The King

The salesman smiled and raised a hand as if he were going to clap his customer on the shoulder—but then caught himself as he clearly rethought the contact.

“What kind of look are you going for?” he asked instead.

“Clothed.”

The guy paused like he wasn’t sure whether that was a joke. “Ah … okay, I can work with non-naked. Plus it’s legal. Come on with me.”

Xcor followed, because he didn’t know what else to do—he’d gotten this ball rolling; there was no reason not to follow through.

The man stopped in front of a display of shirts. “So I’m going to go with the it’s-a-date thing, unless you tell me otherwise. Casual? You didn’t mention a suit.”

“Casual. Yes. But I want to look…” Well, not like himself, at any rate. “Presentable.”

“Then I think what you’re going to want is a button-down.”

“A button-down.”

The guy regarded him steadily. “You’re not from here, are you.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I can tell by the accent.” The salesman passed a hand over the dizzying array of folded-up squares with collars. “These are our traditional cuts. I can tell without measuring you that the European stuff isn’t going to do you right—you’re too muscled in the shoulders. Even if we could get the neck and arm size right, you’d bust out of them. Do you like any of these colors?”

“I don’t know what to like.”

“Here.” The man picked up a blue one that reminded Xcor of the backdrop on his phone. “This is good with your eyes. Not that I go that way—but you gotta work with what you got. Do you have any idea of your size?”

“XXXL.”

“We need to be a little more exact.” The salesman got out a cloth tape measure. “Neck? Arms?”

As if to help the whole cognition thing, the man made a little circle in front of his own throat.

Xcor looked down at himself. He was wearing nothing but the cleanest muscle shirt he had, a pair of military combat pants, and his boots.

“I do not know.”

The man reached out with the tape, but then hesitated. “Tell you what, how ’bout I give this to you—just wrap it around your neck and I’ll read the number.”

Xcor took the thing and did as asked.

“Okay, wow.” The salesman crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, you won’t be wearing a tie, right?”

“Tie?”

“I’ll take that as a no. Will you let me measure your arm?”

Xcor extended his left one and the man moved fast. “That’s almost normal in length at least. Width? You’re talking the Rock territory, easy. But I have an idea.”

A minute and a half of rifling later, Xcor had three different shirts to try on.

“What about slacks?” the salesman asked.

“I do not know my size or preference.” Might as well be efficient. “The same is true about jackets.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say that. Come with me.”

Before he knew it, he was buck na**d in a dressing room, jacking his body into the clothes, his weapons hidden under the pile of things he’d worn walking in.

“How is it?” his new best friend asked on the far side of the door.

Xcor glanced at himself in the mirror and felt his brows rise. He looked … not good, no. That would never be him. But he didn’t appear as stupid as he felt—or as rough as he’d been in his own wardrobe.

Taking off the dark jacket that had been suggested to him, he strapped on his guns and knives and then put the thing back on. It was a little tight in the back, and he couldn’t quite button it—but it was so much better than his bloodstained leather duster. And the pants stretched across his thighs only slightly.

Stepping out, he handed over the two other shirts. “I shall take all this.”

The salesman clapped his hands. “Nice. Big improvement. You need shoes?”

“Mayhap later.”

“We’re having a sale at the end of the month. Come back then.”

Xcor followed him over to the checkout, and took a pair of scissors out of a pen holder to cut the tags that were hanging off his wrist and his waist. “Do you have scent?”

“Oh, you mean cologne?”

“Aye.”

“That’s another department—across the way. I can show you where they are—actually, check this.” He pulled open a drawer. “I have some samples here—yeah, old-school Drakkar. Égoïste—that’s a good one. Polo—the original. Oh, try this.”

Xcor accepted a small vial, popped the lid and breathed in. Fresh, clean … what handsome would smell like if it had a fragrance.

Basically everything he wasn’t.

“I like this one.”

“Calvin Klein Eternity. Very traditional—and the honeys like it.”

Xcor nodded as if he knew what he was talking about. Such a lie.

The salesman rang up everything. “Okay, your total’s five oh one ninety-two.”

Xcor took out the bills he’d shoved in his back pocket. “I have this,” he said, fanning the money out in his open palms.

The salesman’s brows popped. “Yeah, it’s not that much at all.” There was a pause. “Do you … yeah, okay, I need five of those, four of these, and two of the little guys.”

Xcor tried to facilitate the process of the man pulling specific denominations out that—apparently—meant something.

“And here’s your change and receipt. You want a bag for your old stuff?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

A big white bag with a red star was passed over the console. “Thanks for coming in—my name’s Antoine, by the way. If you want to come back for shoes.”

After shoving his former clothes inside, Xcor found himself bowing at the waist. “Your assistance has been much appreciated.”

Antoine raised his palm like he was getting ready to do a clap on the shoulder again. But once more, he caught himself and smiled instead. “Knock her dead, my man.”

“Oh, no.” Xcor shook his head. “That shan’t be necessary. This one I like.”

Layla left the mansion at eleven forty-eight by sneaking out the library’s French doors. No one seemed to notice; then again, Rhage and John Matthew were keeping an eye on the workmen in the billiards room, Wrath was up in his study with Saxton, Beth was at rest, the other Brothers were fighting, and Qhuinn and Blay were enjoying some quiet time on their night-off rotation.

Oh, and the staff were busying cleaning up after a celebratory First Meal.

Not that she was keeping track of everybody in the house.

Nah.

