The King

“Sure. Please.”

After all, Wellsie and Tohr had had their arguments—some of which Beth had heard firsthand back before the beautiful redhead had been taken way too soon. Man, Wellsie had been unafraid to say exactly what she thought to anyone, including her hellren. She was never a hothead without a good reason, of course, but you hadn’t necessarily wanted to cross her if you didn’t have to.

People had respected her.

What did they think of me, Beth wondered.

“Beth?”

Certainly if there was anyone who could help her with Wrath, and keep it on the DL, it was Tohr. In fact, he was the one who usually got sent in when people needed help with their King.

“Beth, what’s going on?”

Opening her mouth, she intended to vent, but there was one problem: The person she needed to talk to was Wrath. Anyone else was just filler.

“Do you still root for the monster?”

There was a pause. And then the Brother laughed in his trademark baritone. “Are you telling me there’s another Godzilla marathon on?”

Beth was glad she was alone. Because she had a feeling the smile she was sporting was sadder than any tears.

She just wanted to go back to when things had been simpler. Easier. Closer.

“Just thinking about the good ol’ days,” she blurted.

Instantly, Tohr’s tone tightened. “Yeah. They were … good.”

Oh, shit. Even though he was in love with and mated to Autumn, it had to hurt to remember his first wife … and the baby she’d been carrying.

“I’m sorry, I—”

He recovered quicker than she did. “Don’t feel bad at all. The past is what it is—good and bad, it’s written and unchanging. And there’s solace to be had in that.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “What do you mean?”

There was a long pause. “The good parts are more luminous because you can trust them. And the bad parts can’t get any more tragic for precisely the same reason. The past is safe because it is indelible.”

Abruptly, she thought again of that first date she and Wrath had had upstairs. As much as hindsight painted it all with a rosy glow, that hadn’t been exactly right, had it.

Come to think of it, he’d been angry when she’d first arrived that night. To the point where halfway through the four courses, she’d considered leaving.

Hardly the all-perfect that nostalgia repainted it as.

“You’re right, Tohr.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “You know, it’s not too late. You can still come back if you leave now.”

“I don’t have to worry about the sun, remember.”

She could practically feel his shudder through her cell phone. “I got nothing to say to that. I really don’t.”

Taking pity on him, she changed the subject by promising to take care of herself and come home at nightfall.

After hanging up, she stretched out on her father’s bed. Staring at the ceiling, she imagined Darius having done the same thing during the day—sometimes with Wrath right across the hall in the other chamber.

Wrath had been a real recluse before meeting her. He’d fought alone, slept alone, and most certainly had nothing to do with the whole throne thing: Until he’d mated her, he’d refused to rule.

She couldn’t count the number of times people had thanked her for bringing him around—like her love was some magic potion that had turned a beast into … well, if not a completely civilized kind of guy, at least someone who was willing to live up to his responsibilities.

Had he really just gone for a snooze?

Then again, when was the last time he’d actually slept through the day? Not since before he’d been shot at.

Just before her eyes fluttered shut, she sat herself up and turned to the security alarm pad that was mounted by her head. Punching the proper code in, she armed things and then got horizontal again.

The eight-digit set of numbers? Her birth date, month, day, and year.

Another example of how, way before she had come into this vampire world, her father had been thinking of her: V might have been the one to install the state-of-the-art equipment and keep it all up-to-date, but Darius had chosen the code years ago.

Reaching over and clicking the light off, she resettled on top of the duvet.

Moments later, she was back at the lamp, turning it on again.

When you were without your husband, perfectly safe was relative.

TWENTY-TWO

Sola couldn’t remember ever being so cold.

Wrapped up in a sleeping bag, with heating vents pile-driving BTUs into her face, she couldn’t stop shivering in the back of the Range Rover.

Then again, there were a half dozen good reasons to be in shock, the kind that started with your head and put your body in a numb deep freeze.

Shifting her position, her thigh let out a scream—reminding her that there was also a physical imperative at work. How much blood had she lost?

“We are almost there.”

Her head turned at the sound of that accented voice. Even though there was almost no light in the SUV, she could picture Assail’s face as if it were spotlit: deeply set eyes the color of moonlight, slashing dark brows, full lips, hard jaw. The widow’s peak and the jet-black hair.

Between one blink and the next, there was blood on the lower half of it … and very sharp teeth.

Or had that been a nightmare? She was having trouble figuring out what was reality.

She opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. “My head … not working right.”

“It’s all okay.” As if on impulse, he reached out to her, but then dropped his hand like he didn’t know what to do.

Sola struggled to swallow, her mouth dry. “More water? Please?”

He moved so fast, it was like he’d been waiting for a chance to do something. And as he cracked another Poland Spring bottle open, she went to push the sleeping bag away to free her hands—and got trapped. The nylon fabric seemed to weigh as much as a coating of asphalt.

“Be still,” he said softly. “Let me serve you.”

“My hands aren’t working.”

“I know.” He brought the open neck to her mouth. “Drink.”

Easier said than done. Her teeth started to chatter. “Sorry,” she mumbled as water went everywhere.

“Ehric, how long,” he snapped.

The Range Rover came to an abrupt stop. “I believe we’re here—or somewhere.”

Sola frowned as she looked over the shoulder of the driver in front of her. The rickety fence in the headlights was the kind of thing you’d see on a cattle farm—that had been deserted. Half of it was hanging at an angle, the old boards and rusted wire more tangle than organized form.

“Where are we going?” she asked hoarsely. “I thought … back home.”

“We’re getting you treated first.” Assail repeated that thing where he reached out a hand and then put it back down before touching her. “You need … you’re wounded and we can’t let your grandmother see you like this.”

