The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(61)

There was a low curse, as if the brother were collecting himself. “Sorry, when it hits in a rush like that, it’s hard to stop.”

“That’s cool.” Even though it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Because the problem with Vishous’s premonitions—aside from the fact that they were always about people dying? No timeline. That stuff could be about Wrath keeling over next week. Next year. Seven hundred centuries from now.

If Beth died … he wouldn’t want to live—

“All I can say is”—V exhaled again—“I see that the future is in your hands.”

Well, at least that was generic and obvious, like an astrology report in a magazine—the kind of thing anybody could read into and feel as though it applied to them.

“Do me a favor, V.”

“What.”

“Don’t see anything else about me.”

“Not up to me, true?”

Too right. Just like his own future.

But the good news was … he wasn’t going to have to worry about Beth’s needing. Thanks to this miserable little visit, he was going to be able to take care of her when it came.

Without running the risk of pregnancy.





SEVENTEEN


THE YEAR 1664


“Leelan?”

When there was no answer, Wrath, son of Wrath, knocked again upon his chamber door. “Leelan, may I enter?”

As King, he waited for no one, and there was not a body who permitted him to do aught.

Except for his precious mate.

And as with this eve, when there were festival gatherings, she desired to pretty herself in privacy, allowing him access only when she had prepared herself for his viewing and adoration. It was utterly charming—as was the manner in which their mated space was scented because of her oils and lotions. As was the way, even a year after their union, that she still ducked her eyes and smiled secretly when he wooed her. As was waking up every dusk with her against him and then fading off to rest at the dawn beside her warm, beautiful body.

But there was a different edge to it all now.

When was the waiting going to be over … and not about gaining entrance unto their room.

“Enter, my love,” came through the stout oak panels.

Wrath’s heart jumped. Turning the heavy latch, he shouldered the planks open … and there she was. His beloved.

Anha was across the room, by the hearth that was large enough for a grown male to stand in. Seated at her dressing table, which he’d had moved by the fire for to ensure warmth, her back was to him, her long black hair lying in thick coils down her shoulders to her waist.

Wrath breathed in deep, her scent more important than the oxygen that filled his lungs. “Oh, you look lovely.”

“You have nae seen me properly—”

Wrath frowned at the tightness in her voice. “What ails you?”

His shellan turned about to face him. “Naught. Why do you ask?”

She was lying. Her smile was a faded version of its normal radiance, her skin too pale, her eyes dragging down at their corners.

As he strode across the fur rugs, fear gripped him. How many nights since her needing had come and gone? Fourteen? Twenty-one?

In spite of the risk to her, they truly prayed for a conception—and not simply for an heir, but as a son or daughter to love and nurture.

Wrath sank to his knees before his leelan, and indeed he was reminded of the very first time he had done as such. He had been right to mate this female, and righter still to place his heart and soul within her gently cupped hands.

She alone he could trust.

“Anha, be of truth to me.” He reached up and touched her face—and immediately retracted his hand. “You are cold!”

“I am not.” She batted him away, putting her brush down and getting to her feet. “I am dressed in this red velvet you prefer. How can I possibly be cold?”

For a moment, he nearly forgot his concerns. She was such a vision in the deep, rich color, the gold thread upon her bodice catching the firelight just as all her rubies did: Indeed, she was wearing the full set of jewelry tonight, the stones glinting at her ears, her neck, her wrists, her hands.

And yet, as resplendent as she was, something was not proper.

“Do rise, my hellren,” she commanded. “And let us proceed down unto the festivities. All and sundry are awaiting you.”

“They may tarry longer.” He had no intention of budging. “Anha, speak unto me. What is wrong?”

“You worry over much.”

“Have you bled?” he asked tightly. Which would mean that a young was not within her.

She put a slender hand over her belly. “No. And I feel … perfectly well. Honestly.”

Wrath narrowed his eyes. There was, of course, another issue that could be upon her heart. “Has anyone been cruel?”

“Never.”

In that, she was lying for certain. “Anha, do you think there is aught that escapes my knowledge? I am well aware of what transpires about court.”

“Do not concern yourself with those half-wits. I do not.”

He loved her for her resilience. But her bravery was unnecessary—if only he could find out who was tormenting her, he would take care of it. “I believe I should readdress the gossips.”