Текст книги "The King"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

ONE

MANHATTAN’S MEATPACKING DISTRICT, PRESENT

“Give me your mouth,” Wrath demanded.

Beth tilted her head back and leaned into her mate’s arms. “You want it? So take it.”

The growl that came out of that massive chest was a reminder that her man was not, in fact, a man. He was the last purebred vampire left on the planet—and when it came to her and sex, he was fully capable of going wrecking-ball to get at her.

And not in the stupid-ass Miley Cyrus poser-sex way—and provided Beth was willing, of course. Although really, when a woman had the opportunity to get with six feet, nine inches of hard-ass dressed in black leather, who just happened to have pale green eyes that glowed like the moon, and black hair down to the aforementioned concrete posterior?

No was not just out of her vocabulary; it was a foreign concept.

The kiss that came at her was brutal and she wanted it that way, Wrath’s tongue thrusting into her as he shoved her backward through the open doorway of their secret hideaway.

Slam!

Best sound in the world. Well, okay, second-best—number one being what her man made when he came inside of her.

At the mere thought of it, her core opened even further.

“Oh, fuck,” he said into her mouth as one of his hands slipped in between her thighs. “I want this—yeah … are you wet for me, leelan.”

Not a question. Because he knew the answer, didn’t he.

“I can smell you,” he groaned against her ear as he ran his fangs up her throat. “The most beautiful thing in the world—except for your taste.”

That gravel in his voice, the straining in his hips, that hard length pressing into her—she orgasmed right then and there.

“Fuck me, we need to do this more,” he gritted as she ground herself against his hand, working her hips. “Why the fuck haven’t we come down here every night?”

The thought of the mess that waited for them back in Caldwell drained some of the heat out of her. But then he started massaging her with his fingers, working the seam of her jeans against her most sensitive place while his tongue probed her mouth the way he did when he was … um, yeah.

Gee whiz, what do you know, surprise, surprise—everything about his being King and the assassination attempt and the Band of Bastards just floated away.

He was right. Why the hell didn’t they make time for this slice of heaven on a regular basis?

Giving herself up to the sex, her hands tangled in his waist-length hair, its softness at odds with the harshness of his face, the strength in his incredible body, that iron core of his will. She’d never been one of those silly chippies who dreamed about a Prince Charming or a fairy-tale wedding or any of that Disney musical bullcrap. But even for someone who had had no illusions and no intention of ever signing a marriage certificate, there was no way she would have pictured herself with Wrath, son of Wrath, King of a race that as far as she had known back then was nothing more than a Halloween myth.

Yet here she was, head over heels with a straight-up killer who had a trucker’s vocabulary, a royal bloodline as long as his arm, and enough attitude to make Kanye West look like a self-esteem reject.

Okay, he wasn’t quite that egocentric—although, yup, he probably would cut Taylor Swift off in a heartbeat, but that was because rap and hip-hop were his music of choice and not ’cuz he was being a hater.

Bottom line, her hellren was a his-way-or-no-way kind of guy, and the throne he sat on meant that personality defect was embraced on bended knee as the law of the land.

Talk about a perfect storm. The good news? She was the sole exception, the only person who could talk sense into him when he really got his hackles up. It was like that with all of the Brothers and their mates: Members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, the race’s elite group of fighters and meatheads, were not known for being easygoing. Then again, you didn’t want pussies on the front line of any war, especially when the bad guys were of the ilk of the Lessening Society.

And those goddamned Bastards.

“I’m not going to make it to the bed,” Wrath moaned. “I gotta be in you now.”

“So take me on the floor.” She sucked on his lower lip. “You know how to do that, don’t you?”

More growling, and a big shift in the planet’s orientation as she was popped off the ground and laid out on all that polished wood. The loft that Wrath had once used as a bachelor pad was right out of central casting: It had a cathedral ceiling, an empty warehouse’s decor, and the matte black paint job of an Uzi. It was nothing like the Brotherhood mansion where they lived, and that was the point.

As beautiful as that place was, all the gold leaf and crystal chandeliers and antique furniture could get a little stifling—

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

With that happy noise, she lost another outfit in her wardrobe—and wasn’t Wrath proud of himself: Flashing fangs long as daggers and white as the driven snow, he proceeded to turn her silk button-down into a Swiffer, shredding the thing off her naked breasts, buttons flying everywhere.

“Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Wrath tore off his wraparounds and smiled, exposing his dental hardware. “Nothing in the way…”

Looming over her, he latched onto her nipple while his hands went to the waistband of her black jeans. All things considered, he was pretty polite as he unhooked the catch and unzipped, but she knew what was coming …

With a violent jerk, he laid waste to what had been a two-week-old pair of Levi’s.

She didn’t care. Neither did he.

Oh, God, she needed this.

“You’re right, it’s been way too long,” she hissed as he went after his own fly, popping the buttons free, unleashing an erection that still managed to take her breath away.

“I’m sorry,” he bit out as he grabbed her behind the neck and mounted her.

As she opened her thighs wide for him, she knew exactly why he was apologizing. “Don’t be—Jesus!”

The blazing possession was exactly what she wanted—and so was the rough ride he gave her, his heavy weight crushing her, her bare ass squeaking against the floor as he pounded into her, her legs straining to link around so he could go even deeper. It was total domination, his great body pistoning in an erotic pump that got ever faster and more intense.

But as good as it was, she knew how to take things to the next level. “Aren’t you thirsty yet?” she drawled.

Total. Molecular. Stoppage.

Like he’d been hit with an ice ray. Or maybe a truck.

As he lifted his head, his eyes lit up so brightly, she knew if she looked on the floor next to her, she’d see her own shadow.

Digging into his shoulders with her nails, she arched up to him and cocked her head to the side. “How about something to drink?”

His lips curled off his fangs and he let out a cobra’s hiss.

The bite was like being stabbed, but the pain faded into a sweet delirium that carried her to another dimension. Floating and grounded at the same time, she moaned and pushed her fingers into his hair, yanking him even closer as he sucked at her throat and thrust into her sex.

She orgasmed—and so did he.

Duh.

God, after a dry spell of how long? At least a month—which was unheard of for them—she realized how much they both had to have this. Too much static from all the demands around them. Too much stress polluting the hours. Too much toxic crap they didn’t have time to process with each other.

Like, after he’d been shot in the neck, had they really talked about it? Sure, there had been the OMG, you’re alive, you made it stuff … but she was still flinching every time a doggen opened a bottle of wine in the dining room or the Brothers played pool after hours.

Who knew that a cue ball smacking into a rack sounded exactly like a gun going off?

She hadn’t. Not until Xcor had decided to put a bullet into Wrath’s jugular.

Hardly the kind of education she’d been looking for—

For no good reason, tears flooded her eyes and broke free, tangling in her lashes and seeping down her cheeks even as another round of pleasure flooded her body.

And then the image of Wrath’s gunshot wound billboarded her vision.

Red blood on the bulletproof vest he’d worn. Red blood on his muscle shirt. Red blood on his skin.

The dangerous times come home, the ugliness of reality no longer a hypothetical bogeyman in her mental closet, but a scream in her soul.

Red was the color of death to her.

Wrath froze for a second time and jerked his head up. “Leelan?”

Opening her eyes, she had a sudden panic that she couldn’t see him right, that that face she looked for in every room no matter the hour was gone, that that visual confirmation of his life wasn’t going to be there for the taking anymore.

Except all she had to do was blink. Blink, blink, blink … and he was back with her, clear as day.

And that made her cry more. Because her strong, beloved man was blind—and though that didn’t make him handicapped in her opinion, it did cheat him out of some fundamentals, and that just wasn’t fair.

“Oh, fuck, I hurt you—”

“No, no…” She took his face in her hands. “Don’t stop.”

“I should have gone over to the bed—”

The sure way to get him refocused was to arch under him, and she did, undulating and rolling her hips so that her core stroked him. And Hello, big boy, the friction registered, rendering him tongue-tied and torn.

“Don’t stop,” she reiterated, trying to draw him back down to her vein. “Ever…”

But Wrath held off, stroking a piece of hair away from her face. “Don’t think like that.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

There was no reason to define what “like that” meant: Treasonous plots. Wrath at that ornate desk, strangled by his position. The future unknown and not in a good way.

“I’m goin’ nowhere, leelan. You don’t worry about a goddamn thing. Understand me?”

Beth wanted to believe him. Needed to. But she feared it was a promise far harder to keep than speak.

“Beth?”

“Make love to me.” It was the only truth she could put out there that wouldn’t burst the bubble. “Please.”

