Page 47 of Lover Forbidden (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #23)

The aristocrat Whestmorel stood facing a wintery lake view, his back to the roaring fire in the hearth across his safe house’s study, his feet in monogrammed slippers, a glass of bourbon in his hand.

Courtesy of the darkened room, he could readily see out across the vista he had come to love.

Though he was a city male at heart, and very fond of the things that urban living could provide such as good food, good company, and opportunities for acquisition and financial appreciation, there was something to be said for the seclusion and privacy of wilderness.

Especially when you were being hunted by the Black Dagger Brotherhood.

The floor-to-ceiling windows before him were coated on their exteriors so no one could see inside his Adirondack retreat, and the panes were also thick enough to withstand a bullet.

Well, mostly thick enough. During the installation of this expanse of glass, the contractor had referred to things as “bullet-resistant,” not “bulletproof,” and one had to admit that the latter was in fact far more desirable.

At the time, however, he had been more concerned with climate control for his bourbon collection than protecting his body from lead projectiles.

His ambitions had not been so clearly formed two years ago.

Lifting his rocks glass to his lips, he took a sip. The Pappy 25-Year was always a little oaky for him, but it was rare and it was an indulgence.

He liked indulgences.

This remote house on the shores of a lake where property values were very high and the head count of neighbors very low was another indulgence—although at its conception, the spec project had been a luxury meant for someone else.

In the planning stages, the multi-layer, terraced stack, mounted on the side of a mountain, had been just another way to make money.

However, as the site had been judiciously cleared to retain the tree canopy, and the shape of the home had started to come to fruition, he had begun to see a bit of himself in the construction.

And then very much of himself in its layout, flow, and especially, this view over the currently frozen water that stretched out as far as one could see to the south and the north.

In fact, a male with ambition could see the whole future from this spot—

A knock sounded at the door.

“Yes,” he said without turning around. “What is it.”

Conrahd Mainscowl the Elder entered. The male was like a sword in so many ways, tall, thin, and angular, with prematurely silver hair that was always precisely in place, and a wicked tongue that was sharp with wit and intelligence.

He had proven to be quite an asset to the cause, although one did not fully trust him.

In this work of treason, one should indeed take no single person fully into confidence—and that truism was especially apt with somebody as shrewd as Conrahd.

“I believe we may have a problem,” came the announcement.

Conrahd strode over to the display of rare bottles on the teak bar and helped himself to a serving of Woodford Family Reserve. Which proved he had perfect manners: Having been invited to partake at his discretion, he nonetheless knew that to pour the Pappy would have been an overstep.

Whestmorel pivoted on his velvet slipper and went over to the twinning sofas by the hearth. Lowering himself into a sit on the herringbone cushions, he crossed his legs at the knee and pulled the edge of his satin robe over.

“You mean other than this interminable delay?” He propped his elbow on the Hermès blanket that had been folded over the arm.

“That cannot be helped.”

“It can indeed, although that is another discussion.” Whestmorel finished off the Pappy in his glass. “Do tell.”

Conrahd came around and took a seat across the glass table with its display of crystal pinecones and leaves. “Thermon is proving a difficulty.”

Whestmorel pictured the dark-haired aristocrat. Of all the allies he might have expected trouble from, the gentlemale was not on his list. Not like Conrahd was.

“What about him.”

“He is considering breaking the sequestration.”

Putting his glass on the Vuitton trunk that had been turned into a side table, Whestmorel arched a brow. “Is he now. For what reason.”

“He will not say. But I caught him with a burner phone, and when I asked him what he was doing, he stated that there were family goings-on.”

“Did you monitor his email.”

“Yes. His shellan reached out to him.”

“And has he contacted anybody else.”

“No, only her, and he gave me the phone. Her number was the only one he called.” Conrahd lifted his squat glass toward the windows.

“And no, he spoke unto her out of doors, so we have no audio recording of the approximately eighteen-minute call. I did confirm via video monitoring where he stepped outside to converse with her. He went to the clearing with the view, and used the phone there. The trail cameras picked his movements up.”

“When did this occur.”

“Last evening.”

