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Together.
With no one and nothing else welcome in the sacred space.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
It was an earthquake.
That was what went through Beth’s mind as everything in the whole world seemed to go haywire. In a panic, she threw out a hand for the lamp beside her mated bed—
“Wrath! What’s going on?”
In the dim glow from the bathroom, she caught a pretty unforgettable image of her hellren springing out from under the covers, his enormous body contorted as if every muscle he had was charley-horse’ing at once. As he landed with absolutely no grace at all, the booming sound reverberated through the First Family’s quarters, the jewels on the walls going into a sparkle as if he had rocked the very foundations of the mansion.
For a second, he stayed in a crouch, like a monster under the bed was coming out to get them and he had to protect her. Then he wheeled around for the exit and took off.
Beth scrambled after him—and so did George, who bolted up out of his Orvis bed and four-paw’d at a dead run after his master.
“Where are you going? What’s happening!” she exclaimed.
“I’m fine, it’s fine, I’m fine—”
Wrath kept repeating the mantra as he broke out of their suite, hit the vault door like a wrecking ball, kept going down the staircase.
“You don’t have any clothes on!”
He didn’t seem to hear her or maybe he didn’t care. At the base of the steps, he exploded onto the second floor loggia across from the study. Skidding on the carpet, he tore off along the Hall of Statues, passing the ancient Greco-Roman sculptures of athletes and warriors like one of them come to life, his black hair streaming behind him, his naked ass a money shot that nobody was really looking for at this hour of the day—
Crap, she probably shouldn’t take note of how good his butt was, not in this situation.
As Wrath led the panic parade, with her and George bringing up the rear—natch—people’s heads poked out of bedroom doors. Rhage. Qhuinn and Blay. Zsadist.
“It’s fine,” she said over her shoulder. In a strangled voice. “Everything is fine.”
Wrath hit the double doors at the end of the corridor, and kept on going—to the unadorned hall of rooms on the left. Unlike the rest of the mansion, there were no paintings, no bouquets of fresh flowers on period console tables, not even any rugs, along its straight shot.
He stopped at the first set of quarters, and before he could knock, things opened up.
In his Charles Dickens nightshirt and cap, Fritz was alarmed to begin with, no doubt on account of all the noise, but when he saw his master, unclothed and disheveled as a wild man, his shock transformed into full-blown terror.
“Master! Whate’er—”
Wrath paid no attention to that. His hands started patting all around the doggen, going over Fritz’s thin arms, his wrinkly neck, his sunken chest. Then Wrath popped that cap right off and tossed it, touching the butler’s head as if he were searching for structural deficiencies, before moving on to the wrinkly face.
As he searched for God only knew what, the great black diamond he wore flickered in the low lighting—
Fritz gasped and covered his mouth with both hands.
At first, Beth had no idea what he’d seen in her hellren’s face, but then she realized… no wraparounds. Wrath never showed his eyes, ever, but in his rush, he had not stopped to put on the blacked-out sunglasses.
“Sire…?” Fritz breathed, transfixed.
“Fuck.” Wrath’s body wobbled. “Fuck… you’re okay. Shit.”
That was when the collapse happened, the great Blind King falling to his knees at the feet of his most loyal servant, his massive muscles bunching up as he bent over and struggled to keep his emotions—and maybe his stomach—in check.
“Sire…”
Fritz bowed down so he could see that harsh face, and when Wrath put his palms up and covered his features, the old doggen looked around as if searching for a rescue. He had plenty of spectators, all of the staff now out of their rooms and approaching cautiously, their distress obvious—and meanwhile, behind Beth, the Brothers were gathering, most of them in boxers, a couple in flannel PJ bottoms.
But there were no saviors.
Everybody was frozen, with no clue what was going on.
So Fritz did what a butler should. He dealt with the mess that was before him.
Though doggen eschewed physical contact with their superiors, for they deemed themselves—irrationally—as unworthy of such affection, Fritz brought forth shaking hands and gently placed them on the enormous bare shoulders of his King. Wrath clearly sensed the contact because heavy arms, tattooed on the inside with his ancient royal lineage, shot out and locked around Fritz’s waist.
As the other servants came a little farther forward, Fritz nodded curtly.
On cue, the doggen of the household closed in, linking arms, forming a circle around their King, and there were so many of them, Beth had to inch back to give them space.
