Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (112 page)

After all, far be it from her to forget her manners.

Sitting behind his desk, with his leather-clad ass cozied in the throne his father had had made

centuries and centuries ago, Wrath, son of Wrath, was running his forefinger up and down the smooth silver blade of a dagger-shaped envelope opener. Beside him on the floor, a faint snoring rose from George’s muzzle.

The dog slept only during rare moments of downtime.

If someone knocked or entered, or if Wrath himself moved in any way, that big head rose, and that

heavy collar jingled. The instanta-lert also came if somebody walked by in the hall, or ran a vacuum cleaner anywhere, or opened the vestibule door down in the foyer. Or set a meal out. Or sneezed in

the library.

After the head raise, there was a sliding scale of response from nothing (dining room activity,

vacuum, sneeze) to a chuff (downstairs door opening, walk-by) to an at-attention sit-up (knock, entry).

The dog never was aggressive, but rather served as a motion detector, leaving the decision about

what to do to his owner.

Such a gentleman the guide dog was.

And yet, although a tame nature was as much a part of the animal as his soft, long fur and his big, rangy body, Wrath had seen glimmers from time to time of the beast inside the lovely disposition:

When you were around a bunch of highly aggressive, heavy-nutted fighters like the Brotherhood,

heads got hot from time to time—even toward the king. And the shit didn’t bother Wrath—he’d been

with the motherfuckers too long to get riled at a little chest pumping or sac grabbing.

George, however, didn’t like that. If any of them got into meathead territory toward their king, the hackles on that gentle dog would rise and he would growl in warning as he pressed his body close to Wrath’s leg—like he was prepared to show the Brothers just how long real fangs were in the event

things got physical.

The only thing Wrath loved more in his life was his queen.

Reaching down, he stroked the dog’s flank; then refocused on the feel of his finger on the letter

opener.

Jesus Christ. Airplanes falling out of the sky…Brothers getting injured…Qhuinn saving the day

again…

At least the night hadn’t been all drama of the heart-attack variety. In fact, they’d started out on a good note with the proof that they needed to move on the Band of Bastards: V had done his ballistics testing, and gee-fucking-whiz, the bullet that had come out of Wrath’s neck had started its journey in a rifle found at Xcor’s lair.

Wrath smiled to himself, his fangs tingling at the tips.

Those traitors were now officially on the hit list, with the full backing of the law—and it was

time do to a little flushing.

At that moment, George let out a chuff—and the insistent knock that followed suggested Wrath

might have missed the first bang on his door. “Yeah.”

He knew who it was before the Brotherhood even entered: V and the cop. Rhage. Tohr. Phury.

And at last, Z. Who, going by the thump, seemed to be using a cane.

They shut the door.

When no one sat down or made small talk, he knew exactly why they had come to him. “What’s

the verdict, ladies,” he drawled as he leaned back in the throne.

Tohr’s voice answered him. “We’ve been thinking about Qhuinn.”

He bet they had. After introducing the idea at the meeting earlier tonight, he hadn’t pressed them

for a yes or no. There was plenty of shit that, as king, he was more than willing to cram down

people’s throats. Who the Brothers were going to welcome into the club was not one. “And?”

Zsadist spoke up in the Old Language. “
I, Zsadist, son of Ahgony, inducted in the two hundred

forty-second year of the reign of Wrath, son of Wrath, hereby nominate Qhuinn, an orphan in the
world, for membership unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood.
”

Hearing formal words out of the Brother’s mouth was a shocker. Z, above all of them, thought the

past was a bunch of bullshit. Not when it came to this, apparently.

Jesus, Wrath thought. They were going to run with it. And fast—he’d thought it would take longer

than this. Days of mulling over. Weeks. Maybe a month—and then, maybe, a no-go for a variety of

reasons.

But they were playing ball—and accordingly, so was Wrath.

“
Upon what basis do you make this pledge of your, and your bloodline’s, name?
” Wrath asked.

