The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood 12)

Sitting back, he watched the writhing and breathed in the stench—as well as the suffering: Being the cause of pain fed his inner beast, a meal consumed by the evil side of him—that just left him hungry for more.

Time to get a bit more invasive. And he decided to cut off the left foot—slowly. With half strength, he hacked once, twice … three times before the blade cut cleanly through. The right foot was just as leisurely a pursuit.

In the midst of his work, his mind retreated to thoughts that were sure to make him even more depraved.

He kept thinking about Wrath’s end run. Tyhm, the lawyer, had made a subsequent assessment of the mating-dissolution document and deemed it legal—but Xcor knew the thing had been predated.

Do not tell him that the King hadn’t signed on that line as soon as that no-confidence parchment had landed upon his desk.

Moving up to below the knee, he resettled into his work, and the rhythm of chops reminded him of the Old Country, when he’d cut wood to take the edge off his frustration.

The question he wanted answered was, how far did that piece of paper go? Had the King in truth turned aside his mate?

It is a love match.

As he heard his Chosen’s voice in his head, a surge of power overtook him—and good timing as he confronted the lesser’s thighs. No more holding back, now: He threw his muscles into his work, whacking through skin and bone, black blood hitting his face, his fangs bared.

The slayer was clawing through the snow to the pavement, fingernails ripping into the asphalt below as the screaming dried up in his throat, shock o’ertaking his breathing and heart rate, rendering him all but inanimate.

But he would not die like this.

Indeed, there was only one way to kill him.

Xcor reduced the lesser to pieces, leaving only the head attached to a block of the torso, pools of that black blood forming under the four compass points of where the limbs had been attached.

When there was nothing else to cut off, Xcor sat back on his haunches and took a breather. It was not so fun now that the slayer was compromised. The suffering was still there, but it was not so obvious.

Yet he didn’t want this work of his to end. Like the addict holding on to a fix that was no longer sufficient for his needs, he nevertheless couldn’t finish things.

As his phone went off, he was determined to ignore it. He didn’t want to hear Ichan’s bitching—that aristocrat had been leaving message after message trying to recoup his almost-there to the throne. And then there was Tyhm, also calling.

Their little cabal had failed, however—and Xcor’s mind had yet to devise the next approach.

Lifting the machete high into the air, he then buried the honed steel blade right into the empty chest—and immediately had to rear back to shield his eyes and face from the brilliant flash of light and burst of heat.

As he was knocked over from the impact, his phone began to ring again.

“Goddamn it.” Jabbing his hand into his duster’s inner pocket, he took out the annoying device. “What.”

There was a pause. And then the sweetest voice he’d e’er heard entered his ear.

“I’m waiting for you.”

Xcor swayed even though he was all but prostrate upon the ground. Closing his eyes, he exhaled. “I am on my way.”

“You did not come earlier when you had said.”

Untrue. As soon as he could break off from the Bastards, he had spirited to the maple—and found his Layla’s footprints in the snow. She must have returned to their meeting place the now, though.

“There were things I could not get out of.” That f**king meeting. The unrest afterward. “But that is no longer true. Be assured.”

He wanted to stay on the phone with her, except he terminated the connection. Jumping to his feet, he glanced down, and recognized that part of his anger had been from missing the chance to see her—

Abruptly, he cursed. The limbs he had cut into pieces had not been incinerated.

He was not going to clean up after himself tonight, however. Whatever humans found the remains could enjoy something to get worked up over.

Ghosting off to the north, he scattered himself upon the wind … and re-formed at the base of their meadow. Immediately he saw her, standing under that giant tree, her pale robing gleaming in the moonlight.

In a rush, he tried to dematerialize to her, too impatient to surmount the distance by foot. But his mind was too muddled for him to concentrate sufficiently.

Left to cross the distance physically, he began to walk, but soon he was jogging … and then flat-out running.

She was the only goal that mattered in that moment, and as he arrived before her, he was out of breath. Out of his mind.

In love.

Layla brought a hand up to her nose.

As Xcor arrived before her, the smell that swirled around him was vile, so sickly sweet that she choked. And he noted her reaction immediately, hiding his bloodied hands behind his back, stepping away so that she was not downwind of him.

“Forgive me,” he said roughly. “I was in the field.”

As there was nothing that carried the scent of the blood of their kind, she sighed in relief. “Our enemy?”

“Yes.”

“Then that is right and proper.”

As his eyes flared, she shook her head. “I have no issue with your defense of our race.”

