by J. R. Ward
“Hold on, we’ll just see if—”
Outside, in the corridor, a group of pretrans left the locker room and walked off in the direction of the center’s parking area. It was good to see them, and not just because it meant Nalla was probably going to get what she was after: following the raids on the glymera, the classes for future soldiers had been halted. Now, though, the Brotherhood was back in business with the next generation—only this time not all of them were aristocrats.
Bella entered the gym through a back door, and she flushed at what she saw. Zsadist was up ahead, working out on a punching bag, his powerful fists driving the thing back until it hung at a stiff angle. His shirtless torso was stunning under the caged lights, his muscles viciously cut, his nipple rings gleaming, his fighting form perfect even to her untrained eyes.
Off to one side, a trainee stood utterly transfixed, a sweatshirt hanging limp in his little hand. His face showed a combination of fear and awe as he watched Zsadist work out, the kid’s eyes wide, his mouth open in a little O from his jaw going loose.
The second Nalla’s cries echoed up into the vast space, Z spun around.
“Sorry to bother you,” Bella said over the wailing. “But she wants her daddy.”
Z’s face melted into an absolute glow of love, the fierce concentration draining from his eyes and being replaced with what Bella liked to call his Nalla-vision. He met them halfway across the blue mats, dropping a kiss on Bella’s mouth as he took the young into his arms.
Nalla settled instantly in her father’s hold, the young wrapping her arms around his thick neck and cuddling into his massive chest.
Z looked back across the gym to the trainee. In a deep voice, he said, “Bus is coming soon, son. You better hurry.”
When he turned around again, Bella felt her hellren’s arm come around her waist, and she was pulled tight to his side. As he kissed her on the mouth once more, he murmured, “I need a shower. You want to help?”
“Oh, yes.”
The three of them left the gym and went back to the mansion. Halfway through the trip, Nalla conked out, so when they got up to their bedroom, they went into the nursery, put her down in her crib, and enjoyed a shower that was very hot—and not just because of the temperature of the water.
When they were through, Nalla was awake again, just in time for story hour.
While Bella dried her hair with a towel, Z went in, got the young, and father and daughter settled into the big bed. Bella came out a moment later and just leaned back against the doorway and stared at the two of them. The pair were cozied up together so close they were like one person. Z had on a pair of pajama bottoms that were Black Watch plaid, and a muscle shirt. Nalla was in a pale pink onesie that read Daddy’s Girl on it in white.
“Oh, the Places You’ll Go,” Zsadist read from the book in his lap. “By Dr. Seuss.”
As Z read along, Nalla patted the pages with her palm every once in a while.
This was the new routine. At the end of every night, when Z came home from patrol or teaching, he would usually take a shower as Bella fed Nalla, and then he and his daughter got in bed together and he read to her until she fell asleep.
Whereupon he carefully took her to the nursery . . . and returned for mahmen-and-papa time, as he referred to it.
Both the reading and the way he’d grown comfortable holding Nalla were miracles, and Mary had had a hand in both. Z and the female met once a week in the basement by the furnace. The two of them had told Bella about the sessions and sometimes Z would talk a little about what was covered, but for the most part what got discussed stayed in the basement—although Bella was aware that some of what was shared was gruesome: She knew because, afterward, Mary would frequently go into her bedroom with Rhage and not come out for a long, long while. But it was working. Z was easing in a different way, a new way.
It showed with Nalla. When the young grabbed at his wrists he didn’t pull away, but let her pat him or kiss him on the bands. He let her crawl over his ruined back and rub her face against his, too. And he’d had his daughter’s name added to his skin, carved lovingly below Bella’s by his Brothers.
It also showed because the bad dreams had dried up. In fact, months had gone by since the last time he’d shot upright in bed in a fear-sweat.
And it also showed in his smile. Which was broader and more frequent than ever.
Abruptly, the sight of him holding his daughter got a little wavy, and as if he sensed the tears, Z’s eyes flipped up to her. He kept reading but frowned with worry.
Bella blew him a kiss, and in response he patted the mattress next to him.
“‘So. . . get on your way!’” he finished as Bella cuddled up close.
Nalla let out a happy coo and patted the book cover he’d closed.
“Are you okay?” he whispered in Bella’s ear.
She put her hand on his cheek and brought his mouth to hers. “Yes. Very much so.”
As they kissed, Nalla patted the book again.
“You sure you’re all right?” Z asked.
“Oh, yes.”
Nalla grabbed at the book and Z grinned, tugging it back gently. “Hey, what are you doing, little one? You want more? You are just too much . . . you . . . oh, no . . . not the quivering lip . . . oh, no.” Nalla let out a giggle. “Outrageous! You want more, and you know you’re going to get what you want because of The Lip. Jeez, you’ve got your father wrapped around your little finger, don’t you.”
