The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(79)

“Tell me not that you have no explanation,” Wrath hissed.

“Would you prefer I mislead you? Her heart is sluggish, her pallor is gray, her breathing is shallow and intermittent. There could be some internal difficulty that I cannae measure that she is succumbing to. I do not know.”

Wrath shifted his eyes back to his mate. He had never been one to feel fear o’ermuch. Now terror slipped into his skin, possessing him as an evil spirit would, taking him o’er.

“My lord, I would tell you to feed her. Now and for as often as she may take the proceeds of your vein. Mayhap the charge of energy that comes with it with turn this about … certainly, if she has any hope, it is you. And if she rouses, I shall give her fresh water only, no ale. Nothing that will cause a further depression of her systems—”

“Get out.”

“My lord, she is—”

“Leave us—now!”

Wrath was aware of the male stumbling to the door. And well the healer might—a murderous rage was risen in the chest of his King and liable to be directed upon any bodily form within reach.

As the door was shut once more, Wrath approached the bedding platform. “My love,” he said desperately. “Anha, my love, rise unto my voice.”

Back on his knees.

Wrath fell back upon his knees at the floor by her head. Stroking her hair upon her shoulder and down upon her arm, he was of care not to put any weight into his touch.

Measuring her breathing, he tried to will her into deeper breaths. He wanted to return to the night before, when they had awoken together and he had looked into her eyes and watched them sparkle with life. For truth, it twisted his mind to think he could remember with such specificity everything about that moment, that hour, that night, the smells of the meal they ate, and the conversations they had about the future, and the audiences they went down to take in at court.

He felt as though the clarity of the remembrances should have been a door that he could go through and thereby take her hand, and smell her scent, and feel the lightness in the heart that came with health and well-being … and pull her back to the present in that state.

But that was only fantasy, of course.

Unsheathing his ceremonial dagger, he brought the flashing, polished blade up. When his heavy sleeve with its jewels and settings of precious gold got in the way, he tore his fine coat from his torso, pitching it behind him. As it landed with a scraping sound, all those meticulously affixed gems scratching at the hard oak, he slashed the knife edge across his wrist.

Lo, he wished it was his throat.

“Anha, verily, sit up for me. Lift your head, my love.”

Propping her upon his free forearm, he brought the wellspring of his blood to her lips. “Anha, partake from me … partake for me…”

Her lips fell open, but it was not her sweet acquiescence that rendered it such. Nay, it was only the angle of her head.

“Anha, drink … come back unto me.”

As red drops fell into her mouth, he prayed that they somehow proceeded down the back of her throat, and thusly into her veins, reviving her by their purity.

This was not their destiny, he thought. They were to be together for centuries, not parted but a year after meeting. This was not … them.

“Drink, my love…”

He kept his wrist in place until the blood threatened to pool out from her lips. “Anha?”

Dropping his head down onto the back of her cold hand, he prayed for a miracle. And the longer he stayed there, the more he joined her in a state that was but one heartbeat away from death.

If she passed, he was going to go with her. One way or the other …

Dearest Virgin Scribe, this was not them.

Wrath didn’t wake up so much as surface from sleep like a buoy floating up from the depths to bounce on a choppy surface.

He was in the pitch dark of his blindness, naturally—and as always, he threw out his arm to the opposite side of the bed—

Crash!

Wrath lifted his head and frowned. Patting around with his hand, he encountered things that felt like books, a coaster, an ashtray.

Firewood burning.

He was not in his room. And Beth was not with him.

Flipping over, he jacked upright, heart skipping in his chest, the arrhythmia making him light-headed. “Beth?”

In the basement of his brain, he recognized that he was in the library downstairs in the Brotherhood mansion, but his thoughts were like worms in wet soil, twisting around incessantly, going nowhere.

“Beth …?”

A distant whimper.

“George?”

Louder whimper.

Wrath rubbed his face. Wondered where his wraparounds were. Thought, yeah, he was on that couch in the library, the one in front of the fireplace.

“Oh … f*ck me…” he groaned as he tried to get vertical.

Standing up was flat-out awesome. Head swimming, stomach clenched like a fist, he had to grip the arm of the couch or he was going to timber all over the place.

Lurching through dead space, he didn’t make it to the doors so much as run into them, the hard panels punching back at his chest. Flubbering around for the handles, he popped the latches and—

George exploded into the room, the golden running around in circles, the sneezes suggesting he was smiling.

“Hey, hey…”

Wrath meant to make it back to the sofa, because he didn’t want all the functional eyes in the house seeing him like this—but his body had different ideas. And as he went down on his ass, George took the opportunity to jump right in there, getting throw-blanket close.