The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(42)

To Shadows, pale skin equated to illness.

But the rules didn’t stop at the doorstep of Homo sapiens. Making love was completely ritualized in the Territory. Sex was scheduled between couples, or halves, as they were known, formal scrolls being exchanged across marbled corridors, consent requested and given through a series of prescribed directives. And when all was agreed upon? The act was not completed during the daylight hours, and never, ever without a bathing ritual first. It was also announced to all and sundry, a special banner hung upon the chamber door, a genteel way of stating that unless the place was on fire or someone had an arterial bleed, there was to be no disturbance until one or both parties emerged at some future time.

The trade-off for all the barriers? When two halves hooked up, it could last for days.

Oh, P.S., no masturbation, either. It was considered a waste of communion.

So, yeah, his people wouldn’t have just frowned on his sex life; they would have handled him only with barbecue tongs while wearing a Hazmat suit and a welding mask: He’d banged women at eleven a.m. and three in the afternoon and waaaay before dinner. He’d taken them in public places and under bridges, in clubs and restaurants, in bathrooms and seedy hotel rooms—and in his office. In only maybe half the cases had he known their names, and from that august group, he could recall maybe one out of ten.

And only because they’d been weird or had reminded him of something else.

As for the pale-skinned thing? He hadn’t discriminated. He’d had all races of humans, some even at the same time. The only sector he hadn’t f*cked or been sucked off by had been males, but that was only because they didn’t appeal to him in the slightest.

If they had, he’d have gone there.

He supposed all was not lost. Shadows did believe in remediation, and he’d heard of cleansing rituals—but there was only so much a guy could do to repair damage.

The irony, of course, was that he’d taken a sick pride in ruining himself to the extent he had. Juvenile, sure, but it had been like he was middle-fingering the tribe and all their ridiculous bullshit—especially the queen’s daughter, who they all thought he should be in a big hurry to nail on a regular basis for the rest of his life.

Even though he’d never met her, wasn’t interested in being a sex toy, and had no intention of volunteering to be locked in a gilded cage.

But it was funny. In spite of everything that he hated about the traditions he’d been born into, he found himself finally kinda seeing a point to them: Here he was, in his post-migraine float, within kissing distance of a female he was dying to worship with his body. And guess what. All that rebellion he’d enjoyed so much was making him feel filthy and totally unworthy.

Not that the actual act would ever occur with Selena—he was a slut, but he wasn’t delusional.

Shit.

With a groan, he let himself fall back against the pillows again. In spite of the Coke and its one-two punch of sugar and caffeine, he was suddenly sucked-under-the-ocean exhausted.

“Forgive me,” the Chosen murmured.

Don’t say you’re going to go, he thought. Even though I don’t deserve you in any way, please don’t leave me— “Do you need to feed?” she asked in a rush.

Trez felt his jaw drop open. Of all the things he’d been prepared to hear … Not. Even. Close.

“Mayhap I’m being too forward,” she said as she lowered her eyes. “It’s just that you seem so very tired … and sometimes that is what helps most.”

Holy … crap.

He couldn’t tell whether he’d won the lottery … or been sentenced to death.

But as his cock twitched with demand, and his blood roared, the decent part of him that he had long buried spoke up in a quiet, persistent way.

No, it said. Not now, not ever.

The question was … who was going to win, the angel or the devil in him?





ELEVEN


Wrath hit the compound’s underground tunnel at a hard pace, his shitkickers beating out a thunderous pounding that echoed all around until he was his own marching band. By his side, George was going at triple time, his collar jingling, his paws clipping over the concrete floor.

The trip from the training center to the mansion took two minutes at least, three to four if you were having a convo and strolling. Not this time: George halted him in front of the secured door a mere thirty seconds after they’d left the office through the back of the supply closet.

Mounting the shallow steps, Wrath felt around for the security pad and entered the code. With a cha-chunk like a bank vault unlatching, the lock disengaged and then they were proceeding through a passageway to the next lock point. Clearing that, they emerged into the cavernous foyer, and the first thing Wrath did was sniff the air.

Lamb, for First Meal. A fire in the library. Vishous smoking a hand-rolled in the billiards room.

Shit. He had to disclose to his brother what had happened with Payne in the gym. Hell, technically he owed the guy a rythe.

But all that could wait.

“Beth,” he said to the dog. “Seek.”

Both he and the animal tested and retested the air.

“Upstairs,” he ordered, at the same time the dog started to walk forward.

As they got to the second-floor landing, her scent became stronger—which confirmed they were headed in the right direction. The bad news? It was coming from over on the left.