The Chosen

Just as well. He was already an expert in fuck-onomics. There was nothing that even their most creative use of the f-word could teach him about cursing anyone out.

Besides, considering he was the noun in all those sentences? Who needed that right now. He was doing plenty of rounds of self-immolation in his brain already, thank you very much.

Dropping his head, he closed his eyes. Not a great idea. His side was killing him, and with no distractions, the pain took on Jolly Green Giant proportions. He must have broken something in there. Maybe ruptured a liver or a kidney or a …

As a wave of nausea inflated his stomach, he popped his lids and looked in the opposite direction from the zoo of condemnation. Talk about trashing the place. The mangled gurney, the broken medical equipment, all the shattered jars and greasy black hearts on the stone floor … it was like a hurricane had come through the cave.

Second place he’d trashed. If you counted shooting up Layla’s bedroom.

Although this mess, he regretted.

The other one? Yeah, he was sorry about that, too—but he wasn’t stepping off from his hard line on her and his kids.

With a groan, he stretched one leg out and then the other. There was blood on his leathers. On his shitkickers. On the knuckles of both of his hands. He was probably going to need medical attention, but he didn’t want it—

An abrupt silence got his attention and he glanced back at the gates. Oh great. Fan-fucking-tastic.

The King was right in front of those iron bars, looking like hell’s fury standing upright in shitkickers. And apparently, he wanted a one-on-one on the close-up: Vishous had stepped up and was putting the key into the lock on the far side, the tumbler making a clanking noise as it gave up the goods and allowed the gates to be opened.

Wrath was the only one who entered, and then the pair of them were locked in together. Was it to keep the other brothers from attacking Qhuinn? Or to prevent him from running away from whatever the King had planned?

Choices, choices.

As Wrath came forward and then stopped, Qhuinn ducked his stare even though the male was blind. “Is this where you fire me from the Brotherhood?”

Damn those were some big-ass shitkickers, he thought dimly. From his nearly eye-to-boot vantage point, they seemed the size of a pair of Subarus.

“I’m getting really fucking tired of meeting you like this,” Wrath snapped.

“Makes two of us.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

“Not particularly.”

“Let me rephrase that, motherfucker. You’re going to tell me what happened or I’ma keep you locked in here until you starve down to your bones.”

“You know, fad diets never work long term.”

“They do if you take a lead supplement with ’em.”

Qhuinn eyed the gun holstered under Wrath’s immense left arm. Even though the King had no usable peepers, it was a good goddamn bet that he could put a bullet wherever he wanted to just by hearing alone.

“Tell you what,” Wrath said. “I’ll help you out. You can skip explaining why you thought it was a good idea to come down here and attack a prisoner of mine without permission. I can do that math just fucking fine. Why don’t you tell me how he managed to lock you inside here.”

Qhuinn rubbed his face, but not for long. The motion made his stomach roll even more—hey, he had a headache, too. Maybe it was a concussion?

#BOGO

He cleared his throat. “When Phury left, he gave me the key to lock myself in with Xcor. And I did.”

Which was the new protocol. Back when Xcor had first been taken into custody, whoever was on guard duty had been locked in from the outside. Over time, however, they had changed that procedure out of practical considerations, what with all the different coverage shifts and medical checkups and drug dispensing. And yeah, maybe they’d gotten lax after a month of the bastard just lying there on the gurney like a bad piece of modern art.

“And?” Wrath growled.

“I was distracted. So I forgot to take the fucking key out of the lock.”

“You were … distracted. By what? Plans to trash all of this?” As the King motioned around at the ruined jars like he could see them, it was clear that the stench of lesser had reached his nose. Plus, hello, the peanut gallery was bitching about the mess. “What the fuck, Qhuinn. Seriously, have you lost your fucking mind?”

“Yeah, I think I have.” Short trip. Hah-hah. “Or was that so rhetorical you don’t need an answer? Hey, why don’t we stop talking about Xcor so you can tell me what you’re going to do with that female of his, Layla.”

Talk about wanting to throw up.

In the silence that followed, Wrath crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps swelling up so thick he made The Rock look like The Pencil Neck. “Right now, it’s not her parental rights I’m thinking about cutting off.”

Qhuinn glanced up sharply and then had to cough his gag reflex back in place as his head thundered. “Wait, what? She commits treason by aiding and abetting an enemy of ours—”

“And you just let an asset of the Brotherhood’s go free because you lost your damn mind. So let’s drop the treason shit, shall we. It’s only going to get your balls squeezed tighter, trust me.”

It was kind of hard to argue with the facts, Qhuinn thought. Good thing his emotions didn’t give a shit about logic.

“Just tell me you’re getting her out of the house,” he demanded. “And that my young are staying with me. That’s all I care about.”

For a split second, Qhuinn thought about Xcor talking nonsense just before the bastard had limped off. Spouting shit about Layla. Love. Not wanting a piece of Wrath anymore.

Yeah, like he was going to believe any of that.

The King glared from behind his wraparounds. “What I do or do not do is none of your goddamn business.”

Hold up. Was there even a possibility that—

“Are you serious!” Qhuinn made a move to get up, but that was a nogo. Yet even as he grunted and retched off to one side, he kept talking through the nausea. “She’s forfeited her rights! She fed the enemy!”

“If he’s such an enemy, why did Xcor leave the key behind?”

“What?”

Wrath jabbed his forefinger in the direction of the gate. “Xcor locked you in, but put the key down. Why did he do that?”

“I don’t fucking know!”

“Yeah, and we can’t ask him that now, can we,” Wrath snapped.

Qhuinn shook his head. “He’s still our enemy. He’s always going to be our fucking enemy. I don’t give a shit what he says.”

Wrath’s jet-black brows dropped below the rims of his wraparounds again. “So what did he tell you?”

“Nothing. He didn’t say shit.” Qhuinn bared his fangs. “And don’t worry, I’ll get him back. I’ll hunt that fucker down and—”

“The hell you will. I’m suspending you from active duty effective immediately.”

“What!” Now Qhuinn got up, even though he felt like he was going to pea-soup-Exorcist all over the King. “That’s bullshit!”

“You’re off the fucking rails, and I’m not having it. Now be a good little sociopath and shut the fuck up while you get taken in for medical treatment.”

In a rush of nuclear anger, that white-hot rage resurfaced, shorting out Qhuinn’s brain again—and as his consciousness took a backseat to all his hellfire, he was dimly aware of his mouth moving like he was yelling at the King. But he didn’t have a clue what he was saying.

“You know what?” Wrath cut in with a bored tone. “We’re done here, you and I.”

That was the last thing Qhuinn heard.

The last thing he saw? The King’s massive fist flying in the direction of his jaw.

Talk about fireworks, and then it was lights out, no one left at the inn for him, his legs falling from under him, his weight bowling-pin’ing it to the cave floor.

His final thought before he passed out mid-drop?

Two concussions back-to-back were going to do wonders for his mental health. Yup, just the kind of shit he needed at this point.