The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #13)(39)
Just a black button-down. Under which was the mandatory Kevlar vest.
At least they had that.
Thank you, Beth.
Rhage fell into formation with the others and they shielded Wrath with their bodies as they moved forward. The instant they came to the front door, Abalone opened things up as if he had been staring out the windows to the lawn and waiting for their approach.
“My lord. The Brotherhood. Welcome to my home.”
As the First Adviser bowed deeply, Rhage had to approve of the guy. Applebottom, as they called him, was one of the few aristocrats Rhage had ever tripped over who not only had half a brain, but a full heart, under the dandy act.
“If you all will proceed this way?” the guy said, indicating with his hand.
Part of the prearrangement for this was that the meeting would be in the library and one of the windows would be cracked in case Wrath had to ghost out. Throe, who would be waiting in a separate parlor, would be brought in by a Brother, and escorted out by one.
And there were a couple of other provisos.
Once inside the book-lined room, Rhage pulled a quick, but thorough, inspection of the joint, and said, “Let me go get the *.”
“You sure?” V asked.
“I won’t eat him. Yet.”
He cut off any conversation by heading back out to where Abalone was hovering in the foyer, looking like he was stuck in an internal debate over whether to throw up on his shoes or try to make it to a bathroom before he ralphed.
“So where’s your cousin?” Rhage shot the guy a reassuring smile. As if he were just gonna bubble-wrap the bastard and nothing more. “Over there?”
Abalone nodded toward the closed door across the way. “Yes. He is in the male’s parlor.”
Rhage put a hand on the First Adviser’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Applebottom. This is gonna be a piece of cake.”
You had to feel for the poor SOB as he exhaled in relief. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
After another flash of the A-okays, Rhage slipped through the parlor door and closed things up behind himself.
Throe was standing across a paneled room, looking like the distinguished male he once was back in the Old Country—in spite of the fact that his clothes were common.
“Rhage?” the male said, coming forward.
“Yeah.”
Throe had the chance to stick out his hand for a shake—and that was it. Rhage grabbed that wrist, spun him around like a ballerina, and shoved him face-first into the nearest wall.
“What are you—”
“Patting you down, *.” Okay, so maybe “punching” him down was a little more accurate. “Spread ’em.”
“You’re hurting—”
“If I find a weapon, I’m going to use it on you. Clear?”
“Must you be so—”
“Front side.” Rhage jerked the guy back by his waistband, twirled him like a top, and nailed him to the wall facing out. “Nope, head up.”
He clapped a hand on the guy’s chin and pushed that handsome mug high. After giving a surprisingly thick chest a mammogram, Rhage slapped his way down and honked Throe’s junk so hard, the guy sang a high C.
“I beg your pardon!”
“Nothing in there. Not a surprise.”
Down the thighs. The calves. Back up to eye level.
“Here are the rules. If you make any move toward my King, in any fashion, that I don’t like? You’ll be dead before you hit the floor. Do we understand each other?”
“I’ve come here in peace. I’m through with fighting—”
“Do we have an understanding? If you so much as sneeze on him, try to shake his hand, or look twice at his f*cking shitkickers? I’m going to put paid on your toe tag.”
“Are you always so extreme?”
“This is calm, cool, and collected, you little bitch. You don’t want to see me pissed off.”
Rhage shoved the guy toward the door, opened the way out, and locked a hand on the back of Throe’s neck.
“I can walk on my own,” the male drawled.
“Can you? You sure about that?”
Rhage switched his grip around so that he crushed the male’s face in his palm, leading Throe by that collection of eyes, nose, and mouth.
“This working for you better? No? Huh, guess you should have STFU’d.”
As he deliberately kept Throe’s balance off, he enjoyed the Fred Astaire routine as the guy tap-danced past Abalone and entered the library.
“Oh, this is going so well already,” V muttered as he lit up a hand-rolled.
“At least there wasn’t barbecue sauce involved,” the cop tossed back.
“Yet.” V exhaled. “The night is still young.”
Rhage cleared his throat. “My lord and ruler, Wrath, son of Wrath, blooded father of Wrath, I present you with Throe, Piece of Shit.”
On that note, he gave the male a good shove in the direction of the Oriental rug, and what do you know. Ass over teakettle and the motherf*cker was where he belonged.
At the foot of the one true King.
FIFTEEN
“No, I’ve got her, thanks.”
As Trez spoke, he shot a smile at Ehlena because he didn’t want the nurse to be offended as he shooed her away. But the truth was, he was beyond ready to be the one who got Selena out of the exam room. Away from the training center. Off to … somewhere, anywhere else.