The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(70)

The Range Rover piloted directly over to him, taillights flaring as Ehric slowed.

“Here she is, madam,” he said as he opened the rear door.

Marisol was wrapped in that sleeping bag, and her color was better—at least until she looked at him and what little blush she retained in her cheeks immediately disappeared.

As Assail felt confusion, Ehric twisted around, glanced at him—and recoiled. With a quick circle, he indicated his own face.

Oh, shit. Assail must have blood all over his mouth.

“Your grandmother,” he blurted, shoving the phone at Marisol.

Sure enough, that did the trick to redirect his female’s attention—and as she reached out like he was offering her a lifeline, he reshut the door.

Wheeling around, he headed to the public facility behind him at a dead run, located the men’s room portion and entered the lineup of urinals and toilet stalls.

Over at one of the sinks, he looked into the flat panel of stainless steel that served as a mirror.

“Fuck.”

Not what any female wanted to see, especially after she had been subjected to a capture: His face was indeed covered with blood, his jaw and lips marked with the stain—and his fangs … the tips of his fangs showed.

Hopefully the gore of his visage had been what she’d reacted to.

Bending down, he attempted to turn on the water and cup his hands, but the faucets were the kind one had to hold in place to make operational. The process took him too long, filling a single palm and bringing it to his face over and over again. And then there was nothing to dry himself off with.

Sloughing his hand down his features, he assessed his hair, which thanks to Paul Mitchell had retained some semblance of attractiveness—

Was he honestly trying to better his looks in this situation? How ridiculous.

As he strode back to the Range Rover, he knew he was going to have to make a third phone call when his Marisol was done with her grandmother: his female was going to need medical treatment.

Where to go, though? In the Old Country, there had been no physicians of the race available for him and his cousins. Fortunately, however, he and his relations had been able to rely on a human or two who would come after hours and ask no questions.

He did not have such arrangements in the New World.

Accordingly, there was only one person he could contact—and hopefully there would be a solution that was up to his standards.

Marisol deserved the best. And he would settle for nothing less.





TWENTY


Sitting in the back of the Mercedes, John Matthew watched through the windshield as his sister hesitated on the threshold of their father’s house. The mansion’s double-size door was wide-open, and he’d gone inside and turned on the front hall light for her.

Her silhouette cut through the glow that spilled out into the night, the black shape like a shadow thrown.

Jesus … if she had a child, it was going to be the future King or queen. And didn’t that add another facet to the should-we-or-shouldn’t-we stuff.

“May we depart, sire?” Fritz asked from the front.

John whistled an ascending note, then rubbed his face and eased back into the seat. He was f*cking exhausted. The contrast they’d put into his arm had made him feel weird, and then there was the crackling anxiety he’d had inside the MRI while the machine had ping-ponged around him. Open MRI, his ass. Yeah, sure, it was better than being pumped into that jumbo tube and sealed in tight like he was toothpaste, but it was hardly an easy-breather situation.

Oh, plus, you had hanging over your head the happy ax of maybe you hadda two-mah. To quote Arnold.

At least he didn’t have to worry about that, apparently. And screw the anti-seizure drugs. He was going to be fine. He was tight. Yup. Totally …

Shit. What if he had an episode while he was out fighting?

Whatever. He couldn’t worry about that—

With a bing!, his phone announced a text had come through. Palming the thing, he frowned at what Tohr had sent out to everyone: Xtra presence needed at clinic. ETA of visitors, 55 mins. Check in w status, STAT.

John tapped out a quick reply: On way back. Am avail …

He wasn’t sure how to finish things. As soon as they got home, he was going to ask Fritz to pack up the stuff Beth had asked for … and then find Wrath. Talk about your aw-shits. Telling the King that his mate wasn’t coming home for the day was going to be about as much fun as one of his seizures, but someone had to let the guy in on her plans—and evidently it wasn’t going to be Beth.

She’d told him flat out that she wasn’t in a big hurry to talk to her husband.

Or be around him, evidently.

After leaving the medical center, she’d asked Fritz to drive them around for a while before she’d settled, at John’s suggestion, on an all-night Chinese restaurant on Trade—that just happened to be, oh, hey, right down the street from the Iron Mask: It wasn’t like John couldn’t take care of his sister—but it was good to know there was plenty of backup available a little over a block away thanks to his mate and her twelve-ton bouncer squad.

While they’d eaten, Beth been mostly quiet, although she’d had a hearty enough appetite—she’d finished her beef with broccoli and then polished off his KPC along with a half dozen fortune cookies. When they were done, she hadn’t wanted to get back in the car yet so they’d strolled up Trade Street for a while until there was no more time left.