The King

Page 17

Liar.
“Oh, but of course.”
Niiiiiice.
As she eased herself onto the bed and arranged her robing, he knew he was milking it, but come on. He’d spent a considerable amount of time lying on the tile in front of the toilet merely hours ago.
“Are you sure you are not in need of a healer?” she asked, her eyes hypnotizing him to the point where he just watched her blink, those long lashes swooping up and down. “And be of truth this time.”
Oh, he wanted to tell her one kind of truth, all right. But there was no reason to act a fool.
“It’s just a headache that lasts awhile. Honest. And I’ve had them all my adult life—my brother doesn’t get them, but I heard my father did. They’re not a party, but nothing that’ll hurt me.”
“Has your father passed?”
Trez tightened his face to make sure he showed nothing. “He’s still living and breathing. But he’s dead to me.”
“Whatever for?”
“Long story.”
“And …?”
“Nope. Too long, too complicated.”
“Did you have other plans this evening then?” This was said with a quiet challenge.
“Are you offering to stay with me?”
She looked down at her hands. “This … long story of your parents. Is that why you have a last name?”
How did she know …?
Trez started smiling, and it was a good thing she was ducking his eyes or she would have gotten a whole lot of his pearly whites.
Someone had indeed been checking up on him—and wasn’t that interesting.
As for the last name? “That’s just made up. I work in the human world and I needed a cover.”
“What manner of work are you engaged in?”
Trez frowned, picturing the inside of his club—and then the inside of that bathroom he’d used as a f**k palace how many times?
“Nothing important.”
“Then why do you do it?”
He took a final long draw on his Coke and stared into space. “Everyone’s got to be somewhere.”
God, he really didn’t want to get into that part of his life—to the point where if she had to leave because the convo ran out of gas, fine: In a flash, images of him ha**ng s*x with that long succession of human women flashed in front of his eyes, taking Selena’s place until he couldn’t even smell her anymore.
To Shadows, the corporeal body was an extension of the soul—a reality that was perhaps self-obvious, but in fact, far more complicated in the way the s’Hisbe viewed it. Bottom line, what you did to your body, how you treated it and cared—or didn’t care—for it, was directly transmuted to the very core of you. And as sex was by its very nature the single most sacred act of the physical form, it was never to be undertaken lightly, and certainly never, ever with dirty, nasty humans—particularly the pale-skinned ones.
To Shadows, pale skin equated to illness.
But the rules didn’t stop at the doorstep of Homo sapiens. Making love was completely ritualized in the Territory. Sex was scheduled between couples, or halves, as they were known, formal scrolls being exchanged across marbled corridors, consent requested and given through a series of prescribed directives. And when all was agreed upon? The act was not completed during the daylight hours, and never, ever without a bathing ritual first. It was also announced to all and sundry, a special banner hung upon the chamber door, a genteel way of stating that unless the place was on fire or someone had an arterial bleed, there was to be no disturbance until one or both parties emerged at some future time.
The trade-off for all the barriers? When two halves hooked up, it could last for days.
Oh, P.S., no mast**bation, either. It was considered a waste of communion.
So, yeah, his people wouldn’t have just frowned on his sex life; they would have handled him only with barbecue tongs while wearing a Hazmat suit and a welding mask: He’d banged women at eleven a.m. and three in the afternoon and waaaay before dinner. He’d taken them in public places and under bridges, in clubs and restaurants, in bathrooms and seedy hotel rooms—and in his office. In only maybe half the cases had he known their names, and from that august group, he could recall maybe one out of ten.
And only because they’d been weird or had reminded him of something else.
As for the pale-skinned thing? He hadn’t discriminated. He’d had all races of humans, some even at the same time. The only sector he hadn’t f**ked or been sucked off by had been males, but that was only because they didn’t appeal to him in the slightest.
If they had, he’d have gone there.
He supposed all was not lost. Shadows did believe in remediation, and he’d heard of cleansing rituals—but there was only so much a guy could do to repair damage.
The irony, of course, was that he’d taken a sick pride in ruining himself to the extent he had. Juvenile, sure, but it had been like he was middle-fingering the tribe and all their ridiculous bullshit—especially the queen’s daughter, who they all thought he should be in a big hurry to nail on a regular basis for the rest of his life.
Even though he’d never met her, wasn’t interested in being a sex toy, and had no intention of volunteering to be locked in a gilded cage.
But it was funny. In spite of everything that he hated about the traditions he’d been born into, he found himself finally kinda seeing a point to them: Here he was, in his post-migraine float, within kissing distance of a female he was dying to worship with his body. And guess what. All that rebellion he’d enjoyed so much was making him feel filthy and totally unworthy.
Not that the actual act would ever occur with Selena—he was a slut, but he wasn’t delusional.
Shit.
With a groan, he let himself fall back against the pillows again. In spite of the Coke and its one-two punch of sugar and caffeine, he was suddenly sucked-under-the-ocean exhausted.
“Forgive me,” the Chosen murmured.
Don’t say you’re going to go, he thought. Even though I don’t deserve you in any way, please don’t leave me—
“Do you need to feed?” she asked in a rush.
Trez felt his jaw drop open. Of all the things he’d been prepared to hear … Not. Even. Close.
“Mayhap I’m being too forward,” she said as she lowered her eyes. “It’s just that you seem so very tired … and sometimes that is what helps most.”
Holy … crap.
He couldn’t tell whether he’d won the lottery … or been sentenced to death.
But as his c*ck twitched with demand, and his blood roared, the decent part of him that he had long buried spoke up in a quiet, persistent way.
No, it said. Not now, not ever.