Whestmorel looked to the flames, watching the oranges and yellows dance. Ironic, how something so beautiful could be so deadly.

“Why am I only finding this out the now.”

“We had no reason to check the security feeds, as no alarms had sounded because we are permitted to go outside to smoke. His affect was off, however, and out of an abundance of caution, I decided to investigate.”

Closing his lids briefly, Whestmorel kept his tone level. “Bring him to me, will you. That’s a good lad.”

Conrahd nodded at his bourbon. “May I please leave this here for a moment?”

“Please do.”

“Thank you.”

Whestmorel watched the male stand up and return to the doorway, his stride elegant and even, his hand-tailored dark suit fitting him perfectly, even as he walked.

“Conrahd.” He waited as the male glanced back. “You have very good manners.”

“And I do not break rules.”

We shall see on that , Whestmorel thought as his newest right-hand male departed.

Poor Jenshen hadn’t worked out, after all. And had had to be dealt with.

Getting to his feet, Whestmorel went over to the glossy black slab of granite that had been propped up on two curated, hardwood trunk slices.

On his rustic desk were a laptop, three cell phones, a charging pad, and a Montblanc pen.

Picking up the latter, he turned the torpedo over and over in his hands, admiring the workmanship, from the precise lines of the white star on the crown of the cap, to the gold bar of the pocket clip, to the absolutely smooth circumference of its body.

He had many more down in Caldwell, but he’d had to leave them behind.

So much in that house of his he missed, although he reminded himself that his separation from the property was only temporary.

The Brotherhood would of course have taken possession by now. When he returned unto that mansion triumphant, however, he would reclaim it all.

And if they divested his collections? He would buy anew.

One could not afford to be sentimental in matters of material objects when one sought to rule by overthrowing a leader such as Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath.

Unscrewing the fountain pen’s top, Whestmorel regarded the gold nib. The etching in the metal was so finely done, a reminder that discipline created beautiful things.

He looked up.

Conrahd led the way forth into the room, his suit jacket open, his hand sweeping down his red silk tie as if its unrest irritated him.

Behind him, Thermon, in a navy blue blazer and gray flannel slacks, walked with his head down.

But the male had never been stupid. That was why he had been chosen from the many who were otherwise qualified by virtue of their bloodlines, finances, and abilities.

“Ah, my friend,” Whestmorel murmured as the pair entered. “Would you care for a drink.”

“No, I would not.” Thermon dipped his torso in a bow, revealing the other character value that had recommended him: There had always been a deference to character that bordered on the subservient. “But I thank you for the kindness.”

And then they all just stood there.

There was no way there would be an invitation to sit. And the fact that Thermon didn’t broach the subject of a chair was appropriate. Yet perhaps he had been a bad choice from the beginning, for all his apparent virtues.

Whestmorel smiled coldly. “There were certain expectations that were placed upon the members of this innermost consortium. When you all came here, unto my safe house, you agreed to the conditions prior to moving in.”

“Forgive me.” The male glanced up, his pale eyes worried. “There has been a… complication within my bloodline. I am simply trying to—”

“We all agreed that we were leaving our families behind.” Whestmorel indicated Conrahd. “He has departed his shellan and young son. Why are you different?”

“I am not breaking our covenant—”

“You already have.” Whestmorel walked over to the view. “You have potentially compromised all of us by—”

“I used a burner phone—”

“You were to have no phone,” he snapped at the reflection of the male. Then he calmed himself. “And we all could make excuses or allowances for those we’ve left behind. But that was the temporary sacrifice we agreed to make, knowing that in our success, our families would vest once again.”

An image of his “daughter” came to mind, the female who had been raised as his own, but who was in fact another male’s.

She had possessed beauty and intelligence, and he had permitted her a claim to his bloodline for a while.

But she was not his, not really, and thus he had cut her out as this next phase began—and he felt nothing for her departure from his life.

One had to be clear about these things.

And clear about with whom one consorted.

“I saw no one,” Thermon protested. “I communicated—”

“With your shellan .”

“To whom I have been mated these many, many years.” Thermon appeared exhausted with the line of questioning. “I have violated nothing, and if you wish to interrogate her—”

“You do not want me to do that.”

