“I don’t care if I’m in Dhunhd forever if it saves her.”
With that, he pulled the blade over his throat, slicing his vein right open. The river of blood was immediate, and the gurgling as he tried to breathe through the flood made it hard to talk.
Nearly impossible.
And still, he managed, “Never… again.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sitting across from Butch—on a silk sofa that belonged in a museum with a “Do Not Sit” sign on it—Vishous was trying to concentrate on what was being said in the great Blind King’s study. The Brotherhood, the Bastards, and all the fighters were crammed into the frilly room, looking like a military squadron that had been rerouted into Versailles.
The French furniture and the pale blue walls went with all the gunmetal and the leather like a lace hankie wrapped around a grenade.
But like he gave a crap about decorations.
“—destroyed,” Sahvage was saying. “And the Book, too. Why are we still talking about this?”
V checked his phone, then put it facedown on his thigh. “Because our boy Balthazar is feeling that demon—and he’s seeing her.”
“In his dreams,” Sahvage countered through the SRO of warriors. “And I’m not disrespecting the Bastard. It’s just I was there in that fire. I saw what I saw. Both were ashed.”
Sahvage was a big boy, even when he was standing next to a brother like Murhder. With his dark hair cut short and the five o’clock shadow, he was exactly what he looked like: A highly intelligent, very aggressive killer, who was willing to lay down his life for his mate, his King, and everybody else in the room.
Speaking of kings, the leader of the species was parked on the far side of a carved desk that was the PB to the J for the enormous carved-ass palace he was sitting on. Both had been his sire’s, just like his name, just like his son’s name. That long black hair falling from a widow’s peak was also inherited, but his short temper and his potty mouth? That was a no. By accounts, his father had been a gentlemale. Wrath, on the other hand, was… aptly named.
Then again, as far as V was concerned, they didn’t need a king with manners. They needed one with balls.
“I believe him,” V announced to the crowd. “And we have to take him seriously. You think he’s avoiding his home here on a goddamn whim?”
To say nothing of the ask he’d laid down the night before. Not that V was about to put that out to the group.
Conversation sprang up from all corners, and Wrath sat back, his black wraparounds as much of a mask as his tight expression was. When the voices got even louder, the King reached to the side, gathered up George, his service dog, and put the golden retriever in his lap. George hated conflict. So he spent a lot of time cozied up to his master.
And this dissension wasn’t going to last long. The King was going to once again order everyone to make like the Book and Devina were out and about somewhere in Caldie. It was the only way to proceed, and though Sahvage still maintained his position was correct, the brother was going to come around quick. It cost nothing to be cautious and assume the worst—although Wrath wasn’t going to put his shitkicker down right away. He knew the kind of males he was dealing with. They needed to blow off some steam, not that anybody was disagreeing with what Balz had reported.
V frowned and checked his phone. Then he leaned into his roommate and whispered, “I’ll be right back.”
Butch tilted in as well and kept his voice down, not that anybody was going to hear them over the booming back-and-forths. “Where are you going?”
“Smokes.”
“Can you bring some Mr & Mrs back with you?”
“If Fritz catches me with a silver tray and a glass of that new bourbon you like, I’m a dead male.”
“You can outrun him, you know. Especially for the black label.”
“Not without killing him from a heart attack. And how’d that go over in this household, true?”
Leaving that hell-no where it landed, V got to his feet and weeded his way to the door—and as he came up to Xcor, he tugged the male’s arm. The Bastard didn’t ask any questions; he just followed the way out into the hall.
As V shut the double doors and leaned back against them, he looked at his phone once more. Then he stared across the second story landing with its gold balustrade and its blood red runner. When he looked to the right, the Hall of Statues was where it had been last night, and down by the entry into the servants’ wing, he could hear two female doggen speaking in low tones about the schedule for bedsheet changing. To the left was the second-story sitting room, and beyond that, the east wing that had been opened to accommodate the Band of Bastards moving in.