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Except it was undeniable: Shuli had proven himself in the old-school way. Lip service was all well and good, but when you werewilling to put your own blood down at the foot of the enemy, to protect another? Well, that was the interview for a job Wrath hadn’t even realized he wanted to fill.
The fact that the two couldn’t stand each other? That hadn’t made a difference the previous night, and it wasn’t going to change anything going forward.
And L.W. had gone back for the aristocrat, too.
“I can take care of myself,” his son snapped.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
The reality was, after Wrath had gone up to the Sanctuary, the thirty years he’d lost was in his blood, sure as if his body had gone through the time that had passed all at once. And the breadth of what hisshellanand his brothers had been through, what Rahvyn and Lassiter had done, was hanging heavy on him—and he was going to do everything he could to avoid that kind of shit in the future.
If something happened to his son? His and Beth’s lives were over. And by extension, so were everybody else’s. Again.
So, yes, he was going to pair up this aristocrat with his heir. There were better soldiers, certainly. But technical skills weren’t the only thing that mattered when you were in the field. Having that heart, that kind of grit, was nothing you could teach. It was the kind of thing a fighter just had.
The fact that it was in an aristocrat was a surprise, although that was the way life was. Revelations came, for the good and the bad. How you reacted was a measure of your character—and he loved his son enough to give him what Wrath knew in his marrow was the right kind of bodyguard.
“Vishous, you’ll follow up with the inking.” Not a request. “Have a good evening, you two.”
Before he left, he wanted to hug his son. But he was learning that L.W. wasn’t about the clinches. That was fine. They’d had that one embrace up in the study of the mansion when Wrath had come back to the planet. That was enough for now.
It was going to have to be enough.
On his command, George led him back through the break room, the golden brushing against his thigh to take him around furniture and other objects. Behind him, the shitkickers of the Brotherhood were a quiet chant of strength, the powerful bodies in his wake falling into line out of both devotion and duty.
As someone jumped ahead and opened the door for him, Wrath turned to the right out of muscle memory. Except they didn’t live in the mansion anymore, so there was no need to hit the tunnel.
He stopped and pivoted to face his private guard. As he flared his nostrils, he separated the individual scents, filing them in his mind, picturing what he knew his brothers looked like.
He thought of his time with Lassiter up above. And the message that as much as a King might want to go into the field and go hands-on with the enemy, the throne needed to be filled—and it was. By the right male for the job.
He’d never expected that angel to be an asset. But yeah, he definitely thought the Scribe Virgin had chosen her successor well. The holder of that position was supposed to be the counselor to the King—and who knew the angel had common sense after all?
“You okay?” Tohr asked quietly.
All at once, the conviction that things were falling into place after a long period of painful discord made him take a deep, easy breath.
“It’s good to be back,” Wrath said.
There was a short silence. And then a rumbling vibration that moved the air.
The Black Dagger Brotherhood’s war cry exploded in the corridor, the voices of the males around him swearing, once again, their loyalty to the King they loved and the species they served.
United, as one.
Fearless, as always.
Behind the Wrath who stood before them… forevermore.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Evan used the tunnel a little before midnight.
And his strides had purpose in them as they’d taken him away from the office building.
He was in the same clothes he’d been wearing during the melee—and then afterward, when the trainer had taken the last part of who he had once been from him. The shirt showed the damage that had been done, but his skin had reknitted. And as for any bullet wounds? They were all healed, the punctures closed as if they had never been.
He guessed that the lead slugs were still in him. He didn’t know where and didn’t think about it anymore as he walked forward through the steel-encased chute.
