Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
“Let’s get this over with,” he gritted as he headed for the foyer.
Joining the other brothers who were milling around beneath a crystal chandelier, he rolled his shoulders and then cracked his neck by cranking his head from side to side. Everybody was double-dipping into their holsters, but no daggers. Those vicious black blades had all stayed put.
A gun was better in this situation.
Two forties were even better.
Tohr was the one who opened things up, and the cold air came in before him, the dark night on the other side like a void he’d somehow managed to step out of. Vishous was next, the goateed brother looking like he was ready to fight, his hands up at chest level, the pair of Glocks in them the perfect accessory to all his black leather and fuck-off.
And behind him, the male of the hour.
Wrath, the great Blind King, was taller than everybody—or at least it felt that way. With those wraparounds hiding his eyes, his cruel, aristocratic face, and all his long black hair falling from that widow’s peak, he single-handedly validated the human bullshit mythology about vampires. He was the real deal, the last purebred of the species left on the planet, a force of nature, a stone-cold killer, and a shrewd leader.
Whose side hustle was rank impatience.
The second he was past the threshold, John Matthew and Xcor entered in his wake and shut the front door with a resounding thud. The two of them had twin sets of guns out as well, and both put their backs to the wood. There was a brief silence, as if everybody in the foyer was taking a moment.
“Relief” was the wrong word.
No, relief wasn’t going to come until they were back at the Audience House. Safely, with all of the King’s fingers and toes accounted for.
Instead, this pause was what happened when a group of males were determined to keep their yaps shut—and choking on the fucking effort.
As Wrath’s nostrils flared while he tested the air, Qhuinn leaned to the side and traced the blind corners in that drawing room he’d just gone through. And then he glanced back at the front entrance, even though there was no reason to worry about the exterior. The Band of Bastards was covering the property lines, and they did not need primers on how to shoot to kill.
Still, he felt like his balls had crawled up into his lower abdomen—and turned into grenades.
Then again, the last time Wrath had left the house to go anywhere except for audiences with civilians, three decades of hell had ensued. Frankly, he was surprised that Beth had gotten on board with the plan, but that was none of Qhuinn’s business—although he could imagine how the conversation had gone.
Good times, good times. J/k.
When Wrath finally stepped forward and Tohr fell in beside him, the latter holstered one of his guns and put his hand behind the King’s elbow to subtly guide him. The brothers then fanned out, and Qhuinn went with the flow, the lot of them like a living organism with a single mind, a single body.
No components, only the whole.
It was an ancient tradition, the Black Dagger Brotherhood not only protectors of the race, but the private guard to the King… prepared to lay down their lives in service to the male who mattered most.
Fucking hell, Qhuinn thought as he continued along. Let nothing go wrong tonight.
CHAPTER THREE
The Otto Building
Corner of Market Street and Sixteenth Avenue
The guy’s down a quart. Look at him. Don’t say nothin’, don’t talk to nobody. He’s a goddamn—”
“Stop.” Bob Knolls, proud LiUNA member and foreman of this particular Wabash Construction Company site, shot a glare over his thermos of hot chocolate. “Just cut it with that language, okay. It’s offensive.”
“Oh, ’scuse me, word police.” Petey McCord, resident shift-prick, bristled on the other side of the picnic table and spoke up even louder over the din of a jackhammer. “Didn’t know you were so fucking sensitive—”
The winter wind barreling up from the river hung a left directly over the break area, the chain-link fence rattling, the mesh panels flapping against their ties. The only good news was that the shit cut Petey off, although one thing everybody had learned over the last month was that the asshole of this particular job wouldn’t be down for long.
As the commentary started up again, Bob put his palm forward—and wondered why he couldn’t be the type of foreman who ruled with an iron hammer. Fist. Whatever.
“What the fuck do you care so much about him, Petey? Clock your time, cash your check, live your fucking life —”
“—over there, workin’ through the break and makin’ us look bad—”
Bob curled up a fist and slammed it down. “Leave Big D alone.”
The other guys jerked to attention, even the ones at the neighboring tables, all kinds of would-ya-look-at-that faces lifting from lunch boxes and travel mugs. Hard to know whether they were surprised by the particularly nasty edge of Petey’s bitching or if it was that their go-with-the-flow foreman was actually doing something about it.