Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(53)

A hunger for the down-below, for the earthbound lives that were

traumatic but vivid, had her leaning in. "What happened?"

The king pushed his hair back, his widow's peak showing starkly

against his golden brown skin. "He slaughtered a lesser tonight. Just slaughtered the bastard."

"That's his duty, no?"

"It wasn't in the field. It was in the house where the slayers had imprisoned the female. The bastard should have been used for interrogation, but John just lit his ass up. John's a good kid . . . but that kind of bonded-male shit--stuff . . . can be deadly and not in a good way, feel me?"

Memories of being on the Other Side, of righting wrongs and fighting, of--

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J. R.Ward

The Scribe Virgin appeared through the doorway of Her private

quarters, Her black robes floating slightly above the marble floor.

The king rose to his feet and bowed . . . and yet somehow didn't

appear subservient in the slightest. Another reason to like him. "Dearest Virgin Scribe."

"Wrath, son of Wrath."

And that was . . . it. As you weren't supposed to address any questions to the mother of the race, and as Payne's mother remained silent thereafter, there was a whole lot of nothing but air happening.

Yeah, because--fates preserve us--you wouldn't want to tax that

female with any inquiries. And it was clear why the interruption had

occurred: Her mother didn't want an intersection between Payne and the outside world.

"I'm going to retire now," Payne said to the king. Because she would not be responsible for what came out of her mouth if her mother dared to dismiss her.

The king put his fist out. "Farewell. Tomorrow?"

"With pleasure." Payne punched her knuckles against his, as he had taught her was customary, and headed for the door that led into the

sanctuary.

On the other side of the white panels, the bright green grass was a

shock to her eyes and she blinked as she went past the Primale Temple and down to the Chosen's quarters. Yellow, pink, and red flowers grew in

random bunches now, cheerful tulips mixing with jonquil and iris.

All spring blooms, if she remembered from her brief time on the earth.

It was always spring here. Ever on the verge, never to reach the full magnificence and brash heat of summer. Or least . . . what she had read summer was like.

The columned building wherein the Chosen resided was cut into

cubelike rooms that offered a modicum of privacy to their tenants. Most of the spaces were empty now, and not only because the Chosen were a dying breed. Ever since the Primale had "freed" them, the Scribe Virgin's private collection of ethereal do-nothings were thinning out thanks to trips to the Other Side.

Surprisingly, none of them had chosen to un-Chosen themselves--but

unlike before, if they went over to the Primale's private compound, they were allowed back into the sanctuary.

Payne went directly to the baths and was relieved to find she was

alone. She knew her "sisters" didn't understand what she did with the king and she'd just as soon enjoy the calming aftermath of the exercise without 142

J. R.Ward

the eyes of others.

The communal washing suite was set up in a lofty marble space, the

huge pool marked with a waterfall at the far end. As with all things in the sanctuary, the laws of rationality didn't apply: The warm, rushing stream pouring over the lip of white stone was ever clean, ever fresh, even though it had no source and no evident drainage.

Taking off her modified robe, which she'd tailored to match Wrath's

judogi, as he called it, she waded into the pool with her undergarments still upon her. The temperature was always perfect . . . and made her long for a bath that was either too hot or too cold.

In the center of the great marble bowl, the water was deep enough to

swim through, and her body relished the stretching motion of her weightless strokes.

Yes, indeed this was the best part of the sparring. Save for when she caught Wrath a good one.

When she got to the waterfall, she waded up toward it and unplaited

her hair. It was longer than Wrath's was, and she'd learned to not just braid the stuff, but tuck it up at the base of her neck. Otherwise, it was like handing him a tether to yank her around with.

Under the falling spray, bars of sweet-smelling soap awaited her palm, and she used one all over herself. As she turned around to rinse, she found that she was no longer alone.

But at least the dark-robed figure who had limped in was not her

mother.

"Greetings," Payne called out.

No'One bowed, but did not answer, as was her way, and Payne was

abruptly sorry that she'd just left her robe on the flooring.

"I can get that," she said, her voice echoing around the cavern.

No'One just shook her head and gathered up the cloth. The maid was

so lovely and quiet, doing her duties without complaint even though she had some kind of disability.

Although she never spoke, it wasn't hard to guess what her sad story

was.

One more reason to despise She who had birthed the race, Payne

thought.

The Chosen, like the Black Dagger Brotherhood, had been bred within

certain parameters with a desired result intended. Whereas the males were to be thick of blood and stout of back, aggressive and worthy in battle, the females were calculated to be intelligent and resilient, capable of harnessing the males' baser tendencies and civilizing the race. Yin and yang. Two parts 143