Page 53 of Lover Forbidden
“Wait in the waiting area like everybody else who’s here to see him.”
Another long moment. And then the solicitor bowed once again. As Saxton straightened, he was pushing at his red ascot, his gold pinkie ring flashing. But he wasn’t going to say what he was thinking.
“As you wish, sire.”
When L.W. nodded briskly toward the front of the house, Saxton flushed. Still, the guy started off and led the way. Protocol was that members of the First Family always went first, and L.W. hated that deference, too.
There were all kinds of offices on the left-hand side of the corridor, and as he passed the open doorways, people looked up—and did double takes. Which was just ridiculous. His sire was the King, not him.
Rounding the final corner, he passed the front entrance and went into a cozy room that had comfortable sofas and chairs already accommodating the first rounds of civilians. Additionally, the receptionist was at her desk, bowed over a printer behind her chair that appeared not to be working.
The collective gasp brought her head up. And then she gasped, too.
Motherfucker.
Even though he wanted to scream, L.W. lifted a lame-ass hand because he didn’t care to reveal how much of a total, unrelenting asshole he was—
On a oner, all of the civilians and the receptionist with the busted HP Laser-whatever-it was burst up to their feet and bent down like they were checking out their legs for signs of amputation. Then their faces lifted to him in their still-jacked stances, the adoration shining like half a dozen heat lamps pointed at him.
Now he knew what the fry station at McD’s felt like.
“Perhaps the Audience Room would be best,” Saxton said quietly.
“Yeah.”
L.W. backed out and turned away as fast as he could. Still, he heard the hushed whispers in his wake, the excited voices and buzzy cadence to the conversation making his skin crawl. It wasn’t until he was shown into his father’s sanctuary of sucking up that he realized why he was so particularly bitched.
In spite of it making no goddamn sense, he’d assumed with the actual Wrath back, all that shit would stop happening. But that was dumbass and a half. As far as they knew, their King had never left, and they’d treated L.W. with deference all along.
“Would you like anything to eat?” Saxton asked from over by the doors. “Thedoggenwould be most happy to serve you.”
He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d eaten, or the last proper meal he’d had. “I’m good. Thanks.”
Shouldn’t he be hungry? he thought as the male bowed and backed out.
As things were shut quietly, L.W. closed his eyes. He didn’t want to waste sight on the purposely welcoming room with its fireplace already crackling and the pair of armchairs all ready for the ass kissing. He had quite enough memories of the place, from when Rahvyn had been parking it in the position of power—
The door opened behind him, and he knew who it was before he turned around or caught any scent.
Pulling a pivot, he popped his lids.
Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, walked in with his service dog like he owned the place, but hey, he did. And with the force of his presence, the great male could no doubt have waltzed into the White House in D.C. and kick out the humans’ president with just a glare. Towering in height, built like the fighter he was bred to be, he was dressed in his uniform, a black muscle shirt and black leathers. There were no weapons on him, and the only markings that showed on his skin were the tattoos of his lineage that ran up his thick forearms. The long black hair falling from a widow’s peak was just like L.W.’s own, and behind those black wraparounds… were eyes that were the same.
“Give us a minute.”
The King spoke and Tohrment, who was at his heel, backed out immediately, taking whichever other Brothers had also come with him. Annnnnnnnnnd that was how shit ran. One look, one word, and people hopped.
L.W. waited as things were shut, and braced for the explosion—
“How you doin’, son.”
That was it. No screaming. No yelling. The guy just walked on past, his golden retriever by his side, the harness handle connecting them like a molecular tie. When the King got to the set of armchairs, he took the one on the left.
Interesting. Rahvyn had always sat on the other side.
Not that it mattered.
“Well?” came the prompt.
