The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(98)
Author: J.R. Ward

The image of his daughter cut through his wellspring of emotion.

And he felt the eyes of the others like a thousand laser sights trained on him.

With intent to kill.

As Wrath heard a knocking upon the vaulted door of his mated chamber, he cursed under his breath and ignored it.

“Wrath, you must receive whoe’er it is.”

He took another spoonful of the rich soup that had been prepared before him from vegetables he had gone out and dug from the earth himself. The taste was subtle, the broth fragrant, the pieces of meat from a freshly dispatched cow hand-raised in his stables.

That he himself had killed.

The knocking came again.

“Wrath,” Anha chided as she pushed herself up higher upon her pillows. “You are needed by others.”

He had no sense of the time, whether it was light or dark, how many hours or nights had passed since she had come back to him. And he did not care. Just as he cared naught for the vagaries of court or the concerns of the courtiers—

More knocking.

“Wrath, give me the spoon and you answer that door,” his female commanded.

Oh, that made him smile. She was truly returned.

“Your wish is my command,” he said, placing the broad bowl in her lap and giving her the utensil he had used.

He would have so much preferred to continue to feed her himself. But to see her able to manage the effort without spilling and effect the process of getting further nourishment into her belly? It eased him in ways internal.

And yet sadly, a pall still hung over them both: Neither he nor she had spoken about the young—about whether or not what had befallen Anha had robbed them of their dearest wish.

It was too painful to speak of—especially in light of the revelation made by Tohrture—

“Wrath. The door.”

“Yes, my love.”

Stalking across the throw rugs, he was ready to behead whoever dared to intrude on the healing.

Except as he opened the heavy panels, he froze.

Outside in the corridor, the Black Dagger Brotherhood had amassed, their fighter bodies choking what was otherwise more than ample space.

Instinct to protect his shellan made him wish for a dagger in his hand as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Indeed, that urge to defend his turf had him curling his fists up even though he had never been trained to fight. But he would die to save her—

Without a word, their black blades came out, the torchlight catching and flashing across those killing surfaces.

Heart pounding, he prepared for an attack.

Except it was not: As one, they went down upon bended knee, bowed their heads, and struck at the ground, their daggers chipping up flakes from the stone floor.

Tohrture lifted those incredible blue eyes first. “We pledge ourselves unto you and only you.”

And then they all looked up at him, their respect plain on their faces, those incredible bodies prepared to be called into service for him, by him—and only in that fashion.

Wrath put his hand over his heart and could not speak. He had not realized until this moment how alone he had been, just his shellan and him against the world—which had felt like enough. Until now.

And this was such the opposite of the glymera. The courtiers’ gestures were always done in public, and had no more depth than any performance—once executed, it was past.

But these males …

By tradition and custom, the King bowed to no one.

And yet he bowed the now. Deeply and reverently.

Remembering words he’d heard his father speak, he pronounced, “Your vow is accepted with gratitude by your King.”

Then he tacked on something that was all his own: “And it is returned. I pledge unto you, each and every, that I shall provide to you the very fealty that you have offered and I have accepted.”

He met each of the Brothers in the eye.

His father had used these specially bred males for their brawn, but his alliance had been with the glymera primarily.

Instinct told the son the future was safer if the opposite was true: With these males behind him, he and his beloved and any young they might have would have the better chance of survival.

“There is someone who desires to meet with you,” Tohrture said from his position on the floor. “We would be honored to stand guard here at your door whilst you attend to this necessary in your receiving chamber.”

“I shall not leave Anha.”

“If you will, my lord, please proceed unto your other chamber. This is one with whom you need to speak.”

Wrath narrowed his stare. The Brother was unwavering. All of them were unwavering.

“Two of you come with me,” he heard himself say. “The rest remain here to stand guard o’er her.”

With a chuffing war cry, the Brotherhood rose en masse, their hard, frozen faces the very worst commentary on the state of things. But as they arranged themselves before his mated door, Wrath knew in his heart that they would lay down their lives for him or for his shellan.

Yes, he thought. His private guard.

As he departed, Tohrture fell in front of him, and Ahgony came in behind, and whilst the three of them proceeded forth, Wrath felt the protection cloak him to the point of chain mail.

“Who is awaiting us,” Wrath said softly.

“We snuck him in,” came the quiet reply. “None can know his identity or he will not last the fortnight.”

Tohrture was the one who opened the door, and on account of his heft, there was no seeing who was—

In the far corner, a cloaked and hooded figure stood, but was not still: whoe’er it was, was shivering, the draping fabric about them animated by the fear they contained within their body.

The door was shut by Ahgony, and the Brothers did not leave his side.

Breathing in, Wrath recognized the scent. “Abalone?”

Ghost-pale hands trembled their way up to the hood and removed it.

The young male’s eyes were wide, his face devoid of color. “My lord,” he said, dropping to the floor, bowing his head.

It was the young, family-less courtier, the end of the lineup of dandies, the one who was there by the grace of the blood in his veins and nothing else.

“What say you?” Wrath asked, inhaling through his nose.

He caught the scent of fear, yes—but there was something more. And when he defined it for himself, he was … impressed.

Nobility was not ordinarily an emotion to be scented. That was more the purview of fear, sadness, joy, arousal … but this sapling of a male, barely a year out of a transition that had done little to increase his body weight or his height, had a purpose beneath his fear, a driving motivation that could only be … noble.