Текст книги "The King"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

THIRTY-FOUR

Kneeling before the bedding platform, Wrath kept time between his beloved’s breaths, measuring her inhalations as they pushed weakly against the arm he had stretched over her waist. Longer and longer between the draws, slower and slower the exhales.

And meanwhile his own heart continued to beat, and his own lungs did their duty, and his body kept on.

It seemed so cruel—and he would have traded her his health in a moment. He would have given her anything of his just to keep her with him—and as that was not possible, he put his palm on the hilt of his jeweled dagger and brought it between them.

Focusing on her parted lips, he angled the blade so that it was pointed at the center of his chest. The supports of the platform were constructed out of stout oak panels, and they happened to be at just the right height for what he required: Bracing the base of the weapon’s handle on the edge of the wood, he kept the dagger upright in his grip and leaned in, measuring the distance he had to close.

Putting his sternum to the tip of the blade, he pushed in enough to feel the pinch.

Satisfied with the angle, he turned the knife around and took the point to the wood itself, digging a circle out of the fibers, creating a lock for the base. As he chipped away, it seemed disrespectful to waste the last of his Anha’s breaths on such efforts—he should be paying mind unto her, and her alone.

But preparations needed to be made.

If he lost her before he took care of this, he was liable to make a sloppy attempt, and he needed to make sure that there was no chance of survival—

“What … do you do?”

Wrath’s head jerked up. And at first he could not comprehend the sight a’fore him.

His Anha had turned her pale face to him and was staring out from under heavy lids.

The dagger point slipped from the perch he was creating, sinking into the wrist of the hand he’d braced. The slice didn’t register.

“Anha …?”

Her tongue licked at the blood on her lips. “Our son…”

Verily, he did not hear whate’er it was she said. Tears came to his eyes and his heart pounded, and he wondered first if this was not a dream … a function of his having followed through with his own death, stabbing himself in the very place he felt the love for her most keenly.

Except no—she was reaching out to his face. Touching him with wonder—as if she too could not comprehend a return to consciousness.

“Anha!” He pressed his lips to hers and then brushed his own tears from her cold cheeks.

Abruptly, the healer’s advice came to him and he rushed to put his wrist over her mouth. “Drink, my love—do not speak unto me yet. Drink. First and foremost, you must drink!”

His Anha struggled for only a moment before she swallowed properly once. And again. And a third time.

As she moaned and closed her eyes, it was not from discomfort or fear. No, it was from a vital easing, as if she were feeding a hunger that had pained her and the agony was relenting.

“Drink…” he said as everything went even blurrier. “My love … partake of me and come back…”

Stroking her hair back, he eyed his dagger. And prayed that this miracle stayed with them both. That she remained revived and soon recovered—

“My lord?”

At the sound of a deep voice, Wrath snapped his head around without moving his vein from her lips. The Black Dagger Brother Tohrture was standing just inside the closed chamber door, having entered silently.

“She is roused,” Wrath said hoarsely. “Praise unto the Scribe Virgin … she is roused.”

“Yes,” the Brother said. “And I must needs speak with you.”

“Can it not wait.” He refocused on his beloved. “Leave us—”

The Brother stalked over, and put his lips close to Wrath’s ear, such that not a word traveled: “She looks as your father did.”

Wrath blinked. Looked up. “Pardon?”

The Brother had the most incredible blue eyes, the color something that rivaled the pale aqua gems that had been specially purchased for Anha’s spring gown.

Leaning back down, the words were whispered once more. “Your father presented thus the evening he died.”

As the Brother straightened, those eyes of his never faltered. Neither did his expression. His very body.

A flash of anger had Wrath curling up a fist. The last thing he wanted intruding into this sacred space of hope was any memory of that other night of loss … when he had rushed for the castle upon a black steed, careening through the forests, risking his own life to return in time.

Indeed, much as he wished the chapters of that story to stay free of his mind, they came back to him with clarity: He had suffered an injury during the daylight hours, a slip and fall in his chamber that had rendered him upon a metal spike. The wound had made it impossible for him to dematerialize, but he had been well enough to proceed from the castle when he’d been called out unto one of the Founding Families.

When he had departed at the fall of night, he had not intended to return until the morrow.

The Brotherhood had come for him an hour later.

By the time he had gotten back to the castle, it was too late. His father was gone.

