagra? Cialis Reversailis? Limpicillin?

Rolling onto his back, he shifted one leg out to the side, pushed the covers off his body, and started stroking himself. This was his preferred position, although if he came really hard he curled over onto his right side in the middle of the orgasm.

As a pretrans, he’d always wanted an erection, because he’d figured that getting hard would make him a man. The reality hadn’t worked out that way. Sure, with his enormous body and his innate fighting skills and this permarousal he had going on, he was flying the he-man flag and then some on the outside.

Inside, he still felt as small as he’d ever been.

He arched his back and pumped up into his hand with his hips. God… it felt good, though. Every time this felt good… as long as it was his palm doing the pneumatics. The one and only time a female had touched him, his erection had deflated faster than his ego.

So actually, he had his anti-Viagra: another person.

But now was not the time to rehash his bad past. His cock was getting ready to go off; he could tell by the numbness. Right before he came the thing went dull for a couple of strokes, and that was what was happening now as his hand moved up and down the wet shaft.

Oh, yeah… here it comes… The tension in his balls tightened into a twisted cable and his hips rocked uncontrollably and his lips parted so he could pant easier… and as if all that wasn’t enough, his brain anted into the action.

No… fuck… no, not her again, please not-

Shit, too late. In the midst of the swirling sex, his mind latched onto the one thing that was guaranteed to make him multiple it: a leather-clad female with a man’s haircut and shoulders tight as a prizefighter’s.

Xhex.

On a soundless bark of air, John flipped onto his side and started to come. The orgasm went on and on as he fantasized about the two of them having sex in one of the bathrooms at the club she was head of security for. And as long as the images shot around his brain, his body wouldn’t stop releasing. He could literally keep it up for ten minutes straight until he was covered with what came out of his cock and his sheets were totally wet.

He tried to corral his thoughts, tried to get a rein on things… but failed. He just kept coming, his hand stroking, his heart pounding, his breath choked in his throat as he pictured the two of them together. Good thing he’d been born without a voice box or the Brotherhood’s whole mansion would know exactly what he was doing over and over and over again.

Things quieted down only after he forcibly removed his hand from his cock. As his body slowed its roll, he lay in a limp heap, breathing into his pillow, sweat and other stuff drying on his skin.

Nice wake-up call. Nice little exercise sesh. Nice way to kill some time. But ultimately hollow.

For no particular reason, his eyes wandered and settled on the bedside table. If he were to open the drawer, which he never did, he would find two things: a bloodred box about the size of a fist and an old leather diary. Inside the box was a heavy gold signet ring bearing the crest of his lineage as the son of the Black Dagger warrior Darius, son of Marklon. The antique journal contained his father’s private thoughts from a two-year period of his life. Also given as a gift.