The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(138)

“You know not what you say,” he heard himself mutter.

“I do.”

“You are with young.”

“I…” Even with his lids down, he could picture her swallowing hard. “Does that mean you do not want me?”

He took a moment to breathe, his lungs burning. “No,” he groaned. “It does not.”

Indeed, as he imagined her with another, the lance of pain that went through his chest was sufficient to make him pale. And yet, in spite of the seed of another planted within her body, he would take her, have her, keep her …

Except for one thing.

Opening his eyes, he reviewed all manner of detail about her, from her beautiful upswept hair to her fine, delicate features to that slender neck he wanted under his mouth. There was more to see, of course—but it was her face most of all that he needed foremost in his mind’s eye.

It had been a kind of madness since the beginning with her—e’er since he had been brought to her under the maple in that meadow, e’er since he had been given her wrist and taken from her wellspring, he had been infected with an illness.

“Answer me one thing.” His eyes continued to roam, measuring each nuance of her frightened, frozen expression.

“What?” she prompted when he did not immediately speak.

“But for the events that have transpired, would you have e’er offered yourself unto me?”

She dropped her stare. Tightened her arms about her heart. Hung her head.

“Answer me,” he said gently. “Speak the truth so that we both may hear it aloud.”

“But what is done is done, and—”

He reached out and tilted her chin back up with the softest of touches. “Say it. You must hear your own truth—and I promise you I have taken harder arrows than it.”

Tears welled in her eyes, rendering them luminous, like moonlight upon the surface of a lake. “No. I would not.”

He felt his body sway, surely as if it had been struck. But as promised, he stayed standing through the agony. “Then my answer to you is no. Even if there was a way to undo all this with your King—and there is not—I will never take you against your will.”

“But I choose this. It is my choice.”

Xcor shook his head. “Only through the prompting of something else.”

He took a step back. “You should get back to…” He looked around at the mist, still totally lost. “Where’er ’tis you go.”

“You want me.” Now her voice was steady and sure. “I can sense it.”

“Of course I do. But not as a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. My fantasy … is not that.”

“Does the reasoning matter?”

“Some gifts are more painful than insults.” He went to turn away from her, and found himself immobile. “Especially when there is naught to be done about your Wrath. He has been replaced.”

“If you removed one rightful King, you can remove another. You can put Wrath back.”

“You give me too much credit.”

“Please.”

Her steadfastness angered him, even though it was a virtue, he supposed. “Why does it matter so much to you. Your life shall not change. You shall be safe here—or where’er. The Brotherhood is not dismantled—”

“They will come for you.”

“Then we will kill them. I am hoping they shall see the benefits of bowing out gracefully.”

Indeed, he couldn’t believe he was saying that. But to not disturb her, he would let them and Wrath live—provided they did not get in his way.

Layla shook her head. “Their loyalty will not allow that.” Her hands lifted to her cheeks and pressed in as if she were imagining the horror. “There will be war anew. Because of you.”

“Then hate me. ’Twill be better for the both of us if you do.”

She stared at him for the longest time. “I fear I cannot do that.”

Xcor did his best to ignore the way his heart skipped. “I shall take my leave.”

“How did you find this place?”

“I followed you home not long ago. You were in the car, returning from the clinic. I was worried over you.”

“And why … did you come tonight?”

“I must go.”

“Don’t.”

For a moment, he played out a dream whereby she said that and meant it for him personally. And not just in the hopes of persuading him over to her position.

That folly did not last. Especially as he pictured himself terrorizing that wounded human man in the deserted restaurant, for no other reason than that he could—and then remembered removing the spines of all those lessers and delivering them unto which member of the aristocracy? As if the recipient was even significant. After which he recalled decapitating slayers. Stabbing them in the gut. Breaking off their limbs …

There were so many acts of violence in his background.

As well as the depravity of what he’d been through in the Bloodletter’s war camp.

On top of which was his face.

He meant to just start walking down the incline. Unlike her, he could not dematerialize—he had tried repeatedly to expedite the ascent thusly and failed in this fog.

Yes, he meant to leave her behind. For all the reasons he’d spelled out to her and also those he kept to himself.