Lover Avenged (Black Dagger Brotherhood #7)(85)

“Ah…he said it doesn’t matter to him if you do.”

“John, you don’t mean that.”

The kid pivoted and signed and Qhuinn translated. “He says, yes, he really does. He says…he can’t live like this anymore…waiting, wondering every night and day when he goes into that room whether Tohr has—John, slow down a little—ah…whether the male has hanged himself or taken off again. Even if he comes back…John says he’s done. He’s been left behind too many times.”

Hard to argue with that. Tohr hadn’t been a great father lately, his sole accomplishment on that front being the creation of the next generation of the living dead.

Wrath winced and rubbed his temples. “Look, son, I’m not a rocket scientist, but you can talk to me.”

There was a long, quiet stretch marked by an odd scent…a dry, almost stale smell…regret? Yeah, that was regret.

John bowed a little as if in thanks and then ducked out the door.

Qhuinn hesitated. “I won’t let him fight.”

“Then you’ll save his life. Because if he takes up arms in the shape he’s in right now, he’ll be coming home in a pine box.”

“Roger that.”

As the door shut, pain roared in Wrath’s temples and forced him to sit back down.

God, all he wanted to do was go to his and Beth’s room and get into their big bed and lay his head down on pillows that smelled like her. He wanted to call her and beg her to come join him just so he could hold on to her. He wanted to be forgiven.

He wanted to sleep.

Instead, the king got back to his feet, picked up his weapons from the floor beside his desk, and strapped all of them on. Leaving the study with his leather jacket in his hand, he went down the grand staircase, out the vestibule, and into the bitter night. Way he saw it was, the headache was going to be with him wherever he went, so he might as well be useful and go look for Tohr.

As he drew on his coat, he was struck by the thought of his shellan and where she had gone the night before.

Holy shit. He knew exactly where Tohr was.





Ehlena meant to leave Rehvenge’s terrace right away, but while stepping into the shadows, she had to look back at the penthouse. Through the banks of glass, she watched Rehvenge turn away and walk slowly down the flank of the penthouse—

Her shin caught something hard. “Damn it!”

Hopping around on one foot and rubbing her leg, she shot a nasty look at the marble urn she’d nailed herself with.

As she straightened, she forgot about the pain.

Rehvenge had gone into another room and stopped in front of a table set for two. Candles glowed amidst a shimmer of crystal and silver, the long wall of glass showing her all the trouble he had gone to for her.

“Damn it…” she whispered.

Rehvenge sat down as slowly and deliberately as he walked, looking behind himself first, as if to make sure the chair was where it should be, then bracing both hands and lowering himself down. The Baggie of what she’d given him was placed on the table, and as he seemed to stroke it, his gentle fingers were at odds with those heavy shoulders and the dark power inherent in his hard face.

Staring at him, Ehlena no longer felt the cold or the wind or the pain in her shin. Bathed in the candlelight, with his head tilted down and his profile so strong and true, Rehvenge was incalculably beautiful.

Abruptly, his head snapped up and he looked right at her, even though she was in the darkness.

Ehlena stepped back and felt the terrace wall against her hip, but she did not dematerialize. Even as he plugged his cane into the floor and rose to his full height.

Even as the door before him parted at his will.

It would have taken a better liar than she was to pretend she just was looking off into the night. And she wasn’t a coward, to bolt.

Ehlena walked up to him. “You didn’t take a pill.”

“Is that what you’re waiting for?”

Ehlena crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes.”

Rehvenge glanced back at the table and the pair of empty plates. “You said they had to be taken with food.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, it looks like you’re going to watch me eat, then.” The elegant sweep of his arm inviting her in was a prompt she didn’t want to take. “Will you sit with me? Or do you want to stay out here in the cold? Oh, wait, maybe this will help.” Leaning heavily on his cane, he went over and blew out the candles.

The curling weaves of smoke above the wicks seemed to her a lament for all the extinguished possibilities that had been: He’d prepared a nice dinner for them both. Made the effort. Dressed beautifully.

She stepped inside because she’d already ruined enough of his evening.

“Seat yourself,” he said. “I’ll be back with my plate. Unless…?”

“I’ve already eaten.”

He bowed slightly as she pulled out a chair. “Of course you have.”

Rehvenge left his cane against the table and walked out, steadying himself on the backs of chairs and the sideboard and the jamb of the butler’s door into the kitchen. When he returned a few minutes later, he repeated the pattern with his free hand and then lowered himself down into the armed chair at the head of the table with careful concentration. Picking up a sleek sterling-silver fork, he didn’t say a word as he carefully sliced his meat and ate with restraint and manners.