Dematerializing off the back terrace, she traveled to the meadow she was becoming so familiar with and re-formed at the base of the maple tree.

Dressed in her traditional robing, she had an overcoat on to keep warm, in the pocket of which she had put some Mace.

Qhuinn had insisted on teaching her self-defense as well as how to drive. So in case that other male showed up, she was prepared.

Slipping her hand into the coat pocket and palming the squat cylinder, she was careful to walk all the way around the tree. And note carefully the expanse of snow-covered meadow.

She was alone.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, was she really—

Down at the base of the rise, a figure presented itself out of thin air—and as the breeze shifted directions, she caught the scent.

It was him. And … something else? Some kind of fragrance that was at once masculine … and delicious.

Xcor took a long time to approach, his strides even and unhurried as he mounted the hill and came up to her, carrying something under his arm. Her body responded instantly to his presence, her heart racing, her palms sweating, her breath going short.

She told herself it was fear. And overwhelmingly, that was true. But there was something else …

His clothes were different, she realized as he arrived before her. More refined. Attractive.

As if mayhap he had dressed for her?

Trying to relieve the burning in her lungs, she inhaled deeply and frowned. “You smell … different.”

“Bad?”

She shook her head. “No. Not at all. And your clothes … you look very well.”

He made no response and his face gave nothing away—so she could not draw any conclusion.

Silence stretched out. Until she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Well …?”

At least he didn’t pretend to misread her prompting. “I have thought over everything that you have offered me.”

And now her heart beat so loud, she could barely hear his deep voice.

“What say you?” she demanded in a hoarse voice.

“I agree to your terms.”

It was what she had expected. And yet even still, she began to shake uncontrollably.

“In exchange for the use of you, I shall call off all of my efforts with regard to the throne.”

At least there was solace to be had in that, except then she knew she had to live up to her end of the bargain.

“Worry not,” he said gruffly. “It shall not be this eve.”

Her relief came out in a very loud exhale—that made his face darken.

“Your reprieve is not indefinite.” He took what he carried out from under his arm. “You will give me what I want sooner or later.”

With a quick flap, he shook free what proved to be a blanket and laid it flat upon the ground.

Staring down at it, Layla didn’t know what to do.

“Sit,” he commanded. “And put this around you.”

As she complied and was handed another wrap, she wondered what he was going to—

Xcor sat beside her and wrapped his arms around his knees. Staring ahead, his expression was inscrutable.

Taking his cue, she did the same. Even mirroring his pose.

At least she had saved Wrath. And provided her young was safe, she would continue to do whatever she had to for her King.

No matter what it cost.

SIXTY-SEVEN

The following evening, Beth lay back in her mated bed and held an extraordinary piece of cloth in her hands. “This was made by someone?”

“Yeah, the foreman’s shellan.”

Squinting, she tried to imagine how the incredibly fine and even weave could have been done by anything other than a machine. “It’s totally amazing.”

“I told them we’d use it for our son when he’s born.”

With a wince, she tried to ignore the spear of pure terror that shot through her. Wrath, who’d been panicked about the whole birthing thing before they’d conceived, seemed to be forgetting about that part for the moment. Her, on the other hand? More than making up the slack.

“Yes, of course,” she murmured. “I love the color.”

“I just had to do something for the two of them. He’s a good guy. I didn’t expect anything in return…”

As Wrath walked out of the closet, he was dressed in his uniform, and she had to take a second to admire the view. His hair was swinging loose, almost to his tight ass. His magnificent arms were showing every muscle they had, thanks to the wife beater. And those leather pants …

“So I guess she’d worked on that for a year—”

“Are you ever going to have sex with me again? Or do I have to wait five months?”

Stopped. Dead.

But at least she knew her husband was paying attention. “Come on, Wrath. Like I said yesterday, I’m pregnant, not broken.”

“Ah…”

She stared at his hips, watching his arousal take shape, wanting that long, hard erection of his.

“Well, at least I know you want me,” she murmured.

“Don’t ever doubt that.”

“So how ’bout now. Because you look … very fine.” Her eyes did another up-and-down. “Did you get bigger all of a sudden? I mean, is that a baseball bat in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? Come over here and let me sample your goods, big guy.”

He let his head fall back. “Beth…”

“Whaaaaaaat. What’s the problem—look, we gotta talk about this. This abstinence thing is not good for you and me.”

“My son’s in there, okay? And it just—it doesn’t seem … right.”

Beth didn’t mean to laugh, but she couldn’t stop herself. “I’m sorry.” She put her hands up as he frowned like he was pissed. “Honestly, I’m not making fun of you.”

“Oh, really.”

“Come here.” She held her arms out. “And no, I’m not going to seduce you. Scout’s honor.”

He walked over in his bare feet, his black socks hanging from his deft hands. It seemed ludicrous to sit the King of the vampires down and give him a pep talk—especially when he was built the way he was. But she was going to go nuts if she couldn’t have that sexual connection. And so was he.

“I’d like to be with you,” she said, “but only if you’re comfortable with it. It’s not going to hurt the baby—you can call the doctor and ask her yourself. Or talk to Z—he and Bella were together while she was pregnant. She told me so. Talk to whoever you need to, but please rethink where you’re at. Being with you has to have a place in all this.”

As he cracked his knuckles like he was considering things, she stared at the tattoos that ran up his inner forearms.

She tried to imagine a son of hers with a set of those and reached out, turning one of his hands over so she could run her fingertips across the symbols.