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There was an audience in process, and Lassiter stayed just inside the entry, crossing his arms and tuning in to the other end of the room. The young couple who were huddled together on the Persian rug didn’t notice anything. Then again, they were facing the hearth—not that they were interested in the modest fire that crackled and sparked in a friendly way. Their attention was consumed by the pair of armchairs angled in toward each other.
Only one of the seats had been called into service, and Wrath’s imposing royal form overfilled its high back and generous contours. Dressed in black leathers and a muscle shirt, with those black wraparounds hiding his blind eyes and his long black hair falling from that widow’s peak, it was easy to understand why a pair of civilians would be shitting their knickers.
And the King was aware something had altered in the environment.
Like the two brothers who were guarding him, Wrath knew other interested parties had entered the proverbial chat. His head tilted up ever so slightly, as if his eyes were in working order and he was searching exactly where Lassiter and the other angels were. And then his nostrils flared as though scenting the air. As well, George, who was very hale and hearty at his feet, lifted his boxy head and pricked his ears.
After a moment, the King refocused on the couple. Extending his dagger hand, the black diamond he wore flashed as he motioned.
“Bring the young to me,” he commanded.
The female glanced at her male, and then she repositioned the bundle in her arms. When her hellren nodded, they both approached cautiously. Made sense. Sitting the way he was, with his hard jaw up, and all those muscles showing, Wrath looked like he could go either way, aristocrat or aggressor.
And that was a really tiny little baby in the burrito of pale blue blanketing.
“G-g-go on, then,” the male stuttered as he gingerly moved his shellan in front of him. “Bring him up.”
The guy didn’t abandon her. He stayed connected to his mate, keeping his hands on her shoulders, pressing his chest into her back.
Such a fragile young family, Lassiter thought. Just starting out and scared to death—because everything they were in life was wrapped in that cotton bundle.
“Go ahead, leelan,” the male whispered.
The female was trembling so badly, it seemed like she could barely stand, and Lassiter glanced at V and Rhage, hoping one of them would step in, do a solid, and make it so the young didn’t hit the floor and crack open like an egg.
But neither of them moved, and Saxton, the King’s solicitor, was nowhere in sight, his desk, with its neatly arranged paperwork and volumes of the Old Laws, vacant for the moment.
Fine, Lassiter thought as he went to step forward. He might as well demonstrate exactly how he helped—
Wrath’s face softened and he leaned to the side, placing his broad palm on George’s head to stroke the dog.
“That’s what I call my mate,” he said as he fiddled with one of the blond ears. “Leelan. She is my beloved.”
“The Queen,” said the male with awe.
Nodding, Wrath kept his face angled in their direction. “We have a son, too. I remember how scary it was in the beginning. Do you watch over him when he sleeps? We did that constantly for the first month.”
The female glanced back at her hellren. Then cleared her throat. In a wavering voice, she said, “I’m afraid he won’t wake up. I almost prefer him fussy and crying.”
Wrath nodded again. “Oh, I remember those days. They’re really long. L.W. is past that now, but you never forget it. They’re so small. How many nights old?”
The female said with a little more gumption, “Three nights.”
“Are you okay?” Wrath lifted his hand toward the male. “If you’ll permit me the inquiry of your shellan?”
The civilian seemed dumbfounded that the ruler would ask his permission. Then he nodded furiously—before seeming to recall the King could not see.
“Yes, I mean,” he said. “Please.”
“I am well,” the female answered. “As long as he is well.”
Now, when the King held out his hands, the female went forward, and as she transferred the young, there was a rousing and a squawk. A proper crying commenced, and as the couple rushed forward, the King secured the infant in the crook of his arm and started gently batting that diaper.
Pat. Pat. Pat. Pat.
The young settled in almost immediately, and the male and female fell back a little, holding on to each other.
Wrath murmured to the infant, his low, deep voice weaving throughout the room. After a little bit, he moved his free hand up and parted the folds around the face. Blunt fingers traveled over the tiny features.
In the Old Language, he said more loudly, “What name hath been given unto this young?”
