What thefuckwas wrong with her. Why was this only dawning on her now?
“Never,” he choked out. “I never, ever want to be separated from you. And L.W. is my son, my blood. I will not forsake him.”
She had been mad at the wrong thing. All these years, and right from the beginning. Wrath had gone to the old Audience House to save Fritz, and evil had set the bomb: Her mate had sacrificed himself to protect another. As he always did.
Lash was the one to be angry at. Not herhellren.
Everyone else is out there in the field. All of the Brothers, all of the fighters—and their families shit themselves every night. But you get a pass because you married the King. You are lucky.
As L.W.’s words came back at her, the pattern under her right palm registered with a piercing clarity.
It was the pectoral scar from Wrath’s induction into the Black Dagger Brotherhood.
“I hate that bastard Lash,” she growled. “I hate him so fucking much.”
Wrath pulled hisshellaninto him and wrapped her up tight. If there was any way he could bear the regret and pain she was feeling for her, he would. The anger, too. But all he could do was hold her and be there.
Which was the fucking point of giving up the throne, wasn’t it. He was back, for his mate and their son, and he was damn well going to devote all his time to being what they needed.
Although he knew with L.W., it was going to be a case of whether the fighter would let him in.
“I’m going to make it up to you,” he vowed.
She eased back. “You don’t have to. That’s what is dawning on me. You don’t owe me apologies or anything else. We both lost those years, just in different ways. And I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it all out.”
He touched her face, and imagined what she looked like, staring up at him. “Never apologize.”
“I will. Whenever I want.”
Wrath chuckled and lowered his head for a brief kiss. She’d always stood up to him, even from the very beginning—and she was the only person in his life who ever did that.
“I love you—” A shuffle of footfalls cranked his head around. And as he flared his nostrils, he frowned. “V? What the fuck are you doing out of bed—”
“Six civilians,” came the rough reply. “Right off Market, in an alley behind that club, Bathe. Two were abducted, three killed outright, one was mortally wounded and survived long enough to tell what had happened. No human involvement. No calls into our emergency response number. No IDs.”
As Rhage’s scent also registered, an old familiar rage came back with an explosion. “Who found them.”
A third scent registered before the reply hit the airwaves: “I did.”
Allhan. V and Doc Jane’s adopted, absolutely-not-V’s-son-except-the-kid-totally-was son. And the voice was different now, deep and low, the transition survived.
Jesus Christ, what L.W. had been through with the Chosen dying—except there could be no getting derailed by all that right now.
“Tell me, son,” Wrath ordered in as close to a level voice as he could manage. “I want to know everything.”
Others gathered around, coming from both directions in the corridor. The scents were as familiar as his own, and all he could think of as the Brotherhood and fighters encircled him was that they had been here…how many times? Too many to count over the centuries.
He knew the story before the tale was told.
Allhan’s choked words came out in fits and starts: “When I left the club through the emergency exit we use, I found them in the alley…on the east side. The smell…of their blood was so strong. I called for help, just like we’re supposed to do—”
V cut in. “Xcor and Payne were covering the territory and came right away.”
“Right away,” Allhan repeated. “The males had been with Shuli, but he left early. They are—were—his friends.”
Aristocrats. Great. Like theglymeraneeded another reason to come after the Brotherhood and the throne.
“When you found them, one of them was alive,” Wrath nudged.
