The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(152)
Author: J.R. Ward

“My second shellan, she cannot express her thanks enough. Nor can I. But we offer you this. As an unworthy tribute to Your Highness.”

Wrath frowned, a sudden slice from the past coming back to him.

And it made him blink hard.

He could remember people doing this with his father, offering the King tokens of thanks.

“I am honored,” he said gruffly as he put his hands out.

What was laid across his palms was smooth, soft. “What is it?”

There was an awkward pause. As if the foreman didn’t understand.

And that was the moment when Wrath knew he’d come to a crossroads. Oddly, he thought of his son.

Shifting the slight weight to one hand, he reached up …

… and removed his wraparounds.

“I’m blind,” he told the commoner. “I cannot see. That’s how I knew what would matter to you and your family. I’ve got some experience making accommodations in this world.”

The gasp was loud.

Wrath smiled a little. “Yeah, that Blind King title isn’t just gossip. It’s the God’s honest—and I am not ashamed of it.”

Holy Shit … until he said the words, he hadn’t realized how inferior he’d felt. How much he had kept hidden. How many apologies he had offered because of something that he had no control over. But that time was past.

Sighted or not, he had an example to set in this world—and he was goddamned if he wasn’t going to live up to it.

“So please,” he told the clearly astonished commoner. “Describe to me the gift that you pay me honor with.”

There was a very long pause. And the foreman wasn’t the only one who was surprised. V was emanating twelve kinds of OMG as he smoked like a frickin’ chimney over in the corner.

The foreman cleared his throat. “It is—um, my mate, she weaves fabric in the traditional way from the Old Country. She sells it within the race for solace banners and clothing. This is … it is her finest weave, one that she did years ago and has not had the heart to sell. It took her a year to complete it—” The male’s voice cracked. “She said she knows now why she could not let it go. She says to tell you she knows now, she was saving it in tribute for you.”

Wrath put the wraparounds aside and ran his hands back and forth over the cloth. “I’ve never felt anything this fine—it’s like satin. What color is it?”

“Red.”

“My favorite color.” Wrath paused. And then decided, Fuck it. “I’m having a son.”

Cue the second gasp.

“Yeah, my love and I … we got lucky.” Abruptly, the reality of his son not being the heir to the throne hit—and there was a sadness. There truly was—but also a kind of relief. “I will use this to receive him in. When he is born.”

Annnnnnnnnnnnnd that would be a third gasp.

“No, he’s not the heir to the throne,” Wrath said. “My wife is part human. So he cannot sit where I do—and that’s all right.”

His son would make his own way. He was … free.

And as Wrath spoke his truth, without apology or explanation, as he cloaked himself in the vestments of honesty, as he said the words he had kept hidden without realizing he had done so …

He realized he, too, was finally free—and that his parents, if they had had a chance to look over his shoulder, would have approved of him.

Just the way he was.

SIXTY-SIX

The Caldwell Galleria Mall was open until ten o’clock at night.

As Xcor materialized in a hidden corner of its vast chain of parking lots, he then strode past the lines of parked cars, his long strides eating up the distance to an entrance that had some giant red sign over a multitude of doors.

He had no idea what he was doing here. About to walk around humans. With a purpose that, had one of his soldiers put such forth, he would never have let them get over it.

Pushing in through the glass portals, he frowned. Female clothes abounded on the left and the right, all manner of cheery colors—that made him think fondly of unleashing a flamethrower to put his retinas out of their misery.

Up ahead, there was section after section of glass cases with sparkling oddities in them, scarves hanging from racks, and mirrors—goddamn, there were mirrors everywhere.

Passing them by, he ducked his eyes. He didn’t want the reminder of his ugliness. Especially not this night—

Did they even have what he was looking for in this place?

Prowling around the first floor, he could feel the eyes of the proper customers on him—and it was clear they were wondering if they were going to end up on the evening news in a bad way. He ignored them all and proceeded upward on a set of moving stairs.

It was on the second floor that he found the menswear department.

Yes, herein, all manner of masculine shirts and pants and sweaters and jackets were arranged on hangers and display tables. And just as with down below, music thumped in low tones overhead, whilst light streamed from the ceiling to set off the merchandise.

What the hell was he doing here—

“Hey, can I help you—whoa!”

As he wheeled around and settled into his attack stance, the black human salesperson jumped back and put his palms up.

“Forgive me,” Xcor muttered. At least he hadn’t outed one of his weapons.

“No problem.” The handsome, well-dressed man smiled. “You looking for something specific?”

Xcor glanced around, and nearly walked back to that fancy stairwell. “I require a new shirt.”

“Oh, cool, you got a hot date?”

“And pants. And socks.” Come to think of it, he never wore underwear. “And undergarments. And a jacket.”

The salesman smiled and raised a hand as if he were going to clap his customer on the shoulder—but then caught himself as he clearly rethought the contact.

“What kind of look are you going for?” he asked instead.

“Clothed.”

The guy paused like he wasn’t sure whether that was a joke. “Ah … okay, I can work with non-naked. Plus it’s legal. Come on with me.”

Xcor followed, because he didn’t know what else to do—he’d gotten this ball rolling; there was no reason not to follow through.

The man stopped in front of a display of shirts. “So I’m going to go with the it’s-a-date thing, unless you tell me otherwise. Casual? You didn’t mention a suit.”

“Casual. Yes. But I want to look…” Well, not like himself, at any rate. “Presentable.”