Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (25 page)

consciousness. Others were clearly not so phlegmatic, however—especially down here.

And this was just the beginning.

Then again, she was losing the pregnancy, wasn’t she. So this was the end.

Reaching out, she took the white fabric and wrapped it around herself. She didn’t care about the

physician’s delicate sensibilities, but if she covered herself up as they’d asked, maybe he would

focus on her instead of what she was.

Almost immediately there was a knock on the door, and when Layla answered, Havers entered,

looking like there was a gun to his head. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he only partially closed them in together before crossing his arms over his stethoscope. “If I had known your status, I would never have treated you.”

“I came to you willingly, a patient in need.”

He shook his head. “You are a holiness upon the earth. Who am I to intervene in such a sacred

matter?”

“Please. Just put an end to my suffering, and tell me where I stand.”

He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I cannot divulge that information to

you.”

Layla opened her mouth. Shut it. “Excuse me?”

“You are not my patient. Your young and the Primale are—so I will speak to him when I can—”

“No! You mustn’t call him.”

The look he gave her suggested a disdain she imagined he usually reserved for prostitutes. And

then he spoke in a low, vaguely threatening voice. “You are not in a position to demand a thing.”

Layla recoiled. “I have come here of my own volition, as an independent female—”

“You are a Chosen. Not only is it unlawful for me to harbor you, but I can be prosecuted for what

I did to you earlier. A Chosen’s body is—”

“Her own!”

“—the Primale’s by law, as it should be. You are unimportant—naught but a receptacle for what

you are given. How
dare
you come in here like this, pretending to be a simple female—you put my practice and my life at risk with such duplicity.”

Layla felt a wild rage tremble along every nerve ending in her body. “Whose heart beats within

this chest?” She pounded on herself. “Whose breath is drawn here!”

Havers shook his head. “I will speak with the Primale, and only him—”

“You cannot be serious! I alone live within this flesh. No one else does—”

The physician’s face tightened in distaste. “As I said, you are but a vessel for the divine mystery in your womb—the very Primale is within your flesh. That is more important—and accordingly, I

will hold you here until—”

“Against my will? I don’t think so.”

“You will stay here until the Primale comes to fetch you. I shall not be responsible for setting you loose upon the world.”

The two of them glared at each other.

With a curse, Layla threw off the draping. “Well, that’s a great plan as far as you’re concerned.

But I’m getting naked right now—and I will be walking out like that if I must. Stay and watch if you like—or you could try to touch me, but I believe that would be considered another violation of some sort or another for you, wouldn’t it.”

The physician left so quickly, he stumbled out into the hall.

Layla didn’t waste a second, yanking on her clothes and rushing into the corridor. Although it was

unlikely that there was only the one way in and out through the reception area—there had to be escape routes, in case of an attack—unfortunately, she had no clue about the layout of the facility.

So her only choice was to head up front. And she had to do it on foot—she was too pissed off to

dematerialize.

Falling into a jog, Layla went in the direction she’d come from—and almost immediately, as if

they had been instructed to do so, female nursing staff jumped in her way, choking the hall, making it impossible for her to pass.

“If anyone shall touch my person,” she hollered in the Old Language, “I shall regard it as a

violation of my sacred sanctity.”

All of them froze.

Meeting each one in the eye, she came forward and forced them to part, a path forming among the

still figures and then closing shut behind her. Out in the waiting area, she stopped in front of the reception desk and stared hard at the female who was sitting up in alarm.

“You have two choices.” Layla nodded to the reinforced exit door. “Either you voluntarily open

that for me, or I blow it apart with my will—exposing yourselves and your patients to the onslaught of sunlight that is coming in”—she checked the big-faced clock on the wall—“less than seven hours. I’m not sure you can fix that kind of damage in time—are you?”

The click of the lock being sprung sounded loudly in the resonant silence.

“Thank you,” she murmured politely as she headed out. “Your acquiescence is
much

appreciated.”

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