Nalla cooed as her dad opened the book again and the story started to roll out of Z’s mouth once more, his voice resonant. “‘Congratulations! Today is your day. . . .’”
Bella closed her eyes, put her head on her hellren’s shoulder, and listened to the story.
Of all the places she’d ever been, this was the best one. Right here. With the two of them.
And she knew Zsadist felt the same way. It was in all the hours he spent with Nalla and all the days he reached through the sheets for Bella when they were alone. It was in the fact that he’d started singing again, and that he’d begun to roughhouse with his Brothers, not for training, but for fun. It was in his new smile, the one she’d never seen before and couldn’t wait to see again.
It was the light in his eyes and in his heart.
He was . . . happy with his life. And getting happier.
As if he’d read her mind, Z took her hand in his larger one and gave her a squeeze.
Yes, he felt exactly the same. This was his favorite place, too.
Bella listened to the story and let herself drift off, just as her daughter did, safe in the knowledge that all was where it should be.
Their male had come back to them . . . and was here to stay.
The Brotherhood Dossiers
This Royal Thighness Wrath, Son of Wrath
“Welcome to the wonderful world of jealousy. For the price of admission, you get a splitting headache, a nearly irresistible urge to commit murder, and an inferiority complex. Yippee.”
—DARK LOVER, p. 107
Personal Qs (answered by Wrath):
J.R.’s Interview with Wrath
Here’s the thing about the king. He’ll allow himself to be interviewed, but it’s on his terms. Which is Wrath in a nutshell. He’s all about his terms, but then I guess when you’re the last purebred vampire on the earth and king of your race and . . . well, when you’re as big as he is and have a stare that can cut through glass like a diamond, the world is a place you dictate, not dodge around in.
Did I mention that I’m wearing waders at the moment, and I’m thigh-high in an icy Adirondack stream?
Yeah, the king’s taken up fly-fishing.
On this frosty November night, Wrath and I are standing in the midst of rolling, sluggish water that is cold. I have long underwear on, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t, as he’s not the type to be bothered by a chill. He did, however, make a concession to a set of gigantic waders, which Fritz custom-tailored for a pair of legs that are each about
the size of my upper body. I’m to the side of the king; I figured if I were in front or behind I’d be in hook range, and considering I had to pester him for weeks for this audience, I don’t want to risk a trip to an ER for some kind of tackle-ectomy.
On a side note, Wrath looks worn-down. Mind you, he still outranks 99.9 percent of any of the males I’ve ever seen on the Holy Shit Hot Scale, but then, honestly, can you get sexier than a guy with hip-length black hair, a widow’s peak, and wraparound sunglasses? Not to mention the tats on his forearms and those green eyes and his . . .
Listen, I have never measured his backside. Ever. Not once. Or the tremendous width of his shoulders. Or his six-pack.
Oh, don’t look at me like that.
Anyway, where were we? Right, the stream. Fly-fishing.
The king and I are about a half mile from Rehvenge’s safe house in the Adirondack Mountains near Black Snake State Park. Wrath is standing about fifteen feet from me, whisking his right arm back and forth in a gentle rhythm, pulling a gossamer-thin fishing line through the stream, then letting it be taken, through the stream, then letting it be taken. The water sounds like wind chimes as it chatters past smooth brown and gray rocks, and the pine trees on either side of the banks whistle as the wind tickles through their branches. The air is cool and crisp, making me think that I’m glad I have a Macintosh apple in the backpack we brought with us—fall just goes with those tart, juicy little buggers.
Oh, and one last salient point. Wrath has a forty strapped under each arm and throwing stars in his pockets. I can see the forties. He told me about the stars.
J.R.:
Can I be honest with you?
Wrath:
You’d better be. ’Cause I’d smell it if you weren’t.
J.R.:
True enough. Ah . . . I’m surprised you have the patience for this. The fishing, that is.
Wrath:
(shrugging) It’s not a matter of patience. It’s calming. And no, I’m not taking up yoga. That’s Rhage’s deal.
J.R.:
He’s still doing that?
Wrath:
Yeah, he’s still namaste-ing his ass into a million different contortions. Swear that fucker’s retractable.
J.R.:
Speaking of Rhage and Mary, is it true what I heard?
Wrath:
The adoption thing? Yeah. When Nalla came, they both kind of sat up and were like, We want one of those.
J.R.:
How long will it take? And where are they going for the young?
Wrath:
You’ll hear about it when it’s done. But it’s going to be a while.
J.R.:
Well, I’m happy for them. (There’s a stretch of no talking, during which Wrath reels in his line, then casts it out into another part of the stream.) Do you want—
Wrath:
No. I’m still not pushing the children thing. After what Bella went through . . . (Shakes head.) Nope. And before you ask, Beth’s okay with that. I think she’ll want one in the future, though. Just hope it’s later rather than sooner. Although, honestly, she hasn’t even gone through her first needing, so it’s not a huge issue.
