Right. Time to go to work.
Feeling like a total reject in the johnny, V marched over to the closed doors of Wrath’s study, curled up a fist and knocked.
The king’s voice came through the heavy wood panels: “Come in.”
V pushed inside. “It’s me.”
“S’up, brother.”
At the far end of the pansy-ass colored room, Wrath was behind his massive desk, sitting on his father’s throne. Down on the floor beside him, lying on a personalized Orvis dog bed in royal red, George lifted his blond head and pricked his perfect triangle ears. The golden retriever thumped his tail in greeting, but did not leave his master’s side.
The king and his Seeing Eye dog were never apart. And not just because Wrath needed the help.
“So, V.” Wrath eased back in the carved chair, his hand falling down to stroke his dog’s head. “Your scent is interesting.”
“Is it.” V took the seat across from the king, putting his palms on his thighs and squeezing in an attempt to distract himself from his nicotine craving.
“You left the door open.”
“Fritz is bringing me some smokes.”
“You’re not lighting up around my dog.”
Fuck. “Ah . . .” He’d forgotten the new rule . . . and asking George to take a breather was a no-go—after all, Wrath may have lost his sight, but the fucker was still deadly, and V had gotten enough of the S and M tonight, thank you very much.
Fritz came in just as the king’s black brows dropped behind his wraparounds.
“Sire, your tobacco,” the butler said happily.
“Thanks, my man.” V accepted the rolling papers and the pouch . . . and the lighter that the doggen had thoughtfully provided. As well as the robe.
The door shut.
V looked over at the dog. George’s big boxy head was down on his paws, his kind brown eyes seeming to apologize for the shutdown on the whole light-up routine. He even gave a tentative tip-of-the-tail wag.
Vishous stroked the bag of Turkish delicious like a pathetic loser. “Mind if I just rolled up a couple?”
“One flick of the flint and I’ll pound you into the carpet.”
“Roger that.” V lined things up on the desk. “I’ve come to talk about Payne.”
&n
bsp; “How is your sis?”
“She’s . . . amazing.” He cracked open his pouch, took an inhale and had to suck back his mmmm. “It worked—I’m not sure how, but she’s up and around, true. On her feet, good as new.”
The king eased forward. “No . . . shit? For real?”
“One hundred.”
“It’s a miracle.”
Named Manuel Manello, evidently. “You could say that.”
“Well, this is great fucking news. You want to get her a room in here? Fritz can—”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”