The King

Marisol, on the other hand, was watching no one. After the emotional reunion with her bloodline, she had closed up, her stare staying on the meal, her voice limited to yeses and nos about condiments and seasonings.

She had retreated to a place he didn’t want her to dwell in.

“Marisol,” he said.

Her head came up. “Yes?”

“Would you like me to show you to your room?” The instant that came out of his mouth, he glanced at the grandmother. “If you will permit me, of course.”

According to the old ways, the senior female would have been Marisol’s ghardian, and though he rarely showed respect to humans, it felt appropriate to pay mindfulness to the woman.

Marisol’s grandmother nodded. “Yes. I have things for her. There.”

Sure enough, there was a rolling suitcase parked by the archway into the great room.

As the grandmother went back to her own food, he could have sworn there was a slight smile on her mouth.

“I am just exhausted.” Marisol got to her feet and picked up her plate. “I feel like I could sleep forever.”

Let us not talk of such, he thought as he, too, stood.

After she kissed her grandmother’s cheek and spoke in her mother tongue, he followed her, putting his dishes in the sink, and then going over to the suitcase. He wanted to put an arm around her. He did not. He did, however, pick up the luggage when she went for it.

“Allow me,” he said.

The ease with which she gave in told him that she was as yet in pain. And assuming the lead, he took her out to the stairs. There were two sets: one that went up to his chamber, another that proceeded down into the basement, where there were five bedrooms.

The grandmother and the cousins were on the lower level.

Glancing over his shoulder, she was silent and grave behind him, her eyes drooping, her shoulders slumped from fatigue that was more than just physical.

“I shall give you my room,” he told her. “In privacy.”

It would not do for him to stay with her. Not with her grandmother in the house.

Even though that was where he wanted to be.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Before he knew what he was doing, he willed the reinforced pocket door out of the way, exposing the highly polished black-and-white marble stairs.

Oh … shit, he thought.

“Motion detectors, huh,” she said, without missing a beat.

“Indeed.”

As she mounted the steps, Assail tried not to notice her body’s movements. It seemed the height of disrespect—especially as she was limping.

But dearest Virgin Scribe, he wanted her like nothing and no one else.

His quarters took up the entire top floor, the octagonal space providing three-hundred-sixty-degree views of the river, the distant urban core of Caldwell, the forested flats to the west. The bed was a circular one with a curving headboard, its platform set directly in the center of the room beneath a mirror ceiling. The “furniture” was all built-in: burled walnut cabinetry served as side tables, bureaus, and the desk area, absolutely none of it getting in the way of the glass walls.

Hitting a switch by the door, he triggered the drapes, which swept forth from their hidden compartments, their flowing lengths billowing as they locked into place.

“For your modesty,” he said. “The bath is through here.”

He reached around a doorjamb and flipped another switch. The color scheme of the bedroom was almond and cream, and it was repeated in the marble floors and walls and counters of the loo. Funny, he had never thought one way or the other about the decor, but now he was glad for the calming tones. Marisol deserved the peace she had earned in her hard-won battles.

As she walked about the bathroom, her fingers drifted over the veins in the marble as if she were trying to ground herself.

Pivoting around, she faced him. “Where are you sleeping?”

Never one to hesitate in stating his position, he nonetheless cleared his throat. “Downstairs. In a guest room.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Isn’t there another bed up here?”

He felt his brows lift. “There is a pullout cot.”

“Can you stay? Please.”

Assail found himself clearing his throat again. “Are you sure that’s proper with your grandmother here?”

“I’ve got the heebs so badly, if I’m alone, I’ll never be able to sleep.”

“Then I shall be pleased to accommodate the request.”

He just had to make sure that was all he did …

“Good. Thank you.” She eyed the Jacuzzi tub beneath its windowsill. “That looks amazing.”

“Allow me to fill it for you.” He went forth and cranked the brass handles, the rushing water crystal clear and soon-to-be hot. “It is very deep.”

Not that he’d tried it out himself.

“There is also a petite cuisine here.” He popped open a hidden door, revealing a squat refrigerator, pint-size microwave, and coffeepot. “And there are victuals in the cupboard above if you get hungry.”

Indeed, he was a master of the obvious, was he not.

Awkward silence.

He shut the little cabinet. “I shall wait downstairs whilst you attend to your—”

Marisol’s breakdown arrived without preamble, the sobs racking her shoulders as she put her head in her hands and tried to hold the noise in.

Assail had no experience comforting females, but he went to her without missing a beat. “Dearest one,” he murmured, as he pulled her against his chest.

“I can’t do this. It’s not working—I can’t—”

“Cannot what? Speak unto me.”

Muffled into his shirt, her reply was clear enough. “I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.” She lifted her head, her eyes luminous from the tears. “It’s what I see every time I blink.”

“Shh…” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not…”

Cupping her face in his hands, he felt both rage and helplessness. “Marisol…”

In lieu of a response, she grasped his wrists, squeezing—and in the tight quiet that followed, he had the sense she was asking something of him.

Dear God, she wanted something from him.

It was in the stillness of her body, the wildness of her stare, that grip upon him.

Assail closed his eyes briefly. Mayhap he was misreading this, but he didn’t think so—although in any event, she could hardly be credited with sound thinking, given all she had been through.

He stepped back. “The tub is almost full,” he said roughly. “I shall go confirm the accommodations of your grandmother, yes? Call upon me if you need aught before I return.”

Indicating the in-house intercom, he hastily made his exit, closing the door behind him. Falling back against it, he wanted to bang his head a number of times, but did not want to alert her to his conflict.

Passing a hand down the front of his slacks, he intended to rearrange his erection into a socially acceptable position—but the instant contact was made, he groaned and knew he needed to take care of things.