And as for appearances, some dead showed their provenance, it was true: the murdered, the maimed, the aged—in the case of his father, however, the King had just looked asleep, his body cleansed and dressed in ceremonial robes, his hair tended to, his gloves and shoes on as if he intended to walk unto his grave.

“What do you say?” Wrath shook his head. “I cannot…”

Another whisper in his ear: “Look unto her fingernails.”

As Anha’s eyes opened and widened at the sight of the Brother, Wrath leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Worry not, my love.”

Instantly, she calmed under his touch and his voice, continuing to feed as her eyes reshut.

“That is right,” he murmured. “Take what I provide.”

When he was sure she had settled once more, he glanced down at her hands and frowned. Her nails were … blue.

His father’s hands had been gloved.

“Come back,” he said to the Brother roughly. “I shall call for you.”

Tohrture nodded and walked to the door. Before he left, he said clearly, “Do not allow her to imbibe aught that has not been tasted.”

Poison? Had it been … poison?

As their chamber was shut and relocked, Wrath felt a strange calm come unto him: Strength and purpose returned to him as Anha continued to pull against his vein, the sips turning into proper draws. And the more she took from him, the more that death color faded from her fingers.

After his father’s death, he had been weightless in the world—until she had been brought to him and become his tether not just to the breaths in his chest and the beats of his heart, but his reign as King.

To think that his father might have been taken from him? And then his beloved female?

As he thought of Tohrture’s expression … he knew that there were enemies in his court. Enemies capable of murder.

Anger boiled beneath his surface, changing him in the inside … in the way steel and iron were forged.

“Worry not, my love,” he said, clasping her hand in his. “I shall take care of everything.”

And blood will run like the tears you shed in your pain.

He was King, yes. But first and foremost, he was the hellren of this magnificent female—and ahvenge her he would.

THIRTY-FIVE

“Of all the things they had to be right about…”

As Trez lay flat on the slick floor of his bathroom, he put his forearm over his eyes. He was acutely aware that his cock was deflating, all that meaningless sex he’d had taking the wind out of his sails and then some.

But he was even more clear on who was next to him, naked on the fur rug.

Shit, he had to get that towel back on his hips and—

“Who is ‘they’?”

Grabbing for the terry cloth, he couldn’t even look at Selena. “My people.”

“What are they right about?”

“Why are you still here?”

When he realized what that sounded like, he sat up—and caught her recoil. “Sorry—I just mean, how are you putting up with my crap.”

Goddamn, she was utterly edible sitting there, that robe covering nothing but her shoulders, her breasts still peaked, her legs arranged so that if he moved just a little, he could see her …

Selena pulled the draping across herself—and as much as it pained him, it was the right thing on so many levels. He had ruined what had been happening between them.

But for the right reasons.

“I’m sorry,” he said, thinking that he should have that tattooed on his forehead so he saw it in the mirror every morning, every night.

He should never have taken things as far as they’d gone. Ever.

“For stopping?”

“No, I’m not sorry about that.” As she winced, he wanted to kick himself in the balls. “What I mean is … fuck. I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.”

There was a long silence. And then she said calmly. “You need to know that there is nothing you can’t tell me.”

“Be careful with that—Pandora’s box is hard to close.”

“Nothing.” Her eyes were totally clear as she stared over at him. “I have nothing to fear—from you or by you. I do think you owe me an explanation, however. Assuming that you have no intention of continuing—and if only so that I do not blame myself for this.”

Wow, okay. If he’d thought she was hot before? Now, she was in goddess territory: Physical beauty was one thing; having a spine was even more attractive.

And she had a point.

“All right,” he said, feeling like a total reject. But she did have a right to know. “I’ve fucked a lot of human females in the last ten years—and none of that mattered to me until tonight with you. And I think I’m about to condemn my parents to a torturous death. Other than that, I’m fine.”

Her brows rose. But she didn’t recoil; she didn’t run. There were a number of deep breaths, however. “Maybe we’ll just take the second half of that first. What on the Scribe Virgin’s Earth are you talking about?”

“It’s a fucking mess—I’m a mess.”

She waited, clearly expecting him to continue. “And you have told me nothing.”

Staring into her eyes, he felt such respect for her. “God … how is it possible that you exist?”

