The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(2)

The Brotherhood stopped in front of him, and for the first time, he was not in awe of their deadly auras. No. As his fangs elongated into his mouth, he found his upper lip lifting in a snarl.

He even took a step forward, prepared to rip the males asunder so he could get at what they were shielding from him.

The adviser cleared his throat as if seeking to remind the assembled of his import. “Our lord, this female is being offered by her bloodline for your consideration for birthing purposes. Should you desire to inspect—”

“Leave us,” Wrath snapped. “At once.”

The shocked silence that followed was easily ignored on his part.

The adviser dropped his voice. “My lord, if you shall permit me to finish the presentation—”

Wrath’s body moved on its own, pivoting itself around until he could match stares with the male. “Get. Out.”

Behind him, a chuckle rose from the Brotherhood, as if they rather enjoyed the dandy getting put in his place by their ruler. The adviser, however, was not amused. And Wrath did not care.

There was also no more conversation to be had: the courtier had much power, but he was not King.

The males in gray shuffled out of the room, bowing, and then he was left with the Brothers. At once, they stepped aside and …

Revealed within their heft was a slender form draped in black robing from head to foot. In comparison to the warriors, the intended was slight of stature, narrower of bone, shorter of height—and yet hers was the presence that rocked him.

“My lord,” one of the Brothers said with respect, “this is Anha.”

With that simple and more apt introduction, the fighters disappeared, shutting him in alone with the female.

Wrath’s body took over again, prowling his chaotic senses around her, stalking her even as she did not move. Dearest Virgin Scribe, he had meant for none of this, not his reaction to her presence nor the need coiling in his loins nor the aggression that had sprung to the fore.

But most of all, he had never thought—

Mine.

’Twas as a lightning bolt out of the night sky, changing his landscape, carving a gashing vulnerability in his chest. And yet even with that, he thought, Yes, this was right. His father’s former adviser indeed had his best interests at heart. This female was what he needed to carry him through the loneliness: Even without seeing her face, she made him feel the strength within his sex, her smaller, daintier form filling him out in his skin, the urge to protect giving him a priority and a focus he had been sorely lacking.

“Anha,” he breathed as he stopped in front of her. “Speak unto me.”

There was a long silence. And then her voice, soft and sweet, but quavering, entered his ears. Closing his eyes, he swayed on his feet, the sound echoing throughout his blood and bones, lovelier than anything he had e’er heard.

Except then he frowned as he had no idea what she had spoken. “Whate’er did you say?”

For a moment, the words that came from beneath the cover of the veil made no sense. But then the definitions of the syllables were verified by his brain:

“Would you wish to see another?”

Wrath frowned in confusion. Why would he—

“You have removed naught from my form,” he heard her answer as if he had voiced his inquiry.

At once, he realized she was trembling, her robing transmitting the movement—and indeed, there was a heavy undertow of fear in her scent.

His arousal had clouded any further awareness of her, but that required rectification.

Collecting the throne, he brought the vast, carved chair across the room, his need to provide comforts unto her giving him superior strength. “Sit.”

She all but fell into the oxblood leather seat—and as her draped hands clawed onto the armrests, he imagined her knuckles going white as she held on for dearest life.

Wrath sank down onto his knees before her. Staring up, his only thought, aside from that of his intention to possess her, was that he would never see her frightened.

Ever.

Beneath the layers of weighty robing, Anha was suffocating in the heat. Or mayhap it was terror that choked her throat.

She did not wish for this destiny of hers. Had not sought it. Would give it to any of the young females who had, over the years, envied her: From the moment of her birth, she had been promised to the son of the King as the first mate—and because of that supposed honor, she had been reared by others, cloistered away, hidden from all contact. Raised in solitary confinement, she knew not the nurture of a mother or protection of a father—she had been adrift in a sea of supplicating strangers, handled as a precious object, not a living thing.

And now, at the culminating event, at the moment she had been bred and avowed for … all those years of preparation appeared to be for naught.

The King was not happy: He had thrown all and sundry out of whatever room they were in. He had not removed a single drape from her, as was his due if he wished to accept her in some fashion. Instead, he was stalking around, his aggression charging the air.

She had likely angered him further with her temerity. One was not supposed to offer suggestions to the King—

“Sit.”

Anha followed the command by letting her weak knees fall out from beneath her body. She expected to meet the cold, hard floor, but there was a cushioned chair of some great mass to catch her.

Creaking floorboards informed her he was circling her again, his footfalls heavy, his presence so great she could sense the size of him even though she could see nothing. Heart pounding, sweat breaking out down her neck and between her breasts, she waited for his next move—and feared it would be violent. By law, he could do anything he wanted with her. He could slaughter her or toss her to the Brotherhood for their use. He could undress her, take her virginity, and then reject her—leaving her ruined.