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Qhuinn walked through a vestibule that made him feel totally underdressed, what with its black-and-white marble floor and its chandelier—was that made of real gold? Probably—

Holy fuck, he thought as he stopped dead.

The foyer in front of him was palatial. Total Russian royalty, with its brilliant colors and its incredible gold-leafed everything and its mosaic floor and its painted ceiling . . . or, shit, maybe it was more like something out of a Danielle Steel novel, with all its romantic marble columns and arching expanse.

Not that he’d read any of her books.

Well, okay, there had been that one, but he’d been twelve and sick and had focused just on the sex parts.

“Up here,” a deep, echoing voice said.

Qhuinn looked to the top of an ornate staircase. Standing with shitkickers planted like he owned the world, dressed in black leathers and a black T-shirt, was the king.

“Come on, let’s do this,” Wrath commanded.

Swallowing hard, Qhuinn followed John to the second floor.

As they got to the top, Wrath said, “I just want Qhuinn. John, you stay here.”

John started to sign, I want to be his witness—

Wrath turned away. “Nope. There’s going to be none of that.”

Shit, Qhuinn thought. He wasn’t going to be allowed any defense testimony?

I’ll be waiting, John signed.

“Thanks, man.”

Qhuinn stared beyond the open doors the king had gone through. The room before him was . . . well, it looked like the kind of place his mother would have liked: pale blue, with spindly, girly furniture and drippy crystal light fixtures that looked like earrings.

Not exactly what you’d expect Wrath to hang out in.

As the king went in and planted it behind a delicate desk, Qhuinn stepped inside, shut the doors, and linked his hands in front of himself. As he waited, the whole thing struck him as surreal. He could not possibly fathom how his life had come down to this.

“Did you mean to kill Lash?” Wrath asked.

So much for opening statements. “Ah . . .”

“Did you or didn’t you?”

In quick succession Qhuinn reviewed his answers: No, of course not, the knife was acting of its own volition, I was actually trying to stop it. . . . No, I only meant to give him a shave. . . . No, I didn’t realize that slicing open someone’s jugular was going to lead to death. . . .

Qhuinn cleared his throat once. Twice. “Yeah. I did.”

The king crossed his arms over his chest. “If Lash hadn’t gone for John’s pants, would you have done the same thing?”

Qhuinn’s lungs stopped working for a moment. He shouldn’t have been surprised the king knew exactly what had gone down, but shit, hearing the words was kind of shocking. Plus, talking about the whole thing was hard, given what Lash had said and done. It was, after all, John.

“Well?” came the demand over the desk. “If Lash hadn’t gone for his pants, would you have throated him?”

Qhuinn gathered his thoughts. “Look, John told me and Blay to stay out of it, and as long as it was a fair fight I was prepared to let it ride. But . . .” He shook his head. “Nah. That shit Lash pulled wasn’t fair. It was like using a concealed weapon.”

“But you didn’t have to kill him, did you. You could have peeled him off John. Clocked him a couple of times. Rolled him out.”

“True.”

Wrath stretched his arm to the side as if to loosen it, and his shoulder let out a crack. “You’re going to be totally fucking honest with me now. If you lie, I’ll know it, because I’ll smell it.” Wrath’s eyes burned behind his wraparounds. “I’m well aware you hated your cousin. Are you sure you didn’t use deadly force for your own agenda?”

Qhuinn dragged his hand through his hair and remembered all that he could about what had gone down. There were holes in his memory, blanks spaces carved by the tangle of emotions that had had him palming the knife and lunging forward, but he remembered enough.

“To be honest . . . shit, I couldn’t let John get hurt and humiliated like that. See, he froze. When Lash went for his pants, he froze. The two of them were in the shower and John was up against the tile and all of a sudden he went dead still. I don’t know