The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood 12)
FORTY-FOUR
Xcor was totally disoriented in the midst of the mist and knew that it was getting time to turn back. He’d been aimlessly tromping up the mountain for what felt like hours, and had still not reached any kind of summit or fortification. All he’d seen were evergreen trees. The occasional stream bed that was iced over. Deer prints in the snow—
His phone rang quietly in his pocket.
Even as he cursed the interruption, he recognized it was the proper cue to stop this madness, undoubtedly one of his Bastards checking in. Besides, assuming he discovered the Brotherhood’s lair, what did he expect to do? Howl outside of the Chosen’s window until she agreed to meet with him?
All that would do was get him surrounded by warriors—and although he’d heard that red was the color of love, bloodshed was no proper replacement for a rose.
Retrieving his cell, he answered it brusquely. “Yes?”
A sharp sound reverberated in his ear, shrill and loud enough that he pulled the thing away.
Returning it into range, he barked, “What.”
No reply.
“Damn it, Throe—”
All at once, every instinct he had or would ever possess started to scream—and not in warning as if he were about to be attacked.
Dropping his hand, he turned around slowly, afraid that it was some kind of internal misfire—
His breath left him on a long sigh as he beheld what had appeared afore him.
It was … her.
From out of the dense fog, his Chosen had materialized—and the impact of her presence leveled him even as he remained standing. Oh, lovely to behold, her gentle spirit making him feel the monster in him with great clarity.
“How are you here?” she asked in a trembling voice.
He looked around. “Where am I?”
“I—you mean you do not know?”
“The Brotherhood must not be far, but I can see or find naught in this godforsaken spell.”
Wrapping her arms around herself, she seemed to be conflicted—but why wouldn’t she be. He had to be close to where she stayed, although there was no judging whether that was in terms of meters or miles.
“How fare you?” he asked quietly. “I wish there was moonlight. I would seek to see you better.”
But he could smell her—and that scent of hers. That scent.
“I called you,” she whispered after a long moment.
He felt his brows lift. “That was you? Just the now?”
“Yes.”
For a treacherous second, his heart beat faster than if he’d run up here to her. But then … “You heard.”
“About what you did to Wrath.”
“That was the Council’s choice.”
“Do not pretend with me.”
He closed his eyes. Alas, he could not. “I told you the throne was to be mine.”
“Where are your soldiers?”
“As if I have come this night to rout the Blind King out of his home?”
Her voice grew stronger. “You have taken what you want from him, and used his beloved to do it. Why bother with him now.”
“He is not the one I came to see.”
The Chosen’s breath left her in a rush—even though the admission surely was not a surprise.
And God save him, Xcor took a step closer to her, even though by all that was right and proper, he should have run: She was more dangerous to him than any Brother, especially as the fine tremors that vibrated up through her slender body registered upon him.
He hardened fully. It was impossible not to respond.
“You know that, don’t you,” he said with a soft growl. “Were you calling me to see if you could sway mine actions? Go on, now. You can be honest—’tis just you and me out here. Alone.”
She lifted her chin. “I shall never understand your hatred for that good male.”
“Your King?” He laughed harshly. “A good male?”
“Yes,” she countered with real heat. “He is an abidingly good soul who has a true love match with his mate—a male who pledges nightly to do his best for the race—”
“Truly? And how is he accomplishing that laudable goal? No one e’er sees him, you know. He ne’er goes out to mingle with the aristocrats or the commoners. He is a recluse who has failed to deliver in a time of war. If it were not me, ’twould be another—”
“It is wrong! What you did is wrong!”
He shook his head, at once admiring the principled naïveté and saddened that she was going to have to grapple with it. “’Tis the way of the world. Strength conquers weakness. It is as universal as gravity and sunset.”
Even through her outerwear, he could tell that her br**sts were pumping above her locked forearms, and his eyes dipped down before closing briefly. “I have ne’er cared for innocence,” he muttered.
“Pardon the offense, then.”
Lifting his lids, he said, “But I find that, as always when it comes to you, the revelations continue apace.”
Her long hands reached out to him, pleading across the cold air. “Please. Just stop. I’ll…”
When she could only swallow hard, he found himself going still. “You’ll do what.”
With jerky movements, she paced around before him. And as yet, he could not move a single muscle.
“What exactly,” he asked deeply, “will you do?”
