“Rhage?” He put a towel around his waist and walked over to open the way up. “My brother, what’s doing?”
The guy was standing out in the hall, his incredibly beautiful face solemn, his body clad in a white silk robe that fell from his broad shoulders and was tied at the waist with a simple white rope. Across his chest, his black daggers were holstered by white leather.
“Hey, my brother… I, ah…”
In the awkward moment that followed, Tohr was the one to break the tension. “You look like a powdered doughnut, Hollywood.”
“Thanks.” The brother stared down at the carpet. “Listen, I brought you something. It’s from Mary and me.”
Opening his big palm, he held forward a heavy gold Rolex, the one that Mary wore, the one that the brother had given her when they’d been mated. It was a symbol of their love… and their support.
Tohr took the thing, feeling the warmth that lingered in the metal. “My brother…”
“Look, we just want you to know we’re with you—I added back the links so it’ll fit your wrist.”
Tohr slipped the thing on, and yeah, it clipped just fine. “Thank you. I’ll return it—”
Rhage snapped out his arms and gave the kind of bear hug that he was known for—the sort that put a strain on your spinal cord and made you have to reinflate your rib cage afterward just to make sure you hadn’t punctured a lung.
“I got no words, my brother,” Hollywood said.
As Tohr clapped him on the back, he felt the dragon tattoo seethe, as if it, too, were offering condolences. “It’s okay. I know this is hard.”
After Rhage left, he was just shutting his door when there was another knock.
Peering around the jamb, he found Phury and Z lined up side by side. The twins were wearing the same robing and tie that Rhage had on, and their eyes were just the same as Hollywood’s Bahama blues: sad, so damned sad.
“My brother,” Phury said, stepping up and embracing him. When the Primale eased back, he held out something long and intricate. “For you.”
In his hand was a five-foot-long grosgrain white ribbon on which a prayer for strength had been carefully and beautifully embroidered in gold thread.
“The Chosen, and Cormia, and I are all with you.”
Tohr took a moment to fan out the strip, and trace the Old Language characters, reciting the ancient words in his head. This must have taken hours, he thought. And many, many hands. “My God, it’s beautiful.…”
As he forced back tears, he thought, Fan-fucking-tastic. If just the warm-up to the ceremony was getting to him like this? He was going be a goddamn mess when it actually happened.
Zsadist cleared his throat. And then the brother who hated touching others leaned in and put his arms around Tohr. The embrace was so gentle that Tohr had to wonder if it was from lack of practice. Either that or Tohr looked as fragile as he felt.
“This is from my family to yours,” came the soft words.
The brother offered forward a small piece of parchment paper, and Tohr’s fingers shook as he opened it. “Oh… shit…”
In the center was a tiny handprint in red paint. A young’s. Nalla’s…
There was no greater or more precious thing to a male than his offspring—especially if it was a female. So the palm print was the symbol that everything Z had and all that he was, now and in the future, was pledged in support of his brother.
“Fuck,” Tohr said simply as he took a shuddering breath.
“We’ll see you down there,” Phury stated.
They had to close the door.
Tohr backed up and sat down on his mattress, laying the ribbon across his thighs and staring at the child’s print.
When another knock sounded, he didn’t look up. “Yeah?”
It was V.
The brother seemed stiff and awkward, but then, he was probably the worst out of all of them when it came to mushy shit.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t try any of the hugging bullshit, either, which was just as well.
Instead, he placed a wooden case next to Tohr on the bed, exhaled some Turkish smoke, and went back for the exit like he couldn’t wait to get out of the room.
Except he stopped before he left. “I gotchu, my brother,” he said to the door.
“I know, V. You always have.”
As the male nodded and left, Tohr turned to the mahogany case. Freeing the black steel clasp and lifting the lid, he had to curse under his breath.
The set of black daggers was… breathtaking. Taking one out, he marveled at the fit against his hand, and then saw that there were symbols etched into the blade.
More prayers, four of them, one on each side of each of the weapons.
All for strength.
These daggers were really not for fighting—they were too valuable. Christ, V must have worked on these for a year, maybe longer… although of course, as with everything the brother made down in that forge of his, they were deadly as hell—
The next knock was Butch. It had to be.
“Ye—” Tohr had to clear his throat. “Yes?”
Yup, it was the cop. Dressed as all the others were, in that white robe with the white rope tie.
As the brother came across the room, there was nothing in his hands. But he hadn’t come empty-handed.
“On a night like tonight,” the guy said roughly, “I only got my faith. That’s all I got—’cuz there’re no mortal words to ease where you’re at—I know up close and personal.”
He reached up behind his neck and worked at something. When he brought his hands forward once more, he was holding the heavy gold chain and even heavier gold cross that he never, ever took off.
“I know my God is not yours, but can I put this on you?”
Tohr nodded and dropped his head. As the linchpin of the male’s awesome Catholic faith was hung around his neck, he reached up and touched the cross.
It had incredible weight, all that gold. It felt good.
Butch bent over and put a squeeze on Tohr’s shoulder. “I’ll see you down there.”
Fuck. He had nothing to say anymore.
For a while, he just sat there, trying to hold it together. Until he heard something at the door. A scratching, as if…
“My lord?” Tohr said as he forced himself to his feet and went across the way.
You opened the door for the king. No matter what state you were in.
Wrath and George came in together, and his brother was characteristically blunt. “I’m not going to ask how you’re holding up.”
“I appreciate that, my lord. Because I’m pretty fucking ragged.”
“Why wouldn’t you be.”
“It’s almost harder when people are kind.”
“Yeah. Well. Guess you’re going to have to suck some more of that shit up.” The king worked at something on his finger. And then put forward—
“Oh, fuck, no.” Tohr threw his hands up and out of the way even though the male was blind. “Uh-uh. No way. No fucking way—”
“I order you to take it.”
Tohr cursed. Waited to see if the king would change his mind.
Got nowhere on that one.
As Wrath just stared straight ahead, Tohr knew he was going to lose this argument.
With a dizzying feeling of total unreality, he reached out and took the black diamond ring that had only ever been worn by the king.
“My shellan and I are there for you. Wear that during the ceremony so that you know my blood, my body, my beating heart are yours.”
George chuffed and wagged his tail as if backing his master.
“Fucking hell.” This time, Tohr was the one who reached for his brother, and the embrace was returned sharply and with power.
After Wrath left with his dog, Tohr pivoted around and leaned back against the door.
The final knock was soft.
Steeling himself so that he at least appeared to be a male, even though he was feeling like a pussy on the inside, he found John Matthew out in the hall.
The boy didn’t bother signing anything. He just reached out for Tohr’s hand, and pressed…