No. He was not.
She was. That warning was rising up out of her own chest, breaching her own lips.
Cutting the sound off, she pronounced, “I shall stay. Which room are you treating him in?”
V blinked, as if he were dumbfounded and unfamiliar with the sensation. After a moment, he looked over his shoulder at his mate. “Ah, Jane—where are you working on Tohr?”
“Right here. Throe’s going into our second OR—fewer doors, so there’s less of an escape risk.”
The Brother turned away and walked off, but it was just to get a stool and bring it over to her. “This is in case you get tired of standing.”
Then he left her be.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, who walked into enemy fire unprotected? she wondered.
The answer, when it came to her, made her gut seize up: someone who wanted to be killed in the line of duty. That was who.
Mayhap it would be better if Layla fed him. Less complicated—no. Not less so. The Chosen was incredibly beautiful, without a deformity of any sort. Yes, he had stated that he wanted no one in a sexual manner, but a male’s resolve could be sorely tested by a female who looked like that. And any such response would kill him.
No’One was better for him.
Yes, that was right. She would handle his needs.
As she continued to justify things to herself, the fact that the idea of him at the fair Chosen’s throat made her curiously violent was nothing she wanted to examine too closely.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Throe came awake in a void. He had no sight, no hearing, and no feeling in his body, as if the surrounding darkness had claimed him in his entirety.
Ah, so this was Dhund, he thought. The opposite of the illuminated Fade. The shadowy place where those who had sinned upon the earth were locked for eternity.
This was the Omega’s hell, and indeed, it was hot.
His belly was on fire—
“No, you’re wrong. That lesser was shot from above, too. Someone else was at the scene.”
Throe’s senses came quickly upon him, ushering away the void sure as sunrise over the landscape—but he was careful not to change his breathing or move: That male was not one of his fellow soldiers.
And neither was the second who spoke: “What are you talking about?”
“When I went over to stab him back to the Omega, he was riddled with bullets, some of which could only have been discharged from a vantage point above him. I’m telling you, the top of his skull, his shoulders, that shit was a mess.”
“Any of our boys up there?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
A third voice said, “Nope. We were all at ground level.”
“Someone else took the fucker out. Tohr put some lead into him, sure, but that wasn’t all—”
“Shut it. Our guest’s come around.”
With the ruse over, Throe opened his eyes. Ah, yes. This was not Dhund—but damn close to it: The whole of the Black Dagger Brotherhood lined the walls of the room he was in, the males 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—”
“Was.”
“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.