Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“The honor of this position is conferred upon you by mine hand, and shall be marked in the appropriate manner.” Abruptly, Wrath switched back to English. “You saved my son last night. I am personally in your debt.”
L.W. shook his head. “You got it wrong. I saved him.”
Wrath looked over at his son. “Yeah, you did. And if his sire were still alive, he’d feel the way I do right now. Grateful.”
“So send Shuli a fucking fruit basket. You do not need to saddle me with him for the rest of my life.”
“It’s done. This is how I want it.”
The expression on the younger Wrath’s face was a clear warning to anybody who could see it. But Shuli had a feeling that even if the King’s eyes had been working, he wouldn’t have given a shit.
Immovable object, meet unstoppable force.
Well, wasn’t Last Meal going to be just great at their house, Shuli thought.
Except then the implications hit him.
With dawning horror, he looked over at the male next to him. Oh… shit. Was he going to have to live with L.W.?
And get a tattoo on his face?
* * *
Wrath really didn’t care that his son had a hair across his ass.
When his brothers had reported what Shuli had done, he’d asked them to repeat the name of the fighter who had run into all those lessers to make sure L.W. got out alive. And then he’d needed a second try at the whole story.
Except it was undeniable: Shuli had proven himself in the old-school way. Lip service was all well and good, but when you were willing to put your own blood down at the foot of the enemy, to protect another? Well, that was the interview for a job Wrath hadn’t even realized he wanted to fill.
The fact that the two couldn’t stand each other? That hadn’t made a difference the previous night, and it wasn’t going to change anything going forward.
And L.W. had gone back for the aristocrat, too.
“I can take care of myself,” his son snapped.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
The reality was, after Wrath had gone up to the Sanctuary, the thirty years he’d lost was in his blood, sure as if his body had gone through the time that had passed all at once. And the breadth of what his shellan and his brothers had been through, what Rahvyn and Lassiter had done, was hanging heavy on him—and he was going to do everything he could to avoid that kind of shit in the future.
If something happened to his son? His and Beth’s lives were over. And by extension, so were everybody else’s. Again.
So, yes, he was going to pair up this aristocrat with his heir. There were better soldiers, certainly. But technical skills weren’t the only thing that mattered when you were in the field. Having that heart, that kind of grit, was nothing you could teach. It was the kind of thing a fighter just had.
The fact that it was in an aristocrat was a surprise, although that was the way life was. Revelations came, for the good and the bad. How you reacted was a measure of your character—and he loved his son enough to give him what Wrath knew in his marrow was the right kind of bodyguard.
“Vishous, you’ll follow up with the inking.” Not a request. “Have a good evening, you two.”
Before he left, he wanted to hug his son. But he was learning that L.W. wasn’t about the clinches. That was fine. They’d had that one embrace up in the study of the mansion when Wrath had come back to the planet. That was enough for now.
It was going to have to be enough.
On his command, George led him back through the break room, the golden brushing against his thigh to take him around furniture and other objects. Behind him, the shitkickers of the Brotherhood were a quiet chant of strength, the powerful bodies in his wake falling into line out of both devotion and duty.
As someone jumped ahead and opened the door for him, Wrath turned to the right out of muscle memory. Except they didn’t live in the mansion anymore, so there was no need to hit the tunnel.
He stopped and pivoted to face his private guard. As he flared his nostrils, he separated the individual scents, filing them in his mind, picturing what he knew his brothers looked like.
He thought of his time with Lassiter up above. And the message that as much as a King might want to go into the field and go hands-on with the enemy, the throne needed to be filled—and it was. By the right male for the job.
He’d never expected that angel to be an asset. But yeah, he definitely thought the Scribe Virgin had chosen her successor well. The holder of that position was supposed to be the counselor to the King—and who knew the angel had common sense after all?