Lover at Last (Black Dagger Brotherhood #11)(138)
Author: J.R. Ward

All at once the acoustics changed, their collective chanting richocheting around, as if they had entered a tremendous space with a lot of loft.

A hand on his shoulder brought him to a halt.

And then the chanting and the movement stopped, the final strains of their voices drifting away.

Somebody grabbed onto his arm and drew him forward. "Stairs," Z’s voice said.

He went up about six of them, and then there was a straightaway. When he was stopped, it was with his chest and his toes against what seemed to be a marble wall of the same sort of rock the floor was made of.

Zsadist walked off, leaving him where he was.

His heart banged against his sternum.

The king’s voice was loud as thunder. "Who proposes this male?"

"I do," Zsadist answered.

"I do," Tohr echoed.

"I do."

"I do."

"I do."

"I do."

Qhuinn had to blink repeatedly as, one by one, every single Brother spoke up. Every single f**king one of the Brothers proposed him.

And then came the last.

The voice of the king resonated loud and clear: "I do."

Fuck him, he needed to blink more.

Then Wrath continued, his aristocratic inflection of the Old Language backed up by a warrior’s strength. "On the basis of the testimony of the assembled members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, and upon the proposals by Zsadist and Phury, sons of the Black Dagger warrior Ahgony; Tohrment, the son of the Black Dagger warrior Hharm; Butch O’Neal, blooded relation of mine own line; Rhage, the son of the Black Dagger warrior Tohrture; Vishous, son of the Black Dagger warrior known as the Bloodletter; and mine own as Wrath, son of Wrath, we find this male before us, Qhuinn, son of no one, an appropriate nomination unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood. As it is within my power and discretion to do so, and as it is suitable for the protection of the race, and further, as the laws have been reconstructed to provide that this is right and proper, I have waived all requirements of lineage. We may now begin. Turn him. Unveil him."

Before anyone came over to him, Qhuinn squared his shoulders, and managed a quick brush under his eyes – so he was a male once more as he was pivoted around and the robe was taken from him –

Qhuinn gasped. He was up on a dais, and the cave that was before him was lit with a hundred black candles, the flames creating a symphony of soft, golden light that flickered over the rough-hewn walls and reflected off the glossy floor.

But that was not what really got his attention: Right in front of him, between him and the tremendous, illuminated space, was an altar.

In the center of which was a large skull.

The thing was ancient, the bone not the white of the newly dead, but carrying the darkened, pitted patina of the aged, the sacred, the revered.

That was the first Brother. Had to be.

As his eyes shifted away from it, he was struck with awe: Down on the floor, looking up at him, were the living, breathing carriers of the great tradition. The Brotherhood stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the naked bodies of the fighters forming a tremendous wall of flesh and muscle, that candlelight playing across their strength and power.

Tohr took Wrath’s arm and led the king up the stairs that Qhuinn himself had just surmounted.

"Back up against the wall, and grip the pegs," Wrath commanded in English as he was escorted to the altar.

Qhuinn obeyed without hesitation, feeling his shoulder blades and ass hit the stone as his hands brushed a pair of stout, dowel-like protrusions.

When the king brought up his arm, Qhuinn suddenly knew exactly how each of the Brothers had gotten that star-shaped scarring on their pectoral: An aged silver glove was locked onto Wrath’s hand, barbs marking the knuckles of the thing – and within the fist, was the handle of a black dagger.

With a minimum of fuss, Tohr extended Wrath’s wrist over to the skull. "My lord."

As the king brought up the blade, the ritualistic tattoos that delineated his lineage caught the glowing light – and then the razor-sharp edge as he scored his skin.

Red blood welled and fell into a silver cup that had been inset into the crown of the skull. "My flesh," the king proclaimed.

After a moment, Wrath licked the wound closed. And then the huge male, with his waist-length black hair and his widow’s peak and those wraparounds, was led over to Qhuinn.

Even without the benefit of sight, Wrath somehow knew exactly how their bodies were positioned, how tall Qhuinn was, where Qhuinn’s face was….

Because the king snapped out a hold right on Qhuinn’s jaw. Then with brutal force, he shoved Qhuinn’s head back and to the side, exposing his throat.

Now he knew what the f**king pegs were for.

Wrath’s cruel smile exposed tremendous fangs, the likes of which Qhuinn had never seen before. "Your flesh."

With a lightning-fast strike, the king latched on without mercy, piercing Qhuinn’s vein in a brutal bite and then drawing in a series of ripping pulls that were swallowed one after another. When finally he retracted those canines, he drew his tongue over his lips and smiled like a warlord.

And then it was time.

Qhuinn didn’t need to be told to brace the ever-loving shit out of himself. Bearing down on his hands, he locked his shoulders and his legs, ready to receive.

"Our flesh," Wrath growled.

The king didn’t hold back. With the same unerring accuracy, he curled up a fist inside that ancient glove and slammed the thing into Qhuinn’s pec, the impact of those barbed knuckles so great, Qhuinn’s lips flapped in the gale that blew up and out of his lungs. Vision went bye-bye-birdie for a little bit, but when it came back, he got a crystal-clear of Wrath’s face.

The king’s expression was one of respect – and a total lack of surprise, as if Wrath had expected Qhuinn to take it like a male.

And on it went. Tohr was next in line, accepting the glove and the dagger, saying the same words, scoring his forearm, bleeding into the skull, striking at Qhuinn’s throat, then hitting as hard as a truck. And then Rhage. Vishous. Butch. Phury. Zsadist.

By the end of it, Qhuinn was bleeding from the wounds at his throat and his chest, his body was covered from sweat, and the only reason he wasn’t on the floor was the bitch grip he had on those pegs.

But he didn’t care what else they did to him; he was going to stay on his feet no matter what. He had no clue about the history of the Brotherhood, but he was willing to bet none of these guys had gone down like a bag of sand during their inductions – and he didn’t mind being the first in some senses, but not in a sacless one.

Besides, so far so good, he guessed: The other Brothers were standing around and grinning from ear to ear at him, like they totally approved of how he was handling shit – and didn’t that only make him even more determined.