Page 10 of Lover Forbidden (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #23)

The eeriest thing about Wrath was the way you’d swear the King was seeing things.

As Qhuinn squeezed into a wood-paneled study along with the others, he watched the blind male sweep his head around like he was checking out the room’s decor.

Meanwhile, Tohr continued to stay at his elbow, guiding things when needed so that there was no risk of a trip and fall.

After thirty years of thinking Wrath had been blown to hell and gone, it was good to see the male with his second-in-command, the pair working together again.

What was not so hot was to have all the reunited-and-it-feels-so-good happen here at this traitor’s house.

Whestmorel’s den was set up around an ornate French desk with legs that had antique brass sculptures of women going breast-out in all directions.

The walls were ringed with shelves full of show-off first editions, antique nautical crap, and Victorian-era mounted butterflies, and there were also window seats for reflection, a marble hearth for warmth, and as much personality as a hotel lobby.

The Brotherhood had already been through the drawers, the books, the nooks and the crannies.

But again, like every other room in the house, it had been stripped clean of incriminating documents, computer components, cell phones, and identification.

A couple of the art vacancies were in here, too: One behind the high-backed leather swivel chair. Another over the fireplace.

As the tick-tock-tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner seemed loud as a soldier’s march, Qhuinn glanced around again.

The other brothers were standing as still as he was, and he had a stupid thought that with all of them in here, it was like the room had been shrunk down to bread-box size.

Square footage, like time and beauty, was relative…

Meanwhile, Wrath just stood there, doing nothing but breathing in and out of those nostrils—

Someone coughed. Probably because they were choking on the urge to scream.

“We’ve been through the whole house,” Tohr said. “Stem to stern.”

No response from the male in charge. Just more of that tick-tock-tick-tock in the background…

Wonder how many of the others were dubbing in the Jeopardy! theme as the King stayed right where he was.

As Qhuinn felt a headache coming on, he did some quick game-out. They were at thirty minutes and change, and had gone through everything but the kitchen, the powder rooms, and the solarium. If Wrath insisted on a second floor walk-through, that was going to take another thirty. Attic? Please no.

And then there were the basement and the garage.

So, what, like an hour and a half more? Christ, he was going to lose his fucking—

Wrath’s head cranked in the direction of the hearth. Then he turned his whole body that way, and took five full strides across a rug that no doubt had never had even one shitkicker on its pile, much less almost two dozen.

Shaking off Tohr’s grip, the King dropped down to his haunches.

The popping of the male’s knees was a reminder that he had done hard graft for centuries in the field against the enemy, and as he leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on the fireplace’s marble footer, his tremendous back muscles fanned out along his spine.

Rhage looked over with a shrug. So did Zsadist and Phury. John Matthew likewise joined in the collective WTF. Vishous just stood in the doorway, glancing back out into the hall like he expected Lash to show up at any moment.

Even Tohr joined in the eye hockey.

But he was right. The brothers had been through this house with a fine-tooth comb—

Down at floor level, Wrath tilted into the hearth itself and extended his heavy arm over the birch logs that had been stacked with a watchmaker’s precision.

The bulk of the King’s shoulders blocked a view as to what he was doing, but the metallic rapping sound as he continued to knock along the hearth’s back panel was enough of a descriptor.

“My Lord?” Tohr asked as Wrath sat back on his heels.

The King just shook his head sharply and got to his feet with a lithe surge. More with the knocking, this time on the panels where a painting had been centered, right under the mounting hooks.

Then he glanced to the left—and with a sweep of his arm, cleared the entire shelf at eye level with one shove, all those leather-bound volumes cast off like paperbacks.

As there was a bunch of clapping from the tomes, the King put his whole damn face into the vacancy he’d created. The long, deep inhales made Qhuinn shift his weight back and forth and tighten his hold on his guns. This was absolute madness—

Wrath went to the other side, rising up onto the steel toes of his shitkickers and slowly lowering back to the floor—

He performed another de-booking. Then started feeling around the seam where the shelf met the side of the hearth’s build-out.

Shit got really quiet again—and Qhuinn felt stupid about fifteen seconds before there was a subtle click .

