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 hard as a truck. And then Rhage. Vishous. Butch. Phury. Zsadist.
By the end of it, Qhuinn was bleeding from the wounds at his throat and his chest, his body was covered from sweat, and the only reason he wasn’t on the floor was the bitch grip he had on those pegs.
But he didn’t care what else they did to him; he was going to stay on his feet no matter what. He had no clue about the history of the Brotherhood, but he was willing to bet none of these guys had gone down like a bag of sand during their inductions—and he didn’t mind being the first in some senses, but not in a sacless one.
Besides, so far so good, he guessed: The other Brothers were standing around and grinning from ear to ear at him, like they totally approved of how he was handling shit—and didn’t that only make him even more determined.
With a nod, as if he’d been given an order, Tohr led the king back over to the altar and handed him the skull. Raising the collected blood high, Wrath said, “This is the first of us. Hail to him, the warrior who birthed the Brotherhood.”
A war cry burst forth from the Brothers, their combined voices thundering in the cave; and then Wrath approached Qhuinn. “Drink and join us.”
Roger. That.
With a sudden surge of strength, he grabbed that skull and looked right into the eye sockets as he brought the silver cup to his mouth. Opening the way to his gut, he poured the blood down his throat, accepting the males into him, absorbing their strength…joining them.
All around, the Brothers growled their approval.
When he was finished, he put the skull back in Wrath’s palms and wiped his mouth.
The king laughed deep in his massive chest. “You’re going to want to hang on to those pegs again, son….”
Annnnnnnnd that was the last thing he heard for a while.
Like a lightning bolt coming out of the sky and drilling him right in the head, a sudden burst of energy hit him, overtaking all of his senses. He jumped backward, finding the grips and locking on just as his body started to go into a seizure….