As Butch tested out his eyesight by focusing on Wrath’s desk, he thought that at least there was one set of furniture in the room that made sense. That old-school throne that the last purebred vampire on the planet took a load off in was exactly the kind of thing you’d expect the great Blind King, the leader of the species, to set his leather-covered ass on. Word had it that the carved oak heavy weight had been brought across the ocean from the Old Country by the Brotherhood, back in the days—nights, natch—when Wrath had refused to lead his kind.
There had always been the expectation, the hope, that the male would finally assume the mantle of his birthright—
The double doors, which had been shut after each entry—because there were children in the house now, and none of them needed to hear the cursing carnival that was small talk among the fighters—broke open, and not by a set of hands. They were willed apart.
As a hush fell over the room, Butch thought, Well, the race had gotten itself a leader and a half, hadn’t it.
“Be careful what you wish for,” he muttered dryly.
“Like anyone would order that out of a catalogue?” V shot back.
Standing between the broad jambs, Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, was a seven-foot-tall scourge of non-human humanity in his stack-heeled shitkickers. With black hair that fell from a widow’s peak to his hips, and a face that looked like it belonged on a serial killer who happened to have a blue-blooded pedigree, he was the kind of thing who even fully armed brothers would cross the road to get out of the path of. Especially when he was in one of his moods.
Which was pretty much anytime he was conscious.
And especially after a night like tonight had been.
As he walked into the room, his face never changed position, his wraparound sunglasses straight ahead and not varying as he wound his way around the bodies who were standing, the people who were seated, the furniture, the everything. His ability to circumnavigate the space was not just the result of memorization. By his side, George, his golden retriever service dog, brushed against his outer calf, guiding him through a set of subtle cues invisible to those outside of the symbiotic relationship between owner and animal.
They were a hell of a pair. Like a sawed-off shotgun and a homemade quilt. But it worked—and you want to talk about true love? Sometimes that dog was the only thing that kept Wrath’s temper in check.
So yup. Everyone in the household was a huge fan of George’s.
The doors to the study closed in the same way they opened, without the benefit of a hand—and hey, at least they didn’t slam hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Although again, that was only because it would have scared the dog.
Over at the desk, Wrath lowered his three-hundred-pound, 0% body fat, mesomorphic bulk down on his throne, the old-growth timber bearing his weight with a tired groan. A lot of the time, George got picked up and settled in his lap. Not today.
Butch put the steak back in place and waited.
Three…
Two…
… and—
“What the fuck is going on out there,” Wrath yelled.
Boom!
In the silence that followed, Butch looked over at V. Who looked at Tohr. Who slowly shook his head back and forth.
“Am I sitting in here alone?” Wrath demanded. “Or did all of you check your cock and balls at the door.”
“You know, I wondered what that basket was for,” someone said.
“Mine are so big they wouldn’t fit in it—”
Wrath slammed his fist into the desk, making everyone, including the dog, jump. “Fine, I’ll fill in the blanks for you bunch of pussies. The Omega shows up in a back alley, and you—”
Butch closed his eyes and shrank into the settee as the wraparounds swung in his direction.
“—decide it’s a great idea to call an all clear even when you needed backup.” Wrath’s face then swung around in the opposite direction, at Syn. “And then you decide that tackling the evil is the right move.” Wrath then looked around the room. “After which all of you arrive on scene and circle jerk each other.”
Butch raised his hand even though no one was going to call on him. “I had a plan.”
The Oakleys of Death came back at him. “Oh, really. What was it? Getting killed? ’Cuz Jesus Christ you almost pulled that off with room to spare—”