The King

THIRTY-NINE

There was an advantage to living alone and being disowned by your remaining parent: When you didn’t come home for an entire day, no one was gnashing their teeth over your possible demise.

Certainly cut down on the phone calls, Saxton thought as he sat across from the double doors of Wrath’s study.

Rearranging himself on the ornate bench, he looked over the gold-leaf banister. Silence. Not even doggen cleaning. Then again, something was up in the house, something big—he could feel it in the air, and although he didn’t have a lot of experience with females, he knew what it was.

Somebody was in their needing.

It wasn’t the Chosen Layla again, of course. But he had heard that one female going into her time could spur others along, and clearly that had happened.

God, he hoped it wasn’t Beth, he thought as he rubbed his tired eyes.

Things needed to be sorted before she—

“Do you know where he is?”

Saxton looked over the banister again. Rehvenge, the leahdyre of the Council, had managed to get halfway up the grand staircase without his presence even registering.

And apparently, something else was definitely up: As always, the male cut an imposing figure with his mink coat and his red cane, but his nasty expression put him into downright deadly territory.

Saxton lifted a shoulder to shrug. “I’m waiting for him myself.”

Rehv stomped onto the second story and paced over to the study’s doorway as if to see for himself that no one was in there. Then he frowned, pivoted on the heel of his LV loafer, and looked up at the ceiling—while discreetly rearranging himself in his pants.

At which point, he blanched. “Is it Beth?”

No reason to define what the “it” was. “I think so.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” The leahdyre sat down on the opposite bench and it was then that Saxton noticed the long, thin cardboard tube he was carrying. “This just keeps getting worse.”

“They did it,” Saxton whispered. “Didn’t they.”

Rehv’s head whipped around and amethyst eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

Do you hate me?

Yes, I do.

Saxton looked away. “I tried to warn the King. But … he was going to take care of his shellan.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I went to my father’s house for a command performance. And when I was there, I figured out the whole thing.” He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his photos, showing them to Rehv. “I snuck these. They’re books of the Old Laws, all open to references of heirs and blood. Like I said, I’d hoped to get to him last night.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Rehv swept his hand over his cropped Mohawk. “They had all the wheels in motion already—”

Across the way, by the head of the hall of statues, the door leading up to the top floor opened. What emerged was …

“Holy shit.” Rehv shook his head and muttered, “Now we know what the zombie apocalypse looks like.”

The lurching, heavy-lidded, floppy-limbed nightmare bore only a passing resemblance to the King—the long hair, damp from a shower, still fell from that famous widow’s peak, and the wraparounds were right, and yes, the black muscle shirt and leathers were his uniform. But everything else was all wrong. He had lost so much weight, his pants were hanging loose as flags around his legs, the waistband sitting at his thighs, even the supposedly skintight shirt billowing off his chest. And his face was just as bad. The skin had shrink-wrapped around his high cheekbones and heavy jaw—and his throat … dearest Virgin Scribe, his throat.

His veins on both sides had been taken so often and with such force, he looked like an extra in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

And yet the male was floating on a cloud. The air that preceded him was soft as a summer breeze, his sense of satisfaction and happiness a bubble that surrounded him.

Such a shame to ruin it.

Wrath recognized the pair of them immediately, and as he halted, his head turned from side to side as if he were measuring their faces. Instead, Saxton was sure it was their auras.

“What.”

God, that voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. There was strength behind it, though.

“We gotta talk.” Rehv smacked the tube into his palm like it was a baseball bat. “Now.”

Wrath responded with a vile string of curses. And then gritted out, “Fuck me, can you give me one hour to feed my fucking shellan after her needing?”

“No. We can’t. And we need the Brothers. All of them.” Rehv got to his feet with the help of his cane. “The glymera voted you out, my friend. And we need to drum up a response.”

Wrath didn’t move for the longest time. “On what grounds?”

“Your queen.”

That already pale face turned positively ashen.

