The Black Dagger Brotherhood_ An Insider's Guide - J. R. Ward [156]
In the foyer below, Vishous, Rhage, and Phury were getting ready to go out, yakking it up while they double-checked their weapons. And off to the side Zsadist was leaning back against a malachite column, one shitkicker crossed over the other. He had a black dagger in his hand, and he was tossing it up into the air and catching it over and over again. On each trip the blade caught the light in flashes of navy blue.
Damn, those daggers V made were fantastic. Sharpened to a razor edge, weighted perfectly, the handle contoured with precision for Z’s grip alone, the weapon was not state-of-the-art, it was a state of grace: a simple configuration of steel that meant survival for the race.
And fuck-you, have-a-nice-trip-back-to-the-Omega for the lessers.
“Rock on,” Rhage said as he went for the door. Heading over the mosaic tiles of the foyer, he moved with his typical swagger and impatience, clearly craving the fight he was damn well going to find, his beast no doubt as ready for some hand-to-hand as he was.
Vishous was right behind him, all cool strides and lethal calm. Phury was likewise collected, his limp not noticeable in the slightest, thanks to the new prosthesis he was using.
In their wake, Zsadist stood from the column and sheathed his dagger. The slide of metal on metal reverberated up to Wrath like a sigh of satisfaction.
Z’s vicious black eyes followed the sound as it lifted. In the light from overhead his scar was very noticeable, that distorted upper lip more pronounced than ever. “’Evening, my lord.”
Wrath nodded down at his brother, thinking that the Lessening Society was facing a demon in the male who stood down there. Even though Bella was in Z’s life, whenever he left to go fighting, his hatred came back. With a nasty aura, the burn weaved through his bones and muscles, becoming indistinguishable from his body, making him as he had always been: a savage capable of anything.
Though, considering what the guy’s shellan had been put through, Wrath didn’t fault him for the killing rage. Not in the slightest.
Z walked to the door and then paused. Over his shoulder he said, “You look tight tonight. And not in a good way.”
“It’ll pass.”
The smile that flashed was a slash of aggression, nothing happy. “I can’t count to ten for very long. Can you?”
Wrath frowned, but the brother was already out the door. Out into the night.
Left by himself, Wrath headed back for his study. He sat down behind the frilly desk, and his hand found the envelope opener, his forefinger running up and down the dull edge. As he looked at the thing, he knew someone could kill with it. Just not with any finesse.
Cranking his fist tight, as if the silver opener actually were a weapon, he pointed the thing out in front of him, leveling it over his paper mountain. As he moved, the tattoos running up his forearm stretched out, his crystal-clean lineage all loud and clear in black ink. Not that he could read the purebred stamp of approval.
Jesus, what the fuck was he doing here ass-rotting on this throne?
How had this happened? His brothers out working the war. Him sitting here with a goddamned letter opener.
“Wrath?”
He looked up. Beth was in the doorway, wearing a pair of old cutoffs and a muscle shirt. Her long dark hair was down past her shoulders, and she smelled like night-blooming roses . . . night-blooming roses and his bonding scent.
As he stared at her, for some reason he thought about the workouts he put himself through in the gym . . . those hard-core, hamster-wheel, full-body masturbations that got him exactly nowhere.
God . . . there were edges you just couldn’t work off on a treadmill. There were things that were missing even if you burned yourself out until the sweat ran as fast as the blood in your veins.
Yeah . . . before you knew it, you lost your edge. You went from being a dagger to a desk ornament. Castrated.
“Wrath? Are you okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’m steady.”
Her dark