staring at him with aggression in their marrow. And that was not all. There were some others with them, soldiers, clearly… as well as that female, the one who had killed the Bloodletter.
As well as the great Blind King.
Throe focused on Wrath. The male had on dark spectacles, but even so, the consuming stare behind those lenses felt very obvious. Indeed, the most important vampire on the planet was as he had always been, a massive fighter, with the cunning of a master strategist, the expression of an executioner, and a body strong enough to follow through on both of those accounts.
Aptly named, he was.
And Xcor had chosen a very, very dangerous adversary.
The king stepped up to the bedside. “My surgeons saved your life.”
“I do not doubt it,” Throe rasped out. Dearest Virgin Scribe, his throat was sore.
“So the way I look at it, under normal circumstances, a male of worth would owe me. But given who you’re in bed with, the normal rules don’t apply.”
Throe swallowed a couple of times. “My first allegiance, my only… one… is to my family—”
“Some fucking family,” the Brother Vishous muttered.
“My blooded relations, that is. My… beloved sister—”
“I thought she was dead.”
Throe glared at the fighter. “She is.”
The king stepped in between the pair of them. “Yada, yada, yada—here’s the deal. You’ll be released when you’re well enough, free to go out and tell the world that me and my boys are as compassionate and fair as Mother fucking Teresa, in spite of who your boss is—”
“Whatever. Bottom line, you’re welcome to stay in one piece—”
“Unless you pop shit,” Vishous interjected.
The king glared at the Brother. “—as long as you act like a gentleman. We’ll even get you someone to feed from. The sooner you’re out of here, the better.”
“And if I wanted to battle alongside you?”
Vishous spit on the floor. “We don’t take traitors—”
Wrath’s eyes whipped around. “V. Shut your motherfucking face. Or you’re out in the hall.”
Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, was not the kind of male anyone addressed like that. Except, apparently, for Wrath. In this case, the Brother with the tattoos on his face and the perverted reputation and the hand of death did exactly what he was told. He shut the fuck up.
Which said volumes about Wrath. Did it not.
The king turned back. “But I wouldn’t mind knowing who cut you.”
“Xcor.”
Wrath’s nostrils flared. “And he left you for dead?”
“Aye.” On some level, he still couldn’t believe it. Which marked him as stupid. “Aye… he did.”
“Is that the reason your own blood is your allegiance now?”
“No. That has e’er been true.”
Wrath nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. “You tell the truth.”
“Always.”
“Well, good thing you quit them now, son. The Band of Bastards is kicking at a hornets’ nest the likes of which they will not walk away from.”
“Verily… there is nothing I can say that you do not already know.”
Wrath laughed softly. “A diplomat.”
Vishous cut in with, “Try dead animal—”
Wrath’s hand shot up into the air, the black diamond of the king’s ring flashing. “Somebody get that mouth out of this room. Or I’ll do it.”
“I’m fucking leaving.”
After the Brother marched out, the king rubbed his forehead. “Okay. Enough with the talking. You look like shit—where’s Layla?”
Throe began to shake his head. “I have no need for blood—”
“Bullshit. And you are not dying on our watch just so Xcor can accuse us of killing you. I’m not giving him that kind of weapon.” As the king started for the door, Throe realized for the first time that there was a dog at the male’s side—wearing a halter that Wrath grasped. Was he truly blind? “Needless to say, this is going to be witnessed— Oh, hey, Chosen.”
Throe’s entire brain shut down as a vision entered the room. An absolute… vision. Tall, and fair of hair and eye, dressed in a white robe, it was indeed a Chosen.
Such a beauty was she, he thought. A sunrise that lived and breathed… a miracle.
And she was not alone, as was appropriate for a gem such as herself. By her side, Phury, son of Ahgony, was a wall of protection, his face screwed down so tight, it appeared as if mayhap she was his? He even had a black dagger in his hand—although it was discreetly held by his thigh, undoubtedly so the female did not see it and grow alarmed.
“I’ll leave you to this,” Wrath said. “But if I were you, I’d watch yourself. My boys here, they’re a little twitchy.”
After the great Blind King left with the blond dog, Throe was alone with the Brothers, the soldiers… and that female.
As she came forward into the room, her smile was a wellspring of peace and femininity in the midst of the vile trappings of war and death, and if he hadn’t been lying down, he’d have sunk to his knees in awe.
It had been so long since he had been ’round any female of worth. Verily, he had grown too used to the whores and the prostitutes, whom he treated like ladies out of habit, but not concern.
His eyes teared up.
She reminded him of who his sister should have been.
Phury stepped up in front of her, blocking the view as he leaned down and put his mouth right to Throe’s ear. As he squeezed Throe’s biceps until it screamed in pain, the Brother growled softly, “You get hard and I’ll castrate you as soon as she leaves.”
Well… if that wasn’t crystal clear. And a quick glance around the room suggested that Phury wasn’t the only one who would come after him. The other Brothers would fight for pieces of his dead carcass if he became aroused.
Straightening to his full height, Phury smiled at the female as if there was nothing of any concern going on. “This soldier is very grateful for the gift of your vein, Chosen. Aren’t you.”
The “asshole” went unsaid. And the grip that once again tightened on Throe’s upper arm was just as hidden and emphatic.
“I am e’er grateful, your grace,” he breathed.
At that, the Chosen smiled at Throe, stealing his breath. “If I may be in even a small way helpful to a male of worth such as yourself, I am blessed. There is no greater service to the race than fighting the enemy.”
“I can think of at least one more,” somebody said under their breath.
As Phury motioned her to come to the bedside, Throe could only stare up into her face, his heart struggling to decide whether to pound or stop altogether. And whilst he imagined what she could possibly taste like, he tried not to lick his lips—for surely that would fall under the prohibited-activities list. He also sternly reminded his sex to stay flaccid or lose its two stupid best mates.
“I am not worthy,” he said softly to her.
“Damn fucking straight,” someone growled.
The Chosen frowned over her shoulder. “Oh, but surely he is. Anyone who wields a dagger with honor against the
Oh… damn.
Her words went straight to his cock: Right up the shaft, which thickened instantly, to the tip, which promptly stung with need.
