Page 24 of Lover Forbidden (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #23)

L.W. arrived at his sire’s Audience House, re-forming around the back by the kitchen entrance.

Everything was plowed and shoveled on the property, not just at the main building, but over at Four Toys HQ, Vishous’s satellite barn of IT brainiacs.

It had been a long time since he’d been out here—had it been fall?

maybe the end of summer—and he measured all the snow.

Goddamn, he’d hated coming to this place.

It was a reminder of the lie he’d been expected to carry on his own wherever he went for thirty fucking years.

He’d been the only one of his generation to know the truth, that his father had died and been replaced with a chimera.

And while he’d been on the sidelines, watching all the other young yuck it up with their pops, he’d been expected to keep his mourning to himself.

Couldn’t fuck the ruse. And the real biter of it all?

The whole thing had been to save the throne for him: Rahvyn had projected an image of the great Blind King in front of the civilians, L.W.

’s mahmen made all the decisions as Queen, and everybody had held the reins with the expectation that he’d drop his ass in Daddy’s old chair when he was mature enough.

No one had asked him what he’d wanted, and he’d grown up in the stew of grief that had been projected onto him, the Brothers, the fighters, and their mates always looking at him like he was some kind of antidote to his father’s death.

Not as him as his own person.

He’d been over being a holy grail to catch their metaphorical tears as soon as he’d been aware of his purpose in their lives.

But everywhere he went, there it was, as unrelenting as the color of his hair and his eyes and the bone structure of his face—which, given what had shown up the other week, back from the dead, was also because he was a “dead” ringer for the one they’d all lost.

Put like that, going after Lash was a way of ahvenging himself.

And he was running out of time.

Jacking his leathers up, he did a quick double-check under his jacket.

Both his guns were holstered at his ribs, his steel daggers were across his chest, and his waist belt was locked on with another set of nine millimeters as well as a lineup of ammo across the small of his back.

With the inventory over, he approached that back door, the one that was always mounted with a seasonal wreath to hide the camera lens.

At the moment, the thing was made of evergreen sprigs and red and green ribbons.

As the lock sprung the second his shitkickers hit the welcome mat, he wasn’t surprised they knew he was here, and the same thing happened at each of the two inner portals, the bolts clearing for him without him having to make any calls or even speak a word for the mics to pick up.

No doubt they had known where he’d spent the day, too—

The kitchen was bustling, doggen in chef’s whites making pastries for the audiences that were going to start up in the next hour or so—

“Your Highness—”

“Oh! Your—”

“—Highness.”

All three females stopped what they were doing—one even dropped the egg she’d been about to crack over a bowl—and with a fluster, they whipped off their caps and bowed to him.

The deference was another thing he hated.

It was a mirror that showed him too much for the fraud he was.

“?’Scuse me,” he muttered.

Getting the hell out of there, he pushed through a flap door and walked down one of the common corridors.

He probably would have been given access to the central, secured core of the building, where the Brothers gathered before things started for the night or took breaks between audiences, but he wasn’t in a big hurry to run into any of those males.

After fucking everybody off last night and going rogue, he could just imagine they’d stab him, but for his—

“—Highness!”

Saxton, the King’s solicitor, bent down low. “Are you expected? Your father isn’t here quite yet—”

“Not expected, no. Just need to see him.”

The dapper male was all tweeded out, his ascot in place, his brown, navy blue, and cream checked suit jacket tailored so perfectly it was as if he’d been born with it on and the thing had grown along with him.

As usual, his thick blond hair was swooped to the side, and with his perfect skin and nails, the guy looked like he was ready to ride off on a fox hunt.

Or at least a magazine shoot of one.

“Allow me to show you into the Audience Room, then.”

“I’ll wait. In the waiting room.”

There was a pause. “I think it would be best if you—”

“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. “The doggen would 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.

As he faced his sire, the Blind King’s wraparounds were orientated straight ahead, those carved arms overflowing the chair, the legs splaying out, the shitkickers making him look like he was prepared to stomp out any disagreement by anyone about anything.

“I fucked off Shuli last night.” L.W. crossed his arms over his chest. “We were in the field and he wanted to divert to a club.”

“So I hear. To check on Lyric.”

“She was fine. It was a waste of time. But I don’t want him getting into trouble. I didn’t give him a choice.”

Those slashing black brows dropped below the shades. “How so.”

“I ghosted him. And then I turned off my phone.”

There was a long pause, and he had the clear impression that his pops was calling on an epic load of self-control. Either that or the male’s jaw was doing chin-ups at his ears just for shits and giggles.