She stopped. Raised that lovely chin. Challenged him with her stare and her body, even though she was two hundred pounds lighter than he and utterly untrained.
“You may have me.”
“Is it hot in here—or am I crazy?”
When no one answered her, Beth glanced across the study. Saxton, Rehv, and Wrath were all quiet as they took up space on the matched set of blue sofas. The first two were staring into the dwindling fire, and she didn’t know where Wrath had directed his eyes.
Hell, even though he was in the same room with her, she didn’t have a clue where he was.
Taking off her robe, she put it on the great carved desk and read the proclamation again. The chair she’d chosen was the one Rehv usually took, the soft-seated bergère, she thought he’d called it, off to the side of where Wrath’s throne was.
She refused, in spite of what she held in her hands, to refer to the giant chair as anything but her mate’s.
Looking back down at the parchment, she shook her head at all the symbols that had been so carefully inked. When it came to the Old Language, she was slow with the literacy thing, having to think of the definition of each character before she could string a sentence together. But what do you know—on the second trip through, everything was the same as the first.
Putting the stiff, heavy paper with all its colorful fringe back on the desk, she ran her fingers over the satin lengths that were secured by wax seals. The things were as narrow and smooth as the strips of ribbon used in the hair of little girls, perfect for tying onto a pigtail.
Not that she had baby on the brain or anything.
“So there’s really nothing we can do about this?” she said after a while.
Man, she was hot. Flannel had not been a good choice—either that or it was stress.
Saxton cleared his throat when no one else volunteered to reply. “Procedurally, they have followed the rules. And from a legal perspective, their foundation is correct. Technically, as the Old Laws read now, any offspring of…” More throat clearing. And he glanced at Wrath as if to measure how volcanic things were going to get. “…the both of you would be bound for the throne, and there is a provision concerning the blood of our ruler.”
Her hand went to her lower belly. The idea that a group of people would target her child, even though it was unborn and maybe not even in existence, was enough to make her want to go down to the practice range and squeeze off a couple of clips.
Back when she’d been in the human world, she’d been discriminated against as a woman from time to time, *cough*Dickthe-Prick*cough*. She’d had no experience with any racial stuff, however. As someone who had appeared Caucasian, even though, as it turned out, she was only half-white because she was only half-human, that whole side of things had never been an issue.
Man … to have an opinion about an individual based on characteristics attached to the sperm lottery was nuts. People couldn’t help what sex they were coming out of the womb; nor could they change the composition of their parents.
“That glymera,” she muttered. “What a bunch of a**holes.”
“I’m probably next by the way,” Rehv said. “They know about my ties to you both.”
She focused on the Mohawked male. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I only stayed with the job to help you two and the Brotherhood.” Then he tacked on dryly, “I got plenty on my hands up north to keep me busy.”
That’s right, she thought. It was so easy to forget that he was not only the leahdyre of the Council, but the king of the symphaths.
“And you can’t throw them all out or something?” she asked the male. “I mean, as leahdyre, you can’t—I don’t know, get a new roster of people?”
“I’ll let our good lawyer friend over here chime in if I get it wrong, but it’s my understanding that membership on the Council is determined by family. So even if I did find grounds to boot the f**kers, they’d just be replaced by members of those bloodlines—who’d likely have the same opinion of things. But more to the point, what’s done is done. Even if they were all turned over with new people? The action still stands.”
“I just keep thinking there’s something—”
“Can we stop this now,” Wrath cut in. “I mean, can we just give this bullshit a rest? No offense, but the angles have been looked at, you’ve read the thing they sent over—what’s done is done.”
“I just can’t believe it was so easy.” She stared at the throne. “I mean, one piece of paper and it’s over.”
“I fear for the future,” Saxton murmured. “That value system of theirs is not good for people like me. Or for females. We’d made such progress over the past two years—bringing the race out of the Stone Age. Now? That’s going to be wiped clean—mark my words.”
Wrath burst up. “Listen, I gotta go.”
With long strides, he came over to her, one hand out into the thin air for her to grab onto and pilot him in the last couple of inches.
As she took his palm and pulled him down to her, she leaned her head to one side so he could kiss her jugular, leaned to the other so he could do the same on the left, and then put her lips in the way of his mouth so he could brush her there, too.
And then he and George left.
