The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(160)

With Shadows, you always had to set limits. Especially a Shadow like this one.

“Wait, are they yours?” the male asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, shit, why didn’t you just say?” s’Ex put out his palm. “My vow. Nothing permanent and no lunch.”

What a relief, Trez thought as he clasped that hand and gave it a hard shake. “But I’m giving them to you for however long you want them. And the apartment, too, of course. When you want something fresh? You know where to find me.”

As the executioner smiled and went to walk off, Trez snagged a hold on the male’s arm. “One more thing—those are humans. As far as they know, vampires are fiction—and you need to keep it like that if you want this to continue.”

s’Ex looked bored. “Fine. But it would have been more fun the other way.”

As he stalked out of the room, his heavy footfalls echoed down the corridor, and then there were voices. Followed by a door shutting.

Trez went directly to the bar even though it was only just after noon, and picked up a bottle of Maker’s Mark. He didn’t bother with a glass; straight from the bottle was good enough for him.

As the liquor burned its way down to his gut, his only thought was that he should feel more relief than he did. Then again, he wasn’t quite out of the woods yet.

And he’d taken the virtue of a good female about a half hour ago.

No get-out-of-jail-free card was going to change that.

“Nine lives,” iAm said as he came over and put his hand out.

Trez passed the bourbon over. “Not yet—”

The moan that rippled distantly was female in origin. And so was the one that followed.

“He’s going to do all three of them at once,” iAm muttered.

A quick image of the executioner on his back with one female straddling his hips, another riding his face, all while he fingered a third made Trez take the bottle back and drink hard.

Goddamn, Trez thought, he hoped he could stay ahead of that appetite.





FIFTY-FOUR


Fresh snow began to fall at six, as if it had been waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon before it made its appearance—and by midnight, the storm wasn’t showing any signs of lightening up.

As Xcor stared out his bedroom window, he tracked the thick flakes, thanks to the streetlights that marked the cul-de-sac’s circle in front of the house.

“Are you coming?”

At the sound of Throe’s voice, Xcor looked over his shoulder. His fighter was standing in the doorway, dressed in a proper suit.

His Chosen would be waiting for him, Xcor thought. In this bad weather.

Assuming she showed.

But he couldn’t miss the crowning.

“Yes,” he said gruffly, getting off the chair he’d pulled over to the window.

Gathering up his holsters, he strapped them on his shoulders and his waist and slid in various guns and blades. But as he went to pick up the scythe, Throe shook his head.

“I think you should leave that here, no?”

“She comes with me.”

After Xcor put her on his back, he covered everything up with his leather duster. “Let us proceed.”

As he walked by Throe, he refused to meet the male’s eyes. He knew what he would find if he did and was uninterested in the scrutiny.

Joining the Bastards down below, he was silent as they filed out into the chilly evening and dematerialized from the backyard …

… to the formal grounds of Ichan, son of Enoch’s modern house.

Through the swirling snow, he saw that others had already arrived, members of the Council in formal dress milling around the interior rooms, passing by the glowing windows.

The celebration was warranted, as this was, indeed, a triumph—or it should have been. But all he could think about was the female who was out in a meadow, hopefully bundled against the winter elements, waiting for him. Glancing up to the sky, snow fell into his eyes and he blinked.

How long would she stay there—

“This way,” Throe said, indicating a front entrance that had all the subtlety of a billboard on the side of the highway. “As if one could miss it.”

So many spotlights, all focusing on the colored glass around a red-painted door that had some kind of sun-like symbol in it.

“How garish,” Throe muttered as they started across the snow. “Unfortunately, the inside is worse.”

Xcor, on the contrary, didn’t have an opinion about the decor. And he was unimpressed by all the uniformed staff who opened the way in and passed around little pieces of food on silver trays and took drink orders.

No, he was in a field far away, under a maple tree, waiting for a female to arrive so he could give her his coat against the flurries.

He was not here—

“May I take your coat?” a doggen asked at his elbow.

Shifting his eyes over, the butler stepped back. “No.”

“As you wish, sire.” The bow that he gave was so low, the doggen nearly touched the glossy floor. “But of course—”

At that moment, Ichan approached with all the flourish of a bandleader. Indeed, he was wearing a satin smoking jacket that was red as blood and a pair of loafer-shoes that bore his initials in gold thread. Quite a dandy, at least in his own mind.