“Oh. Right.” Jesus, she’d forgotten she was half-naked, injured, and needed a good, long shower. “Thank you.”

“Surely this cannot be it,” the driver muttered.

Assail glanced out the windshield, and glared—as if things weren’t what he expected, either. “Go up to that box.”

As they approached what appeared to be a wooden birdhouse on a rickety stick, the driver put his window down—

A gruff, disembodied voice spoke out of the thing: “I gotchu. Go through the gates.”

Like magic, the “distressed” gating system split right down the middle, moving apart smoothly and silently.

The road beyond was snow-packed but tended to. And some distance later they came to another barrier. This one was less flimsy, and taller, too, made of chain links that were rusty, and yet seemed solidly affixed to their posts. This time, they didn’t have to stop—the fencing split before them, letting them pass through.

And so it went.

As they progressed, the gating systems became ever newer and more imposing until they came up to something that looked like it belonged in a government installation: Concrete pylons as big as the ones under Caldwell’s bridges anchored a solid metal panel the size of a billboard. And stretching off in either direction? A twenty-foot-tall wall that had barbed wire up top and warnings to trespassers every ten feet.

Kinda Jurassic-parky, Sola thought.

“Impressive,” the driver drawled.

As with the other entries, the way was opened before they could halt at the obvious check-in point, with its keypad, speaker, and monitoring equipment.

“Is this … an army base?” Sola mumbled.

Maybe Assail was an undercover cop—in which case … “Do I need a lawyer?” she demanded.

“For what?” Assail stayed focused on whatever was coming up, staring out the front windshield like he was driving the vehicle.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

His head whipped around, his brows down low. “Whatever are you talking about?”

Sola relaxed back into the seat. If he was lying, he deserved an Oscar. And if he wasn’t—well, maybe this was God’s way of answering her prayer: One sure solution for keeping her out of the life was to throw her into the court system.

The underground tunnel they entered was worthy of a Lincoln or a Holland with its fluorescent lighting and yellow line down the middle, and the descent tilted the Range Rover forward at an aggressive angle.

“Are we in Caldwell?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Assail eased back, and in the now-abundant lighting, she saw him duck his right hand into his parka.

Sola frowned. “Are you … why are you palming a weapon?”

“I trust no one with you other than myself.” He turned to her. “And I made a promise to your grandmother. You shall be returned to her unharmed, and I am a male of my word. At least in this.”

As she met his eyes, she had the oddest sensation settle into her chest. Part of it was fear, and that confused her. With the situation she’d been in, her savior had better be packing a forty and prepared to use it.

The other half of it was … not anything she wanted to look too closely at.

The tunnel terminated in a parking facility that reminded her of the one underneath the Caldwell Arena: shallow ceiling, plenty of spaces, the rising elevation that disappeared around a corner suggesting multiple floors.

“Where are we?” she asked as they pulled up to a closed door.

By way of an answer, the thing was thrown wide and a medical team came out, doctors, nurses, gurney and all.

“Thank the Virgin Scribe,” Assail muttered.

Oh … shit. The white coats weren’t alone—they were accompanied by three huge men: a blond with a face that belonged on the big screen, a military guy with a brush cut and an expression hard as a butcher’s block, and then a truly terrifying backup who had a skull trim and a scar that ran across his cheek and curved into the side of his mouth.

No, this was not the U.S. government.

Not unless there was a covert hard-ass department.

Assail reached for the door. “Stay in the car.”

“Don’t go,” Sola blurted.

He glanced back at her. “Be not afraid. They owe me this.”

Her savior reached out again, and this time he didn’t stop himself. He brushed her jaw so lightly that if she hadn’t seen him do it, she wouldn’t have noticed.

“Stay.”

And then he was gone, the door shutting solidly. Through the tinted glass, she watched as a fourth man came out of the brightly lit hallway. Yeah, that was no accountant over there … With a floor-length fur duster and a cane, he was dressed like an old-school pimp, his cropped Mohawk and sardonic smile fitting the image perfectly.

The man and Assail offered each other their hands at exactly the same moment. And they stayed linked as they exchanged words—

Something was wrong. Assail started to frown; then looked downright pissed. But as the Mohawked man shrugged and seemed unmoved, Assail finally turned over his weapon and was patted down for his others. And only after his men got out and subjected themselves to the same treatment did the pimp nod at the team of doctors and nurses to go over to the vehicle.

As they reached out to open her door, a spike of fear had Sola pull the sleeping bag right to her chin—

The woman who stuck her head into the backseat was handsome, with short blond hair and dark green eyes. “Hi, I’m Doc Jane. I’d like to take a look at you, if you’ll let me.”

Her voice was level. Kind. Calm.

Yet Sola couldn’t move or respond.

At least not until Assail appeared behind the doctor. “It’s okay, Marisol. She’s going to take care of you.”

Sola found herself staring into his eyes for the longest moment. When she was satisfied with what she saw, she whispered, “Okay. Okay…”

And that was when her trembling finally stopped.

Assail was not happy about his empty holsters, but Rehv had made it clear: Either he and his cousins went in unarmed, or the human female was not going to be treated.

It was the only circumstance in which Assail would have consented to be vulnerable and he hated it. But needs must.

“And her name is Marisol,” he heard himself say as the blond, female doctor began to speak in low tones. “Sola.”

From over on the left, he could feel Rehv staring at him, and the Council’s leahdyre wasn’t the only one. The three Brothers on guard duty were too professional to show anything, but he could tell they were wondering why he’d turned up on their doorstep with a human woman. Who was injured. Whom he was willing to give his guns over for.