“Fritz!” the King bellowed at the top of his lungs.

The butler materialized from the second-floor sitting room, as if he had been waiting to be summoned for hours.

“Yes, sire?”

It was with utter exhaustion that the King muttered, “Beth needs food. Bring her everything she could want. I put her in the bath—you’d better check on her now. She was weak and I don’t want her passing out and drowning.”

Fritz bowed so low, it was a wonder his baggy face didn’t brush the carpet. “Right away. At once.”

As the doggen hurried off, Wrath called after him, “And will you take my dog out? And then bring him into my office.”

“Of course, sire. My pleasure.”

Wrath turned and faced the open doors of his study like he was going to the gallows. “Rehv, call the Brotherhood.”

“Roger that. And Saxton needs to be in on the meeting. Someone’s got to render an opinion on the legalities of all this.”

Wrath didn’t respond. He just went into the pale blue room, a living shadow in the center of all the fussy French furniture.

In that moment, Saxton could see the weight bearing down on the male, feel the heat of the fire that burned at those feet, sense the lose-lose that had presented itself in this bend in the road. Wrath was the bow of the race’s ship, and as such … he was going to hit the glaciers first.

It was so thankless, all of it. The hours that male had spent chained to his father’s desk, the paperwork passing in front of him, a blur of pages that had been prepared by others, presented by Saxton, ruled upon by Wrath, and sent back out into the world.

An endless stream of sucking need.

Getting to his feet, Saxton straightened the clothes he’d been wearing since he’d gone to his father’s house and discovered the truth when it was too late.

Whatever was coming next? He was in Wrath’s corner—and not just because his father and he were estranged.

He knew all too well what it was like to be forced into a mold you didn’t fit—and then demonized for failing convention.

He and Wrath were kindred spirits.

Tragically.

In silence and with a heavy heart, Sola walked through the house she had shared with her grandmother, going from room to room, seeing everything and yet nothing.

“I can hire someone to do this,” Assail said quietly.

Stopping in the kitchen, she stood over the little round table and looked out the window. Even though there were no external lights on, she pictured the back porch, seeing it covered with snow. Seeing him standing there in the cold.

Little frustrating. She had come here with collapsed U-Haul boxes to pack up personal stuff—not reminisce about this man. But as she opened cupboards and made estimates about how much wadded newspaper she was going to need, he was all that was really on her mind: Not the house she was leaving, not the things she was going to have to let go of, not the years that had passed since the autumn day she and her grandmother had come here and decided that yes, this house would do for the two of them.

Lot of time had passed.

And yet the only thing on her mind was the man standing behind her.

“Marisol?”

She looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked where you would like to start?”

“Ah … upstairs, I think.”

Heading out into the living room, she picked up some of the unformed boxes, slipped some rolls of tape on her wrist, and took the stairs up. At the landing, she decided … her room.

It was the work of a moment to set up one of the medium-size boxes, the tape ripping out with a noise like fabric tearing, her teeth helping her scissor strips off, the four sides becoming solid and capable of holding things.

Her grandmother had been doing Sola’s laundry long enough that the woman had known what clothes were favorites and had already brought them over to Assail’s. What was left in the bureau were the second stringers, and she tossed them over without sweating any folding business: yoga pants that had been washed so many times they were dark gray, not black; turtlenecks that had lost their elastic around the throat but were still functional in a pinch; bras that were a little frayed at the cups; fleeces that had pilled up; jeans from high school that she used as a scale to judge her weight.

“Here,” Assail said gently.

“What…” As she looked at his handkerchief, she realized she was crying. “Sorry.”

Before she knew it, she’d sat down on her twin bed. And after blotting at her eyes, she stared at the handkerchief, running the fine fabric back and forth under her fingertips.

“What ails you?” he asked, his knees cracking as he knelt beside her.

Looking over, she studied his face. God, she couldn’t believe she’d ever thought it was harsh. It was … beautiful.