He barely made it down into the bathroom off the first floor office. Locking himself in, he braced his hands on the marble of the sink and hung his head.

He lasted three rapid heartbeats.

The belt came undone with the alacrity of fabric falling apart, and the fasteners of his slacks were just as accommodating—and then his cock, his rock-hard, throbbing c*ck exploded out from his hips.

Biting his lower lip, he palmed himself and started stroking, his full weight leaning on that arm he had thrown out, the pleasure intense to the point of pain.

The moan he let out threatened to carry, but there was nothing to be done about that. He was too far down the rabbit hole to stop or even alter the course or his response.

Faster, up and back—until biting his lip wasn’t enough: He had to turn his head into his arm and bite his biceps, his fangs sinking deep into the muscle through his sweater, through his shirt.

The orgasm hit him hard, the peaks sharp as knives going into him, the ejaculations caught in his free palm as he covered himself.

Even at the height of release, he honored his Marisol: He deliberately kept all images from his mind, determined to make this solely a physical act.

When it was done, he was not relieved in the slightest.

And he felt dirty even after he cleaned himself.

THIRTY-TWO

Beth found the medication kit on the sink in the bathroom. After freaking out about the condition of the pool table and everything else, she’d gone upstairs and immediately headed across the bedroom to take a shower—whereupon she’d discovered the black leather clutch on the counter between her sink and Wrath’s.

At first, she thought it was a glasses case for one of Wrath’s pairs of wraparounds, except it was soft, not hard.

And it was as she reached out to pick the thing up that the first wave hit her.

Hot, moist air bloomed all over her body, from the back of her neck to the lengths of her legs, from her face and throat to her belly and down to her feet.

As if she’d already turned on the shower.

Throwing off the sensation, she unzipped the two halves and opened the kit. Not sunglasses, no. Instead, there was a glass vial with a clear liquid in it, and three syringes, all strapped in like they were going for a car ride and wanted to follow the seat-belt laws. The label on the little bottle was facing in, and she twisted things in place to see what it said.

Mor**ine.

She’d never seen anything like this in any of Wrath’s things. And it wasn’t hard to extrapolate that he might have gone to Doc Jane—or hell, even Havers—to get prepared in the event she went into her—

Another blast of heat came over her, and she frowned up at the vent above her head. Maybe Fritz needed to have the HVAC systems looked at—

As her knees gave out without any warning, she barely had time to catch herself on the counter, the kit scattering into Wrath’s sink, her two Chanel perfume bottles knocking over. With the groan of a wounded animal, she tried to haul herself up, but her body didn’t listen to the signals.

It was on its own path.

A tremendous, volcanic power exploded out of her, robbing her of the strength to keep herself off the floor. Slumping down, she curled herself around her core, holding her lower belly, jacking her knees to her chest. The cool marble barely registered as the forest fire under her skin shifted into a driving urge, an overwhelming sexual need that required one and only one thing.

Her mate.

Flipping herself onto her back, she rolled over to her other side, and then onto her belly. Clawing at the slick floor, she rubbed her thighs together, trying to find some relief, some respite from the ache that was taking over everything.

How many hours? She tried to think—how many hours had Layla said this lasted?

Twenty-four? No, longer—

Beth cried out as another blast tore through her body, sweat bursting from her pores, fangs descending into her mouth.

And this was only the beginning, a distant part of her acknowledged. Just the first salvo—it was going to get worse: As time wore on, the hormones were going to render her incapable of anything but respiration.

To think she had volunteered for this?

Madness.

The needing was like a pair of fists torquing her body to the point where she knew she must have broken bones. No, no, this was going to kill her—how could it not? And the need for sex? It wasn’t even about having a child. It was about survival—

Wrath.

Oh, God, he was going to come up here. Whenever he was done talking to Tohr. And he was going to find her on the floor—and then what?

Even through the maelstrom of hormones, she was able to think that through to its conclusion—he was going to be in a horrible position: either service her and live with consequences he hated, or watch her suffer.

Which he would never do.

Her palms squeaked against the slick floor as she pushed her thousand-pound torso up. Climbing the drawer pulls like they were a ladder, she had to take a break at the counter level, her vision swimming, her eyes struggling to focus as her body begged for sex it simply couldn’t have.

Before she succumbed to this entirely, she was going to take care of things on her own.

Her hands were shaking so badly, it took her several tries to capture the kit, but eventually, she got the thing and brought it down to the floor. Time for another breather on the cool marble. But not too long a delay. The waves were coming harder and faster each time.

Fumbling fingers, the glass vial bouncing out of its tether, skittering away.

She was crying as she dragged her body after it, arm out, hand pawing—

“Beth,” a voice said. “Oh, God … Beth.”

A masculine palm came down from out of the sky, reaching for her, searching through thin air for her—and through the morass, she struggled to process the hows and whys—except then her body made the connection for her.

Wrath.

As his shitkickers came into her vision, her hormones blew up, responding to his presence by ratcheting up to a level that was Hell not just on Earth, but under her skin, boiling her blood, making her sex scream for what only he could give her.

But that could never be.

“Go…” she cried out in a cracked voice. “Drug me … or give me the—”

Wrath knelt down with her. “Beth—”

“Give me the drugs! I’ll do it—”

“I can’t let you—”

Pegging him with a hard stare, she didn’t have any energy to fight with him. “Give me the f**king drugs!”

Wrath’s body had begun to respond as he took the stairs up to their quarters—and by the time he made it into the bathroom, he knew exactly what was doing. As well as what the solution was: Every instinct in him was roaring to service his female, to ease her suffering in the only way that mattered.