Free Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last by J.R. Ward Page B

Balthazar, the
    thief. Syphon, the assassin. And the other one who had no name, and too many sins to count. So he
    was referred to as Syn.
    Then he considered fair, loyal Throe, his second in command.
    Perfectly reared, impeccably blooded Throe.
    Handsome, comely Throe.
    “Go now,” he told the male.
    “And what of you?”
    “Go.”
    Throe hesitated, and in the pause, that night when Xcor had nearly died came back to them both.
    How could it not have?
    “As you wish.”
    His soldier dematerialized, leaving Xcor to stand against the wind alone. When he was sure he
    had been left, he sent his molecules likewise unto the cold gusts, venturing forth to the north, to a meadow that was covered in snow. Taking form, he stood at the base of its gentle hill, staring up at the beautiful tree standing proud and lovely at the apex.
    He thought of the soft rise of a female’s breast, of her elegant collarbones, of the most sublime
    column of a pale neck—
    As the wind buffeted his back, he closed his eyes and stepped forward, drawn to return to the spot
    where he had met his pyrocant .
    Where was his Chosen?
    Did she still live? Had the Brotherhood taken her life for her kind, generous, unknown gift to the
    enemy of her king?
    Xcor knew he would have died without her blood. Gravely injured during the attempt on Wrath’s
    life, he had been on the verge of expiration when Throe had take him out to this field and summoned the Chosen and the deed had been done.
    Throe had engineered it all. And, in the process, embedded a curse within Xcor’s dark heart.
    His ambitions remained as they had been: He intended to wrestle the throne from the Blind King
    and reign o’er the vampires. There was, however, a critical weakness that dogged him.
    That female.
    She had been wrongly drawn into the conflict among dagger-handed males, an innocent who had
    been manipulated and then used.
    He sorely worried over her welfare.
    Indeed, he had but one regret in his lifetime of evil deeds. If he had not sent Throe into the arms of the Brotherhood, his second in command would not have crossed her path and fed from her himself.
    And except for that intersection, Throe would not have then later called upon her service, and she
    would not have come unto them in that field…and Xcor would never have looked into those
    compassionate eyes.
    And lost a part of himself.
    He was but a filthy, malformed, sireless cur, a traitor of the order and protection she rightfully
    lived under. He had not deserved her gift.
    And neither had Throe—and not because he had fallen from his previous high station within the
    glymera .
    No mortal male was deserving.
    Coming to a stop under the tree, Xcor stared at the spot where he had lain sprawled before her…
    where she had knelt over him and scored her wrist, and he had opened his mouth to receive the power that only she could give him.
    There had been a moment when their eyes had met and time had stopped…and then she had
    slowly lowered her wrist to his mouth.
    Oh, that too-brief contact.
    He had been convinced she was but an apparition of his errant mind, but as Throe had driven him
    back to the lair, it had come upon his consciousness that she was real. Very real.
    Weeks had passed. And then one evening, out in the city, he had sensed her, and followed the
    echo of her blood in his veins to see her.
    In those intervening minutes and hours, she had found out the truth about him: She had looked into
    the darkness, directly at him, and her distress had been evident.
    Thereafter, his lair had been infiltrated. Likely because of her direction.
    With a gust of wind, snow started to fall again, the snowflakes thickening in the air, swirling
    around, getting into his eyes.
    Where was she now?
    What had they done with her?
    Off to the east, the glow of the sunrise began to gather in spite of the cloud cover, and his eyes
    burned—so he was careful to keep them trained on the peach harbinger of daylight, just for the pain.
    He