by J. R. Ward
"You got it."
As she passed by the Brother, she was shocked when his hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed in support.
Good Lord, if you'd told her a couple of years ago that the fighter would be offering anyone anything other than a gun to the head? NFW. And the fact that he was currently holding a total Gerber baby in his heavily muscled arm, said daughter staring up at his scarred face with absolute and total adoration?
Pigs flying. Hell freezing over. Miley Cyrus keeping some clothes on.
"I'm sorry," she said hoarsely, knowing that the flip side to the Brotherhood's closeness was that they all truly worried about each other.
The problems of one were the problems of all.
"I'll let him know you're home safe," Z said. "Go have a rest. You look wiped."
She nodded and hit the stairs, dragging her tired body up one step at a time. As she came to the second floor, she stared through the open double doors into the study.
The throne and the huge desk it sat behind loomed like monsters, the old wood and ancient carvings a tangible representation of the lines of succession that had served the race for how long? She didn't know. She couldn't guess.
So many couples sacrificing their firstborn sons to a position that, from all she'd seen, was not just thankless, but downright dangerous.
Could she put her own flesh and blood there? she wondered. Could she sentence something she herself had had a hand in creating to where her husband sat and suffered?
Stepping over the threshold, she crossed the Aubusson rug and stood before just two of the symbols of the monarchy. She pictured Wrath there, with the paperwork and the grind, like a tiger trapped in a zoo, fed well, cared for relentlessly ... nonetheless caged.
She thought back to working at the Caldwell Courier Journal, for Dick the Prick as a copyeditor for his boys' club while he tried to look down her shirt. She'd wanted to get out so badly, and her transition and meeting Wrath had been her saviors.
What was Wrath's?
How would he ever get out of this?
Short of abdicating, his only saving grace ... was getting killed by Xcor and the Band of Bastards.
Wow. Great future there.
And her solution was to threaten her own life by trying to get pregnant. No wonder he'd lost his shit.
Running her fingertips across the complicated edging of the desk, she discovered that the curlicues actually formed a vine. And there were dates inscribed along the leaves ...
The Kings and the queens. Their children.
A long legacy of which Wrath was the current manifestation.
He wasn't going to give this up. No way. If he felt impotent now, walking away from the throne was going to send him right over the edge. He'd already lost his parents too soon--to release their legacy over to another? That would be a blow he'd never get past.
She still wanted to have a child.
But the longer she stood there, the more she wondered whether it was worth it if she had to sacrifice the man she loved. And that was going to be the result--plus, assuming she could get pregnant and deliver a healthy baby, if they had a son, he was going to end up here.
And if she had a daughter? Whoever she married was going to take over--and then her daughter would have the pleasure of watching her man go insane from the pressure.
Great inheritance either way.
"Damn it," she breathed.
She'd known Wrath was the King when she mated him--but for her, by then, it had already been too late. She'd been head over heels in love, and whether his job had been security guard or supreme head of state, she was getting hitched.
She hadn't thought of the future back then. Just being with him had been enough.
But come on, even if she had been aware of all the implications ...
Nope. She still would have thrown on Wellsie's gorgeous red gown and marched down to have the crap scared out of her as Wrath had her name carved in his back.
Thick or thin. Richer or poorer, in human terms.
Child-filled ... or childless.
When she finally turned away, she straightened her shoulders and walked out of the room with her head level. Her eyes were clear, her heart was calm, and her hands were steady.
Life was not an a la carte buffet where you got to fill your plate with whatever you wanted. You didn't get to choose your entree and your sides and go back for more when maybe you had three bites of meat left and had run out of mashed potatoes. And hell, when she thought about it logically, getting True Love along with Happily Married and Hot Sex Life was already one hell of a trifecta.
There were good reasons for them not to have a child. And maybe it would change in the future; maybe Xcor and the Bastards would meet their graves, and the glymera would come around, and the Lessening Society would stop killing ...
Pigs flying.
Hell freezing over.
Miley planting her twerking ass in a chair and keeping it there as a public service.
As Beth headed for the private stairwell to the third floor, she wished she'd come to this conclusion before Wrath had gone to find Tohr, but that was yet another collision she had triggered that she couldn't undo.
She could stop this from going any further, though.
However much it hurt, she could choose another path and put them both out of their misery.
For God's sake, she wasn't the first woman on the planet who couldn't have children just because she wanted them. And she was not going to be the last. And all those females? They went on. They lived their lives and kept going--and they didn't have her Wrath ...
He was more than enough for her.
And anytime she thought he wasn't? She was going to go back and sit in front of that desk ... and put herself deep in her hellren's shitkickers for a mile or two.
She didn't want to let her father down and she hadn't even met him. For Wrath, being King was the only way to honor his--and not wanting to subject the next generation to the throne?
It was the only way to protect the children he would never have.
The Rolling Stones were right. Sometimes, you didn't get what you wanted. But if you had all you needed?
Life was good.
