The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(100)
Author: J.R. Ward

Rehv stomped onto the second story and paced over to the study’s doorway as if to see for himself that no one was in there. Then he frowned, pivoted on the heel of his LV loafer, and looked up at the ceiling—while discreetly rearranging himself in his pants.

At which point, he blanched. “Is it Beth?”

No reason to define what the “it” was. “I think so.”

“Oh, for f**k’s sake.” The leahdyre sat down on the opposite bench and it was then that Saxton noticed the long, thin cardboard tube he was carrying. “This just keeps getting worse.”

“They did it,” Saxton whispered. “Didn’t they.”

Rehv’s head whipped around and amethyst eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

Do you hate me?

Yes, I do.

Saxton looked away. “I tried to warn the King. But … he was going to take care of his shellan.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I went to my father’s house for a command performance. And when I was there, I figured out the whole thing.” He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his photos, showing them to Rehv. “I snuck these. They’re books of the Old Laws, all open to references of heirs and blood. Like I said, I’d hoped to get to him last night.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Rehv swept his hand over his cropped Mohawk. “They had all the wheels in motion already—”

Across the way, by the head of the hall of statues, the door leading up to the top floor opened. What emerged was …

“Holy shit.” Rehv shook his head and muttered, “Now we know what the zombie apocalypse looks like.”

The lurching, heavy-lidded, floppy-limbed nightmare bore only a passing resemblance to the King—the long hair, damp from a shower, still fell from that famous widow’s peak, and the wraparounds were right, and yes, the black muscle shirt and leathers were his uniform. But everything else was all wrong. He had lost so much weight, his pants were hanging loose as flags around his legs, the waistband sitting at his thighs, even the supposedly skintight shirt billowing off his chest. And his face was just as bad. The skin had shrink-wrapped around his high cheekbones and heavy jaw—and his throat … dearest Virgin Scribe, his throat.

His veins on both sides had been taken so often and with such force, he looked like an extra in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

And yet the male was floating on a cloud. The air that preceded him was soft as a summer breeze, his sense of satisfaction and happiness a bubble that surrounded him.

Such a shame to ruin it.

Wrath recognized the pair of them immediately, and as he halted, his head turned from side to side as if he were measuring their faces. Instead, Saxton was sure it was their auras.

“What.”

God, that voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. There was strength behind it, though.

“We gotta talk.” Rehv smacked the tube into his palm like it was a baseball bat. “Now.”

Wrath responded with a vile string of curses. And then gritted out, “Fuck me, can you give me one hour to feed my f**king shellan after her needing?”

“No. We can’t. And we need the Brothers. All of them.” Rehv got to his feet with the help of his cane. “The glymera voted you out, my friend. And we need to drum up a response.”

Wrath didn’t move for the longest time. “On what grounds?”

“Your queen.”

That already pale face turned positively ashen.

“Fritz!” the King bellowed at the top of his lungs.

The butler materialized from the second-floor sitting room, as if he had been waiting to be summoned for hours.

“Yes, sire?”

It was with utter exhaustion that the King muttered, “Beth needs food. Bring her everything she could want. I put her in the bath—you’d better check on her now. She was weak and I don’t want her passing out and drowning.”

Fritz bowed so low, it was a wonder his baggy face didn’t brush the carpet. “Right away. At once.”

As the doggen hurried off, Wrath called after him, “And will you take my dog out? And then bring him into my office.”

“Of course, sire. My pleasure.”

Wrath turned and faced the open doors of his study like he was going to the gallows. “Rehv, call the Brotherhood.”

“Roger that. And Saxton needs to be in on the meeting. Someone’s got to render an opinion on the legalities of all this.”

Wrath didn’t respond. He just went into the pale blue room, a living shadow in the center of all the fussy French furniture.

In that moment, Saxton could see the weight bearing down on the male, feel the heat of the fire that burned at those feet, sense the lose-lose that had presented itself in this bend in the road. Wrath was the bow of the race’s ship, and as such … he was going to hit the glaciers first.

It was so thankless, all of it. The hours that male had spent chained to his father’s desk, the paperwork passing in front of him, a blur of pages that had been prepared by others, presented by Saxton, ruled upon by Wrath, and sent back out into the world.

An endless stream of sucking need.

Getting to his feet, Saxton straightened the clothes he’d been wearing since he’d gone to his father’s house and discovered the truth when it was too late.

Whatever was coming next? He was in Wrath’s corner—and not just because his father and he were estranged.

He knew all too well what it was like to be forced into a mold you didn’t fit—and then demonized for failing convention.

He and Wrath were kindred spirits.

Tragically.

In silence and with a heavy heart, Sola walked through the house she had shared with her grandmother, going from room to room, seeing everything and yet nothing.

“I can hire someone to do this,” Assail said quietly.

Stopping in the kitchen, she stood over the little round table and looked out the window. Even though there were no external lights on, she pictured the back porch, seeing it covered with snow. Seeing him standing there in the cold.

Little frustrating. She had come here with collapsed U-Haul boxes to pack up personal stuff—not reminisce about this man. But as she opened cupboards and made estimates about how much wadded newspaper she was going to need, he was all that was really on her mind: Not the house she was leaving, not the things she was going to have to let go of, not the years that had passed since the autumn day she and her grandmother had come here and decided that yes, this house would do for the two of them.