He kissed her once. Twice. And then started to move again. “Always, leelan. Always.”

Best. Night. Ever.

As Wrath pushed himself off of his shellan an hour later, he couldn’t breathe, he was bleeding at the throat, and his Man of Steel cock had finally gone wet-noodle.

Although knowing the damn thing’s stamina? He had five, maybe ten minutes before Mr. Happy got to grinnin’ again.

The big bed in the center of the loft’s vast space had been upgraded since his Beth had mated him, and as he stretched out on his back, he had to admit that having sex on the thing was so much better than doing it on the floor. That said, as he recovered, its sheets were unnecessary as he could have fried an egg on his chest from the exertion. Blankets were an absolute hell-no. Pillows had been lost quickly because there was no headboard, but the advantage was leverage from any compass point.

Sometimes he liked to put a foot down and really dig in.

Beth let out a sigh that was longer and more satisfying than a Shakespearian sonnet—and talk about a hell-yeah? Wrath’s chest inflated like a hot-air balloon.

“I do you okay?” he drawled.

“God. Yes.”

More with the smiling. It was The Mask all over again, nothing but Jim Carrey, Pepsodent white over here. And she was right: The sex had been beyond fantastic. He’d fucked her across the floor until they were in range of the mattress. Then, like the gentlemale he was, he’d put her on the bed … and had her another three times. Four?

He could do this all night—

Sure as an eclipse could wipe out the moon, his cosmic relaxation disappeared and took all warmth with it.

There was no all night for him anymore. Not when it came to kickin’ it with his female.

“Wrath?”

“I’m right here, leelan,” he murmured.

As she rolled onto her side, he could feel her staring at him, and even though his vision had finally given up the ghost and conked out on him entirely, he could picture her long, thick black hair and her blue eyes and her beautiful face.

“You’re not.”

“I’m fine.”

Shit, what time was it? Had it been longer than the hour it had felt like? Probably. When it came to the grind with Beth, he could lose motherfucking days.

“It’s after one,” she said softly.

“Fuck me.”

“Would it help to talk? Wrath … can you tell me where you’re at?”

Ah, hell, she was right. He had been checking out a lot lately, retreating to a place in his mind where the chaos couldn’t get to him—not a bad thing, but it was a solo trip.

“Just not ready to go back to work.”

“I don’t blame you.” She found his mouth and brushed her lips against his. “Can we stay a little longer?”

“Yeah.” But not long enough …

A subtle alarm sounded on his wrist.

“Goddamn it.” Putting his forearm across his face, he shook his head. “Time flies, huh.”

And responsibilities waited for him. He had petitions to review. Proclamations to draft. And e-mails in his inbox, those fucking e-mails that the glymera pulled out of their asses on a nightly basis … although those had been drying up lately—probably a sign that that bunch of fruit loops were talking among themselves. Not good news.

Wrath cursed again. “I don’t know how my father did this. Night after night. Year after year.”

Only to be killed brutally too young.

At least when the elder Wrath had been on his throne, things had been stable: His citizenry had loved him and he had loved them. No treasonous plots cooking in back rooms. The enemy had been from without, not within.

“I’m so sorry,” Beth said. “Are you sure there aren’t some things you can put off?”

Wrath sat up, brushing his long hair back. As he stared off ahead, seeing nothing, he wanted to be out fighting.

Not an option. In fact, the only thing on his dance card was going back to Caldie and rechaining himself to that desk. His fate had been sealed many, many years ago, when his mother had gone into her needing, and his father had done what a hellren should … and against all odds, the heir had been conceived, and birthed, and then nurtured long enough so he could see both of them killed by lessers right in front of his still-functional, pretrans eyes.

Crystal clear, the memories were.

It hadn’t been until after his change when the ocular defect had begun to manifest itself. But that weakness was, like the throne, part of his hereditary due. The Scribe Virgin had had a prescribed breeding plan, one that had amplified the most desirable traits in males and females and created a caste-like system of social hierarchy. Good plan, up to a point. As usual with shit like Mother Nature, the law of unintended consequences had decided to slap a bitch—and that was how this King with his “perfect” lineage had ended up blind.