“Still not telling me a thing.” She smiled slowly. “Although I like the way you’re looking at me.”

Trez shook his head, knowing she deserved so much better than he could ever offer her. “You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.”

“That’s for me to decide. Now speak—if you’re so determined to put me off of you, then use your words to persuade me of your ugliness.”

“The sex life didn’t do it already?”

“I am trained as an ehros. It is my expectation that males have carried their seed far and wide.”

He narrowed his eyes: Her face had suddenly become impassive, and that was a serious-ass tell. “There’s one other thing.”

“Which is.”

“I’m promised to someone.”

She almost hid her wince. Almost. “Indeed.”

“Yeah. Indeed. And if I don’t show, my parents are going to get slaughtered.”

“So you are not in love?”

“I haven’t met her. And I don’t want to.”

Some of the tension left the Chosen. “You have no knowledge of her at all?”

“None. Except that she’s the queen’s daughter.”

Those incredible eyes got wider. “You are to be royalty, then.”

He thought of how much fun Wrath was having on his throne, and all the kicks and giggles Rehv was rocking as imperial head of the symphaths—and at least they were allowed out into the night. Well, kinda, in Wrath’s case.

His future was going to be all about the gilded cage.

“My parents sold me when I was very young,” he heard himself say. “I was never given a choice—and now? Unless I go back to the Territory, the pair of them aren’t going to live long.”

Selena’s head eased to the side, her mind clearly working. “There is no chance for negotiating?”

“None.”

“Can your parents not give the price paid back?”

He thought of his mother’s cynical smile that night he’d last seen her. “Even if they could, I don’t think they would.”

Her brows rose again. “Are you certain?”

“It would be consistent with them.”

“Have you not asked?”

“No, I haven’t. But it would involve going back to the s’Hisbe, and that’s not possible.”

“Is there not someone you could send on your behalf?”

He pictured iAm going into the Territory. The contract was specifically for Trez, so it wasn’t as if the high priest, or even s’Ex, could do a bait and switch. They could, however, take his brother hostage. Or worse.

And that would get Trez back.

“I don’t think so. My brother’s the only one, and I can’t risk that. I won’t risk him.”

“And you think your parents will be…”

“No, I know they’ll kill them.” He massaged the nape of his neck. “You know, so much of this is sad—but I think the worst of it is the fact that I can’t even pretend to be emotional about those two. It’s, like … they made a deal with the devil. If something bad happens, they’re just getting what’s coming to them.”

Unfortunately, however, regardless of what happened to his mother and father … the debt would still be owed.

Even if s’Ex carved them up into little bitty pieces, Trez would remain on the line for what they had contracted for.

What had been set in motion … could not be undone. And as he kept looking at Selena, he mourned that truth now more than ever.

* * *

Selena’s hands were shaking. Had been ever since Trez had said that he’d been with … exactly how many human women? she wondered.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she didn’t even want to think about that.

She could, however, at least try to get her hands to stop trembling. As Trez fell silent, she splayed her fingers wide and flexed them, hoping that it would stop things before he saw through her calm facade: She had the very clear sense that if he became aware he’d upset her, he would never say another word … and this intimate space that had unexpectedly opened up between them was even more sacred than the sexual experience had promised to be.

“I did not have parents as such,” she said quietly. “But I cannot imagine having a young and … selling them.”

Trez nodded, his arm cocked high so that he could continue to rub the base of his neck. “I know, right? I mean, my parents did value me. The problem is, I was a commodity to them, something to be bartered. You expect that from car dealers and rug merchants and people who run supermarkets and malls. And listen, I wish I was one of those well-adjusted motherfuckers so I could be all like, ‘They didn’t want me, but I’m still of value, blah, blah, blah’—things haven’t worked out like that for me, though. In my head…” He made a circle at his temple. “I’m not anything. I’m not … anything.”

Suddenly, Selena wanted to weep. To stare across at this absolutely magnificent male … and know that in his heart, he saw nothing of what he was? It was a crime—a crime caused by the very people who should have cared most about him.

“Is that why you were with the humans?” she heard herself ask.

In the silence that followed, it was difficult to draw an even breath: She was frightened of his answer. For a whole lot of reasons.

“Yeah.” He cursed under his breath. “Like, you know, I was with this woman—right before I got the migraine.”

