And that was part of her problem. Grief was a bitch to begin with, but she was ranked pissed off at the dead male—so even as she mourned him because the best part of her was gone, she had the urge to scream at him.
Rising to her feet, she stared down at L.W. His coloring was exactly his father’s, with that jet black hair, and she knew he was going to be just like Wrath as he grew into his long limbs, long torso, and grave face. His eyes had also turned pale green, as his father’s had been, so maybe there was a chance he’d lose his eyesight, too. But her blood was in their son’s veins.
That had to count for something, didn’t it?
L.W. snuffled and let out a mumble. As he frowned, she marveled at how something so small could look so pissed off.
Just like his father.
As she pictured the elder Wrath, sitting on the throne in his study, her one job—herone fucking job—loomed over her. But like it ever left? There wasn’t a second that she wasn’t reminded she had to keep things going long enough for their son to grow up and take over as King. Another Wrath in a long line of Wraths, as it was supposed to be.
The shitkicker of it all, though? The punch line to this nightmare?
She had to see her mate every evening to make sure the succession plan happened.
Each night, down at the Audience House, a projection of her Wrath visited with civilians. A walking, talking, breathing, stalking chimera of herhellrensat in an armchair and mediated disputes, blessed matings and young, was bowed and scraped to. Thanks to Rahvyn and a mystical illusion, no one outside of the adults under this roof knew what had happened.
Life went on…for a version of the King, at least. And sometimes, as she sat up here in their suite, staring into space and surrounded by the galaxy of gems, all she could think of was that a TV show of her life was still available for watching.
She even had a walk-on role.
According to the Old Laws, she had to make all the decisions as L.W.’s regent. For optics, the blessings were done by Rahvyn as “Wrath,” but Beth needed to adjudicate any disputes and issue proclamations as appropriate. She did her best to be fair and logical, but God, she hated it. At the end of every night, she had to go down to that Fort Knox granny cottage to review all the audiences with Saxton, the King’s consigliore. Even though the meetings had been the rhythm of her life for months now, and Sax couldn’t be more kind and supportive, her guts twisted and her eyes welled with tears every second she was there.
The whole thing was just one more facet of the tenuous, heartbreaking solution they’d cobbled together to keep the species from imploding. After all, what choice did they have? There was no way L.W. wasn’t getting the legacy of his sire. It was all he had of his father, the great Blind King. And with both the war and theglymerapower struggles as ugly as ever?
They couldn’t have the throne sit vacant.
Down in the bassinet, a small, clenched fist rose up and rubbed at tightly closed eyes.
“You’re all right,” she whispered as she rocked the little bed. “Keep sleeping.”
Sometimes, it was impossible to look at her son. Other times, it was the only thing she wanted to do. L.W. was tangible proof that Wrath had actually existed, but the young was a mirror for her loneliness and impotent anger. A comfort and a snare.
Damn it, Wrath shouldn’t have gone out that night alone. To a compromised location where the Lessening Society—
“Stop it,” she muttered. Like she hadn’t spent enough time going around on that Ferris wheel of Fucking Hell?
As she let herself sit back on the bed, the quiet pressed in and made her want to scream just so the noise gave her ears something to do—other than register the interior dialogue that refused to give her brain a break. Meanwhile, on the eyeball front, the winking of the gemstones felt like a mocking, optical applause:Look at the widow, crumbling again.
Losing it…again.
She’d read once that you shouldn’t make any big life moves for twelve months after the death of a spouse. Now, she understood why. The chronic pain was like having the flu, something you went to sleep with, woke up with, wore like a cloak of concrete that dragged you down all night, all day. Eventually, you’d do anything just to get a break from the dragging sorrow of it all—and a good dose of change, with the chaos it created, would at least give you a competing demand for your time and attention.
She’d already cut her hair.
That had been last month’s Band-Aid. Riding up to this horrible, commemorative night, she’d hacked it off herself, using sewing shears she’d taken from the laundry room. The blades had been long and sharp and reminded her of her mate’s daggers, even though Wrath’s had been black, not silver.
As the dark lengths hit the bathroom floor, she had christened them with tears.
She was fucking tired of tears.
Mary, Rhage’sshellanand BDB resident therapist, had evened up the jagged ends for her, and now, there was a temptation to color the stuff. Get a cartilage piercing. Paint her toenails, her fingernails. Throw out all her clothes, buy new ones. Except the hair stuff hadn’t worked, so she assumed none of that would, either.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
The words were such a surprise, she glanced around, like someone else had come in. But no…it was just her, and L.W., and the golden.
Getting to her feet again, she went over to the walk-in closet doors. Right in front of them, blocking the way, was a lineup of four laundry hampers.