Now Z dropped the formal, and went for the real. “He brought me home safe to my
shellan
and my little female tonight. At the risk of his own life.”

“Fair enough.”

Wrath scanned the males who were standing around his desk, even though he couldn’t see them

with his eyes. Sight didn’t matter, though. He didn’t need operational retinas to tell him where they all were or how they were feeling about shit; the scents of their emotions were clear.

They were, as a group, steadfast, resolved, and proud.

But formalities needs must.

Wrath started with the one all the way on the end. “V?”

“I was ready to get on board when he crawled all over Xcor.”

There was a grumble of agreement.

“Butch?”

That Boston accent came across loud and clear. “I think he’s a wicked strong fightah. And I like

the guy. He’s aging up good, dropping all that attitude, getting serious.”

“Rhage?”

“You shoulda seen him tonight. He wouldn’t let me take that plane up—said two Brothers were

too much to lose.”

More of that grumbling approval. “Tohr?”

“That night you were shot? I got you out of there thanks to him. He’s the right stuff.”

“Phury?”

“I like him. I really do. He’s the first to run into any situation. He will literally do
any
thing for any one of us—it doesn’t matter how dangerous.”

Wrath rapped his desk with his knuckles. “It’s settled, then. I’ll tell Saxton to make the changes, and we’ll do it.”

Tohr cut in. “With all due respect, my lord, we need to resolve the
ahstrux nohtrum
designation.

He can’t be watching John’s ass as his primary directive anymore.”

“Agreed. We’ll tell John to release him—and I can’t believe the answer will be no. After that, I’ll have Saxton draw up the papers, and then following Qhuinn’s induction, V, you take care of the ink on his face. Like if John had died of natural causes or some shit?”

There was a rustling of clothes, as if some of the Brothers were making the symbol of “Dearest

Virgin Scribe forbid” over their chests.

“Roger that,” V said.

Wrath crossed his arms over his chest. This was a historic moment, and well he knew it. Butch’s

induction had been legal because of the blood tie the male had with royalty. Qhuinn was a different story. No royal blood. No Chosen or Brotherhood blood, although he technically was an aristocrat.

No family.

On the other hand, that kid had proven himself again and again on the field, living up to a standard that, as far as the Old Laws currently stated, was reserved only for those of specific lineages—and that was bullshit. It wasn’t that Wrath didn’t appreciate the Scribe Virgin’s breeding plan. The

prescribed matings between the strongest males and the smartest females had in fact produced

extraordinary results when it came to fighters.

But it had also resulted in defects like his blindness. And it restricted merit-based promotions.

Bottom line, this recasting of the laws concerning who could and could not be in the Brotherhood

was not only appropriate in terms of the kind of society he wanted to create—it was a matter of

survival. The more fighters the better.

Plus, Qhuinn had truly earned the honor.

“So be it,” Wrath murmured. “Eight’s a good number. A lucky number.”

That low growl of agreement rippled through the air once again, the sound one of complete and

utter solidarity.

This was the future, Wrath thought as he smiled and bared his fangs. And it was right.

TWENTY-THREE

As Sola Morte stood in her “boss’s” office, her body was poised for a fight. Then again, that

was her SOP, and not anything specific to the environment—or the way the conversation was

going.

The latter certainly didn’t improve her mood, however.

“I’m sorry, what?” she demanded.

Ricardo Benloise smiled in his typical cool, calm way. “Your assignment is completed. Thank

you for your time.”

“I haven’t even told you what I found out there.”

The man eased back in his chair. “You may collect your fee from my brother.”

“I don’t get this.” When he’d called her no more than forty-eight hours ago, it had been a priority.

“You said—”

“Your services are no longer required for that particular purpose. Thank you.”

Was he working with someone else? But who in Caldwell did the kinds of things she did?

“You don’t even want to know what I found out.”

“Your assignment has been terminated.” The man smiled again in such a professional manner,

you’d have sworn he was a lawyer or a judge. Not a lawbreaker on a global scale. “I’m looking

forward to working with you again in the future.”

