Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

warrior known as the Bloodletter; and mine own as Wrath, son of Wrath, we find this male before us, Qhuinn, son of no one, an appropriate nomination unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood. As it is within my power and discretion to do so, and as it is suitable for the protection of the race, and further, as the laws have been reconstructed to provide that this is right and proper, I have waived all requirements of lineage. We may now begin. Turn him. Unveil him.
”
    Before anyone came over to him, Qhuinn squared his shoulders, and managed a quick brush under his eyes—so he was a male once more as he was pivoted around and the robe was taken from him—
    Qhuinn gasped. He was up on a dais, and the cave that was before him was lit with a hundred black candles, the flames creating a symphony of soft, golden light that flickered over the rough-hewn walls and reflected off the glossy floor.
    But that was not what really got his attention: Right in front of him, between him and the tremendous, illuminated space, was an altar.
    In the center of which was a large skull.
    The thing was ancient, the bone not the white of the newly dead, but carrying the darkened, pitted patina of the aged, the sacred, the revered.
    That was the first Brother. Had to be.
    As his eyes shifted away from it, he was struck with awe: Down on the floor, looking up at him, were the living, breathing carriers of the great tradition. The Brotherhood stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the naked bodies of the fighters forming a tremendous wall of flesh and muscle, that candlelight playing across their strength and power.
    Tohr took Wrath’s arm and led the king up the stairs that Qhuinn himself had just surmounted.
    “Back up against the wall, and grip the pegs,” Wrath commanded in English as he was escorted to the altar.
    Qhuinn obeyed without hesitation, feeling his shoulder blades and ass hit the stone as his hands brushed a pair of stout, dowel-like protrusions.
    When the king brought up his arm, Qhuinn suddenly knew exactly how each of the Brothers had gotten that star-shaped scarring on their pectoral: An aged silver glove was locked onto Wrath’s hand, barbs marking the knuckles of the thing—and within the fist, was the handle of a black dagger.
    With a minimum of fuss, Tohr extended Wrath’s wrist over to the skull. “My lord.”
    As the king brought up the blade, the ritualistic tattoos that delineated his lineage caught the glowing light—and then the razor-sharp edge as he scored his skin.
    Red blood welled and fell into a silver cup that had been inset into the crown of the skull. “
My flesh
,” the king proclaimed.
    After a moment, Wrath licked the wound closed. And then the huge male, with his waist-length black hair and his widow’s peak and those wraparounds, was led over to Qhuinn.
    Even without the benefit of sight, Wrath somehow knew exactly how their bodies were positioned, how tall Qhuinn was, where Qhuinn’s face was….
    Because the king snapped out a hold right on Qhuinn’s jaw. Then with brutal force, he shoved Qhuinn’s head back and to the side, exposing his throat.
    Now he knew what the fucking pegs were for.
    Wrath’s cruel smile exposed tremendous fangs, the likes of which Qhuinn had never seen before. “
Your flesh
.”
    With a lightning-fast strike, the king latched on without mercy, piercing Qhuinn’s vein in a brutal bite and then drawing in a series of ripping pulls that were swallowed one after another. When finally he retracted those canines, he drew his tongue over his lips and smiled like a warlord.
    And then it was time.
    Qhuinn didn’t need to be told to brace the ever-loving shit out of himself. Bearing down on his hands, he locked his shoulders and his legs, ready to receive.
    “
Our flesh
,” Wrath growled.
    The king didn’t hold back. With the same unerring accuracy, he curled up a fist inside that ancient glove and slammed the thing into Qhuinn’s pec, the impact of those barbed knuckles so great, Qhuinn’s lips flapped in the gale that blew up and out of his lungs. Vision went bye-bye-birdie for a little bit, but when it came back, he got a crystal-clear of Wrath’s face.
    The king’s expression was one of respect—and a total lack of surprise, as if Wrath had expected Qhuinn to take it like a male.
    And on it went. Tohr was next in line, accepting the glove and the dagger, saying the same words, scoring his forearm, bleeding into the skull, striking at Qhuinn’s throat, then hitting as