J.R.:
Suppose you’d like me to change the subject?
Wrath:
Up to you. You can ask anything, doesn’t mean I’ll answer. (Shoots a look over his shoulder and smiles at me.) But you know how I do.
J.R.:
(laughing) Yeah, I’m familiar with the way things go. So let me ask you about the whole Chosen thing and Phury. What do you think about the changes he made?
Wrath:
Man . . . he impressed the shit out of me. He really did. And not just about what he did with the Scribe Virgin. For a while there, I was sure we were going to lose him.
J.R.:
(thinking about Phury and the heroin) You nearly did.
Wrath:
Yeah. (There’s another stretch of silence, which I spend watching his arm go back and forth, back and forth. The line makes a lovely sound through the cool forest air, as if it is breathing.) Yeah. Anyhow, that’s why we’re here, at Rehv’s house. I come up with Beth every two weeks or so and meet with Phury and the Directrix and check in on how things are going with the Chosen. Christ, can you imagine what the transition’s like for those females? Going from total lockdown to being able to explore a world you’ve only read about?
J.R.:
I can’t, no.
Wrath:
Phury’s fantastic with them. It’s like overnight they’ve all become his daughters. And they love him. He is the perfect Primale, and Cormia’s now their den mother. As she’s had more time to assimilate, she’s doing a lot of transitioning them herself. I’m really glad it’s gone down like it has.
J.R.:
Talking about parent stuff, what’s life like at the mansion now that Nalla’s around?
Wrath:
(laughing) Okay, for real? That kid’s a star. She’s got us all wrapped around her little finger. The other day I was working at my desk, and Bella was on walkabout with the young—she does this because lately Nalla only sleeps when she’s moving? Anyway, Bella brought her into my study and the two of them were pacing. Nalla’s head was on Bella’s shoulder and she was out like a light—by the way, the kid’s got eyelashes longer than your arm. So, Bella? She finally sinks down on the couch to take a breather, and two seconds later, I kid you not, Nalla’s eyes flip open and she starts fussing.
J.R.:
Poor thing!
Wrath:
Bella, right?
J.R.:
Yup!
Wrath:
(laughing) So I got to hold Nalla. Bella let me hold her. (This is said with no small amount of pride.) I walked the young around. I didn’t drop her.
J.R.:
(hiding smile) Of course you didn’t.
Wrath:
She went back to sleep. (Shoots grave stare over his shoulder.) You know, young only sleep if they trust you to keep them safe.
J.R.:
(softly) Anyone would be safe with you.
Wrath:
(looks away quickly) So, yeah, kid’s a gem. Z’s a little uneasy around her still, I think because he’s afraid he’s going to break her—not because he doesn’t love her. Rhage handles her like a sack of potatoes, hauling her any way he pleases, which Nalla loves. Phury’s a natural. So’s Butch.
J.R.:
What about Vishous?
Wrath:
Meh. I think Nalla makes him nervous. He made her a dagger, though. (laughs) Fucking hard-ass. What kind of crack bastard makes a dagger for an infant?
J.R.:
Bet it’s lovely, though.
Wrath:
Shit, yeah. He put all these . . . (The king pauses and flicks at the line as if he thinks he’s got something hooked.) He put all these diamonds on the hilt. Spent three days working on it. Says it’s for when she starts dating.
J.R.:
(laughing) I’ll bet.
Wrath:
Might go to waste. Zsadist says she’s never dating. Ever.
J.R.:
Uh-oh.
Wrath:
Yeah. Z’s little girl? You want to be the male coming to call on her? Shiiiiiiit.
J.R.:
I’d pass.
Wrath:
I know I would. Like my balls right where they are, thank you very much.
J.R.:
(after another stretch of quiet) Can I ask about Tohr?
Wrath:
Figured you would.
J.R.:
(waits for him to say something) So I’m asking about him.
Wrath:
(annoyed) Look, what do you want me to say? He went into the woods to die. Lassiter brought him back to people who remind him every day of his dead shellan. He needs to feed, and of course he’s refusing, and I don’t blame him for that at all. He’s weak and angry and he just wants to be dead. That’s how he’s doing.
J.R.:
(knowing not to push any more) Is it weird having Lassiter around?
Wrath:
(laughs tightly) That angel is a thing all right. I don’t mind him all that much, and I think he knows it. He took a bullet for me once.
J.R.:
I’d heard. Do you feel like you owe him?
Wrath:
Yeah.
J.R.:
He and V don’t get along.
Wrath:
No, they don’t. (laughs) That’s going to be fun to watch. It’s like two pit bulls in a cage whenever they’re in the same room. And before you ask, no, I don’t know all the ins and outs, and I’m not asking.
