The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(80)

“Hey, big guy, yup, we’re both still here…” Stroking the retriever’s broad chest, he buried his nose into that fur and let the scent of good, clean dog work some aromatherapy on him. “Where’s Mom? Do you know where she is?”

Dumb f*cking question. She was not here, and it was his own damn fault.

“Shit, George.”

That big tail was banging against his ribs, and that muzzle was snuffling, and those ears were flapping around. And it was good, it was normal—but it didn’t go nearly far enough.

“Wonder what time it is?”

Goddamn … he’d lost it at John and V but good, hadn’t he. And that hadn’t been the half of it. He had some vague memory of trashing the billiards room, flipping all kinds of shit, fighting with anyone who got too close—then it had been nap time. He was pretty sure someone had drugged him, and he couldn’t say he blamed whoever had done it. Short of a tranq-induced lights-out, he didn’t know when he would have stopped.

And he hadn’t wanted to hurt any of his brothers or the staff. Or the house.

“Shit.”

Seemed like that was the extent of his vocabulary.

Man, he should have let Vishous take him in here and tell him what was going on. But at least there were only two places his mate would go. One was Marissa’s Safe Place, and the other was Darius’s old house. And no doubt that was what John had been trying to tell him.

Fuck, he thought. This was not him and Beth. This was not where they were supposed to end up.

Matter of fact, things had always felt like fate with her; from the timing of when she’d come into his life to the completion that she brought to him, everything had always seemed like destiny. They’d had arguments, sure. He was a hotheaded * and she didn’t take any of his shit. Duh.

But never this separation. Ever.

“Come on, bud. We need some privacy.”

George hopped off and let Wrath push himself up from the floor. After reshutting the doors, he embarked on a game of find-the-phone. Talk about your emasculations. Hands thrust forward, torso bent, feet shuffling, he bumped into things and felt them up to figure out whether it was a love seat, an armchair, a side table …

The desk seemed like the last f*cking thing he ran into, and he discovered where the phone was when his man hand knocked the receiver off its cradle. Putting the thing up to his ear, he finger-tipped around until he located the buttons and then had to recock the dial tone before he could start dialing.

Picturing the ten digits with the pound sign and the star key at the base of the set-of-twelve arrangement, he punched in a seven-number sequence and waited.

“Safe Place, good afternoon.”

He closed his eyes. He’d hoped it was closer to dark because then he could go looking for her. “Hey, is Beth there?”

“No, I’m sorry, she’s not. May I take a message?” As he closed his eyes, the female said, “Hello? Is anybody there?”

“No message.”

“May I tell her who’s calling if she comes in later?”

He briefly wondered what the receptionist would do if he told her who it was. “I’ll find her elsewhere. Thanks.”

As he hung up, he felt George’s big head nudge his thigh. So typical of the dog—wanting to help.

Wrath kept his finger on the toggle, pushing down. He didn’t know if he was ready for another dial tone. If she didn’t pick up at the next number? He was going to have no f*cking clue where she was. And the idea that he might have to go to Vishous or John for that kind of information was too shameful to bear.

As he punched in a different sequence, he thought to himself …

I can’t believe this is us. This just isn’t … us.





TWENTY-FOUR


Turning her head on her pillow, Sola stared at the door of the hospital room she’d been given. She wasn’t looking at it, though.

Instead, flashes of the abduction kept playing in front of her eyes, blocking everything out: Her arriving home and getting hit on the head. The car ride. The flare. The chase through the snow. Then the prison cell and that guard who’d come down to—

The knock made her jump. And it was funny; she knew who it was. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Assail eased the door open, and put only his head in, as if he were afraid of overwhelming her. “You wake.”

She pulled the blankets up higher on her chest. “Never slept.”

“No?” Pushing the door wider, he came in with a tray of food. “I had hoped … well, mayhap you would care for victuals?”

Sola tilted her head. “You have the most old-fashioned way of talking.”

“English is not my first language.” He put the tray down on a rolling table and brought it over. “It is not my second, either.”

“Probably the reason I love to listen to you.”

He froze as he heard her words—and yeah, maybe if she hadn’t been hopped up on pain meds, she wouldn’t have admitted such a thing. But what the hell.

Abruptly, he looked at her, an intense light in his eyes making them appear even more shimmery than usual. “I am glad my voice pleases you,” he said roughly.

Sola focused on the food as she began to feel warm inside for the first time since … everything. “Thanks for making the effort, but I’m not hungry.”