The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12) - J.R. Ward Page 0,1

in a box-like formation. He could see nothing of what was in their midst.

But he could smell the scent.

And the change within himself was instant and immutable. In a single heartbeat, the plodding nature of life was washed away by a prickling awareness … one that, as the Brothers came closer, matured into an aggression that he was unfamiliar with, but utterly disinclined to ignore.

Breathing in again, more of that fragrance entered his lungs, his blood, his soul—and it was not the oils she had been rubbed down with or the perfumes that had been applied to whatever clothed her form. It was the skin underneath all that, the delicate combination of feminine elements that he knew was unique to her and her alone.

The Brotherhood stopped in front of him, and for the first time, he was not in awe of their deadly auras. No. As his fangs elongated into his mouth, he found his upper lip lifting in a snarl.

He even took a step forward, prepared to rip the males asunder so he could get at what they were shielding from him.

The adviser cleared his throat as if seeking to remind the assembled of his import. “Our lord, this female is being offered by her bloodline for your consideration for birthing purposes. Should you desire to inspect—”

“Leave us,” Wrath snapped. “At once.”

The shocked silence that followed was easily ignored on his part.

The adviser dropped his voice. “My lord, if you shall permit me to finish the presentation—”

Wrath’s body moved on its own, pivoting itself around until he could match stares with the male. “Get. Out.”

Behind him, a chuckle rose from the Brotherhood, as if they rather enjoyed the dandy getting put in his place by their ruler. The adviser, however, was not amused. And Wrath did not care.

There was also no more conversation to be had: the courtier had much power, but he was not King.

The males in gray shuffled out of the room, bowing, and then he was left with the Brothers. At once, they stepped aside and …

Revealed within their heft was a slender form draped in black robing from head to foot. In comparison to the warriors, the intended was slight of stature, narrower of bone, shorter of height—and yet hers was the presence that rocked him.

“My lord,” one of the Brothers said with respect, “this is Anha.”

With that simple and more apt introduction, the fighters disappeared, shutting him in alone with the female.

Wrath’s body took over again, prowling his chaotic senses around her, stalking her even as she did not move. Dearest Virgin Scribe, he had meant for none of this, not his reaction to her presence nor the need coiling in his loins nor the aggression that had sprung to the fore.

But most of all, he had never thought—

Mine.

’Twas as a lightning bolt out of the night sky, changing his landscape, carving a gashing vulnerability in his chest. And yet even with that, he thought, Yes, this was right. His father’s former adviser indeed had his best interests at heart. This female was what he needed to carry him through the loneliness: Even without seeing her face, she made him feel the strength within his sex, her smaller, daintier form filling him out in his skin, the urge to protect giving him a priority and a focus he had been sorely lacking.

“Anha,” he breathed as he stopped in front of her. “Speak unto me.”

There was a long silence. And then her voice, soft and sweet, but quavering, entered his ears. Closing his eyes, he swayed on his feet, the sound echoing throughout his blood and bones, lovelier than anything he had e’er heard.

Except then he frowned as he had no idea what she had spoken. “Whate’er did you say?”

For a moment, the words that came from beneath the cover of the veil made no sense. But then the definitions of the syllables were verified by his brain:

“Would you wish to see another?”

Wrath frowned in confusion. Why would he—

“You have removed naught from my form,” he heard her answer as if he had voiced his inquiry.

At once, he realized she was trembling, her robing transmitting the movement—and indeed, there was a heavy undertow of fear in her scent.

His arousal had clouded any further awareness of her, but that required rectification.

Collecting the throne, he brought the vast, carved chair across the room, his need to provide comforts unto her giving him superior strength. “Sit.”

She all but fell into the oxblood leather seat—and as her draped hands