The male’s eyes widened. “Surely you would not harm a female.”

“Surely you would not be so stupid as to procure a cell phone and call out from my property to a female who the Black Dagger Brotherhood could well be monitoring.”

“They know naught of my involvement.”

“And you have decided this based upon what information.” Whestmorel put a hand up. “Do not waste my time answering that. We must assume we are compromised.”

“Is there naught I can say in my defense?” Thermon looked over at Conrahd with entreaty and got absolutely nowhere in his search for a backup.

“Shall you just send me out from here after I have been such a loyal supporter of yours for how long the now? Mine was our first donation. I brought the others in.”

“Only to violate the very rules that ensure our safety here. Again, I submit to you, how do you know the Brothers did not get to your mate? You do not.” Whestmorel narrowed his stare. “What, pray tell, was the subject of discussion.”

“My son, he seeks to mate a female who has proven to be unworthy of him.”

“Unworthy how.”

“She has found herself pregnant.” Thermon cleared his throat.

“We understand that she went unto her needing, and demanded that he service her. Worse, it appears as if he is following through with the engagement we had previously approved of. My shellan sought my urgent help as they were going for the blessing from the King last night.”

A wash of fury went through Whestmorel, but he banked the emotion. “And did they go unto Wrath?”

“Now do you understand why I called her—”

“Did they see Wrath.”

Thermon seemed shocked by the tone. Which suggested he was stupid, rather than merely malleable.

“That was their plan, but I was counseling her as to how to stop them. You cannot seriously be worried they went unto the Audience House? The pair of them believe I am in the Old Country, as I often travel back to our ancestral estate there. There is no reason to worry they said anything.”

When Whestmorel did not respond, the male threw up his hands. “Verily, you are paranoid—”

Whestmorel shot over to the male, moving so fast, there was a possibility he dematerialized for a second. Putting his face into Thermon’s, he said, “I am trying to kill the great Blind King. Paranoia is a virtue when one is standing in my shoes.”

As he eased back, Thermon released a defeated exhale. “So where does that leave us. Shall I go pack my bags—”

The male gasped and grabbed for his neck.

As a clicking sound registered between them and those eyes bulged with shock, the collar of the gentlemale’s white shirt bloomed with bright red.

“Worry not,” Whestmorel said levelly as he retracted the Montblanc’s pen nib out of the male’s jugular vein. “We shall pack and dispose of them for you.”

Thermon slapped both hands over the wound in his neck, his blood pulsing through his fingers. He lasted only a moment longer on the vertical before he fell to his knees.

“Help me, will you?” Whestmorel inquired of Conrahd, who instantly approached. “No, not him. Let us roll up the edge of this carpeting so it does not stain. I am very fond of this weave and it was specially made for this room.”

Whestmorel kicked Thermon’s torso, which caused the male to fall back in a sprawl. “Come. The carpet, please.”

He picked up Thermon’s ankles and dragged him a couple of feet over to where the varnished oak flooring was exposed, and Conrahd was right upon the rug, the aristocrat promptly taking a corner and walking backwards, pulling half the expanse over until it was folded in on itself and well away from the growing red pool.

After which, he and his second-in-command just stood over the slowly writhing male, that navy blue cashmere blazer smudging everything to hell and gone on the varnished floor.

“How inconvenient,” Whestmorel muttered.

Then again, neither of them had ever cleaned up so much as the condensation ring from a cocktail glass. This much blood?

Thankfully, he’d brought his most-trusted butler with him.

“What do you wish to do with the body?” Conrahd inquired.

“That is what the sun is for.” Whestmorel knelt and grabbed the dying male’s right hand. “In the meantime, you have other things to be concerned with.”

“Worry not, I shall present you with what you require.”

Grabbing the gold signet ring on Thermon’s middle finger, he pulled the representation of lineage off quite readily. Thanks to the blood.

As he pocketed the heavy weight, he glared up at the other male. “Best you do that. For your own sake.”

There was a pause. Then Conrahd, in his rather inscrutable way, bowed.

And took his leave.