One of the bodyguards in the back took a couple steps forward, as if he were getting ready to take

the trash out.

“There’s something going on in that house,” she said as she turned away. “Whoever it is, is hiding

—”

“I don’t want you going back there.”

Sola stopped and looked over her shoulder. Benloise’s voice was as mild as ever, but his eyes

were dead on.

Well, this was interesting.

And the only possible explanation that held any logic was that Mr. Mysterious in that big glass

house had warned Benloise off. Had her little visit been discovered? Or was this the result of the

kind of hardball that routinely went down in the drug trade?

“Getting sentimental on me?” she said softly. After all, she and Benloise went back quite a ways.

“You are a very useful commodity.” His slow smile took the sting out of the words. “Now go and

be safe,
niña
.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake…there was no reason to bicker with the man. And she was going to get paid—

so what the hell did she care?

She gave him a wave, strode to the door, and proceeded down the stairwell. Out in the gallery

space, she headed into the back of the house, where the legitimate employees worked during

legitimate business hours. Bypassing the file cabinets and the desks, which looked Barbie-size thanks to the industrial ceiling fifty feet overhead, she went into a narrow corridor that was marked only with security cameras.

Knocking on the door was pointless, but she did it anyway, the stout fireproof panels absorbing

the sound of her knuckles like they were hungry. To help Benloise’s brother out—not that Eduardo

needed it—she turned to the nearest lens so her full face showed.

The locks released a moment later. And as strong as she was, even she had to put her shoulder

into opening the way in.

Talk about another world. Ricardo’s office was minimalist to the extreme; Eduardo’s was

something even Donald Trump, with his gold fetish, would feel suffocated by.

Any more marble and lamé in here and you’d be in a whorehouse.

As Eduardo smiled, his fake teeth were the shape and color of piano keys, and his tan was so

deep and uniform, it looked like it had been colored on him with Magic Marker. As always, he was

dressed in a three-piece suit—a uniform, kind of like Mr. Roarke’s from
Fantasy Island
, except black instead of white.

“And how are you tonight?” His eyes took a travel down her body. “You’re looking
very
well.”

“Ricardo said to come see you for my money.”

Instantly, Eduardo went stone-cold serious—and she was reminded of why Ricardo kept him

around: Blood ties and competence together were a powerful combination.

“Yes, he told me to expect you.” Eduardo opened up a desk drawer and took out an envelope.

“Here it is.”

He extended his arm across his desk, and she took what he offered, opening it immediately.

“This is half.” She looked up. “This is twenty-five hundred.”

Eduardo smiled exactly like his brother did: facially, but not in the eyes. “The assignment was not completed.”

“Your brother called it off. Not me.”

Eduardo put his palms up. “That is what you will be paid. Or you can leave the money here.”

Sola narrowed her stare.

Slowly closing the flap of the envelope, she turned the thing over in her hand, reached forward,

and put it faceup on the desk. Keeping her forefinger on it, she nodded once. “As you wish.”

Turning away, she went to the door and waited for the unlock.

“
Niña
, don’t be like this,” Eduardo said. When she didn’t reply, the creak of his chair suggested he was getting up and coming around.

Sure enough, his cologne wafted right into her nose and his hands landed on her shoulders.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You are very important to Ricardo and me. We do not take you for

granted—
mucho
respect, yes?”

Sola looked over her shoulder. “Let me out.”

“
Niña.”

“Right now.”

“Take the money.”

“No.”

Eduardo sighed. “You do not need to be this way.”

Sola enjoyed the guilt that threaded through the man’s voice—the reaction was, in fact, precisely

what she was after. Like a lot of men from their culture, Eduardo and Ricardo Benloise had been

reared by a traditional mother—and that meant feeling guilt was a reflex.

More effective than yelling at them or kneeing them in the balls.

“Out,” she said. “Now.”

Eduardo sighed again, deeper and longer this time, the sound a confirmation that her manipulation