After which, the entire fireplace unit including the logs and the mantelpiece moved forward about three feet and then hinged out, revealing—

There was a collective metal chorus as everyone aimed into the darkness and Tohr all but tackled Wrath into the far wall to cover the King with his body.

As the stench of old blood and infected flesh wafted out like it was a crypt, Rhage nodded at Qhuinn and the pair of them went forward in one/two formation. With the light streaming in behind them, they entered a shallow hall that was painted all black and made a turn behind the chimney—

The body of a dark-haired male dressed in fine clothes was chained to a chair, blood, bodily fluids, and excrement pooling underneath, his chin down on his sternum and his shoulders slumped. It was like a Halloween mannequin at a haunt, except this shit was real—

A weak moan rippled up, the tips of the fingers moving ever so slightly.

“He’s alive,” Qhuinn barked as he shot forward while Rhage made a circle of the otherwise empty room. “We need a medic, STAT!”

“Calling Jane,” V called out from the study proper.

“There’s a seam over here,” Rhage said. “Another entry—or exit.”

Qhuinn kept his weapons up as he bent over and tried to get a look at the male’s face. The skin was gray, the mouth lax, but there was a whistle of breath going in and out. With the muzzle of his left gun, he lifted the hair that had fallen forward.

The eyes were open and staring ahead. Unblinking, as if death had already claimed the spark that warmed and animated the flesh. Except that wasn’t true. There was a little life… still in there.

For the moment.

“Make it fast with the medical help,” Qhuinn said over his shoulder.

And then he mentally checked out for what was probably only a couple of seconds, but felt like he’d been gone an hour: In a hideous flashback, his mind replaced the unknown male and the chair before him with an oil drum filled with the black, oily blood of the Omega.

Instantly, he could smell the sweet, cloying scent of the enemy, sense the hunting cabin around him, feel the cold air and the weird, tickling fear that something big was coming for him.

Something that would change him.

And that was when he’d seen the ever-so-subtle glow of gold in the depths.

A signet ring. The one he had always hoped to receive from his own sire, the acknowledgment that a son was a valuable contribution to the bloodline, something important…

something that was loved. But no, the badge of acceptance had been given to his brother, in a private celebration that he’d walked in on.

What the fuck was it doing in that drum?

That was what had gone through his mind first. And the question was answered fast: Luchas, his brother, had been in there, the male’s body—that prized body, the one that had no defects—had been shriveled, pretzeled, and preserved in stasis.

He, too, had been barely alive after the torture—

“Qhuinn?”

He jerked to attention, pulling a pivot toward Tohr. “Yeah—sorry. What?”

The brother’s face was set with the kind of mask that made your adrenal system wake up with bells on. And then he got the dreaded forefinger crook, the order to come-with-me.

Oh… shit , he thought. This could only mean one thing.

He was just vaguely aware of walking out of the hidden room, through the study, and into the hall.

As soon as they were alone, Qhuinn exhaled. “ Fuck , I should have been there.”

Tohr frowned and shook his head. Because he was a male of worth who knew way too fucking much about missing last moments. “You didn’t know. How could you have?”

Are you kidding me , he wanted to say. It’s been coming for months now.

He glanced back into the study, at Wrath. Serving the King was a sacred duty, but he had to be there for his hellren .

“Can I go?” He met Tohr’s navy blue eyes. “Even though I don’t know how I can leave. It’s just Blay’s going to need me—”

Tohr reached out with a solid hand to the shoulder. “Your daughter’s fine.”

Qhuinn blinked. Blinked again. “I’m sorry… what?”

“Lyric.” Tohr put his phone front and center. “She was saved by a miracle.”

Trying to catch up to the conversation, Qhuinn bent in and focused on the video that was playing on repeat on the little screen. It took a couple of run-throughs before things sunk in—and when they did—

He was fucking horrified. His beautiful daughter standing in the middle of the street, in front of the club she and her friends always went to. She was looking up and to her right, her arms raising—

A huge shape bolted into the frame just as some kind of sheeting or part of a building—wait, was that a fucking billboard?—fell out of the sky, right on top of her.

Except somehow, whoever the hell had come out of nowhere managed to hold the thing off of her.

Holstering one of his guns, he grabbed his phone and checked on Lyric’s location.

“I gotta go,” he heard himself say as he started running for the front door.