That was just the other night, she thought, wanting to cringe—

“And she was as empty as I was feeling. Just two hollow bodies clapping together. It didn’t mean anything, and that’s what I’ve been doing all these years. Physical exercise and that was it.”

Selena struggled for the right thing to say, something that was even-keeled and signaled that she was comfortable with what he was telling her … when in reality it was ripping her heart out. Even though it shouldn’t have.

She’d spent how much time with him? An hour? Two at the very most?

Impending death was making her reckless—

“I could save them,” he said, almost to himself. “If I sacrifice myself, I can save my mother and father.”

He shifted his head to the side sharply and a crack sounded out.

“Here,” she murmured, moving behind him. “Allow me.”

Pushing his hand out of the way, she gripped his iron-hard shoulders and squeezed as he had done, trying to work some ease into the muscle fibers. As she worked at him, his smooth skin slid over ropes of tension, but that was the only thing that seemed to be accomplished.

He groaned. “That feels amazing.”

“I don’t think I’m doing anything.”

His hands briefly covered her own. “You are. More than you know.”

Selena continued the massage and thought of her own past. “As I said, I didn’t have a proper mother and father. I was raised with and by my sisters. I was needed to further the traditions, but I cannot say I was ever wanted by anyone. Claimed, as it were. So, in a way, I can imagine how you feel—bred but not born, as it were, because born implies you were hoped for, prayed for.”

He leaned his head back and stared up at her. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”

She smiled at him and pushed him back into position.

“If my parents are killed, I feel like I’m going to go to hell,” he muttered.

“But you can’t be culpable in this, because you never consented.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You were promised when you were incapable of giving consent—indeed, it sounds as though they never even asked you. Therefore, your failure to perform, and any consequences thereto? They are your parents’ to claim, not yours. This is about you and yet has nothing to do with you.”

“God…”

When he didn’t finish, she frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be presumptuous.”

“You’re not. You’re … perfect.”

“Hardly.”

“I want to do something for you.”

She stilled. “What?”

Because she had some ideas.

“Something worthwhile.”

She eyed the fur rug she had been stretched out on. Oh, it would be worthwhile …

“But I keep coming up with nothing.”

Selena sighed. “Your presence is plenty.”

Trez put his hands over hers again and pulled her forward so that she was draped over his back. Holding her there, he put his head against her own.

As he breathed in, his great torso expanding, she was lifted from the floor and brought back down. “Thank you,” he said in a voice that cracked.

“I have done nothing.”

“You’ve made me feel like I’m not evil. And tonight, that’s everything.”

“Oh, you are never that,” she whispered as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Not you, not ever.”

Closing her eyes, she held on to him, and found herself becoming connected with him at the soul level. To the point where she didn’t know how to leave him. Not just tonight, but … whenever her destiny finally claimed her.

“Have you eaten?” he asked after a while.

“Actually … no.” Her stomach rumbled. “And I am hungry.”

“Let’s go downstairs. My brother was making some of his sauce—or at least, I assume so. He does that every time I have a headache.”

Selena relinquished her hold and went to ease back—

Without warning, her spine rebelled, the vertebrae locking into their position. Trez, on the other hand, got up easily enough—and as he extended his palm to help her up, she could only stare at it.

As confusion played over his handsome features, she figured she might as well accept the help. At this point, she was incapable of lifting herself off the floor.

“Slowly,” she said gruffly. “Please?”

Trez frowned, but was gentle as he lifted her to her feet. “Are you all right?”

She bought herself some time by making a production of tying her robe together. Meanwhile, her joints were screaming, particularly her hips and back.

Forcing a smile onto her face, she tried not to get spooked. But this was how it had started for her sisters. Each one of them.

“Shall we?” she said with determination.

Trez’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed even further. But then he shrugged. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just pull on some clothes.”

“I’ll wait in the hall.”

Through will alone, she made it across the bedroom and out into the corridor. By the time she closed the door behind her, she was choked of breath—

Instantly, her body experienced an internal shift of incredible power. In a way that meant only one thing: Someone was in her needing.

The queen? she thought with astonishment as she looked to the vaulted entrance of the First Family’s private quarters.

Now that would be momentous.

Easing back against the wall, she thought of massaging Trez’s shoulders and wished there was an equivalent for her own body. There was none. No cure, no slowing the disease.

No telling how long she had left.