Lover Mine(28)

The Brother turned back, his expression like that of one confronted by an unwelcome obligation. "Well, come on, then--"

"If I may," Darius said, stepping between them. "It would be my pleasure to have him aid me in my duty. If it would not offend."

Truth was, he cared naught if it offended. The boy needed more than his father would give him and Darius was not the kind to sit aside while a wrong unfolded.

"You think I cannae take care of my blood?" Hharm snapped.

Darius turned to the male and went nose-to-nose with him. He preferred peaceful negotiation when it came to conflict, but with Hharm, there was no reasoning. And Darius was well endowed to meet force with force.

As the Brotherhood froze around them, Darius dropped his voice even though all assembled would hear every word. "Give me the boy and I will deliver him whole unto the dawn."

Hharm growled, the sound like that of a wolf amid fresh blood. "As shall I, brother."

Darius leaned in closer. "If you take him out to fight, and he dies, you shall carry that shame upon your lineage fore'ermore." Although for truth it was hard to know whether the male's conscience would be affected. "Give him to me and I will save you that burden."

"I never liked you, Darius."

"And yet back in camp you were more than willing to service those I bested." Darius flashed his fangs. "Given how much you enjoyed that, I should think you'd hold me in kinder regard. And know this--if you do not allow me to o'ersee the boy, I shall take you down to this floor at our feet and beat you until you relent unto me."

Hharm broke eye contact, lifting his gaze above Darius's shoulder as the past sucked the Brother down. Darius knew the moment that he had been drawn into. It was the night when Darius had won against him back at the camp--and as Darius had refused to redress the deficiency, the Bloodletter had. Brutal was a pale word to describe that session, and though Darius was loath to bring it up, the boy's safety was a worthy end for the unworthy means.

Hharm knew who would win in a contest of fists.

"Take him," the male said flatly. "And do what you will with him. I hereby renounce him as my son."

The Brother pivoted, strode out. . . .

And took all the air from the cave with him.

The warriors watched him go, their silence louder than the war cry had been. To disavow offspring was antithetical to the race, as much as daylight would be to a family meal: it was ruination.

Darius went over to the young male. That face . . . Dearest Virgin Scribe. The boy's frozen gray face wasn't sad. Wasn't heartbroken. Wasn't even ashamed.

His features were a veritable death mask.

Putting out his palm, Darius said, "Greetings, son. I am Darius, and I shall function as your fighting whard ."

The young's eyes blinked once.

"Son? We shall go anon to the cliffs."

Abruptly, Darius was subjected to a sharp regard; the boy was clearly searching for signs of obligation and pity. He would find none, however. Darius knew with precision the dry, hard earth upon which the boy's boots stood, and therefore he was well aware that any kind of softness offered would only result in further disgrace.

"Why," came a hoarse question.

"We go anon to the cliffs to find that female," Darius said with calm. "That is why."

The boy's eyes bored into Darius's. Then the young placed his hand upon his breast. With a bow, he said, "I shall endeavor to be of service rather than weight."

It was so hard to be unwanted. Harder still to hold one's head up after such an affront.

"What is your name," Darius asked.

"Tohrment. I am Tohrment, son of . . ." The throat was cleared. "I am Tohrment."

Darius stepped in beside the young male and put his palm on a shoulder that had yet to fill out to its fullest potential.

"Come with me."

The boy followed with pur pose . . . out of the audience of the Brotherhood . . . out of the sanctuary . . . out of the cave . . . into the night.

The shift within Darius's chest happened sometime between that initial footstep forward and the moment they dematerialized together.

Verily he felt for the first time as if he had a family of his own . . . because even though the boy wasn't his by blood, he had assumed care of him.

Accordingly, he would go before a blade intended for the younger if it came down to that, sacrificing himself. Such was the code of the Brotherhood--but only toward one's brothers. Tohrment was not yet among that number; he was but an initiate by virtue of his bloodline, which gained him access into the Tomb, and nothing further. If he failed to prove himself, he would be barred forever therein.

Indeed, for all the code required, the boy could well be slain on the field and left for dead.