The question was … who was going to win, the angel or the devil in him?
ELEVEN
Wrath hit the compound’s underground tunnel at a hard pace, his shitkickers beating out a thunderous pounding that echoed all around until he was his own marching band. By his side, George was going at triple time, his collar jingling, his paws clipping over the concrete floor.
The trip from the training center to the mansion took two minutes at least, three to four if you were having a convo and strolling. Not this time: George halted him in front of the secured door a mere thirty seconds after they’d left the office through the back of the supply closet.
Mounting the shallow steps, Wrath felt around for the security pad and entered the code. With a cha-chunk like a bank vault unlatching, the lock disengaged and then they were proceeding through a passageway to the next lock point. Clearing that, they emerged into the cavernous foyer, and the first thing Wrath did was sniff the air.
Lamb, for First Meal. A fire in the library. Vishous smoking a hand-rolled in the billiards room.
Shit. He had to disclose to his brother what had happened with Payne in the gym. Hell, technically he owed the guy a rythe.
But all that could wait.
“Beth,” he said to the dog. “Seek.”
Both he and the animal tested and retested the air.
“Upstairs,” he ordered, at the same time the dog started to walk forward.
As they got to the second-floor landing, her scent became stronger—which confirmed they were headed in the right direction. The bad news? It was coming from over on the left.
Wrath strode off down the hall of statues, going past John and Xhex’s room, and Blay and Qhuinn’s.
They stopped before they got to Zsadist and Bella’s suite.
He didn’t need his dog to tell him he’d reached their destination—and he knew exactly whose room they were in front of: Even out in the corridor, the pregnancy hormones thickened the air to such an extent, it was like hitting a velvet curtain.
Which was why his Beth was in there, wasn’t it.
Females don’t keep secrets from males who respect them.
Goddamn it. Do not tell him his mate wanted a kid and was doing something about it without even talking to him.
Gritting his teeth, he raised his knuckles to knock—but ended up pounding on that door. Once. Twice.
“Come in,” the Chosen Layla said.
Wrath swung things wide and knew exactly when his shellan saw him: The smoky smell of guilt and deceit flowed across the room at him.
“We need to talk,” he snapped. And then he nodded in what he hoped was Layla’s direction. “Please excuse us, Chosen.”
There was some conversating between the females, stilted on Beth’s side, nervous on Layla’s. And then his mate was off the bed and crossing over to him.
They didn’t say a word to each other. Not when she closed the door behind them. Not as they walked back down the hall side by side. And when they got to the entrance of his office, he told George to stay outside before shutting the pair of them in together.
Even though he was intimately familiar with the arrangement of the pansy-ass French furniture, he put his hands out, touching the backs of the silk-covered chairs and a delicate sofa … and then the corner of his father’s desk.
As he went around and sat upon his throne, he locked his hands on the great carved arms—and gripped them so hard the wood creaked in protest. “How long have you been sitting with her.”
“With who.”
“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”
The air stirred in the room, and he heard her footfalls on the Aubusson carpet. As she paced, he could just picture her, her brows down hard, her mouth tight, her arms crossed over her chest.
The guilt was gone now. And in its wake, she was as pissed off as he was.
“Why the hell do you care,” she muttered.
“It is my every right to know where you are.”
“Excuse me?”
He jabbed a finger in her general direction. “She is pregnant.”
“So I noticed.”
His fist slammed down so hard the phone disconnected itself. “Do you want to go into your needing!”
“Yes!” she yelled back. “I do! Is that such a goddamn crime?”
Wrath exhaled, feeling like he’d just gotten hit by a car. Again.
Amazing how hearing his greatest fear spoken aloud was so devastating.
Taking a couple of deep breaths, he knew he had to choose his words carefully—in spite of the fact that his adrenal gland had opened up full-bore and was pumping enough OMG into his system that he was drowning in terror.
In the silence, the phone’s dial tone and then meep-meep-meep-reconnect-me was loud as the curses running through both their heads.
With a shaking hand, he patted around until he found the receiver. Replacing it in the cradle took him a couple of tries, but he got there without smashing anything.
Dear God, it was quiet in the room. And for some reason, he became preternaturally aware of the chair he was sitting in, everything from its hard leather seat, to the carved symbols under his forearms, to the way his lower back was scratched by the relief that rose up behind him.
“I need you to hear this,” he said in a dead voice, “and know that it’s the God’s honest. I will not service you in your needing. Ever.”
Now it was her turn to breathe out like she’d been socked in the gut. “I can’t … I can’t believe you just said that.”
“It is never, ever going to happen. I will never get you pregnant.”
There were few things in life that he knew with greater certainty. The only other that came to mind was how much he loved her.
“Won’t,” she said roughly. “Or can’t.”
“Won’t. As in, will not.”
“Wrath, that’s not fair. You can’t just put that in stone like it’s one of your proclamations.”
“So I’m supposed to lie about how I feel?”
“No, but you can talk about it, for God’s sake. We’re partners and this affects us both.”
“Discussion is not going to change where I’m at. If you want to keep wasting time with the Chosen, that’s your decision. But if the gossip is true, and it does bring on your needing, know that you’ll be drugged to get you through it. I’m not going to service you.”
“Jesus … like I’m some kind of animal who needs to go to the vet?”
“You have no idea what those hormones are like.”
“This. Coming from a male.”
He shrugged. “It’s a verifiable fact of biology. When Layla was in hers, we all felt it throughout the house—even a night and a half after she was over it. Marissa was drugged for years. It’s what’s done.’”
“Yeah, maybe when a female isn’t married. But last time I checked, my name was in your back.”