The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(194)

Trez opened his mouth to say no. “Yeah, I do.”

Ha, he thought. Yeah, right.

After their happy little convo, Selena had not come down to the Brotherhood house again, and he sure as hell hadn’t gone up to the great camp.

He could still remember exactly what she’d looked like as she’d stared at him. Eventually he’d gotten up and left her room—after the silence had stretched waaaaay out. Yeah, sure, he could have pressed her for some kind of closure or something. But the bottom line was, whether or not he had to go back to the s’Hisbe, he’d still contaminated himself.

What he had to offer her or anybody else wasn’t worth the breath to apologize with.

“Ohhhh, that’s big gossip,” the whore said. “Can I tell the other girls.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

She all but danced out of his office.

As the door reclosed, he went back to staring at it. On its flat plane, all he could see was Selena, sure as if she’d died and her ghost had come to haunt him.

For a moment, he was actually crazy enough to wish there was some unfinished business between them that he could use as an excuse to see her. Then again, the reality was, he could come at her in a thousand different ways … and all he had to offer was himself.

Not good enough yesterday. Today. Or tomorrow—

Deep inside of him, a shift began. At first he just recognized it as an errant thought. But then, as that thought resonated, he realized it went much, much further than that.

As he looked into the future, he saw nothing of substance in his life except his brother. iAm was it, the extent of any value he had in this world. And abruptly, the idea of turning himself over to the queen and her daughter, becoming a sexual slave imprisoned in the walls of the palace, used only for his cock and his ejaculate … didn’t seem like anything very different from the way he had been living his life.

He’d been f*cking things regularly and it hadn’t mattered.

It wasn’t like any of those women had meant a goddamn thing.

Why would the queen’s daughter be any different?

Well, shit … the only thing that wouldn’t be the same? His brother would be free to live his life.

Liberated.

And that would be the one truly honorable thing Trez could do.

Sitting back in his chair, he realized … not a bad way to end things.

Sola left her condo even though it was the middle of the night. She just couldn’t stand the confines anymore, and the terrace wasn’t doing it for her wanderlust.

Heading down the concrete steps, she went past the glowing pool to the pathway that cut through the bushes. On the far side, the beach stretched out a mile in both directions, the strong, warm wind hitting her in the face.

She picked right for no particular reason and put her hands in the pockets of her light jacket, feeling for her phone.

It had remained silent.

And as she looked out over the dark ocean and listened to the waves on the shore, she knew it wasn’t going to ring.

Oh, sure, she’d get calls from her grandmother. Maybe the phone company. Maybe the repair shop for her new beater of a car.

But not from the 518 area code.

Stopping, she watched the moonlight that streamed from behind her touch the tops of the restless sea. Even though it made her queasy, she deliberately put herself back in the trunk of that car, feeling the cold and the vibration, the fear of knowing that whatever was coming next was going to hurt. A lot.

Holding all that tightly to her chest, she reminded herself yet again why the phone staying quiet was a good thing—

At first, she wasn’t sure exactly what the tip-off was.

Not a smell, no; the wind was coming at her. And it wasn’t the sight of anything—as she searched the landscape behind her, seeing scruffy bushes, another condo development, some kind of a lawn, a pool … there was nothing that moved. No sound, either.

“Assail?” she breathed into the wind.

She walked toward the bushes. Then jogged.

But when she got close to them? He wasn’t there.

“Assail!” she called out. “I know you’re here!”

Her voice didn’t carry far because of the wind. Backtracking, she jogged closer to home. “Assail?”

Her heart was thumping in her chest, a treacherous hope vibrating through her until she felt like she was floating over the sand.

That optimism was like gasoline in a tank, however. The longer there was no reply, the lower the level got, until she slowed … stopped.

“Assail …?”

She looked all around, praying to see him even though it was the last thing she needed.

But the black-haired man she was searching for did not answer her call … and eventually that sense that she was being watched went away.

As if the wind had taken it.

As if it had never existed.

On the way back to her place, she let the tears fall one by one without bothering to wipe them off. It was dark out. There was no one to see them.

And nothing to hide from.

She was … on her own.





SEVENTY


And so it went, the weeks and months passing, seasons changing from the bitter cold of winter to the wet, bracing winds of spring to the sweet-scented nights that promised an early summer.

By May, Wrath was used to measuring the time not by the calendar, or the up-and-down of the shutters of the mansion, or the meals at his own home.