The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12) - J.R. Ward Page 0,200

back to shield his eyes and face from the brilliant flash of light and burst of heat.

As he was knocked over from the impact, his phone began to ring again.

“Goddamn it.” Jabbing his hand into his duster’s inner pocket, he took out the annoying device. “What.”

There was a pause. And then the sweetest voice he’d e’er heard entered his ear.

“I’m waiting for you.”

Xcor swayed even though he was all but prostrate upon the ground. Closing his eyes, he exhaled. “I am on my way.”

“You did not come earlier when you had said.”

Untrue. As soon as he could break off from the Bastards, he had spirited to the maple—and found his Layla’s footprints in the snow. She must have returned to their meeting place the now, though.

“There were things I could not get out of.” That fucking meeting. The unrest afterward. “But that is no longer true. Be assured.”

He wanted to stay on the phone with her, except he terminated the connection. Jumping to his feet, he glanced down, and recognized that part of his anger had been from missing the chance to see her—

Abruptly, he cursed. The limbs he had cut into pieces had not been incinerated.

He was not going to clean up after himself tonight, however. Whatever humans found the remains could enjoy something to get worked up over.

Ghosting off to the north, he scattered himself upon the wind … and re-formed at the base of their meadow. Immediately he saw her, standing under that giant tree, her pale robing gleaming in the moonlight.

In a rush, he tried to dematerialize to her, too impatient to surmount the distance by foot. But his mind was too muddled for him to concentrate sufficiently.

Left to cross the distance physically, he began to walk, but soon he was jogging … and then flat-out running.

She was the only goal that mattered in that moment, and as he arrived before her, he was out of breath. Out of his mind.

In love.

Layla brought a hand up to her nose.

As Xcor arrived before her, the smell that swirled around him was vile, so sickly sweet that she choked. And he noted her reaction immediately, hiding his bloodied hands behind his back, stepping away so that she was not downwind of him.

“Forgive me,” he said roughly. “I was in the field.”

As there was nothing that carried the scent of the blood of their kind, she sighed in relief. “Our enemy?”

“Yes.”

“Then that is right and proper.”

As his eyes flared, she shook her head. “I have no issue with your defense of our race.”

“That is refreshing.”

She tried to imagine him fighting—and found it was not difficult in the slightest. With his thick neck and his gigantic shoulders, he was indeed bred for violence. And yet even with the stench of slayers upon his person, she had no fear.

“I waited in the snow for you,” she whispered.

“I worried that you had.”

“It is done then. The Council knows about Wrath, that is.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So that is why you followed through to see me here? To gloat?”

“No, not at all. I’m simply hoping…”

When she didn’t finish, he crossed his arms, his chest appearing larger than ever. “Put it into words.”

“You know exactly that of which I speak.”

“I desire to hear the words.”

“Leave Wrath alone.”

Xcor broke away from her, walking back and forth. “Answer me something.”

“Anything.”

“That is not a safe reply for you, Chosen.” He glanced over, his eyes glittering in the darkness. “In fact, this meeting is not safe for you.”

“You will not hurt me.”

“Such faith you put in a monster.”

“You’re not a monster. If you were, you would have killed me that night in the car.”

“My question is this,” he evaded. “Did Wrath honestly forsake that female of his? And you can attempt to lie to me, but I will know the truth.”

Mayhap not, Layla thought. For she had practiced her response to just that inquiry. For hours.

Meeting his eyes steadily, she said without any change of affect: “Yes, he did. The proclamation was predated, but it is true. He has given up his only love to keep that which you endeavor to steal from him.”

Hours in front of the mirror. She had sat in her bathroom, on the little padded bench, in the full glare of as many lights as she could turn on, repeating those words over and over again. Until they were rote—until their meaning was lost and they became only syllables. Until she could speak the lie with no hesitation or stumble.

And she knew that giving