Watching him go, she hated how drawn he was, how weak, how wasted—although physically speaking that was more what she had done to him during the needing. Mentally and emotionally? Long line of people responsible for that.
Although she was one of those, too.
“There has to be a way,” she said to no one in particular.
God, she prayed her hellren wasn’t heading for the gym. The last thing he needed was more exercise—rest and food was what his body required right now.
But she knew that look on his face all too well.
FORTY-FIVE
Xcor had never been a male of letters. Not merely untutored in literature, he was, in fact, illiterate—and on a regular basis, Throe used words either in English or the mother tongue that he did not understand.
And yet one would suppose, even at his lowest level of ability, that the four one-syllable words just spoken to him—at least, if taken individually—offered no challenge to comprehension.
His brain, however, was refusing to process them.
“Whate’er did you speak?” he asked roughly.
As Layla repeated what she had uttered, her scent was infused with the sharp spice of fear: “You may have me.”
Xcor closed his eyes and fisted his hands. His body had already translated her speech and answered of its own volition, his muscles twitching to get at her, take her down unto the cold ground, mount her to mark her as his.
“You know not what you say,” he heard himself mutter.
“I do.”
“You are with young.”
“I…” Even with his lids down, he could picture her swallowing hard. “Does that mean you do not want me?”
He took a moment to breathe, his lungs burning. “No,” he groaned. “It does not.”
Indeed, as he imagined her with another, the lance of pain that went through his chest was sufficient to make him pale. And yet, in spite of the seed of another planted within her body, he would take her, have her, keep her …
Except for one thing.
Opening his eyes, he reviewed all manner of detail about her, from her beautiful upswept hair to her fine, delicate features to that slender neck he wanted under his mouth. There was more to see, of course—but it was her face most of all that he needed foremost in his mind’s eye.
It had been a kind of madness since the beginning with her—e’er since he had been brought to her under the maple in that meadow, e’er since he had been given her wrist and taken from her wellspring, he had been infected with an illness.
“Answer me one thing.” His eyes continued to roam, measuring each nuance of her frightened, frozen expression.
“What?” she prompted when he did not immediately speak.
“But for the events that have transpired, would you have e’er offered yourself unto me?”
She dropped her stare. Tightened her arms about her heart. Hung her head.
-FOUR
Xcor was totally disoriented in the midst of the mist and knew that it was getting time to turn back. He’d been aimlessly tromping up the mountain for what felt like hours, and had still not reached any kind of summit or fortification. All he’d seen were evergreen trees. The occasional stream bed that was iced over. Deer prints in the snow—
His phone rang quietly in his pocket.
Even as he cursed the interruption, he recognized it was the proper cue to stop this madness, undoubtedly one of his Bastards checking in. Besides, assuming he discovered the Brotherhood’s lair, what did he expect to do? Howl outside of the Chosen’s window until she agreed to meet with him?
All that would do was get him surrounded by warriors—and although he’d heard that red was the color of love, bloodshed was no proper replacement for a rose.
Retrieving his cell, he answered it brusquely. “Yes?”
A sharp sound reverberated in his ear, shrill and loud enough that he pulled the thing away.
Returning it into range, he barked, “What.”
No reply.
“Damn it, Throe—”
All at once, every instinct he had or would ever possess started to scream—and not in warning as if he were about to be attacked.
Dropping his hand, he turned around slowly, afraid that it was some kind of internal misfire—
His breath left him on a long sigh as he beheld what had appeared afore him.
It was … her.
From out of the dense fog, his Chosen had materialized—and the impact of her presence leveled him even as he remained standing. Oh, lovely to behold, her gentle spirit making him feel the monster in him with great clarity.
“How are you here?” she asked in a trembling voice.
He looked around. “Where am I?”
“I—you mean you do not know?”
“The Brotherhood must not be far, but I can see or find naught in this godforsaken spell.”
Wrapping her arms around herself, she seemed to be conflicted—but why wouldn’t she be. He had to be close to where she stayed, although there was no judging whether that was in terms of meters or miles.
“How fare you?” he asked quietly. “I wish there was moonlight. I would seek to see you better.”
But he could smell her—and that scent of hers. That scent.
“I called you,” she whispered after a long moment.
He felt his brows lift. “That was you? Just the now?”
“Yes.”
For a treacherous second, his heart beat faster than if he’d run up here to her. But then … “You heard.”
“About what you did to Wrath.”
