The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12) - J.R. Ward Page 0,226

voice answered smoothly, “You just did it all. I’ll draw up the paperwork.”

The King smiled and put out his palm. “You’re the first member of my court. Boom!”

“I know where you went last night.”

Xcor stopped in the middle of the alley—and did not turn around. “Do you.”

Throe’s voice was flat. “I followed you. I saw her.”

Now he pivoted on his combat boot. Narrowing his eyes on his second in command, he said, “Be of care what you say next. And do not ever do that again.”

Throe stomped his boot. “I talked to her. What the hell are you doing—”

Xcor moved so fast that it was less than a heartbeat later that the other male was up against a brick building, struggling to draw breath through the hold on his throat.

“That is not for you to question.” Xcor made sure he did not take out a dagger—but it was tough. “What transpires within my private life is no concern of yours. And allow me to state this clearly—do not ever approach her again if you want to live to die of natural causes.”

Throe’s voice was strangled. “When we take the throne—”

“No. No more of that.”

Throe’s brows punched up into his forehead. “No?”

Xcor released the male and stalked around. “My ambitions have altered.”

“Because of a female?”

Before he could stop himself, he palmed one of his guns and aimed it directly at Throe’s head. “Watch your tone.”

Throe slowly lifted his palms. “I only question the turnabout.”

“It is not for her. It has nothing to do with her.”

“What then?”

At least Xcor was able to speak the truth. “That male gave up a female he was bonded to in order to retain the throne. I have it on good authority of his actions. If he is willing to do that? He can have the fucking thing.”

Throe exhaled slowly.

And didn’t say anything more. The fighter just stared into Xcor’s eyes.

“What,” Xcor demanded.

“If you want me to say anything further, you’re going to have to lower that weapon.”

It was a while before his arm listened to the commands of his brain. “Speak.”

“You are making a mistake. We were able to make great progress—and there will be another angle.”

“Not from us there won’t.”

“Do not make this choice on an infatuation.”

That was the problem, though. He feared he’d fallen far harder than that. “I am not.”

Throe walked around, hands on hips, head shaking back and forth. “This is a mistake.”

“Then form your own cabal and attempt to prevail. It won’t work, but I will promise you a good burial if I’m still around to see to it.”

“Your ambitions served mine own.” Throe regarded him steadily. “I do not want to relinquish the future so blithely.”

“I do not know this word ‘blithely,’ but I do not care of its definition. This is where we are. You may leave if you like—or you may remain and fight with us as we always have done.”

“You are serious.”

“The past does nae interest me as much as it used to. So go if you want. Take the others if you wish. But our life in the Old Country sufficed for many years, so I fail to see why the King’s identity should be of such concern for you.”

“That is because my blade had not been honed on the stone of the crown—”

“What shall you do the now? That ’tis all I care about.”

“I fear I do not know you anymore.”

“Once that would have been a blessing.”

“No longer.”

Xcor shrugged. “’Tis on you.”

Throe looked up as if searching for inspiration from the heavens. “Fine,” he said tightly.

“Fine, what.”

“Try as I might”—the male’s face became grim—“my fealty is to you.”

Xcor nodded once. “Your pledge is accepted.”

But he wasn’t fooling himself. Throe’s ambition was between them now, and no exchange of words or even parchment was going to change that.

They were not done with this, not in the slightest. And mayhap it would take nights or weeks or years before the split came to the fore … but that which was due would follow them from this moment forward.

And he feared that the currency was female.

SIXTY-NINE

Sitting at his desk at the Iron Mask, Trez had had it with the whole club thing. The noise, the smell, the humans—hell, even the paperwork was getting to him.

Shoving away about a hundred and fifty receipts, he was ready to explode as he rubbed his eyes. And then, as he lowered his hands, his eyes readjusted to the fluorescent light, a pixilation fuzzing out his vision.

Another migraine?

He picked up a random piece