Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

was prepared to take this. “How long will it take you to make it legal?”
    “I can have everything drawn up by dawn tomorrow—nightfall at the latest.”
    “Do it.” Wrath made a fist and banged it onto the arm of the throne. “Do it now.”
    “As you wish, my lord.”
    There was a rustle of fine clothing, as if the male were bowing, and then more padding feet before one half of the double doors opened and shut.
    Wrath stared off into the nothingness he was provided by his blind eyes.
    Dangerous times was right. And frankly, the smart thing to do was add more Brothers, not think of reasons not to—although the counter-argument to that was, if those three boys were willing to fight alongside them without being inducted, why bother?
    But fuck that. It was old-school to want to honor someone who had put his life on the line so your own could continue.
    The real issue, even apart from the laws, however…was, What would the others think?
    That was more likely to put the kibosh on this than any legal snafu.

    As night fell hours later, Qhuinn lay naked in tangled sheets, neither his body nor his mind at rest, even as he slept.
    In his dream, he was back at the side of the road, walking off from his family’s house. He had a duffel over one shoulder, a proclamation of disinheritance shoved into his waistband, and a wallet that was eleven dollars away from being empty.
    Everything was crystal clear—nothing denatured due to memory’s faulty playback: from the humid summer night to the sound of his New Rocks on the pebbles at the shoulder…to the fact that he was aware he had nothing in his future.
    He had nowhere to go. No home to return to.
    No prospects. Not even a past anymore.
    When the car pulled in behind him, he knew it was John and Blay—
    Except, no. It was not his friends. It was death in the form of four males in black robes who streamed out of four doors and swarmed around him.
    An Honor Guard. Sent by his father to beat him for dishonoring the family’s name.
    How ironic. One would assume that knifing a sociopath who’d been trying to rape your buddy would be considered a good thing. But not when the assailant was your perfect first cousin.
    In slow motion, Qhuinn sank down into his fighting stance, prepared to meet the attack. There were no eyes to look directly into, no faces to note—and there was a reason for that: The fact that the robes obscured their identities was supposed to make the person who’d transgressed feel as though all of society was disapproving of the actions he had taken.
    Circling, circling, closing in…eventually they were going to take him down, but he was going to hurt them in the process.
    And he did.
    But he was also right: After what seemed like hours of defense, he ended up on his back, and that was when the beating really happened. Lying on the asphalt, he covered his head and his nut sac as best he could, the blows raining down on him, black robes flying like the wings of crows as he was struck again and again.
    After a little while, he felt no pain.
    He was going to die here at the side of the road—
    “Stop! We’re not supposed to kill him!”
    His brother’s voice cut through it all, sinking in in a way that the pummeling no longer did—
    Qhuinn woke up with a shout, throwing his arms over his face, his thighs thrusting up to protect that groin of his—
    No fists or clubs were coming at him.
    And he was not at the side of the road.
    Willing on some lights, he looked around the bedroom that he’d been staying in since he’d been kicked out of his family’s home. It didn’t suit him in the slightest, the silk wallpaper and the antiques something his mother would have picked out—and yet at the moment, the sight of all that old crap someone else had chosen, bought, hung, and kept after made him calm down.
    Even as the memory lingered.
    God, the sound of his brother’s voice.
    His own brother had been part of the Honor Guard that had been sent for him. Then again, that sent a more powerful message to the
glymera
about how seriously the family was taking things—and it wasn’t as if the guy hadn’t been trained. He’d been taught the martial arts, although naturally he’d never been allowed to fight. Hell, he’d barely been permitted to spar.
    Too valuable to the bloodline. If he got hurt? The one who was going to walk in Daddio’s footsteps and eventually become a
leahdyre
of the Council could be compromised.
    Small risk of a catastrophic