“That was the Council’s choice.”
“Do not pretend with me.”
He closed his eyes. Alas, he could not. “I told you the throne was to be mine.”
“Where are your soldiers?”
“As if I have come this night to rout the Blind King out of his home?”
Her voice grew stronger. “You have taken what you want from him, and used his beloved to do it. Why bother with him now.”
“He is not the one I came to see.”
The Chosen’s breath left her in a rush—even though the admission surely was not a surprise.
And God save him, Xcor took a step closer to her, even though by all that was right and proper, he should have run: She was more dangerous to him than any Brother, especially as the fine tremors that vibrated up through her slender body registered upon him.
He hardened fully. It was impossible not to respond.
“You know that, don’t you,” he said with a soft growl. “Were you calling me to see if you could sway mine actions? Go on, now. You can be honest—’tis just you and me out here. Alone.”
She lifted her chin. “I shall never understand your hatred for that good male.”
“Your King?” He laughed harshly. “A good male?”
“Yes,” she countered with real heat. “He is an abidingly good soul who has a true love match with his mate—a male who pledges nightly to do his best for the race—”
“Truly? And how is he accomplishing that laudable goal? No one e’er sees him, you know. He ne’er goes out to mingle with the aristocrats or the commoners. He is a recluse who has failed to deliver in a time of war. If it were not me, ’twould be another—”
“It is wrong! What you did is wrong!”
He shook his head, at once admiring the principled naïveté and saddened that she was going to have to grapple with it. “’Tis the way of the world. Strength conquers weakness. It is as universal as gravity and sunset.”
Even through her outerwear, he could tell that her br**sts were pumping above her locked forearms, and his eyes dipped down before closing briefly. “I have ne’er cared for innocence,” he muttered.
“Pardon the offense, then.”
Lifting his lids, he said, “But I find that, as always when it comes to you, the revelations continue apace.”
Her long hands reached out to him, pleading across the cold air. “Please. Just stop. I’ll…”
When she could only swallow hard, he found himself going still. “You’ll do what.”
With jerky movements, she paced around before him. And as yet, he could not move a single muscle.
“What exactly,” he asked deeply, “will you do?”
She stopped. Raised that lovely chin. Challenged him with her stare and her body, even though she was two hundred pounds lighter than he and utterly untrained.
“You may have me.”
“Is it hot in here—or am I crazy?”
When no one answered her, Beth glanced across the study. Saxton, Rehv, and Wrath were all quiet as they took up space on the matched set of blue sofas. The first two were staring into the dwindling fire, and she didn’t know where Wrath had directed his eyes.
Hell, even though he was in the same room with her, she didn’t have a clue where he was.
Taking off her robe, she put it on the great carved desk and read the proclamation again. The chair she’d chosen was the one Rehv usually took, the soft-seated bergère, she thought he’d called it, off to the side of where Wrath’s throne was.
She refused, in spite of what she held in her hands, to refer to the giant chair as anything but her mate’s.
Looking back down at the parchment, she shook her head at all the symbols that had been so carefully inked. When it came to the Old Language, she was slow with the literacy thing, having to think of the definition of each character before she could string a sentence together. But what do you know—on the second trip through, everything was the same as the first.
Putting the stiff, heavy paper with all its colorful fringe back on the desk, she ran her fingers over the satin lengths that were secured by wax seals. The things were as narrow and smooth as the strips of ribbon used in the hair of little girls, perfect for tying onto a pigtail.
Not that she had baby on the brain or anything.
“So there’s really nothing we can do about this?” she said after a while.
Man, she was hot. Flannel had not been a good choice—either that or it was stress.
Saxton cleared his throat when no one else volunteered to reply. “Procedurally, they have followed the rules. And from a legal perspective, their foundation is correct. Technically, as the Old Laws read now, any offspring of…” More throat clearing. And he glanced at Wrath as if to measure how volcanic things were going to get. “…the both of you would be bound for the throne, and there is a provision concerning the blood of our ruler.”
Her hand went to her lower belly. The idea that a group of people would target her child, even though it was unborn and maybe not even in existence, was enough to make her want to go down to the practice range and squeeze off a couple of clips.
Back when she’d been in the human world, she’d been discriminated against as a woman from time to time, *cough*Dickthe-Prick*cough*. She’d had no experience with any racial stuff, however. As someone who had appeared Caucasian, even though, as it turned out, she was only half-white because she was only half-human, that whole side of things had never been an issue.