“That is refreshing.”

She tried to imagine him fighting—and found it was not difficult in the slightest. With his thick neck and his gigantic shoulders, he was indeed bred for violence. And yet even with the stench of slayers upon his person, she had no fear.

“I waited in the snow for you,” she whispered.

“I worried that you had.”

“It is done then. The Council knows about Wrath, that is.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So that is why you followed through to see me here? To gloat?”

“No, not at all. I’m simply hoping…”

When she didn’t finish, he crossed his arms, his chest appearing larger than ever. “Put it into words.”

“You know exactly that of which I speak.”

“I desire to hear the words.”

“Leave Wrath alone.”

Xcor broke away from her, walking back and forth. “Answer me something.”

“Anything.”

“That is not a safe reply for you, Chosen.” He glanced over, his eyes glittering in the darkness. “In fact, this meeting is not safe for you.”

“You will not hurt me.”

“Such faith you put in a monster.”

“You’re not a monster. If you were, you would have killed me that night in the car.”

“My question is this,” he evaded. “Did Wrath honestly forsake that female of his? And you can attempt to lie to me, but I will know the truth.”

Mayhap not, Layla thought. For she had practiced her response to just that inquiry. For hours.

Meeting his eyes steadily, she said without any change of affect: “Yes, he did. The proclamation was predated, but it is true. He has given up his only love to keep that which you endeavor to steal from him.”

Hours in front of the mirror. She had sat in her bathroom, on the little padded bench, in the full glare of as many lights as she could turn on, repeating those words over and over again. Until they were rote—until their meaning was lost and they became only syllables. Until she could speak the lie with no hesitation or stumble.

And she knew that giving the partial truth provided her more credibility.

“Such a sacrifice,” he murmured.

He, too, gave nothing away.

There was a long, long silence—filled by the pounding of her heart.

“Leave this unholy quest behind,” she said. “Please.”

“And what of your previous offer. Does that still stand.”

She swallowed hard. On so many levels, she couldn’t imagine ha**ng s*x with him. He was an enemy sure as the Lessening Society was—and there was, in fact, a side to him that was monstrous. Moreover, she had never imagined bartering her body for something.

And she was not naive. Yes, she had felt an attraction to him when he had come to her and found her in that car. But this was a deal of business-like proportions.

Layla kicked her chin up. “Yes. It does.”

“And if I agreed to your terms, would I have to wait for the birth of the young? Or could I take you immediately.”

At that, the scenting upon the air changed, a dark spice flaring up and overtaking the stench that had made her ill.

Her hands went to her womb, a sudden terror seizing her. What if she endangered the young growing within her? Except the other Chosen had continued relations with the previous Primale, hadn’t they. To no ill effect.

“You may have me whenever you wish,” she said thinly.

“What if I wanted it here, and now. In the cold. Standing up, fully clothed.”

Her heart thundered, her chest growing tight as she recognized his arousal—and feared it. Still, she held her ground, staying in touch with the fact that she had something he wanted, and with that reality, there was a chance Wrath and Beth and any young they might have could be safe.

“I would do as you asked,” she heard herself say.

“All this for your King.”

“Yes. For him.”

Xcor smiled, but it was without warmth or humor. “I shall consider your terms. See me here on the morrow, midnight—and I shall give you mine answer.”

“I thought that was why you called me here tonight?”

“I have changed my mind.”

She expected him to dematerialize. Instead, he gave her his back and walked down the way he had come up, his heavy strides creating distance between them.

Closing her eyes, she—

“What did you say to him?” a male voice demanded from behind her.

FIFTY-NINE

Trez decided enough with the bullshit.

As he dematerialized back up to Rehv’s great camp, he was ready to come clean, lay down the talk, set things straight with his Chosen. He and Selena had been circling each other for long enough, and now that he had some breathing room—for however long it lasted—he needed to make the situation with that female his priority.

Along with s’Ex’s appetites, of course.

Fuck. Apparently that executioner had used the girls so hard that they’d been unable to work tonight. He’d gotten texts from all three of them—and the good news was at least they didn’t seem to regret a damn thing: Each one of them asked if they could see the executioner again.

At this rate, they’d be paying him to see that son of a bitch.

Hell, they hadn’t even brought up the money he’d agreed to pay them for their efforts.

