The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12) - J.R. Ward Page 0,50

to go, he thought. Even though I don’t deserve you in any way, please don’t leave me—

“Do you need to feed?” she asked in a rush.

Trez felt his jaw drop open. Of all the things he’d been prepared to hear … Not. Even. Close.

“Mayhap I’m being too forward,” she said as she lowered her eyes. “It’s just that you seem so very tired … and sometimes that is what helps most.”

Holy … crap.

He couldn’t tell whether he’d won the lottery … or been sentenced to death.

But as his cock twitched with demand, and his blood roared, the decent part of him that he had long buried spoke up in a quiet, persistent way.

No, it said. Not now, not ever.

The question was … who was going to win, the angel or the devil in him?

ELEVEN

Wrath hit the compound’s underground tunnel at a hard pace, his shitkickers beating out a thunderous pounding that echoed all around until he was his own marching band. By his side, George was going at triple time, his collar jingling, his paws clipping over the concrete floor.

The trip from the training center to the mansion took two minutes at least, three to four if you were having a convo and strolling. Not this time: George halted him in front of the secured door a mere thirty seconds after they’d left the office through the back of the supply closet.

Mounting the shallow steps, Wrath felt around for the security pad and entered the code. With a cha-chunk like a bank vault unlatching, the lock disengaged and then they were proceeding through a passageway to the next lock point. Clearing that, they emerged into the cavernous foyer, and the first thing Wrath did was sniff the air.

Lamb, for First Meal. A fire in the library. Vishous smoking a hand-rolled in the billiards room.

Shit. He had to disclose to his brother what had happened with Payne in the gym. Hell, technically he owed the guy a rythe.

But all that could wait.

“Beth,” he said to the dog. “Seek.”

Both he and the animal tested and retested the air.

“Upstairs,” he ordered, at the same time the dog started to walk forward.

As they got to the second-floor landing, her scent became stronger—which confirmed they were headed in the right direction. The bad news? It was coming from over on the left.

Wrath strode off down the hall of statues, going past John and Xhex’s room, and Blay and Qhuinn’s.

They stopped before they got to Zsadist and Bella’s suite.

He didn’t need his dog to tell him he’d reached their destination—and he knew exactly whose room they were in front of: Even out in the corridor, the pregnancy hormones thickened the air to such an extent, it was like hitting a velvet curtain.

Which was why his Beth was in there, wasn’t it.

Females don’t keep secrets from males who respect them.

Goddamn it. Do not tell him his mate wanted a kid and was doing something about it without even talking to him.

Gritting his teeth, he raised his knuckles to knock—but ended up pounding on that door. Once. Twice.

“Come in,” the Chosen Layla said.

Wrath swung things wide and knew exactly when his shellan saw him: The smoky smell of guilt and deceit flowed across the room at him.

“We need to talk,” he snapped. And then he nodded in what he hoped was Layla’s direction. “Please excuse us, Chosen.”

There was some conversating between the females, stilted on Beth’s side, nervous on Layla’s. And then his mate was off the bed and crossing over to him.

They didn’t say a word to each other. Not when she closed the door behind them. Not as they walked back down the hall side by side. And when they got to the entrance of his office, he told George to stay outside before shutting the pair of them in together.

Even though he was intimately familiar with the arrangement of the pansy-ass French furniture, he put his hands out, touching the backs of the silk-covered chairs and a delicate sofa … and then the corner of his father’s desk.

As he went around and sat upon his throne, he locked his hands on the great carved arms—and gripped them so hard the wood creaked in protest. “How long have you been sitting with her.”

“With who.”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

The air stirred in the room, and he heard her footfalls on the Aubusson carpet. As she paced, he could just picture her, her brows down hard, her mouth tight, her arms crossed over her chest.

The guilt