Frustrated, he jacked out of bed—and naturally hit one of those pillows instead of the floor. As his foot flipped out from underneath him and his balance went carnival funhouse, he threw out hands to catch himself, but didn’t know where he was in space—

Wrath slammed into the floor, the pain exploding on his left side, but that wasn’t the worst part. He could hear Beth scrambling through the messed-up sheets to get to him.

“No!” he barked, shoving himself out of her range. “I got it.”

As his voice ricocheted around the open space of the loft, he wanted to put his head through a plate-glass window. “Sorry,” he muttered, yanking his hair back.

“It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

“You’ve been under a lot of stress. It happens.”

Christ, like they were talking about him going soft during sex?

God, when he’d started in with the King shit, he’d done that internal-resolution bullcrap and made a commitment to rock that crown, be a standup guy, step into his daddy’s boots, blah, blah, blah. But the unfortunate reality was, this was a marathon that was going to last his entire breathing life—and he was flagging after only two years. Three. However long it had been.

What the hell year was it anyway?

Shit knew he’d always had a short fuse, but being locked in the midnight of his blindness with nothing except demands he didn’t jones over was making him volcanic.

No, wait, that was a little more temperate than where he was at—and the underlying issue was his personality. Fighting was his first and best calling, not ruling from a chair.

The father had been a male of the pen; the son was of the sword.

“Wrath?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted something to eat before we leave.”

He pictured going back to the mansion, doggen everywhere, Brothers in and out, shellans all around … and felt like he couldn’t breathe. He loved them all, but goddamn, there was no privacy there.

“Thanks, but I’ll just catch something at my desk.”

There was a long silence. “All right.”

Wrath stayed on the floor as she got dressed, the soft shifting of her jeans going up those long, luscious legs like a funeral dirge.

“Is it okay to wear your muscle shirt?” she asked. “My blouse is done for.”

“Yeah. Abso.”

Her sadness smelled like autumn rain and felt just as cold in the air to him.

Man, to think there were people out there who wanted to be King, he thought as he got to his feet.

Fucking. Crazy.

If it weren’t for his father’s legacy, and all those vampires who had truly, deeply loved his sire, he would have blown it all off and not looked back. But pulling out? He couldn’t do that. His father had been a King for the history books, a male who had not just commanded authority by virtue of the throne he sat on, but had inspired honest devotion.

Wrath lost the crown? He might as well piss all over his sire’s grave.

When his shellan’s palm slid into his own, he jumped. “Here are your clothes,” she said, putting them into his hands. “And I have your wraparounds.”

With a quick shift, he pulled her against him, holding her to his naked body. She was a tall female, but even so she barely came up to his pecs, and as he closed his eyes, he curled himself around her.

“I want you to know something,” he said into her hair.

As she went still, he tried to pull something worth hearing out of his ass. Some string of words that were even in the same zip code as what was doing in his chest.

“What,” she whispered.

“You are everything to me.”

It was so incredibly, totally not enough—and yet she sighed and melted into him like that was all she’d wanted to hear. And a bag of chips.

Sometimes you got lucky.

And as he continued to hold her, he knew he’d do well to remember that. As long as he had this female by his side?

He could get through anything.

TWO

CALDWELL, NEW YORK

“Long live the King.”

As Abalone, son of Abalone, spoke the words, he tried to gauge the response of the three males who had knocked upon his door, marched into his home and were standing in his library, staring at him as if measuring him for a shroud.

Actually, no. He tracked only one expression—that of the disfigured warrior who stood far behind the others, lounging against the silk wallpaper, combat boots solidly on the Persian carpet.

The male’s eyes were hidden beneath the overhang of a heavy brow, the irises dark enough so there was no telling what color they were, blue or brown or green. His body was enormous, and even at rest, it was a bald-faced threat, a grenade with a slippery pin. And his response to what had been said?

No change in his features, that harelip nothing but a slash, the frown the same. No emotion shown.

But that dagger hand flexed wide-open and then curled into a fist.

Clearly, the aristocrat Ichan and the lawyer Tyhm, who had brought this fighter over, had lied. This was not a “conversation about the future”—no, something like that would suggest that Abalone had a choice in the matter.

This was a warning shot across his bloodline’s bow, an all-aboard call to which there was but one answer.

And yet, even still, the words had come out of his mouth as they had, and he could not change them.

“Are you certain of your reply?” Ichan asked with an arched brow.

