Page 16 of Lover Forbidden (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #23)

So many shadows, lurking. But he knew exactly what they were thrown by.

When he’d first started coming here, he’d memorized everything, his restless roaming taking him from room to room so many times, it got so he could have diagrammed everything down to the archways, closets, and back corridors.

He supposed it had started out as a search for his father in all the nooks, crannies, and corners, his stupid attempt to fill out the picture of the great male he had never known in all the spaces of a house the guy had only lived in for a couple of years.

Except now his sire was back.

Too bad he’d stopped looking for the male years ago.

At the top of the steps, the study up ahead was the room he knew best, the pale blue walls and delicate French chairs and settees nothing he would have chosen for decor—and he was betting the same was true of his sire. Not that he knew that for sure. Not that he was going to bother asking.

But at least the throne and desk were on brand.

Come on, though, his pops had better things to do than try to color in the years that had been lost. He’d come back to a treasonous plot against him.

Hell of a welcome-home present, but that was Caldwell, New York, for you.

Entering the room, L.W. went over to the hearth.

There was a fresh stack of logs, and he had to shake his head.

Squeaky hinges to the contrary, Fritz really still looked after the place—and no doubt had never asked about who was coming in here and lighting a fire.

All the doggen knew was that someone was visiting on the regular and that meant there were ashes to keep after and the need for new wood.

As L.W. got down on his haunches, he unwrapped the bandana from his hand and reached for the tub of long-tailed matches that had also been restocked.

Taking one out of the cylinder, he streaked its red head across the gritty bottom, the little yellow flare bringing out the subtle veining in the two-hundred-year-old marble of the mantel.

The newspaper at the bottom of what had been arranged on the iron basket was greedy for what would ultimately destroy it and the kindling was the same.

The oak and maple logs were a little more standoffish, but they would succumb, too, after a time.

They always did.

Instead of getting back to his feet and going over to the couch where he usually sat, he let himself fall back on his ass. The scent of the fire was lovely in his nose, crispy, pretty autumn making an appearance in the dead of winter. The heat was nice, too.

Sticking his palms out, he fanned his fingers. Most of the blood had dried into a dark garnet color, but he must still be bleeding inside the sleeve of his leather jacket. Things were just too wet and warm in there.

That would solve itself, though.

His plan was to sleep here, get up at nightfall, and go out again—assuming no one disturbed him. And even then, he really wasn’t interested in anybody’s commentary about anything.

Rubbing his tired eyes, he refocused on the flames that licked and kicked over the logs. Everything was blurry and he did not know how he was going to force himself to fight again. But he had to, so he was going to.

For him, time was running out, and he didn’t want to waste any of it.

He wanted to find Lash and kill the fucker.

He was the goddamn son of the King, and his father’s death, which might as well have actually happened thirty years ago, was his to ahvenge , and no one else’s.

Even if that act of retribution was not for the reasons everyone assumed.

Oh, and as for him fucking off his ahstrux nohtrum ?

His force-fed roommate was annoying as hell, but that silver-tongued motherfucker could talk his way out of anything.

So no, there was no way Shuli’s pink slip was going to include a coffin with his name on it, no matter how things had been done back in the Old Country.

That aristocrat was probably going to negotiate a raise to compensate himself for hazardous duty in the process.

With a groan, L.W. lay back. His spine and the muscles that were locked on it were so stiff, there was no easing onto the Persian rug. He was like the logs the butler had stacked, rigid, unbending, even though his physical pain had gotten worse with this horizontal shit rather than better.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the crackle of the logs, inhaled the fire’s mellow fragrance, and tried to ignore all the aches.

Just as he fell asleep, his brain coughed up a correction.

It wasn’t true that he didn’t want to talk to anybody.

There was one person he wouldn’t have minded speaking to right now. But she really should stay off-limits. If he thought his life was heading in a bad direction right now? It was nothing compared to what would happen if he kept seeing Bitty.

Rhage’s daughter was irresistible to him, and he knew the feeling was at some level reciprocated.

Which meant she was in the path of disaster unless she came to her senses.

Good thing her mother was a therapist.