The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(75)

Hardly the all-perfect that nostalgia repainted it as.

“You’re right, Tohr.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “You know, it’s not too late. You can still come back if you leave now.”

“I don’t have to worry about the sun, remember.”

She could practically feel his shudder through her cell phone. “I got nothing to say to that. I really don’t.”

Taking pity on him, she changed the subject by promising to take care of herself and come home at nightfall.

After hanging up, she stretched out on her father’s bed. Staring at the ceiling, she imagined Darius having done the same thing during the day—sometimes with Wrath right across the hall in the other chamber.

Wrath had been a real recluse before meeting her. He’d fought alone, slept alone, and most certainly had nothing to do with the whole throne thing: Until he’d mated her, he’d refused to rule.

She couldn’t count the number of times people had thanked her for bringing him around—like her love was some magic potion that had turned a beast into … well, if not a completely civilized kind of guy, at least someone who was willing to live up to his responsibilities.

Had he really just gone for a snooze?

Then again, when was the last time he’d actually slept through the day? Not since before he’d been shot at.

Just before her eyes fluttered shut, she sat herself up and turned to the security alarm pad that was mounted by her head. Punching the proper code in, she armed things and then got horizontal again.

The eight-digit set of numbers? Her birth date, month, day, and year.

Another example of how, way before she had come into this vampire world, her father had been thinking of her: V might have been the one to install the state-of-the-art equipment and keep it all up-to-date, but Darius had chosen the code years ago.

Reaching over and clicking the light off, she resettled on top of the duvet.

Moments later, she was back at the lamp, turning it on again.

When you were without your husband, perfectly safe was relative.





TWENTY-TWO


Sola couldn’t remember ever being so cold.

Wrapped up in a sleeping bag, with heating vents pile-driving BTUs into her face, she couldn’t stop shivering in the back of the Range Rover.

Then again, there were a half dozen good reasons to be in shock, the kind that started with your head and put your body in a numb deep freeze.

Shifting her position, her thigh let out a scream—reminding her that there was also a physical imperative at work. How much blood had she lost?

“We are almost there.”

Her head turned at the sound of that accented voice. Even though there was almost no light in the SUV, she could picture Assail’s face as if it were spotlit: deeply set eyes the color of moonlight, slashing dark brows, full lips, hard jaw. The widow’s peak and the jet-black hair.

Between one blink and the next, there was blood on the lower half of it … and very sharp teeth.

Or had that been a nightmare? She was having trouble figuring out what was reality.

She opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. “My head … not working right.”

“It’s all okay.” As if on impulse, he reached out to her, but then dropped his hand like he didn’t know what to do.

Sola struggled to swallow, her mouth dry. “More water? Please?”

He moved so fast, it was like he’d been waiting for a chance to do something. And as he cracked another Poland Spring bottle open, she went to push the sleeping bag away to free her hands—and got trapped. The nylon fabric seemed to weigh as much as a coating of asphalt.

“Be still,” he said softly. “Let me serve you.”

“My hands aren’t working.”

“I know.” He brought the open neck to her mouth. “Drink.”

Easier said than done. Her teeth started to chatter. “Sorry,” she mumbled as water went everywhere.

“Ehric, how long,” he snapped.

The Range Rover came to an abrupt stop. “I believe we’re here—or somewhere.”

Sola frowned as she looked over the shoulder of the driver in front of her. The rickety fence in the headlights was the kind of thing you’d see on a cattle farm—that had been deserted. Half of it was hanging at an angle, the old boards and rusted wire more tangle than organized form.

“Where are we going?” she asked hoarsely. “I thought … back home.”

“We’re getting you treated first.” Assail repeated that thing where he reached out a hand and then put it back down before touching her. “You need … you’re wounded and we can’t let your grandmother see you like this.”

“Oh. Right.” Jesus, she’d forgotten she was half-naked, injured, and needed a good, long shower. “Thank you.”

“Surely this cannot be it,” the driver muttered.

Assail glanced out the windshield, and glared—as if things weren’t what he expected, either. “Go up to that box.”

As they approached what appeared to be a wooden birdhouse on a rickety stick, the driver put his window down—

A gruff, disembodied voice spoke out of the thing: “I gotchu. Go through the gates.”

Like magic, the “distressed” gating system split right down the middle, moving apart smoothly and silently.