The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(169)

Fear had a way of leading to paralysis.

And the undead was right to be terrified.

In a fast series of hacks, Xcor worked his way down the body, striking the blade deep into each shoulder to cut the tendons and incapacitate the torso—and then following through with the backs of the knees.

Sitting back, he watched the writhing and breathed in the stench—as well as the suffering: Being the cause of pain fed his inner beast, a meal consumed by the evil side of him—that just left him hungry for more.

Time to get a bit more invasive. And he decided to cut off the left foot—slowly. With half strength, he hacked once, twice … three times before the blade cut cleanly through. The right foot was just as leisurely a pursuit.

In the midst of his work, his mind retreated to thoughts that were sure to make him even more depraved.

He kept thinking about Wrath’s end run. Tyhm, the lawyer, had made a subsequent assessment of the mating-dissolution document and deemed it legal—but Xcor knew the thing had been predated.

Do not tell him that the King hadn’t signed on that line as soon as that no-confidence parchment had landed upon his desk.

Moving up to below the knee, he resettled into his work, and the rhythm of chops reminded him of the Old Country, when he’d cut wood to take the edge off his frustration.

The question he wanted answered was, how far did that piece of paper go? Had the King in truth turned aside his mate?

It is a love match.

As he heard his Chosen’s voice in his head, a surge of power overtook him—and good timing as he confronted the lesser’s thighs. No more holding back, now: He threw his muscles into his work, whacking through skin and bone, black blood hitting his face, his fangs bared.

The slayer was clawing through the snow to the pavement, fingernails ripping into the asphalt below as the screaming dried up in his throat, shock o’ertaking his breathing and heart rate, rendering him all but inanimate.

But he would not die like this.

Indeed, there was only one way to kill him.

Xcor reduced the lesser to pieces, leaving only the head attached to a block of the torso, pools of that black blood forming under the four compass points of where the limbs had been attached.

When there was nothing else to cut off, Xcor sat back on his haunches and took a breather. It was not so fun now that the slayer was compromised. The suffering was still there, but it was not so obvious.

Yet he didn’t want this work of his to end. Like the addict holding on to a fix that was no longer sufficient for his needs, he nevertheless couldn’t finish things.

As his phone went off, he was determined to ignore it. He didn’t want to hear Ichan’s bitching—that aristocrat had been leaving message after message trying to recoup his almost-there to the throne. And then there was Tyhm, also calling.

Their little cabal had failed, however—and Xcor’s mind had yet to devise the next approach.

Lifting the machete high into the air, he then buried the honed steel blade right into the empty chest—and immediately had to rear back to shield his eyes and face from the brilliant flash of light and burst of heat.

As he was knocked over from the impact, his phone began to ring again.

“Goddamn it.” Jabbing his hand into his duster’s inner pocket, he took out the annoying device. “What.”

There was a pause. And then the sweetest voice he’d e’er heard entered his ear.

“I’m waiting for you.”

Xcor swayed even though he was all but prostrate upon the ground. Closing his eyes, he exhaled. “I am on my way.”

“You did not come earlier when you had said.”

Untrue. As soon as he could break off from the Bastards, he had spirited to the maple—and found his Layla’s footprints in the snow. She must have returned to their meeting place the now, though.

“There were things I could not get out of.” That f*cking meeting. The unrest afterward. “But that is no longer true. Be assured.”

He wanted to stay on the phone with her, except he terminated the connection. Jumping to his feet, he glanced down, and recognized that part of his anger had been from missing the chance to see her—

Abruptly, he cursed. The limbs he had cut into pieces had not been incinerated.

He was not going to clean up after himself tonight, however. Whatever humans found the remains could enjoy something to get worked up over.

Ghosting off to the north, he scattered himself upon the wind … and re-formed at the base of their meadow. Immediately he saw her, standing under that giant tree, her pale robing gleaming in the moonlight.

In a rush, he tried to dematerialize to her, too impatient to surmount the distance by foot. But his mind was too muddled for him to concentrate sufficiently.

Left to cross the distance physically, he began to walk, but soon he was jogging … and then flat-out running.

She was the only goal that mattered in that moment, and as he arrived before her, he was out of breath. Out of his mind.

In love.

Layla brought a hand up to her nose.

As Xcor arrived before her, the smell that swirled around him was vile, so sickly sweet that she choked. And he noted her reaction immediately, hiding his bloodied hands behind his back, stepping away so that she was not downwind of him.

“Forgive me,” he said roughly. “I was in the field.”

As there was nothing that carried the scent of the blood of their kind, she sighed in relief. “Our enemy?”