Reassuming form in his usual spot on the side lawn, he was relieved to see a light on in that back bedroom of hers—and nowhere else. Thank God. Entering the house through the kitchen’s rear entrance, he didn’t call her name, didn’t make a sound. Instead, he ghosted through the empty house, circling to the base of the stairs, ascending in a way that none of the steps creaked.

At the top landing, he went to the left, and when he got to the partially closed door, he could feel his chest grow tight.

“Selena…?”

Her scent was in the air; he knew she was in there.

“Selena?” He pushed the door a little wider, and that was when he heard the sound of running water.

He had to duck his head under the low transom to enter, and as he went to the left again, he caught the humidity in the air, and the warmth—

Oh … man.

He found her in the tub. Head back on a towel, body stretched out in a deep pool of clear water, hands resting on the sides of the old-fashioned porcelain bath.

“I could have gotten up,” she said without bothering to open her eyes. “But I wanted you to see me na**d.”

Trez cleared his throat with a cough—which was what you did when someone hit you in the solar plexus. “Ah … can we talk?”

“I think we have.” Her lids lifted and she glanced over at him. “Or is there more?”

At that, she shifted her legs, the water undulating over that incredible body, her curves amplified as if she were moving … her ni**les licked at and left wet to the air.

“There’s more,” he croaked as he ran his tongue over his lips.

“Then by all means, do draw up a chair. Unless you find that you’d like to join me.”

Fucking hell. “Is there any way I can get you up and out of there. And dressed?”

“If you wish to do it yourself, by all means, oblige your impulse.”

Yeah, because getting his hands on her na**d was going to be suuuuch a big help.

Cursing under his breath, Trez went over and picked up a chair—because in the end, he was afraid that if he stayed standing he’d trip and fall into her. Literally.

As he sat down, he put his hands up to his face and scrubbed hard … and then all he could do was stay like that.

The water made a tinkling as if she were sitting up. “Trez? Are you all right?”

“No.”

There had been so many times in his life when he’d fallen off cliffs, when things that he’d done or had done to him had come back to bite him in the ass. Never like this.

“Trez?” When he didn’t answer her, she said, “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m…” Gee f**king whiz, where to start. “Selena, I’m really sorry.”

“Why?” The tension was thick in her voice. “What are you apologizing for?”

Shame made his throat tighten up so badly, he could barely get breath into his lungs. “I need to be honest with you. Straight-up one hundred.” ng back, he watched the writhing and breathed in the stench—as well as the suffering: Being the cause of pain fed his inner beast, a meal consumed by the evil side of him—that just left him hungry for more.

Time to get a bit more invasive. And he decided to cut off the left foot—slowly. With half strength, he hacked once, twice … three times before the blade cut cleanly through. The right foot was just as leisurely a pursuit.

In the midst of his work, his mind retreated to thoughts that were sure to make him even more depraved.

He kept thinking about Wrath’s end run. Tyhm, the lawyer, had made a subsequent assessment of the mating-dissolution document and deemed it legal—but Xcor knew the thing had been predated.

Do not tell him that the King hadn’t signed on that line as soon as that no-confidence parchment had landed upon his desk.

Moving up to below the knee, he resettled into his work, and the rhythm of chops reminded him of the Old Country, when he’d cut wood to take the edge off his frustration.

The question he wanted answered was, how far did that piece of paper go? Had the King in truth turned aside his mate?

It is a love match.

As he heard his Chosen’s voice in his head, a surge of power overtook him—and good timing as he confronted the lesser’s thighs. No more holding back, now: He threw his muscles into his work, whacking through skin and bone, black blood hitting his face, his fangs bared.

The slayer was clawing through the snow to the pavement, fingernails ripping into the asphalt below as the screaming dried up in his throat, shock o’ertaking his breathing and heart rate, rendering him all but inanimate.

But he would not die like this.

Indeed, there was only one way to kill him.

Xcor reduced the lesser to pieces, leaving only the head attached to a block of the torso, pools of that black blood forming under the four compass points of where the limbs had been attached.

When there was nothing else to cut off, Xcor sat back on his haunches and took a breather. It was not so fun now that the slayer was compromised. The suffering was still there, but it was not so obvious.

Yet he didn’t want this work of his to end. Like the addict holding on to a fix that was no longer sufficient for his needs, he nevertheless couldn’t finish things.

As his phone went off, he was determined to ignore it. He didn’t want to hear Ichan’s bitching—that aristocrat had been leaving message after message trying to recoup his almost-there to the throne. And then there was Tyhm, also calling.

Their little cabal had failed, however—and Xcor’s mind had yet to devise the next approach.

