Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
And as the emotion was let out, he felt himself cradled in strong arms, pulled up against a solid chest. Like a young, he was gently rocked, as a broad hand stroked his back.
In the midst of his storm, he was sheltered by the male who had always been with him, even if they hadn’t been side by side.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Right before the aristocrat was brought into the Audience Room, Tohr positioned himself behind Wrath. Not too close, because that would be inappropriate. But he wanted to make things perfectly clear to Whestmorel as soon as the male came in. Wrath was the King, and there was muscle all around the throne.
And after Qhuinn and V were in position in the other corners, he texted Saxton to bring the male in.
“Time to go back to work,” Wrath said as he put George down at his feet.
While the golden got settled, tucking his tail in, laying his blond muzzle on his master’s shitkicker, Saxton knocked once—and after Wrath barked an “enter,” the door was opened and the solicitor stepped aside so that the interloper could pass through first.
Staring over Wrath’s shoulder, Tohr gritted his molars. He had a short temper with people who demanded special treatment, as if the fact that the guy was living and breathing was enough to velvet-rope the whole world.
But then there was his reason for coming.
“My Lord,” Whestmorel said as he inclined his head.
Tohr glanced at a low growl that percolated up. Qhuinn’s upper lip was peeled off his fangs, the brother’s blue and green peepers narrowed into slits.
Sure, a proper bow wasn’t required. But everyone did it as a measure of respect—and that nod was a mockery of the tradition.
Meanwhile, Wrath lowered his chin and stared forward as if he could see the male. As if he knew there was little regard being paid.
“So what brings you to my house,” the King said in a smooth voice. That was somehow more threatening than if he’d yelled. “At this particular hour.”
There was a pause as Whestmorel seemed to have to gather himself. Then again, the last purebred vampire on the planet was nailing him to the wall through those wraparounds, even though Wrath was blind. His ability to focus was an unexpected phenomenon, something that Tohr had seen civilians shocked by when they came in here: Somehow, the King always knew exactly where everyone was, some combination of scent and noise allowing him to triangulate bodies.
Or maybe it was as simple as the impact of Wrath’s size and strength. Sitting there, in his black leathers and muscle shirt, his black hair falling straight from a widow’s peak, the tattoos of his lineage running up the insides of his forearms?
He looked like exactly what he was. A war leader. A fighter. A killer.
“Get on with it,” Wrath said in that tone that made even the brothers stand up a little taller.
Whestmorel fiddled with a gold cufflink, like he was nervous, but he did not back down. “I am here on behalf of a number of us. We want to know what you are doing to find the killer of Broadius Rayland.”
“So he’s a relation of yours?” Wrath drawled. In a way that meant the timer on his detonator had started ticking.
“No, he’s not. Too many of my relations were killed during the raids. Which you failed to protect us from.”
Tohr put a hand up to his forehead and rubbed over his eyebrows. This was going worse than he’d thought it would.
Whestmorel continued, “You sent out all kinds of communications years ago, about how crimes were going to be handled. We’re demanding to know what you’re doing about the reality that a male was murdered. Or does the fact that it was someone of wealth and position mean you expect us to solve the crime ourselves.”
“There’s no blood between you and Broadius, then. At all.”
Whestmorel looked at the brothers who surrounded him. Then he focused on Tohr for a brief second. “No, there isn’t. But that should not matter. We have a right to know—”
“Who exactly is ‘we.’ ”
“All of us. Who are like me.”
“So you’re not going to say the word?” Wrath did not move in his chair, not a foot, not a hand. And Tohr almost wanted to warn the male who stood so defiantly before the King. “You can’t say it? You’ll claim all the rights and more than the privileges, but you won’t call the glymera what it is?”
“That would be illegal, wouldn’t it,” came the laconic reply. “But no matter the term, I am not going to apologize for my status and I refuse to buy into some kind of shame because I have it.” Whestmorel’s eyes narrowed, making him appear positively evil. “We’re thinking maybe you’re staying quiet about Broadius on purpose.”
There was a long pause, and Whestmorel did not look away. Did not mediate his attitude. Did not—