TWENTY-EIGHT
"Your cousin is getting mated."
As Saxton was led through the doors of his father's study, that was the greeting he received.
Here we go, he thought. And next time they talked, no doubt it was going to be about said cousin having a perfectly healthy baby boy who was going to grow up normal. Guess this was his birthday "gift"--a report on some relation living the right sort of life, with subtitles that he was a shame to the bloodline and a great waste of DNA for his father.
Actually, the happy little updates had started up soon after his father had learned that he was gay, and he remembered every single statement, arranging them like ugly figurines on the mantel of his mind. His absolute, bar-none favorite? The newsflash a couple of months ago about a gay male who had gone out with another gay male of the species, and ended up beaten in an alley by a group of humans.
His father had had no idea he was talking about his own son on that one.
The hate crime had been the capper on his first date with Blay, and he had nearly died from the injuries: There had been no going for medical help--Havers, the only physician in the race, was a devoted traditionalist, and was in the practice of turning away known homosexuals from treatment. And going to a human doctor had been a no-go. Yes, there were twenty-four-hour clinics open in the city, but it had taken all the energy he'd had left to drag himself home--and he'd been too ashamed to call anyone for help.
But Blay had shown up--and everything had changed for them.
For a while, at least.
"Did you hear what I said," his father demanded.
"How wonderful for him--which cousin is it?"
"Enoch's son. It was arranged. The families are going to have an eventing weekend to celebrate."
"At their estate
here or in South Carolina?"
"Here. It is time for the race to reestablish proper traditions in Caldwell. Without tradition, we are nothing."
Read: You are worthless unless you get with the program.
Although naturally his father would couch the directive in much more scholarly terms.
Saxton frowned as he finally looked at the male. Sitting behind his desk, Tyhm had always been thin, an Ichabod Crane figure in suits that hung like funeral draping from his bony shoulders. Compared to their last visit, he appeared to have lost weight, his sharp features holding up his facial skin like supports under a pitched tent.
Saxton didn't look anything like his sire, that dark hair and those dark eyes, that pale skin and lanky body not what the genetic lottery had dealt him. Instead, his mother and he had been pea-and-pod in disposition and decoration, fair and gray eyed with a healthy glow to their skin.
His father had often remarked on how similar he was to his mahmen--and looking back on it, he wasn't sure that had been a compliment.
"So what are you doing for work," his father muttered as he drummed his fingers on the leather blotter.
Over the male's head, the portrait of his own father loomed with identical disapproval.
As Saxton was pegged with two sets of narrowed eyes, there was an almost irresistible urge to answer that question honestly: Saxton was, in fact, First Counsel to the King. And even in these times, when regard for the monarchy was at an all-time low, that was still impressive.
Especially to someone who revered the law like his father.
But no, Saxton thought. He was going to keep that to himself.
"I'm where I was," he murmured.
"Trusts and estates is rather a complicated field. I was surprised you chose it. Who are some of your more recent clients?"
"You know I can't divulge that information."
His father brushed that aside. "It would not be anyone I know, surely."
"No. Probably not." Saxton tried to smile a little. "And you?"
That demeanor changed instantly, the subtle distaste ebbing out and being replaced by a mask that had all the revelatory quality of a slab of slate. "There are always things to command my attention."
"Of course."
As both of them continued speaking in a volley, the conversation remained stilted and irrelevant, and Saxton passed the time by putting his hand in his pocket and fitting his iPhone to his palm. He had planned his departure, and wondered when he could take his cue.
And then it came.
The phone on the desk, the one that had been made to appear "old-fashioned," rang with an electronic bell that sounded as close to real as anything not actually brass could get.
"I'll leave you," Saxton said, taking a step back.
His father stared at the carefully hidden digital display ... and appeared to forget how to answer the thing.
"Goodbye, F--" Saxton stopped himself. Ever since his orientation had been revealed, that was an f-word worse than fuck--at least when used by him.
As his father just waved him off, he had a passing relief. Usually, the worst part of any in-person visit was the departure: As he'd leave, and his father confronted yet another failed attempt to bring his son around, it was the walk of shame all over again.
Saxton hadn't come out to his family. He'd never intended his father to know.
But someone had blabbed and he was fairly sure he knew who.
So every time he left, he relived getting kicked out of this very house about a week after his mother had died: He'd been booted with his clothes on his back, no money, and nowhere to stay as dawn approached.
He'd learned later that all of his things had been ritually burned in the woods out behind the manor house.
One more handy use for all the acreage.
"Shut the door behind you," his father snapped.
He was more than happy to obey that one: Closing things silently, for once he didn't waste a moment on all the pain. Looking left and right, he listened.
Silence.
Moving quickly, he went back to the parlor and through into the library, pulling the doors shut behind him. Taking out his phone, he started snapping pictures, his heart beating as fast as he was tapping. He didn't bother to arrange angles or do anything sequentially--the only thing he cared about was that the focus and the lighting were good and that he didn't move--
The rumbling of doors opening directly behind him had him spinning around.
