Lover Revealed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #4)(48)

At least Rehvenge wasn’t in the room, so they couldn’t do anything tonight. The venerable laws of procedure for the Princeps Council provided that only representatives from the six original families could vote, but all of the Council had to be present for a motion to be passed. So even though the bloodlines were at the table, with Rehv not in attendance, there would be no resolution now.

While the Council enthusiastically discussed the proposal, Marissa shook her head. How could Havers have opened up this can of worms? And it was all for nothing because she and Butch O’Neal were…nothing. Damn it, she had to talk to her brother and get him to derail this ridiculous proposal. Yes, Wellesandra had been killed and that was beyond tragic, but forcing all females underground was a step backward.

A retreat into the dark ages when females were totally unseen and all but possessions.

With icy clarity, she pictured that mother and her young with the broken leg back at the clinic. Yes, this was not just repressive, it was dangerous if the wrong hellren was in charge of a household. Legally, no one had any recourse against a sehcluded female’s ghardian. At his discretion, he could do whatever he wished to her.



Van Dean stood in another basement of another house in another part of Caldwell, a whistle between his lips as his eyes tracked the movements of the pale-haired men in front of him. The six “students” were in a line, knees bent, fists up. They were striking the empty air in front of them with blurring speed, alternating left and right, shifting their shoulders accordingly. The air was heavy with their sweet smell, but Van didn’t notice that shit anymore.

He blew the whistle twice. As a unit, the six brought both hands up as if grabbing a man’s head like a basketball, and then they slammed their right knees forward repeatedly. Van blew the whistle again and they switched legs.

He hated to admit it, because it meant he was over the hill, but training men to fight was so much easier than going hand to hand in the ring. And he appreciated the break.

Plus he was good at the teaching, evidently. Although these gang members learned fast and hit hard, so he had something to work with.

And these were definitely gang members. Dressed the same. Colored their hair the same. Packed the same weapons. What was not so obvious was what they were about. These boys had the focus of military men; none of that sloppy bullshit most street thugs covered up with bravado and bullets. Hell, if he didn’t know better he’d have assumed they were government: There were squads of them. They had top-notch gear. They were intense as shit. And there were a lot of them. He’d only been on board a week and he’d taught five classes a day, each filled with different guys. Hell, this was only his second trip through the park with this particular bunch of men.

Except why would the feds use someone like him to teach?

He blew the whistle for a long beat, stopping them all. “That’s it for tonight.”

The men broke ranks and went for their bags of gear. They said nothing. Didn’t interact with each other. Didn’t pull any of that macho, nut-busting routine that guys usually did when they were in a group.

As they filed out, Van went to his own bag and got his water bottle. Sucking back some, he thought about how he had to head across town now. He had a fight scheduled in an hour. No time to food up, but he wasn’t that hungry anyway.

He put his windbreaker on, jogged up the basement steps, and did a quick tour of the house. Empty. No furniture. No eats. Nothing. And every single one of the other places had been exactly the same. Shells of houses that from the outside looked all cheery normal.

Fucking weird.

He went out the front, made sure he locked the door, and headed to his truck. The locations they met at had been different each day and he had a feeling they always would be. Every morning at seven A.M., he got a call with an address, and he stayed put when he got there, the men cycling through, the classes on mixed martial-arts fighting lasting two hours apiece. The schedule ran like clockwork.

Maybe they were paramilitary whack jobs.

“Evening, son.”

Van froze then looked over the hood of his truck. A minivan was parked across the street, and Xavier was leaning up against the thing as casual as the mommy-mommy who should have been driving the POS.

“What up?” Van said.

“You’re doing well with the men.” Xavier’s flat smile matched his flat, pale eyes.

“Thanks. I’m just leaving now.”

“Not yet.” Van’s skin prickled as the guy eased off the car and crossed the street. “So, son, I’ve been thinking you might want to become more closely involved with us.”

More closely involved, huh? “I’m not interested in crime. Sorry.”

“What makes you think what we do is criminal?”

“Come on, Xavier.” The guy hated it when he dropped the Mr. So he did it often. “I’ve done time once. It was boring.”

“Yes, that carjacking ring you fell into. I bet your brother had a lot to say about that, didn’t he? Oh—I don’t mean the one you did the stealing with. I’m talking about the law abider in the family. The clean one. Richard, isn’t it?”

Van frowned. “Tell you what. You don’t bring my family into this, I won’t drop a dime and turn in these houses you use to the CPD. I mean, cops would love to come for Sunday dinner, I’m damn sure. Wouldn’t need to ask ’em over twice.”