The King(188)

“Aye.”
Tracing the injuries upon her hellren with fresh eyes, she shook her head. “No, I shall not allow it. If you must have revenge wrought, let one of these capable males do it.”
“No.”
She glanced over at the heavy carved desk across the way, the one they’d recently moved in here, the one at which he sat so happily for hours upon hours, ruling, thinking, planning. Then she regarded his misshapen face.
“Wrath, you are not fit for the likes of a violent duty,” she said hoarsely.
“I shall be.”
“No. I forbid you.”
Now he glared upon her. “No one commands the King.”
“Except for me,” she countered smoothly. “And we both know it.”
At that there was a soft chuckle in the room—of respect.
“They did the same to my father,” Wrath said in a dead voice. “Except they poisoned him to the point of his death.”
Anha lifted a hand to her throat. “But no … he died of natural causes—”
“He did not. And as the son, I am obliged to right that wrong—as well as yours.” Wrath wiped some of the blood off his mouth. “Listen to me now, my Anha, and hear this truth clearly … I shall not be castrated in this by you or anyone. The soul of my father haunts me the now, walking the halls of my mind, talking unto me. And you shall do the same if they finally succeed in putting you in your grave. I have been fated to live with the former. Do not expect me to do the same with the latter.”
She leaned in urgently. “But you have the Brotherhood. That is what they are for, how they serve. They are your private guard.”
As she implored her mate, the sheer heft and number of the males pressed in upon her—in the very best sense.
“Command them,” she begged. “Send them out unto the world to exact this due.”
His bloodied hand reached out, and she thought it was to clasp her palm. Instead, it rested upon her gown, below the bodice … upon her womb.
“You are with young,” he said roughly. “I can scent it.”
She too had been thinking the same, although for different reasons.
Wrath’s one working eye met hers. “So I cannot allow others to do what is my duty. Even if I could regard you knowing that I was so weak … I could never stare into the face of a son or a daughter with the awareness that I had lacked the courage to caretake for mine bloodline.”
“Please, Wrath…”
“What kind of father would I be then?”
“One who is alive.”
“For how long, though. If I do not protect what is mine, it shall be taken away from me. And I will not lose my family.”
Overcome, Anha felt tears fall down her cheeks, the paths burning her face.
Dropping her forehead to the bloodied black diamond of the King’s ring, she wept.
For in her heart, she knew he was right—and she hated the world that they lived in … and were, in time, going to bring forth a young into.

FIFTY-EIGHT
Downtown, in the urban heart of Caldwell, Xcor picked up a burst of speed in an alley, his combat boots crushing through the dirty, salted slush, frigid air rushing at his face, distant sirens and shouts offering a kind of narration to this battle.
Up ahead, the slayer he was going for was just as fast as he. The bastard was not as well armed, however—especially after he’d emptied his clip and then had, in the fit of a fifteen-year-old, thrown the autoloader at Xcor.
Great move. Right up there with crying for your mommy.
And then the chase had been on.
Xcor was content to allow the lesser to run his lack of a heart out. Provided that all the sprinting didn’t lead to the kind of complication that had gotten in his way the other night.
He had no interest in fielding another human.
After another quarter mile or so, the slayer came to the titular end of the alley—whereupon he was forced to pull a music video, throwing his body at a twenty-foot-high chain-link fence and commencing to scale it with admirable aplomb.
Then again, the Omega had given him a kind of super-power following his induction.
Not that it was going to save him.
Xcor took three leaping steps and pitched his body into the air, his weight sailing upward and landing him upon the lesser’s back just before the slayer hit the apex of the fencing. Locking on and yanking hard, he peeled the undead free of the fencing, twisting in midair such that they landed with Xcor on top.
His scythe screamed to be let out to play. But instead of releasing her, he unclipped her little cousin from his hip.
The machete had a steel handle and a rubber grip, and it felt like an extension of his arm as he lifted it over his shoulder.
Now, he could end this quickly by aiming for the middle of the chest. But where was the fun in that? Slapping a hold on the face, he wrenched the head to the side and sheared off the ear—