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Their male had come back to them . . . and was here to stay.

The Brotherhood Dossiers

This Royal Thighness Wrath, Son of Wrath

“Welcome to the wonderful world of jealousy. For the price of admission, you get a splitting headache, a nearly irresistible urge to commit murder, and an inferiority complex. Yippee.”

—DARK LOVER, p. 107

Personal Qs (answered by Wrath):

J.R.’s Interview with Wrath

Here’s the thing about the king. He’ll allow himself to be interviewed, but it’s on his terms. Which is Wrath in a nutshell. He’s all about his terms, but then I guess when you’re the last purebred vampire on the earth and king of your race and . . . well, when you’re as big as he is and have a stare that can cut through glass like a diamond, the world is a place you dictate, not dodge around in.

Did I mention that I’m wearing waders at the moment, and I’m thigh-high in an icy Adirondack stream?

Yeah, the king’s taken up fly-fishing.

On this frosty November night, Wrath and I are standing in the midst of rolling, sluggish water that is cold. I have long underwear on, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t, as he’s not the type to be bothered by a chill. He did, however, make a concession to a set of gigantic waders, which Fritz custom-tailored for a pair of legs that are each about the size of my upper body. I’m to the side of the king; I figured if I were in front or behind I’d be in hook range, and considering I had to pester him for weeks for this audience, I don’t want to risk a trip to an ER for some kind of tackle-ectomy.

On a side note, Wrath looks worn-down. Mind you, he still outranks 99.9 percent of any of the males I’ve ever seen on the Holy Shit Hot Scale, but then, honestly, can you get sexier than a guy with hip-length black hair, a widow’s peak, and wraparound sunglasses? Not to mention the tats on his forearms and those green eyes and his . . .

Listen, I have never measured his backside. Ever. Not once. Or the tremendous width of his shoulders. Or his six-pack.

Oh, don’t look at me like that.

Anyway, where were we? Right, the stream. Fly-fishing.

The king and I are about a half mile from Rehvenge’s safe house in the Adirondack Mountains near Black Snake State Park. Wrath is standing about fifteen feet from me, whisking his right arm back and forth in a gentle rhythm, pulling a gossamer-thin fishing line through the stream, then letting it be taken, through the stream, then letting it be taken. The water sounds like wind chimes as it chatters past smooth brown and gray rocks, and the pine trees on either side of the banks whistle as the wind tickles through their branches. The air is cool and crisp, making me think that I’m glad I have a Macintosh apple in the backpack we brought with us—fall just goes with those tart, juicy little buggers.

Oh, and one last salient point. Wrath has a forty strapped under each arm and throwing stars in his pockets. I can see the forties. He told me about the stars.

J.R.:

Can I be honest with you?

Wrath:

You’d better be. ’Cause I’d smell it if you weren’t.

J.R.:

True enough. Ah . . . I’m surprised you have the patience for this. The fishing, that is.

Wrath:

(shrugging) It’s not a matter of patience. It’s calming. And no, I’m not taking up yoga. That’s Rhage’s deal.

J.R.:

He’s still doing that?

Wrath:

Yeah, he’s still namaste-ing his ass into a million different contortions. Swear that fucker’s retractable.

J.R.:

Speaking of Rhage and Mary, is it true what I heard?

Wrath:

The adoption thing? Yeah. When Nalla came, they both kind of sat up and were like, We want one of those.

J.R.:

How long will it take? And where are they going for the young?

Wrath:

You’ll hear about it when it’s done. But it’s going to be a while.

J.R.:

Well, I’m happy for them. (There’s a stretch of no talking, during which Wrath reels in his line, then casts it out into another part of the stream.) Do you want—

Wrath:

No. I’m still not pushing the children thing. After what Bella went through . . . (Shakes head.) Nope.