The Chosen

“You’re so wrong. I was just pissed off at Layla. It didn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Your words had everything to do with me—and listen, it’s not like I don’t get it. You’re those kids’ biological father. That’s something no one can take away from you or change—that’s sacred, a reality that was determined the second Layla became pregnant thanks to you. And that’s why the idea that you’re going to expect Wrath to pretend from last night onward that Layla shouldn’t be in their lives is bullshit. She’s in their blood, just like you are—and yes, she made a really bad call when she was pregnant, but the kids came out on the other side fine, and she hasn’t left them for a second since she gave birth. You know damn well she’s about them, not anyone or anything else, and that includes Xcor. You strip her of her rights? You’re just doing it to be cruel because she scared the shit out of you and you want to teach her a lesson and make her suffer. And that’s not a good enough reason to take her away from Lyric and Rhamp.”

“She consorted with the enemy, Blay.”

“And he didn’t actually hurt her, did he. Or your kids.” Blay cursed. “But that’s none of my business—”

“Will you stop throwing that in my fucking face!”

“I’m not saying it to piss you off.” Abruptly, his eyes started to water. “I’m saying it because it’s my new reality and I’m trying to get used to it.”

He hated the roughness in his voice—especially because Qhuinn knew him too well to miss it. And on that note … “Listen, I’ve got to go—”

“Blay. Stop this. Let me come see you—”

“Please don’t.”

“What’s happening here?” Qhuinn’s voice got tight. “Blay. What are you doing here?”

As Blay leaned back in his father’s office chair, he closed his eyes … and the image of Lyric cradled against his chest was like a sword slicing through his heart. God, he could recall every single thing about her: her wide, beautiful, myopic eyes that had yet to settle on a color, her rosy cheeks, her dusting of blond hair.

He could remember smiling down at her, his heart so full of love that his body felt like a glorious balloon, overinflated, but in no danger of bursting.

Everything had seemed more permanent when the kids had come, like Qhuinn and he, already set in concrete, had added steel ropes around each other and pulled the lengths in tight.

He wasn’t sure what was worse: losing his place in the young’s lives, or no longer feeling that security.

“I’ve got to go,” he said abruptly.

“Blay, come on—”

As he put the receiver down on the cradle, he didn’t slam it. Didn’t pick up the entire unit and hurl it into the precisely ordered shelves of books on economics and accounting rules.

He wasn’t mad.

Getting angry about the truth was just stupid.

It was better to spend your time adapting to it.

Far more logical, even if it made tears come to your eyes.

FOURTEEN

“Seriously. All I’m going to do is take a shower and then stare out the window some more. That’s it.”

When Vishous didn’t say anything, Layla turned around in the chair she’d been in for the last hour. He, too, was where he had last been, in this tidy kitchen with her, leaning up against the granite countertops by the stove, smoking quietly. The safe house they had inhabited overday was a lovely ranch that was small enough to feel cozy, but big enough for a little family. Everything in it was done in variations of pale gray, with carefully chosen accents of buttercup yellow and cheerful blue—so instead of being gloomy, it felt light, airy, and modern.

In other circumstances, she would have loved everything about the home. As things were, it felt like a prison.

“Come on, Vishous. Do you honestly think I’m going to show up at the mansion’s front door and demand to be let in? And it’s not like I have the key or anything.” When he still didn’t reply, she rolled her eyes. “Or no, you’re worried I’m looking for another opportunity to piss off our King. Because you can see how well that’s working for me at the moment.”

Vishous shifted his weight from one shitkicker to another. Dressed in black leathers, a muscle shirt, and about fifty pounds of guns and knives, he was like a wraith in the wrong place in this picture-perfect house. Or maybe it was the right place. He’d certainly been a harbinger of doom since last night—and as roommates were, he was about as much fun as her current mood.

Layla nodded at the cell phone in his black gloved hand. “Go to your meeting. That’s what that text was, wasn’t it.”

“It’s rude to read people’s minds,” he muttered.

“I’m not in your skull. Your expression simply makes it obvious that you want to go and feel trapped here with me. I don’t need a babysitter. I’m not going anywhere. The King has my young under his roof, and unless I play by his rules, I will never see them again. If you think I’m bucking him in any fashion, you’re out of your damn mind.”

As she turned back to the window, she was aware that she was cursing, and she didn’t give a shit. She was worried about Lyric and Rhamp, and going on no sleep and no food.

“I’ll send someone else.” There was a tapping sound like Vishous was texting back. “Maybe Lassiter.”

“I’d rather be alone.” She pivoted around again. “I’m getting tired of crying in front of an audience.”

Vishous dropped his arm. Whether it was because he’d sent whatever he’d been composing or was agreeing with her, she didn’t know—and she didn’t really care.

Learned helplessness, she thought. Wasn’t that what it was called? She’d heard Marissa and Mary use the term when referring to the brain freeze that victims of domestic violence sometimes found themselves locked in by.

Although in her case, she wasn’t being abused. She’d earned this out-of-her-control honestly.

She went back to staring at the night, shifting herself so she could look out the sliding doors behind the table. There was a porch on the far side of the broad panes of glass, and in the glow of the security lighting, she measured the meager build-up of ice and snow, and tracked the trails of crusty brown leaves break-dancing across the frigid stage. During the day, when she hadn’t been sleeping downstairs in the basement, she had turned on the local news at noon. Apparently, there was a freak early blizzard heading Caldwell’s way, and sure enough, she could hear the salt trucks rumbling in the distance, laying down tracks of brine on the roads.

Perhaps human children would be off from school when it hit, and this made her check out the houses on the far sides of the backyard fence. She could not see much of the homes, just the glow of lights on the second floors, and she imagined all sorts of human young nestled in beds while their parents caught a bit of TV before they retired for the night.

How she envied them all.

And on that note, God, she hoped V left. She was going to go insane cooped up with his glowering presence—although the idea of Lassiter as substitute was enough to make her suicidal.

“All right,” Vishous muttered. “I’ll be back when I know something.”

“Please don’t send that angel.”

“Nah. That would make your punishment cruel and unusual.”

She released the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you.”

The Brother hesitated. “Layla. Listen—”

“At the risk of pissing you off, too, there is nothing you can say to me that will make this better or worse. That’s how you know you’re in Hell, by the way. No hope and pain is all you can see.”

The sound of Vishous’s heavy boots on the tile was loud in the quiet little kitchen, and for some reason, she thought of the Brother Tohrment’s love of Godzilla movies. Just the other evening, she had come down to stretch her legs and found Tohr kicked back on the sofa in the billiards room, Autumn asleep on top of his body, Godzilla vs. Mothra playing on the big screen over the fireplace.

She’d thought things had been complicated then. Now? She wished she could go back to those halcyon nights when all she had had on her mind was guilt and self-blame.