And his extraordinary moonlight-colored eyes were pools of compassion.

But she had a feeling that was going to change.

“I have to leave,” she said roughly.

“This house? Yes, of course. And we shall put it on the market, and you—”

“Caldwell.”

The stillness that came over him was as pronounced as a burst of activity—everything changed, even as he remained in the same position.

“Why.”

She took a deep breath. “I can’t … I can’t just stay with you forever.”

“Of course you can.”

“No, I can’t.” She refocused on his handkerchief. “I’m leaving in the morning and taking my grandmother with me.”

Assail burst up and paced around the cramped room. “But you are safe with me.”

“I can’t be a part of the life you’re living. I just … can’t.”

“My life? What life.”

“I know what’s coming next. With Benloise gone, you’re going to need to get your product somewhere—and you’re going to solve that problem in a way that puts you in charge of not just supplying Caldwell’s many retail customers, but wholesaling the eastern seaboard.”

“You know not what my plans are.”

“I know you, though. Dominance is what you do—and that’s not a bad thing. Unless you’re someone trying to get away from all”—she motioned her hand back and forth—“this.”

“You don’t need to be a part of my work.”

“Not the way it goes and you know it.” She glanced up at him. “Might be true if you’re a lawyer, but you’re not.”

“Yet you consider leaving me a better option?”

Funny, a part of her perked up that he was talking like they were a couple. But reality stomped that little wink of sunshine out. “You think you’ll start another career?”

The silence that followed answered that one the way she thought it would.

His voice was annoyed. “I fail to understand the abrupt turnaround.”

“I was kidnapped from my home, held against my will, and nearly raped.” As he recoiled as if she’d slapped him, she cursed. “It’s just … it’s about time I go legit and stay that way. I have enough money so that I won’t have to work right away, and I have another place.”

“Where.”

She ducked her eyes. “Not here.”

“You’re not even going to tell me where you’re going.”

“I think you’d come after me. And I’m too weak right now to say no.”

A sudden scent spiked in the air and she looked around, thinking of those cologne inserts that came in magazines. But nothing had changed—it was just the two of them alone in the house, no Glade PlugIns in sight.

He came across the cheap carpet and loomed over her. “I do not wish you to go.”

“Maybe it makes me demented, but I’m glad.” She brought his handkerchief up to her mouth and rubbed it back and forth over her lips. “I don’t want to be alone in feeling like this.”

“I can keep you separate from the business. You won’t have to know anything about the operations, distribution, cash positions.”

“Except that for however long I’m your girlfriend, or whatever, I’m a target. And if my grandmother lives with you, too, she’s a target. Benloise has family—not here in the States, but in South America. Sooner or later his body is going to show up, or his absence is going to be noted, and maybe they don’t find you out. But maybe they do.”

“Do you think I cannot protect you?” he demanded haughtily.

“I thought I could take care of myself. And that house of yours? I’ve checked it out, as you know, and it’s a fortress, I’ll give you that. But things happen. People get inside. People get … hurt.”

“I do not want you to go.”

She lifted her eyes back to his, and knew that she was never, ever going to forget the way he looked standing in the center of her little bedroom, hands on his hips, frown on his face, an air of confusion surrounding him.

As if he were so very used to getting his way in all aspects of life that he couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said with a cracked voice. “Every day, every night.”

But she needed to be smart. The attraction had been there from the very beginning—and him coming to save her had added another dimension to all that, an emotional connection forged in the kiln of her terror and pain. The problem? None of that was the basis for a solid relationship.

Hell, she’d met him while spying on him for a drug importer. He’d hunted her for trespassing. They’d both tracked the other through the night—until she’d watched him having sex with another woman for godsakes. Then came her near-tragedy and some mind-blowing sex that had been a double-edged sword in her recovery.

Sola cleared her throat. “I just need to get out. And as much as this hurts … that’s what I’m going to do.”