His father seemed confused as he stood in the doorway that led out of his study. "Whate'er are you doing?"
"Nothing. I was just looking at your volumes. They're quite impressive."
Tyhm glanced at the doors Saxton had shut behind himself--as if wondering why they were closed. "You should not have come in here."
"I'm sorry." Surreptitiously, he slipped the phone into his pocket, tilting his torso to the side as if to nod at the books. "It's just ... I wanted to marvel over your collection. Mine are cloth covered."
"You have a set of the Old Laws?"
"I do. I bought them from an estate."
His father went forward and touched the pages of the closest volume open on the round table. The loving way with which he stroked those words, that paper, that inanimate object ... suggested that maybe Saxton wasn't the biggest heartbreak in his life.
If the law let him down? That would break him.
"What is this all about?" Saxton said softly. "I heard the King was shot, and now ... this is all about the succession."
When there was no reply, he began to think he needed to leave in a hurry: There was a high probability his father was in with the Band of Bastards, and it would be folly to think Tyhm would hesitate for even a second in turning his gay son over to the enemy.
Or in his father's case, the allies.
"Wrath is no King for the race." Tyhm shook his head. "Nothing good has come since his father was killed. Now, there was a ruler. I was young when I was at court, but I remember Wrath, and whereas the son cares not for the proper way ... the sire was a stellar King, a wise male with patience and majesty. Such a failure of this generation."
Saxton looked at the floor. For some absurd reason, he noted that his own loafers were perfectly polished. All of his shoes were. Neat and tidy, arranged.
He found it difficult to breathe. "I thought the Brotherhood was ... taking care of things rather well. After the raids, they have killed many slayers--"
"The fact that you use the word after to modify raids is all one needs to know. A shameful commentary--Wrath did not care to rule until he married that half-breed of his. Only then, when he sought to contaminate the throne with her bastard human genes, did he see fit to try to be King. His father would hate this--that human wearing the ring of his mother? It is a disgrace that cannot..." He had to clear his throat. "It simply cannot be supported."
As the implications dawned on Saxton, he could feel the blood drain out of his head. Oh, God ... why hadn't they seen this coming?
Beth. They were going to take him down through her.
His father lifted his chin, his Adam's apple standing out like a fist in the front of his throat. "And one has to do something. One has to ... do something when bad choices are made."
Like being gay, Saxton finished for the male. And then it dawned on him ...
It was almost as if his father was joining the effort ... only because he couldn't do anything about his own failure of a progeny.
"Wrath will be removed from the throne," Tyhm said with a resurgence of strength. "And another who has not strayed from the race's core values will be put in his place. It is the appropriate consequence for one who does not do things in the proper manner."
"I had heard..." Saxton paused. "I had heard that it was a love match. Between Wrath and his queen. That he fell in love with her when he helped with her transition."
"The deviant often couch their actions in the vocabulary of the righteous. It is a deliberate act to attempt to ingratiate themsel
ves to us. That doesn't mean they have behaved well or that their poor choices should be supported by the masses. Quite the contrary--he has shamed the race, and deserves all that is coming to him."
"Do you hate me?" Saxton blurted.
His father's eyes lifted from the books that were going to be used to pave the way to the abdication. As their stares met across the blueprint for Wrath's destruction, Saxton was reduced to a child who simply wanted to be loved and valued by the only parent he had left.
"Yes," his father said. "I do."
Sola pulled the fresh jeans up to her knees and paused. Bracing herself, she eased the waistband over her thigh wound carefully.
"Not bad," she muttered as she continued to tug them all the way onto her ass, and then button and zip them.
Little loose, but when she put on the fresh white long-sleeved shirt and the cozy black sweater she'd also been given, you'd never know. Oh, and the Nikes were the perfect size--and she even liked the black-and-red color scheme.
Going into her hospital room's bath, she checked her hair in the mirror. Shiny and smooth, thanks to the blow-dry she'd given herself.
"You look..."
Wheeling around at the voice, she found Assail standing by the bed. His eyes burned across the distance between them, his body looming large.
"You startled me," she said.
"My apologies." He offered her a short bow. "I knocked several times, and when you didn't answer, I was concerned that you had fallen."
"That's really ... ah, kind of you." Yeah, sweet couldn't be associated in any way with him.
"Are you ready to go home?"
She closed her eyes. She wanted to say yes--and of course, she needed to see her grandmother. But she was afraid to, as well.
"Can you ... tell?" she asked.
Assail came over to her, walking slowly, as if he knew she was a hairbreadth away from spooking. Lifting his hands, he brushed her hair back over her shoulders. Then he touched the sides of her face.
"No. She will see none of it."
"Thank God." Sola exhaled. "She can't know. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
Turning to face the door out into the corridor, he offered her his elbow ... as if he were escorting her to a party.
And Sola took it just because she wanted to feel him against her. Know his warmth. Be close to his size and strength.
