The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(167)

“I heard he was shot recently,” the foreman said to Rhage. “Is that true?”

“We don’t talk about it.”

The foreman bowed. “Of course. I apologize.”

“Like I said, you’re good, don’t worry. Come on, JM, let’s leave these guys to work.” As John nodded, Rhage tacked on, “Just let us know if you need anything.”

John went to follow the Brother, but then paused in the split between the sheets. The workmen were still staring at where Wrath had stood and talked with them, as if they were replaying everything. As if they’d been witnesses to a historic event.

Stepping out, he wondered if Wrath was aware of the effect he’d had on them.

Probably not.





FIFTY-SEVEN


As Anha sat at her dressing table, she had naught but a lingering tiredness leftover from her episode: With every night that passed, she was feeling more herself, her body rebounding, her mind resharpening.

But everything had changed.

In the first, the Brotherhood had moved into the chamber next door. All twelve of them. And they rotated their service such that the door to her and Wrath’s private space was never unguarded.

And then there was the food. Wrath refused to let her eat anything that he or the Brothers had not personally sampled first—following a wait period of quite some while.

And then there was the worry upon her hellren’s face, every time she caught him unawares.

Speaking of worry, wherever was he?

“Your King shall return very soon.”

She gasped and looked over her shoulder. Tohrture was sitting in the corner, “reading” from a book of sonnets. In truth, she did not think he traced the symbols a’tall. Instead, his eyes were on the blockaded windows, the door, her, the windows, the door, her. On occasion, he broke the rhythm by speaking with one of his Brothers or tasting food that was prepared at her hearth.

“Where has he gone?” she asked once again.

“He shall return soon.” The smile was meant to be reassuring. The shadow in his stare was most certainly not.

Anha narrowed her eyes. “He has not explained any of this.”

“All is well.”

“I do not believe you.”

The Brother just smiled at her in that way of his, giving her nothing to go on.

Anha put down her brush and turned fully about. “He thinks I was poisoned, then. Otherwise, why this protection. The cooking. The concern.”

“All is well.”

Just as she threw up her hands in frustration, the door opened—

She jumped to her feet so fast, her dressing table wobbled, bottles and pots falling over. “Dearest Virgin Scribe! Wrath!”

Jerking up her skirts, she ran barefoot across the oak floor to the horror before her: Suspended between the holds of two Brothers, her mate was bloodied everywhere, his simple shift stained down the front from his split lip and his contused face, his knuckles dripping onto the rug, his head hanging limp as though he could not lift it.

“What have you done to him!” she screamed as the chamber door was shut and locked.

Before she could stop herself, she flailed at the ones who held him, her fists making no impact as they maneuvered him over onto the bedding platform.

“Anha … Anha, arrest…” As they laid Wrath out, his left hand rose. “Anha … arrest.”

She wanted to clasp his palm and cling unto him, but he seemed hurt everywhere. “Who did this to you!”

“I asked them to.”

“What.”

“You heard me properly.”

Sitting back, she found that now she felt like hitting him as well.

Wrath’s voice was so weak, she wondered how he was still conscious. “There is a job that needs doing. By mine own hands.” He flexed them and winced. “No others will suffice.”

Anha glared at her mate—and then did the same to the assembled males, as well as the ones who were newly arriving, clearly coming in after they heard the shouting.

“You shall explain yourselves the now,” she barked. “All of you. Or I shall take my leave of this room.”

“Anha.” Wrath’s voice was garbled and he was having trouble drawing breath. “Be of reason.”

She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Am I packing my things or is one among you going to speak unto me.”

“Anha—”

“Speak or I pack.”

Wrath exhaled a ragged curse. “There is naught for you to be concerned with—”

“When you come upon our mated chamber looking as though you have been struck by a carriage, it is very much my concern! How dare you exclude me from this!”

Wrath lifted his hand as if to rub his face and then grimaced when the contact was made.

“I believe your nose is broken,” she said flatly.

“Amongst other things.”

“Indeed.”

Wrath finally looked upon her. “I shall ahvenge you. That is all.”

Anha heard herself gasp. And then her knees went weak and she lowered herself back down to the bedding platform. She was not naive, and yet hearing confirmation of that which she had suspected was a shock.

“So ’tis true. I was made to become ill.”