Lifting the machete high into the air, he then buried the honed steel blade right into the empty chest—and immediately had to rear back to shield his eyes and face from the brilliant flash of light and burst of heat.

As he was knocked over from the impact, his phone began to ring again.

“Goddamn it.” Jabbing his hand into his duster’s inner pocket, he took out the annoying device. “What.”

There was a pause. And then the sweetest voice he’d e’er heard entered his ear.

“I’m waiting for you.”

Xcor swayed even though he was all but prostrate upon the ground. Closing his eyes, he exhaled. “I am on my way.”

“You did not come earlier when you had said.”

Untrue. As soon as he could break off from the Bastards, he had spirited to the maple—and found his Layla’s footprints in the snow. She must have returned to their meeting place the now, though.

“There were things I could not get out of.” That f**king meeting. The unrest afterward. “But that is no longer true. Be assured.”

He wanted to stay on the phone with her, except he terminated the connection. Jumping to his feet, he glanced down, and recognized that part of his anger had been from missing the chance to see her—

Abruptly, he cursed. The limbs he had cut into pieces had not been incinerated.

He was not going to clean up after himself tonight, however. Whatever humans found the remains could enjoy something to get worked up over.

Ghosting off to the north, he scattered himself upon the wind … and re-formed at the base of their meadow. Immediately he saw her, standing under that giant tree, her pale robing gleaming in the moonlight.

In a rush, he tried to dematerialize to her, too impatient to surmount the distance by foot. But his mind was too muddled for him to concentrate sufficiently.

Left to cross the distance physically, he began to walk, but soon he was jogging … and then flat-out running.

She was the only goal that mattered in that moment, and as he arrived before her, he was out of breath. Out of his mind.

In love.

Layla brought a hand up to her nose.

As Xcor arrived before her, the smell that swirled around him was vile, so sickly sweet that she choked. And he noted her reaction immediately, hiding his bloodied hands behind his back, stepping away so that she was not downwind of him.

“Forgive me,” he said roughly. “I was in the field.”

As there was nothing that carried the scent of the blood of their kind, she sighed in relief. “Our enemy?”

“Yes.”

“Then that is right and proper.”

As his eyes flared, she shook her head. “I have no issue with your defense of our race.”

“That is refreshing.”

She tried to imagine him fighting—and found it was not difficult in the slightest. With his thick neck and his gigantic shoulders, he was indeed bred for violence. And yet even with the stench of slayers upon his person, she had no fear.

“I waited in the snow for you,” she whispered.

“I worried that you had.”

“It is done then. The Council knows about Wrath, that is.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So that is why you followed through to see me here? To gloat?”

“No, not at all. I’m simply hoping…”

When she didn’t finish, he crossed his arms, his chest appearing larger than ever. “Put it into words.”

“You know exactly that of which I speak.”

“I desire to hear the words.”

“Leave Wrath alone.”

Xcor broke away from her, walking back and forth. “Answer me something.”

“Anything.”

“That is not a safe reply for you, Chosen.” He glanced over, his eyes glittering in the darkness. “In fact, this meeting is not safe for you.”

“You will not hurt me.”

“Such faith you put in a monster.”

“You’re not a monster. If you were, you would have killed me that night in the car.”

“My question is this,” he evaded. “Did Wrath honestly forsake that female of his? And you can attempt to lie to me, but I will know the truth.”

Mayhap not, Layla thought. For she had practiced her response to just that inquiry. For hours.

Meeting his eyes steadily, she said without any change of affect: “Yes, he did. The proclamation was predated, but it is true. He has given up his only love to keep that which you endeavor to steal from him.”

Hours in front of the mirror. She had sat in her bathroom, on the little padded bench, in the full glare of as many lights as she could turn on, repeating those words over and over again. Until they were rote—until their meaning was lost and they became only syllables. Until she could speak the lie with no hesitation or stumble.

And she knew that giving the partial truth provided her more credibility.

“Such a sacrifice,” he murmured.

He, too, gave nothing away.

There was a long, long silence—filled by the pounding of her heart.

“Leave this unholy quest behind,” she said. “Please.”

“And what of your previous offer. Does that still stand.”

She swallowed hard. On so many levels, she couldn’t imagine ha**ng s*x with him. He was an enemy sure as the Lessening Society was—and there was, in fact, a side to him that was monstrous. Moreover, she had never imagined bartering her body for something.

And she was not naive. Yes, she had felt an attraction to him when he had come to her and found her in that car. But this was a deal of business-like proportions.

