The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12) - J.R. Ward Page 0,150

and no one else’s.”

Abalone reached for the black diamond and affixed a kiss upon the stone. Then he was gone, his shuffling footsteps retreating as he made his way back along the corridor.

Wrath waited until even his keen ears could hear nothing. Then in a hushed tone, he said, “I want that young male taken care of. Supply him from the treasury enough wealth to carry his generations forth.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Now, shut that door.”

Soundless. Seamless. They were closed in with nary a squeak.

For the longest time, Wrath walked around the claustrophobic space, imagining the fire kindled and throwing off warmth as it broke down aspects of the plant material, the roots, the powders … turning nature’s bounty into poison.

“Why her?” he asked. “If they killed my father and want the throne, why not me?”

Ahgony shook his head. “I have asked myself that. Mayhap they did not want an heir. Who succeeds you in your line? Who would be the next on the throne if you had no young?”

“There are cousins. Distant ones.”

The royal families tended to have limited offspring. If the queen survived one birthing, they did not want to risk her unnecessarily, especially if the firstborn was male.

“Think, my lord,” Ahgony prompted. “Who would be in line for the throne? Mayhap one who is soon to be born? They could be biding their time for a birth, after which they would target you.”

Pulling up the sleeves of the cloak, Wrath looked down at his forearms. Following his transition, he had been inked with the family lines, and he traced what was permanently in his skin, tracking who was was living, who was dead, who had young, and who was pregnant—

He closed his eyes, the solution to the equation presenting itself. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

“My lord?”

Wrath let the cloak’s sleeving fall back into place. “I know who they are thinking of. It is a cousin of mine and his mate is heavily with young the now. The other evening they were saying they prayed unto the Scribe Virgin for a son.”

“About whom do you speak?”

“Enoch.”

“Indeed,” Tohrture said grimly. “I should have known.”

Yes, Wrath thought. His chief adviser. Seeking the throne for a son who would carry the family fortunes into the future—whilst the male himself placed the crown upon his own head for centuries.

In the silence, he thought of his own receiving room, the desk with parchment covering every square foot of its surface, the quill pens and ink pots, the lists of issues for him to tend to. He loved all of that, the conversations, the judgments, the calming process of coming to a decision thoughtfully.

Then he saw his father’s dead body with its gloved hands, and his shellan’s blue fingernails.

“This shall be handled,” he declared.

Tohrture nodded. “The Brotherhood shall find and dispatch the—”

“No.”

Both of the Brothers stared at him.

“They went after my blood. I shall shed theirs in response—personally.”

The faces of the two trained and bred fighters became impassive—and he knew what they were thinking. But it mattered not. He owed vengeance unto his lineage and his beloved.

Across the way, there was a squat, coarse bench beneath the table and he pulled it out. Taking a seat, he nodded over at the cauldron.

“Ahgony, go forth and extol the life force of my mate. Make it known far and wide that she survived. Tohrture, stay herein with me, and await the return of the murderers. As soon as they hear the news, they shall come here again to make a second attempt—and I shall greet them.”

“My lord, mayhap I could offer my service unto you in a different fashion.” Ahgony looked at his Brother. “Let us escort you back to your mate, and allow us to engage whomever shall come here.”

Wrath crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “Take the torch with you.”

FORTY-ONE

Beth just had to go and look at herself in the mirror.

Even though she was in a whole new territory of exhaustion, she simply had to get out of bed, stiff-walk across the thick carpet, and zero in on the glowing light over the sinks in the bathroom. As she went along, her body was a contradiction of sore, tense muscles and liquefied, loosey-goosey innards—and her brain apparently had voted to go with the latter: She couldn’t keep a thought in her head, fragments of the previous day and night burping to the forefront, but not having the traction to offer any concrete cognition.

Catching sight of her reflection, she was taken