The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood #13) - J. R. Ward Page 0,70

And there was nothing else in the cell—

The door opened, the panel sliding soundlessly into the wall. And what came in was robed from head to foot in black folds of cloth, the face covered, the feet covered, even the hands gloved.

Was it the Grim Reaper? he wondered. Had he passed out and was dreaming—

A subtle scent registered.

But not in his nose. Through his body.

Like a lick of electricity.

The door was shut behind the tall, robed figure. And as the male approached, iAm did his best to assume some kind of defensible position.

He didn’t make it far at all with that one.

A gloved hand reached out; he was rolled back over; and then he felt a touch on the base of his spine.

“I will … kill you…” iAm mumbled. “Hurt you…”

How, he hadn’t a clue. But he was going out fighting, that was for damn sure.

The figure stepped back. Tilted its head as if it were considering the method of death that would be used.

In the s’Hisbe, most prisoners were tortured first. Tenderizing, iAm had always thought. Then they were slaughtered and either buried or eaten by s’Ex and his guards, depending on the offense.

The latter was a proud tradition. Also took care of the whole what-to-do-with-the-body problem.

iAm curled up fists and braced himself for whatever came at him.

Except the figure simply regarded him for a long moment. And then backed over to the door and left.

Oh. Okay. They’d verified who he was, and there was no reason to kill him before they got Trez back here. That would be a waste of leverage.

Shit.

Relaxing his muscles, he tried to get himself to go loose and prayed that his body’s natural healing abilities took care of the concussion quickly.

He was going to need to be able to back up his fighting words with more than an inert body and limbs made of lead.

Goddamn it, he should never have trusted s’Ex.

Back in Caldwell, Paradise sat on her bed, legs tucked under her, eyes on the night sky on the far side of her closed, locked windows.

“So you’re going to do it?” she said into her cell phone.

Peyton laughed. “Hell, yeah, are you kidding me? I’m dying to get out of here. Ever since the raids I’ve been on lockdown, and the fact that my parents are letting me go into that training program is a miracle.”

She focused on the latches on her own bedroom door, which were, as a matter of fact, in the locked position.

“Wonder if my dad would let me,” she murmured.

There was a pause. Then a laugh. “Oh, my God, Paradise. No. Uh-uh. No way.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. He’s really protective—”

“That program is not a place for females.”

She frowned. “Excuse me. The letter from the Brotherhood said we were welcome to try out.”

“Okay, number one, ‘try out’ does not mean ‘accepted.’ Have you ever even done a push-up?”

“Well, I’m sure I could if I—”

“Number two, you’re not your average female. I mean, hello, you’re a member of a Founding Family. Your father is First Adviser to the King. You need to be preserved to breed.”

Paradise’s mouth dropped open. “I cannot believe you just said that.”

“What? It’s true. Don’t pretend the rules are the same for females like you. Like, if some scrub civilian who happens to wear a skirt wants to give it a shot, fine. That loss means nothing to the species. But, Parry, there aren’t many of you left. For males like me? We don’t want to get mated to anyone but you, and there are like, what, four or five of you left?”

“That is the most reductive reasoning I’ve ever heard. I gotta go.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that.”

“Fuck you. I’m more than just a pair of ovaries you can put a ring on.”

She hung up and thought about throwing her phone across the room. When she couldn’t manage to follow through on the impulse, she then got worried that all the manners that had been inbred and reinforced in her meant Peyton was right.

She was just a hothouse flower, good for nothing but tea parties and young and—

As the cell started ringing again, she tossed it onto her duvet, got down on her floor, and planted her palms flat on her needlepoint rug. Kicking out her legs, she balanced on the balls of her feet.

“Right,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Up and down. Like a hundred times.”

She got the down right on the first try, her arms more than willing to oblige. And as