The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #13)(10)

“The tie that binds me is not to him.”

“So who owns your leash.”

“My Queen.”

There was a long, low whistle. “In what way?”

Funny that he’d spent so much time with the Brotherhood and never told them anything about the anvil over his head. Then again, for so long all he’d done was try to pretend it wasn’t there himself.

“I’m supposed to service the heir to the throne.”

“When did this happen?”

“Birth. Mine, that is.”

V frowned. “The Queen know where you are?”

“Yeah.”

“You should have disclosed this to us before you moved in. Not saying we wouldn’t have harbored you, but your people can be very particular about who they associate with. We got enough problems without a diplomatic issue with the s’Hisbe.”

“There may be an extenuating circumstance, though.” As his phone started to vibrate in his shirt pocket, he reached in and shut it off without looking at who the call was from. “I’ve been in neutral. With the possibility of either a head-on collision with a semi or a swerve that could save me.”

“Selena know any of this?”

“She knows some of it.”

The Brother inclined his head. “Well, it’s your story to tell—at least with respect to the Chosen. As it impacts Wrath and our throne, though? All bets are off.”

“Any night. I’ll know any night—the Queen’s due to give birth literally any moment.”

“I keep nothing from my King.”

Trez felt his phone go off again and he silenced it a second time. “Just tell him the dice are still rolling. We don’t know what we got. Maybe the star chart will not match mine—and then I’ll be free.”

“Will pass that on.”

There was a period of silence, and then Trez started to squirm. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

When there was no answer, he got to his feet, and brushed off his ass. And still those diamond eyes stared at him. “Hello? V—what the f*ck.”

“You’re running out of time,” the Brother said in a low voice. “On two fronts.”

Trez’s phone went off again, but he wouldn’t have answered the damn thing even if he’d wanted to. “What are you talking about.”

“There are two females. And in both cases, you’re running out of time.”

“I don’t know what the f*ck you’re—”

“Yeah, you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

No, because there was only one ticking time bomb in his life, thank God. “Is Rhage going to wake up, or does he need a crash cart?”

“This is not about him.”

“Well, it ain’t about me either. Seriously, does he require medical help?”

“No. And that is not what we’re talking about.”

“Wrong pronoun, buddy. I’m not in this conversation.”

Besides, who knew, maybe if the s’Hisbe shit went his way, he could work on the situation with Selena. After all, if he wasn’t the Anointed One, he was free to be …

Shit, unless he gave up his work here, he’d still be a pimp. In recovery from his sex addiction. Who was going to need therapy to get over bad-destiny PTSD.

Yeah, wow. Bachelor of the year over here.

And hell, it wasn’t like Selena seemed to miss him—and he didn’t blame her. His past with all those human women, even though he’d stopped with the whoring as soon as he’d kissed her, was nothing romantic. It was downright disgusting.

The months of celibacy hardly made up for his efforts to deliberately stain his physical body— “I’m having a vision of you.” V rubbed his eyes.

“Look, unless you need me, I’ma—”

“For you, the statue will waltz.”

As Trez’s phone went off again, he found that the heebs had overtaken every square inch of his body. “With all due respect, I have no clue what you’re talking about. Take care of that Brother for however long you need to, no one’s going to disturb you here.”

“Be present. Even when you think it will kill you.”

“No offense, V, but I’m not hearing this. Later.”





FIVE


In the training center’s medical suite, Luchas, son of Lohstrong, lay on his back in a hospital bed with his torso and head propped up on pillows. His broken body was stretched out before him, rather like a landscape raked by bombs, scars and missing pieces transforming that which had previously functioned normally and well into a hodgepodge of painful, debilitating dysfunction.

His left leg was the biggest problem.

Ever since he had been rescued from that oil drum the lessers had imprisoned him in, he had been in a period of “rehabilitation.”

Odd word for what was really going on for him. The official definition, as he had looked it up on a tablet, was to restore someone or something to its former state of normal functioning.

After so many months of physical and occupational therapy, however, he was confident in concluding that the nightly mental and bodily grind of movements both small and large was getting him no closer to his former self than it was successfully turning back time. The only things he knew for sure were: he was in pain; he still couldn’t walk; and the four walls of this hospital room, that were all he had known since he had been locked in that cramped stasis, were driving him insane.