Ichan was typical of his breeding and financial net worth, refined to the point of femininity in spite of his gender, dressed in a coordinated suit and tie with every hair in place. Beside him, Tyhm, the solicitor, was the same only even thinner, as if his considerable mental prowess sapped his caloric intake.

And both of them, as well as the warrior, were prepared to wait for the answer they’d been given to change.

Abalone’s eyes went to an ancient scroll that had been framed and mounted on the wall by the double doors. He couldn’t read the small Old Language characters from across the room, but there was no need to go in for a close-up. He knew each one by heart.

“I was unaware that there was a question posed of me,” Abalone said.

Ichan smiled falsely and strolled around, fingering a sterling silver bowl of red apples, the collection of Cartier desk clocks on a side table, the bronze bust of Napoleon on the desk by the windowed alcove.

“We are, of course, interested in your position.” The aristocrat stopped in front of a pen-and-ink drawing on a stand. “This is your daughter, I believe?”

Abalone’s chest got tight.

“She is about to be presented, is she not?” Ichan looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”

Abalone wanted to shove the male away from the image.

Of all things that were considered “his,” his precious young, the only offspring he and his shellan had had, was the moon in his night sky, the joy that marked the household’s hours, his compass for the future. And he wanted so many things for her—not in glymera terms, though. No, he wished for her what her mahmen and he had found—at least for the years until his female had been called unto the Fade.

He wished for his daughter abiding love with a male of worth who would take care of her.

If she was not allowed to be presented to society? That might never happen.

“I’m sorry,” Ichan drawled. “Did you answer and I missed the reply?”

“She is due to be offered soon, yes.”

“Yes.” The aristocrat smiled again. “I know that you worry appropriately at her prospects. As a father myself, I am in your shoes—with daughters, you need to make sure they are mated well.”

Abalone didn’t release his breath until the male resumed his lazy loop around the room. “Does it not give you a degree of security to think that there are such clear demarcations within our society? Corrective breeding has resulted in a superior group of individuals, and we are required by custom and common sense to preserve our associations with like members of our race. Can you imagine your daughter married to a commoner?”

That last word lingered, carrying the pronunciation of an expletive and the threat of a cocked gun.

“No, you would not,” Ichan answered for himself.

In truth, Abalone wasn’t so certain. If the male loved her enough? But that was not the point of all this, was it.

Ichan paused to glance over the oil paintings that hung in front of the family’s vast collection of shelved first editions. The artwork was, naturally, of ancestors, with the most prominent among them mounted over the marble fireplace’s grand mantel.

A famous male in the history of the race, and of Abalone’s bloodline. The Noble Redeemer, as he was known among the family.

Abalone’s sire.

Ichan waved his hand around, including not just the room, but the house, all of its contents, and all the persons under its roof. “This is worthy of conservation, and the only way that happens is if the Old Ways are respected. The tenets that we, the glymera, seek to uphold are the very basis of what you hope to provide your daughter—without them, who knows where she could end up.”

Abalone closed his eyes briefly.

And didn’t that make the aristocrat assume a kinder, gentler voice. “That King you just spoke of so reverently—he’s mated to a half-breed.”

Abalone’s lids flipped open. As with all members of the Council, he had been informed of the royal union, and that was the extent of it. “I thought he was mated unto Marissa, daughter of Wallen.”

“In fact, not. The ceremony took place just a year before the raids, and the assumption was that the King had followed through on the promise to Havers’s sister—but suspicions arose when Marissa was subsequently unioned with a Brother. Later, it came out to us through Tyhm”—he nodded to the lawyer—“that Wrath had taken another female—who is not of our race.”

There was a pause, as if Abalone were being given the chance to gasp at the revelation. When he didn’t become woozy from shock, Ichan leaned in and spoke slowly—as if to a mental deficient. “If they have offspring, the heir to the throne would be a quarter human.”

“No one is of truly pure blood,” Abalone murmured.

“More’s the pity. Surely you will agree, however, that there is a tremendous difference between distant human relations … and a King who is substantially of that horrid race. But even if you are not offended—and surely that is not the case—the Old Laws provide the dictate. The King is to be a full-bred male—and Wrath, son of Wrath, cannot provide that for us in an heir.”

“Assuming this is true—”

“It is.”

“What do you expect of me?”

“I’m simply making you aware of the situation. I am nothing more than a concerned citizen.”

