did she need that tonight.
Pausing in front of the King’s study, she listened to the deep male voices on the other side of the closed doors.
Down below in the foyer, she could hear doggen talking. The floor polisher. The tinkling of crystal, as if the sconces were being taken apart to be cleaned in the sink again.
Without making a sound, she padded across the thick red-and-gold runner, heading for the Hall of Statues. But she didn’t go down that corridor, with its Greco-Roman masterpieces in marble and all its bedrooms. No, she was headed for the next floor up.
The door to the mansion’s third level was not locked, but it wasn’t open, either, and she felt a little like she was trespassing as she opened the way to the stairs and went upward. On the top landing, across from Trez’s and iAm’s rooms, was the vaulted steel door to the First Family’s suite, and she hit its bell, standing with her face in the security camera.
Moments later, there was a series of clunks as the bars moved free of their holds, and then the heavy panel opened wide. Beth was on the other side, L.W. on her hip, her hair in a braid over her shoulder, those old blue jeans and bright blue fleece the very definition of homey. What was not cozy in the slightest? The incredible glimmer of the gemstones set into all the walls beyond.
Mary had never been in the private quarters before. Few had, other than Fritz, who insisted on doing the cleaning up there himself. But Mary had heard that the entire suite was studded with precious jewels from the Old Country’s treasury—and clearly that was true.
“Hey, there.” The Queen smiled even as L.W. grabbed onto some hair over her ear and yanked. “Okay, ow. Let’s try something else for biceps curls, shall we?”
As Beth untangled that fat little fist, Mary said grimly, “I need you to tell me what happened with Rhage. And don’t pretend you don’t know what it is.”
Beth’s eyes closed briefly. “Mary, it’s not my place—”
“If the roles were reversed, you would want to know. And I would tell you if you asked me to—because that’s what family does for one another. Especially when someone is hurting.”
The Queen exhaled a curse. Then she stepped aside and nodded at the sparkling suite. “Come on in. We need to do this in private.”
TWENTY-TWO
Usually Rhage had something in his mouth during meetings with the King. Tootsie Pops were his favorite, but in a pinch, he’d rock a pack of Starburst, or maybe a thing of Chips Ahoy!—the old-school ones in the blue bag, crunchy, not chewy and no nuts. His stomach wasn’t up to handling anything like that, though—and not because of the beast shit.
But at least his vision was even better than it had been after V had hit him.
As the shutters came down for the day, he took up res in the corner by the double doors while his brothers settled in their usual places around the room: Butch and V on one of the spindly French sofas, the pair of them settling into nearly identical, ankle-over-knee poses; Z against the wall in the best defensible position with Phury right next to him; John, Blay and Qhuinn grouped together by the fire. Rehvenge, meanwhile, was in front of Wrath’s ornate desk, the leader of the symphaths being one of the King’s closest advisers, and Tohr was sitting at Wrath’s dagger hand due to his position as head of the Brotherhood, a first lieutenant in all things.
Lassiter wasn’t around, and Rhage guessed the fallen angel was watching T.V. somewhere. And Payne, who had taken to attending these sorts of things? She was probably watching Xcor.
’Cuz God knew the female could handle herself, and any male on the planet.
As always, Wrath was the focal point of it all, sitting in the ornate throne his father had used, the Brother’s black wraparound sunglasses surveying the room even though he was blind, his hand resting on the boxy head of his golden retriever service dog.
Qhuinn was doing the talking this morning, however.
“—have two people down there getting care, Layla and my brother. Neither of them is in any shape to defend themselves if he gets free, and Doc Jane, Manny and Ehlena are medical people, not fighters.”
“With all due respect, Xcor’s seriously guarded,” Butch said. “Twenty-four-seven.”
“If Marissa were carrying your kid, would that be good enough?”
The cop opened his mouth. Then shut it and nodded. “Yeah.