Lover Awakened (Black Dagger Brotherhood #3)(123)

Wrath took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes again. When he looked up, his pale green irises glowed, the disks like floodlights in his face. “There’s been too much death in the Brotherhood. Don’t do this.”

“Have to. Going to. So order the others to stay away.”

There was a long, tense silence. Then Wrath gave the only answer he had. “So be it.”

With the wheels set in motion for Z’s death, Phury leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. He thought of the taste of Bella’s blood, and that very special spice his tongue had detected.

“I’m sorry.”

As he felt Wrath and Z look over at him, he realized he’d spoken out loud. He got to his feet. “I’m sorry, will you both excuse me?”

Zsadist frowned. “Wait. I need something from you.”

Phury stared at his twin’s face, tracing the scar that intersected it, absorbing the nuances in a way he never had before. “Name it.”

“Promise me you will not leave the Brotherhood after I’m gone.” Z pointed to Wrath. “And do it over his ring.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Phury frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

Phury stared long and hard at Z, thinking about the patterns of both their lives. Man, the two of them really had been cursed, although the why of it was a total unknown. Maybe it was just bad luck, although he’d like to think there was a reason.

Logic…logic was better than a capricious fate that screwed you hard.

“I drank from her,” he said abruptly. “Bella. I drank from her last night when I went to Havers’s. Still feel like having someone watch over me?”

Zsadist closed his eyes. Like a cold draft, a wave of despair came out of him and passed through the room. “I’m glad you did. Now are you going to give me your word?”

“Come on, Z—”

“All I want is your vow. Nothing else.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Christ, fine.

Phury walked over to Wrath, got down on bended knee, and hovered over the king’s ring. In the Old Language, he said, “So long as I breathe, I shall remain within the Brotherhood. I humbly offer this vow, that it may be acceptable to thine ears, my lord.”

“It is acceptable,” Wrath replied. “Tender your lips to mine ring and seal the words upon your honor.”

Phury kissed the king’s black diamond and rose again. “Now, if the drama’s over, I’m out of here.”

Except when he got to the door, he stopped and looked back into Wrath’s face. “Have I ever told you how honored I’ve been to serve you?”

Wrath recoiled a little. “Ah, no, but—”

“It really has been an honor.” As the king’s eyes narrowed, Phury smiled a little. “Don’t know why that suddenly struck me. Probably the view of you from your feet just now.”

Phury left and was glad when he ran into Vishous and Butch outside the study.

“Hey, boys.” He touched them briefly on the shoulders. “The two of you are quite a pair, you know that? Our resident genius and a human pool shark. Who’d’ve thought?” As the two of them looked at him oddly, he asked, “Rhage go to his room?”

When they nodded, he went over and knocked on Hollywood’s door. Rhage answered and Phury smiled, putting his hand up to that thick neck. “Hey, my brother.”

He must have paused for a little too long, because Rhage’s eyes got shrewd. “What’s doing, Phury?”

“Nothing.” He dropped his hand. “Just a drive-by. You take care of that female of yours, you feel me? Lucky, lucky…you are a very lucky male. Later.”

Phury went to his room, wishing that Tohr were around…wishing that they knew where the brother was. As he mourned for the male he armed himself, then checked the hall. He could hear the Brotherhood talking in Wrath’s study.

To avoid them he dematerialized to the corridor of statues and went into the room next to Zsadist’s. After shutting the door, he headed for the bath and flipped on the light. He stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Unsheathing one of his daggers, he grabbed a thick hunk of his hair and took the blade to it, cutting through the waves. He did this over and over again, letting the reds and the blonds and the browns fall to the floor in chunks that covered his shitkickers. When the stuff was about an inch long all the way around, he grabbed a can of shaving cream from the vanity, lathered up his skull, and took a razor out from under the sink.

When he was bald he wiped the residue off his scalp and brushed off his shirt. His neck itched from some of the hairs that had fallen into his collar, and his head felt too light. He rubbed his hand over his scalp, leaned into the mirror, and looked at himself.

Then he took the dagger and put it point-first to his forehead.

With a hand that shook, he drew the knife down the center of his face, ending with an S-curve at his upper lip. Blood welled and dripped down. He wiped it off with a clean white towel.





Zsadist armed himself with care. When he was ready he stepped out of his closet. The bedroom was dark, and he walked through it out of habit more than sight, heading for the pool of light spilling out of the bathroom. He went to the sink, turned it on, and bent down over the rushing water, cupping the cold torrent in his hands. He splashed his face and rubbed his eyes. Drank a little from what he held between his palms.