Then why come with the violent backup? “Well, I appreciate your keeping me informed—”

“The Council is going to have to take action.”

“In what form?”

“There will be a vote. Soon.”

“To disavow any heirs?”

“To remove the King. His authority is such that he could change the laws at any time, eradicating the provision and further weakening the race. He must be taken down lawfully as soon as possible.” The aristocrat glanced over at the drawing of Abalone’s daughter. “I trust that at the Council’s special session, your bloodline will be well represented by your seal and your colors.”

Abalone glanced at the fighter leaning against his wall. The male seemed barely to breathe, but he was far from asleep.

How long until ruination came upon this house if he did not pledge his vote? And what form would it take?

He imagined his daughter mourning the loss of her only parent and being forsaken for the rest of her future. Himself tortured and then killed in some gruesome way.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, the narrowed eyes of that warrior were trained on him like he was a target.

“Long live the proper King,” Ichan said, “is more like it.”

On that note, the natty “concerned citizen” took his leave, filing out of the room with the attorney.

Abalone’s heart thundered as he was left alone with the fighter … and after a moment of screaming silence, the male uncoiled himself and went to the silver bowl of apples.

In a low, heavily accented voice, he said, “These are for the taking, are they not.”

Abalone opened his mouth, but all that emerged was a squeak.

“Is that a yes?” came a murmur.

“Indeed. Yes.”

The fighter reached up to his chest harness and withdrew a dagger, the silver blade of which seemed long as a grown male’s arm. With a quick toss, he flipped the weapon up in the air, the light flashing on the sharp edge—and with equal assurance, he caught the handle and stabbed one of the apples.

All without breaking eye contact with Abalone.

Removing his due from the bowl, his hard eyes drifted over to the drawing. “She’s quite beautiful. For now.”

Abalone put his body in the way of the depiction, prepared to sacrifice himself if it came to that: He didn’t want the warrior even looking at the picture, much less commenting on it—or doing so much worse.

“Anon, then,” the fighter said.

He left with the apple held upright, impaled to the core.

When Abalone heard the front door shut in the distance, he all but collapsed, falling onto the silk-covered sofa with limp limbs and a pounding heart. Even though his hands were shaking, he managed to take a cigarette out of a crystal box and ignite it with a heavy crystal lighter.

Inhaling, he stared at the picture of his daughter and knew true terror for the first time in his life.

“Dearest Virgin Scribe…”

There had been signs of unrest for a good year: rumors and rumbling indicating that the King was falling into disfavor among certain quadrants of the aristocracy; gossip that an assassination attempt had been made; insinuations that a cabal had formed and was prepared to move. And then there had been that Council meeting where Wrath had come forward with the Brotherhood and addressed the assembled with a bald-faced threat.

It had been the first time people had seen the King for … well, longer than Abalone could remember. In fact, he couldn’t recall when anyone had had an audience with the ruler. There had been proclamations disseminated, of course—and edicts that had been progressive and, in Abalone’s mind, long overdue.

Others didn’t agree, however.

And were obviously prepared to force the hands of those who didn’t concur with them.

Shifting his eyes to the portrait of his father, he tried to find some bravery in his deeper self, some kind of bedrock to plant his feet upon and stand up for what he knew was right: If Wrath had mated a half-breed, so what, if he loved her? A lot of the Old Laws that he was reforming were discriminatory, and if anything, the King’s choice of shellan showed that he walked the talk of his modernizing.

And yet there was some old-school in the King, however: Two aristocrats had been killed recently. Montrag. Elan. Both violently and in their homes. And both had been associated with dissent.

Clearly, Wrath was not going to sit back idly whilst plots simmered against him. The bad news was that his enemies in court were stepping up the stakes as well, bringing their own muscle.

Abalone reached into the pocket of his smoking jacket and took out his iPhone. Pulling up a number from his contacts, he initiated a call and listened to the ringing with half an ear.

When a male voice answered, he had to clear his throat. “I need to know if you’ve been visited.”

His cousin hesitated not a moment. “Yes. I have.”

Abalone cursed. “I don’t want any part of this.”

“No one does. But this legal angle of theirs?” His cousin took a deep breath. “About the heir? People are responding.”

“It’s not right. Wrath has been doing good things, moving us in the ways of the modern world. He’s abolished blood slavery and set up that home for abused females and their young. He’s been fair and even handed with proclamations—”