The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12) - J.R. Ward Page 0,167

he was already feeling like he’d lost his parents’ legacy, that was going to be like throwing him a boulder to catch while he was barely treading water: Undoubtedly, he was going to feel like he cheated his child, too.

Down at the foyer level, she crossed over into the dining room, and then pushed into the kitchen. God, the eerie emptiness—the galley was usually such an active place, even during the lulls between large household meals. To walk in as the shutters were coming down and have nothing on the stove, in the oven, or on the counters scared her.

Damn … what was going to happen now?

Was the Brotherhood going to split apart? Where would she and Wrath go? Technically, they shouldn’t be staying in those overdone quarters on the third floor if they weren’t the First Family anymore.

Actually … it would be a relief to get out of there.

Although the cause for the relo sucked.

Opening up the Sub-Zero, she saw … a whole lot of shit she didn’t want to eat. But she should be hungry, shouldn’t she? She’d only snacked on the stuff Fritz had brought her how many hours ago? And she certainly hadn’t eaten anything during the needing.

She needed to pee.

Disappearing into the loo off the kitchen, she took care of business, washed her hands, and gave the refrigerator another try.

Someone had just put a big vat of something on the lower level. A quick peek under the lid and … cacciatore. Normally an entrée well worth tackling, especially because iAm must have been the one who made it. However, a quick whiff got her a big fat no-thanks from her stomach. Same thing when it came to the leftover ham. A plate’s worth of Bolognese with linguini in a Tupperware container. Tomato soup …

Giving the freezer a try, she took out a box of plain Eggos … then put them back. “Meh.”

Ice cream was a total no-go. Just the thought of that heavy-cream stuff made her want to throw up—

She hesitated as she looked down at herself. “Somebody in there?” she said to her pelvis.

Okay, it was official. She’d totally lost it.

After a trip through the pantry, which proved to be like trying to find something edible in the laundry room, for chrissakes, she doubled back to the fridge and made herself take out a Vlasic jar of butter chips.

“It’s pickles, people,” she muttered. “Pickles. Total cliché here.”

Except when she twisted off the lid and looked at the slices dancing in their little pool of sweet brine, she grimaced and had to put them back.

As a last resort, she hit the vegetable drawer—

“Yes,” she said in a rush as her hand snapped out for a grab. “Oh, yes yes yes…”

As she carried the bunch of organic carrots over to the knife drawer, she couldn’t believe she was about to get it on with all that beta carotene.

She hated carrots. Okay, not completely—if they were in salads, it wasn’t like she’d eat around them. But she had never in her life volunteered them out of the fridge.

Standing over the sink, she cut one free, got out a peeler, and made a neat little pile of bright orange strips in the stainless-steel belly. Quick rinse. Cut in the middle. Slice length-wise twice. And voilà, crudités.

Crunch. Munch. Swallow.

They were so fresh, they cracked every time she took a bite out of them, and the sweet, earthy taste was better than chocolate.

One more, she thought as she finished her last quarter. Except when she got to the end of number two, she thought … how about another.

As she worked her way through her third, she thought back to the Council’s proclamation. Her motivation for trying to do something was such a no-brainer. Even though her mother’s racial identity was not her fault, she still felt responsible for bringing the shit cart to Wrath’s front door.

If she could only figure out a way around this …

On the Council’s side, things were evidently moving ahead. An official swearing in of that Ichan guy had been scheduled—and Rehv had found out because, like an idiot, the Council’s secretary had failed to take him off their blast e-mail list.

That was taking place at midnight.

She glanced over at the double ovens. The blue digital clock read four fifty-four. So they had nineteen hours.

What the hell could be done in nineteen hours?

Turning back to her stash, she—

The sound of the security system announcing the opening and closing of an exterior door was a surprise. Frowning,