The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(190)

Beth nodded and fell into silence.

After a moment, she picked up her husband’s big hand and rubbed her thumb up and over that black diamond of his.

“What are you going to do tonight?” Even though she knew the answer.

“I’m going to hit my desk.”

She smiled. “I love when you say that now.”

“You know … me too.” He shrugged. “It’s funny, I felt really inadequate in that job. You know, when compared to my father, blah, blah, blah. But I was the one who didn’t approve of me, not him. And I don’t know, I’ve kinda let that bullshit go.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah, it’s a good thing.” He frowned. “I just wish there was some way to—I don’t know, I liked helping that foreman. And there are more like him out there—there have to be. I don’t know how to get to them, though. My father used to be all in with that shit, talking to people—real people, not that glymera bullshit—”

Beth sat up in a rush. “I have an idea. I know exactly what to do.”

He glanced over at her—and the slow smile that hit his face was the sexiest thing about him. “You know what?” he said. “I love your mind. I totally do.”

Wrath swung his leg out and around, bringing it in a full circle. And contact was made exactly where he wanted it—high up, and in the face.

Tohrture went with the impact, swinging in a circle, wielding his sword in concert so that the blade flashed right up close to Wrath’s chest. Except it didn’t quite make the distance. No blood was drawn, no clothing cut.

But Wrath knew better than to enjoy the small victory. Flipping backward off his feet, he somersaulted in midair and landed solidly, setting his fighting stance, raising both his daggers—

“Drop both blades,” Ahgony barked.

Without missing a beat, he threw them away, confronting his opponent barehanded.

Tohrture came at him holding nothing back, neither speed nor strength, and Wrath became very still. At the last second, as the Brother’s war cry was sounded out and echoed in the torchlit cave, Wrath flattened to the ground and caught the fighter at the ankles with an explosive lunge.

Tohrture fell forward—and as Wrath had learned, the last thing you wanted was a Brother with a sword in his hands on top of you. Scrambling himself out of the way, he jumped back to his feet. This was critical. Always back to your feet.

Tohrture was the same, upright a moment later, sword held high, eyes level. Both of them were breathing hard, and now, after how many fortnights into training, Wrath wasn’t the only one with bruises.

The sword made a throaty whistle as Tohrture began to twirl it front to back on both sides of his massive upper body.

Wrath wasn’t even aware of the assessments he was making—where the weight of his opponent was apportioned, where those eyes were looking, how the small muscle groups were contracting. But it was all part of his training, things that had once seemed foreign and were becoming second nature—

From out of nowhere, he was attacked from the back, an enormous weight taking him down to the floor. Before he could draw air, he was flipped over and held by the throat as a spiked glove made a fist.

Crack!

The impact stunned him senseless, his arms flopping to the packed-dirt floor.

“Call!” Ahgony yelled out.

Instantly, the weight was off him, Night jumping back out of the way, his face showing concern the now, not aggression.

Wrath forced himself to roll over and brace his upper body off the ground. Struggling to breathe through his bleeding mouth, he let the sanguinary rush clear out onto the dirt flooring with gravity’s aid.

The pain had flared red-hot in his face, and as he waited for it to fade, he remembered back in the beginning of all this—how the sensation of injury had once flustered him, scared him, distracted him. No more of that. Now he knew the pattern of relief: how the numbness would inevitably come, how soon enough his mind would clear and he would be back on his feet.

Drop. Drop. Drop.

His blood was bright red as it formed a widening puddle under his face.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Ahgony announced. “Fine effort, sire.”

Wrath pushed himself up upon his knees so his torso was upright. He knew better than to attempt to stand yet. His skull was too light for that. Wait … wait …

“Here, sire, allow me,” Night said, offering his palm.

“Shall we call for the healer?” someone said.

Wrath closed his eyes and felt his body caving in. But then he pictured his beloved shellan, lying on their bedding platform, her skin the color of clouds.

Standing up on his own, he spit the remaining blood out of his mouth. “Again,” he told the assembled. “We do it … again.”

There was a beat of pause, the torchlight flickering over the other males in the secret training cave.

And then the Brothers bowed unto him in a way he had noticed they had recently started doing—not courtly, no, as it was not when greeting and leaving, as was aristocratic custom.

This was with respect.

“As you wish, my lord,” Ahgony said. Before shouting once again, “Call!”





SIXTY-EIGHT


“Wither goest thou?”

Abalone paused in the process of pulling on his coat. Closing his eyes, he composed his expression before he turned around and faced his daughter.