Man … to have an opinion about an individual based on characteristics attached to the sperm lottery was nuts. People couldn’t help what sex they were coming out of the womb; nor could they change the composition of their parents.
“That glymera,” she muttered. “What a bunch of a**holes.”
“I’m probably next by the way,” Rehv said. “They know about my ties to you both.”
She focused on the Mohawked male. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I only stayed with the job to help you two and the Brotherhood.” Then he tacked on dryly, “I got plenty on my hands up north to keep me busy.”
That’s right, she thought. It was so easy to forget that he was not only the leahdyre of the Council, but the king of the symphaths.
“And you can’t throw them all out or something?” she asked the male. “I mean, as leahdyre, you can’t—I don’t know, get a new roster of people?”
“I’ll let our good lawyer friend over here chime in if I get it wrong, but it’s my understanding that membership on the Council is determined by family. So even if I did find grounds to boot the f**kers, they’d just be replaced by members of those bloodlines—who’d likely have the same opinion of things. But more to the point, what’s done is done. Even if they were all turned over with new people? The action still stands.”
“I just keep thinking there’s something—”
“Can we stop this now,” Wrath cut in. “I mean, can we just give this bullshit a rest? No offense, but the angles have been looked at, you’ve read the thing they sent over—what’s done is done.”
“I just can’t believe it was so easy.” She stared at the throne. “I mean, one piece of paper and it’s over.”
“I fear for the future,” Saxton murmured. “That value system of theirs is not good for people like me. Or for females. We’d made such progress over the past two years—bringing the race out of the Stone Age. Now? That’s going to be wiped clean—mark my words.”
Wrath burst up. “Listen, I gotta go.”
With long strides, he came over to her, one hand out into the thin air for her to grab onto and pilot him in the last couple of inches.
As she took his palm and pulled him down to her, she leaned her head to one side so he could kiss her jugular, leaned to the other so he could do the same on the left, and then put her lips in the way of his mouth so he could brush her there, too.
And then he and George left.
Watching him go, she hated how drawn he was, how weak, how wasted—although physically speaking that was more what she had done to him during the needing. Mentally and emotionally? Long line of people responsible for that.
Although she was one of those, too.
“There has to be a way,” she said to no one in particular.
God, she prayed her hellren wasn’t heading for the gym. The last thing he needed was more exercise—rest and food was what his body required right now.
But she knew that look on his face all too well.
FORTY-FIVE
Xcor had never been a male of letters. Not merely untutored in literature, he was, in fact, illiterate—and on a regular basis, Throe used words either in English or the mother tongue that he did not understand.
And yet one would suppose, even at his lowest level of ability, that the four one-syllable words just spoken to him—at least, if taken individually—offered no challenge to comprehension.
His brain, however, was refusing to process them.
“Whate’er did you speak?” he asked roughly.
As Layla repeated what she had uttered, her scent was infused with the sharp spice of fear: “You may have me.”
Xcor closed his eyes and fisted his hands. His body had already translated her speech and answered of its own volition, his muscles twitching to get at her, take her down unto the cold ground, mount her to mark her as his.
“You know not what you say,” he heard himself mutter.
“I do.”
“You are with young.”
“I…” Even with his lids down, he could picture her swallowing hard. “Does that mean you do not want me?”
He took a moment to breathe, his lungs burning. “No,” he groaned. “It does not.”
Indeed, as he imagined her with another, the lance of pain that went through his chest was sufficient to make him pale. And yet, in spite of the seed of another planted within her body, he would take her, have her, keep her …
Except for one thing.
Opening his eyes, he reviewed all manner of detail about her, from her beautiful upswept hair to her fine, delicate features to that slender neck he wanted under his mouth. There was more to see, of course—but it was her face most of all that he needed foremost in his mind’s eye.
It had been a kind of madness since the beginning with her—e’er since he had been brought to her under the maple in that meadow, e’er since he had been given her wrist and taken from her wellspring, he had been infected with an illness.
“Answer me one thing.” His eyes continued to roam, measuring each nuance of her frightened, frozen expression.
“What?” she prompted when he did not immediately speak.
“But for the events that have transpired, would you have e’er offered yourself unto me?”
She dropped her stare. Tightened her arms about her heart. Hung her head.