J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [700]
God knew what the symphaths had been doing to Rehv up there in the colony. If he was still breathing, chances were good he was hanging by a thread.
“She should go,” Wrath said. “It might be all that gets him out alive.”
Tohr cleared his throat. “I don’t think—”
“That’s an order.”
There was a long, disapproving pause. Which was broken only when Wrath raised his right hand and flashed the massive black diamond that had been worn by every king of the race.
“Okay. Fine.” Tohr cleared his throat. “Z, I want you guarding her.”
“Roger that.”
“Please…” Bella said roughly. “Bring my brother home. Bring him back where he belongs.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, Ehlena vowed, “We will. One way or the other.”
No clarification was needed for that. The female meant alive or dead, and everyone, including Rehvenge’s sister, knew it.
Wrath said some things in the Old Language, things that he could remember hearing his father speak to the Brotherhood. Wrath’s voice had a different tone to it, though. His father hadn’t minded staying home to be on the throne.
It ate Wrath alive.
After some good-byeing, the Brothers and the females left on a chorus of boots hitting the mosaic floor.
The vestibule’s door shut.
Beth took his free hand. “How you doing?”
By the tightness of her voice, she knew exactly how he was, but he didn’t begrudge her the question. She was concerned and worried, just as he would have been in her position, and sometimes the only thing you could do was ask.
“I’ve been better.” He pulled her against him, and as she fit her body to his, George pressed his head in for a stroke.
Even with both of them, Wrath was lonely.
It seemed to him, as he stood in the grand foyer whose depths and colors and wonder he could no longer see, that he had ended up in the very place he hadn’t wanted to ever find himself: Going out to fight even though he was king had not been just about the war and the species. It had been for himself, too. He’d wanted to be more than a paper-pushing aristocrat.
Evidently, however, fate was bound and determined to shove him in that peg hole of a throne one way or the other.
He squeezed Beth’s hand, then released it and gave the command to move forward to George. When he and the dog got to the vestibule, he opened the way through the various doors until they stepped free of the house.
Facing the courtyard, Wrath stood in the cold wind, his hair getting swept out and away from his head. Breathing in, he smelled snow, but felt nothing on his cheeks. Just the promise of a storm, apparently.
George settled into a sit as Wrath searched the sky he could not behold. If it was going to snow, was it cloudy yet? Or were the stars still out? What phase was the moon in?
The yearning in his chest made him strain his dead eyes in an attempt to pull out shapes or forms from the world. It used to work…gave him a headache, but it used to work.
Now he just got the headache.
From behind him, Beth said, “Do you want me to get you a coat?”
He smiled a little and looked over his shoulder, imagining her standing in the mansion’s great portal, the glow of the lights from inside framing her.
“You know,” he said, “this is why I love you so much.”
Her tone was heartbreakingly warm. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t ask me to go inside because it’s cold. You just want to make it easier for me to be where I want to stand.” He shifted around to face her. “To be honest, I ask myself why the hell you stay with me. After all the shit…” He motioned around at the facade of the mansion. “The constant interruptions of the Brotherhood, the fighting, the kingship. My being an asshole about keeping things from you.” He briefly touched his wraparounds. “The blindness…I swear, you’re going for sainthood.”
As she came over, the night-blooming rose of her scent grew