J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [339]
“And your answer is.”
“Yeah, I would do it again.”
“Would you now.”
“Yes.” Qhuinn looked around at the pale blue walls and thought it didn’t seem right to be talking about such ugliness in a room that was so fricking lovely. “Guess that makes me an unrepentant murderer, huh . . . so what are you going to do to me? Oh, and you probably know this already, but my family has disowned me.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”
There was a long silence, and Qhuinn passed the time looking at his New Rocks and feeling his heart skip in his chest.
“John wants you to stay here.”
Qhuinn’s eyes shot to the king. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Shit. You can’t approve that. No way can I stay here.” Black eyebrows crashed down. “Excuse me?”
“Er . . . sorry.” Qhuinn clammed up, reminding himself that the Brother was king, which meant he could do whatever the fuck he wanted, including but not limited to renaming the sun and the moon, declaring that people had to salute him with their thumbs up their asses . . . and taking roadkill like Qhuinn under his roof if he were so inclined.
King was spelled c-a-r-t-e b-l-a-n-c-h-e in the vampire world.
Plus, why the fuck say no to something that would help him? Duh.
Wrath stood up, and Qhuinn had to fight not to take a step back even though they were separated by about twenty-five feet of Aubusson.
Jesus, the male towered, though.
“I spoke to Lash’s father about an hour ago,” Wrath said. “Your family has indicated to him that they’re not going to pay the restitution. As they’ve disowned you, they say that you owe the money. Five million.”
“Five million?”
“Lash was abducted by the lessers last night. No one thinks he’s coming back. You’re up for proximal murder, as the assumption is that the slayers wouldn’t have bothered snatching a dead body.”
“Whoa . . .” God, Lash . . . and, shit, that was a lot of green. “Look, I got the clothes on my back and a spare set in my duffel. They’re welcome to the shit if they want it—”
“Lash’s father is aware of your financial situation. In light of it, he wants you to become an indentured servant in their household.”
The blood rushed out of Qhuinn’s head. A slave . . . for the rest of his life? For Lash’s parents?
“This would,” Wrath tacked on, “be after you went to prison, of course. And actually, the race still has one in operation. Up north of the Canadian border.”
Qhuinn just stood there, utterly numb. Man, your life could end in so many different ways, he thought. Death wasn’t the only way out of it.
“What do you say about all this?” Wrath murmured.
Prison . . . in God only knew where for God only knew how long. Slavery . . . in a household that would forever hate him until he kicked it.
Qhuinn thought of that walk through the tunnel at Blay’s and the decision he had come to on the far side.
“I have mismatched eyes,” he whispered, lifting his fucked-up stare to the king. “But I have honor. I’ll do whatever has to be done to make it right . . . provided,” he said with sudden strength, “that no one makes me apologize. That . . . I can’t do that. What Lash did was beyond wrong. It was intentionally cruel and done to ruin John’s life. I. Am. Not. Sorry.”
Wrath came around the desk and strode across the room. As he passed by, he said briskly, “Right answer, son. Wait out there with your boy. I’ll be with you in a few.”
"Excuse . . . What?”
The king opened the door and impatiently nodded. “Out. There.”
Qhuinn stumbled from the room.
How’d it go? John signed as he jumped up from a chair that was against the hall wall.