Layla kicked her chin up. “Yes. It does.”

“And if I agreed to your terms, would I have to wait for the birth of the young? Or could I take you immediately.”

At that, the scenting upon the air changed, a dark spice flaring up and overtaking the stench that had made her ill.

Her hands went to her womb, a sudden terror seizing her. What if she endangered the young growing within her? Except the other Chosen had continued relations with the previous Primale, hadn’t they. To no ill effect.

“You may have me whenever you wish,” she said thinly.

“What if I wanted it here, and now. In the cold. Standing up, fully clothed.”

Her heart thundered, her chest growing tight as she recognized his arousal—and feared it. Still, she held her ground, staying in touch with the fact that she had something he wanted, and with that reality, there was a chance Wrath and Beth and any young they might have could be safe.

“I would do as you asked,” she heard herself say.

“All this for your King.”

“Yes. For him.”

Xcor smiled, but it was without warmth or humor. “I shall consider your terms. See me here on the morrow, midnight—and I shall give you mine answer.”

“I thought that was why you called me here tonight?”

“I have changed my mind.”

She expected him to dematerialize. Instead, he gave her his back and walked down the way he had come up, his heavy strides creating distance between them.

Closing her eyes, she—

“What did you say to him?” a male voice demanded from behind her.

FIFTY-NINE

Trez decided enough with the bullshit.

As he dematerialized back up to Rehv’s great camp, he was ready to come clean, lay down the talk, set things straight with his Chosen. He and Selena had been circling each other for long enough, and now that he had some breathing room—for however long it lasted—he needed to make the situation with that female his priority.

Along with s’Ex’s appetites, of course.

Fuck. Apparently that executioner had used the girls so hard that they’d been unable to work tonight. He’d gotten texts from all three of them—and the good news was at least they didn’t seem to regret a damn thing: Each one of them asked if they could see the executioner again.

At this rate, they’d be paying him to see that son of a bitch.

Hell, they hadn’t even brought up the money he’d agreed to pay them for their efforts.

Reassuming form in his usual spot on the side lawn, he was relieved to see a light on in that back bedroom of hers—and nowhere else. Thank God. Entering the house through the kitchen’s rear entrance, he didn’t call her name, didn’t make a sound. Instead, he ghosted through the empty house, circling to the base of the stairs, ascending in a way that none of the steps creaked.

At the top landing, he went to the left, and when he got to the partially closed door, he could feel his chest grow tight.

“Selena…?”

Her scent was in the air; he knew she was in there.

“Selena?” He pushed the door a little wider, and that was when he heard the sound of running water.

He had to duck his head under the low transom to enter, and as he went to the left again, he caught the humidity in the air, and the warmth—

Oh … man.

He found her in the tub. Head back on a towel, body stretched out in a deep pool of clear water, hands resting on the sides of the old-fashioned porcelain bath.

“I could have gotten up,” she said without bothering to open her eyes. “But I wanted you to see me na**d.”

Trez cleared his throat with a cough—which was what you did when someone hit you in the solar plexus. “Ah … can we talk?”

“I think we have.” Her lids lifted and she glanced over at him. “Or is there more?”

At that, she shifted her legs, the water undulating over that incredible body, her curves amplified as if she were moving … her ni**les licked at and left wet to the air.

“There’s more,” he croaked as he ran his tongue over his lips.

“Then by all means, do draw up a chair. Unless you find that you’d like to join me.”

Fucking hell. “Is there any way I can get you up and out of there. And dressed?”

“If you wish to do it yourself, by all means, oblige your impulse.”

Yeah, because getting his hands on her na**d was going to be suuuuch a big help.

Cursing under his breath, Trez went over and picked up a chair—because in the end, he was afraid that if he stayed standing he’d trip and fall into her. Literally.

As he sat down, he put his hands up to his face and scrubbed hard … and then all he could do was stay like that.

The water made a tinkling as if she were sitting up. “Trez? Are you all right?”

“No.”

There had been so many times in his life when he’d fallen off cliffs, when things that he’d done or had done to him had come back to bite him in the ass. Never like this.

“Trez?” When he didn’t answer her, she said, “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m…” Gee f**king whiz, where to start. “Selena, I’m really sorry.”

“Why?” The tension was thick in her voice. “What are you apologizing for?”

Shame made his throat tighten up so badly, he could barely get breath into his lungs. “I need to be honest with you. Straight-up one hundred.”