The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(111)

“And you think your parents will be…”

“No, I know they’ll kill them.” He massaged the nape of his neck. “You know, so much of this is sad—but I think the worst of it is the fact that I can’t even pretend to be emotional about those two. It’s, like … they made a deal with the devil. If something bad happens, they’re just getting what’s coming to them.”

Unfortunately, however, regardless of what happened to his mother and father … the debt would still be owed.

Even if s’Ex carved them up into little bitty pieces, Trez would remain on the line for what they had contracted for.

What had been set in motion … could not be undone. And as he kept looking at Selena, he mourned that truth now more than ever.

Selena’s hands were shaking. Had been ever since Trez had said that he’d been with … exactly how many human women? she wondered.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she didn’t even want to think about that.

She could, however, at least try to get her hands to stop trembling. As Trez fell silent, she splayed her fingers wide and flexed them, hoping that it would stop things before he saw through her calm facade: She had the very clear sense that if he became aware he’d upset her, he would never say another word … and this intimate space that had unexpectedly opened up between them was even more sacred than the sexual experience had promised to be.

“I did not have parents as such,” she said quietly. “But I cannot imagine having a young and … selling them.”

Trez nodded, his arm cocked high so that he could continue to rub the base of his neck. “I know, right? I mean, my parents did value me. The problem is, I was a commodity to them, something to be bartered. You expect that from car dealers and rug merchants and people who run supermarkets and malls. And listen, I wish I was one of those well-adjusted motherf*ckers so I could be all like, ‘They didn’t want me, but I’m still of value, blah, blah, blah’—things haven’t worked out like that for me, though. In my head…” He made a circle at his temple. “I’m not anything. I’m not … anything.”

Suddenly, Selena wanted to weep. To stare across at this absolutely magnificent male … and know that in his heart, he saw nothing of what he was? It was a crime—a crime caused by the very people who should have cared most about him.

“Is that why you were with the humans?” she heard herself ask.

In the silence that followed, it was difficult to draw an even breath: She was frightened of his answer. For a whole lot of reasons.

“Yeah.” He cursed under his breath. “Like, you know, I was with this woman—right before I got the migraine.”

That was just the other night, she thought, wanting to cringe— “And she was as empty as I was feeling. Just two hollow bodies clapping together. It didn’t mean anything, and that’s what I’ve been doing all these years. Physical exercise and that was it.”

Selena struggled for the right thing to say, something that was even-keeled and signaled that she was comfortable with what he was telling her … when in reality it was ripping her heart out. Even though it shouldn’t have.

She’d spent how much time with him? An hour? Two at the very most?

Impending death was making her reckless—

“I could save them,” he said, almost to himself. “If I sacrifice myself, I can save my mother and father.”

He shifted his head to the side sharply and a crack sounded out.

“Here,” she murmured, moving behind him. “Allow me.”

Pushing his hand out of the way, she gripped his iron-hard shoulders and squeezed as he had done, trying to work some ease into the muscle fibers. As she worked at him, his smooth skin slid over ropes of tension, but that was the only thing that seemed to be accomplished.

He groaned. “That feels amazing.”

“I don’t think I’m doing anything.”

His hands briefly covered her own. “You are. More than you know.”

Selena continued the massage and thought of her own past. “As I said, I didn’t have a proper mother and father. I was raised with and by my sisters. I was needed to further the traditions, but I cannot say I was ever wanted by anyone. Claimed, as it were. So, in a way, I can imagine how you feel—bred but not born, as it were, because born implies you were hoped for, prayed for.”

He leaned his head back and stared up at her. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”

She smiled at him and pushed him back into position.

“If my parents are killed, I feel like I’m going to go to hell,” he muttered.

“But you can’t be culpable in this, because you never consented.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You were promised when you were incapable of giving consent—indeed, it sounds as though they never even asked you. Therefore, your failure to perform, and any consequences thereto? They are your parents’ to claim, not yours. This is about you and yet has nothing to do with you.”

“God…”

When he didn’t finish, she frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be presumptuous.”

“You’re not. You’re … perfect.”

“Hardly.”

“I want to do something for you.”