Dark Lover

Chapter Forty-five

Beth was back in The Dress. And loving it. "I don't have shoes," she said.

Wellsie took another hairpin out of her mouth and slid it into Beth's chignon.

"You're not supposed to be wearing any. Okay, let me see how you look." Wellsie smiled as Beth danced around her father's bedroom, red satin skirting flaring like fire around her.

"I'm going to cry." Wellsie covered her mouth with her hand. "I know it. As soon as he sees you, I'm going to start crying. You're just too beautiful, and this is the first happy thing since… I don't know when."

Beth stopped, the gown fluttering to rest. "Thank you. For everything."

Wellsie shook her head. "Don't be nice to me, or I'll start with the tears right now."

"I mean it. I feel like… I don't know, I'm marrying into a family. And I've never really had one before."

Wellsie's nose reddened. "We are your family. You're one of us. Now stop it, will you? Before you get me going."

Someone pounded on the door.

"Is everything okay in there?" came a male voice from the other side.

Wellsie went over and put her head out, keeping the door mostly shut. "Yes, Tohr. Are the brothers all lined up?"

"What the—Have you been crying?" Tohrment demanded. "Are you all right? Dear God, is it the baby?"

"Tohr, relax. I'm a female, I cry at matings. It's in the job description."

There was the sound of a kiss.

"I just don't want anything to upset you, leelan."

"Then tell me the brothers are ready."

"We are."

"Good. I'll bring her out."

"Leelan?"

"What?"

There were low words spoken in their beautiful language.

"Yes, Tohr," Wellsie whispered. "And after two hundred years, I'd mate you again. In spite of the fact that you snore and you leave your weapons all over our bedroom."

The door shut, and Wellsie turned around. "They're ready for you. Shall we?"

Beth tugged at the bodice. Looked down at her ruby ring. "I never thought I'd do this."

"Life is full of wonderful surprises, isn't it?"

"It certainly is."

They walked out of her father's bedroom and into Wrath's chamber.

All the furniture had been emptied out, and where the bed had been, Wrath's brothers were lined up against the wall. They were a magnificent sight, wearing identical black satin jackets and loose pants with jeweled daggers hanging on their hips.

There was a collective inhale as the assembly noticed her. The brothers shifted, looked down. Looked back at her. Bashful smiles actually broke out across those harsh faces.

Well, except for Zsadist's. He glanced at her once and then just stared at the floor.

Butch, Marissa, and Fritz stood to one side. She gave them a little wave. Fritz took out a handkerchief.

And there was someone else in the room.

A tiny person draped in black from head to toe. Even the face was covered.

Beth frowned. Under the folds of black, there was a pool of light on the floor. As if the figure were glowing.

But where was Wrath?

Wellsie led her over until she was standing in front of the men. The one with the gorgeous hair, Phury, stepped forward.

Beth glanced down, trying to collect herself, and noticed that he had a prosthesis where one foot should have been.

She looked up into his yellow eyes, not wanting to stare. When he smiled, she found herself calming a little.

His voice was rich, his words evenly spoken. "We're going to do as much of this in English as we can, so you'll understand. Are you ready to start?"

She nodded.

"My lord, come forward," he called out.

Beth looked over her shoulder.

Wrath materialized in the hall doorway, and she put her hand to her mouth. He was resplendent, wearing a sashed black robe that was embroidered with dark thread. A long, gold-handled dagger hung at his side, and there was a circle of rubies set in some kind of matte-finished metal on his head.

As he strode forward, moving with the grace she loved, his hair flared in waves that fell past his thick shoulders.

He looked at no one but her.

When he was standing before her, he whispered, "You take my breath away."

She started to cry.

Wrath's face was worried as he reached out. "Leelan, what's the matter?"

Beth shook her head and felt Wellsie tuck a Kleenex into her hand.

"She's fine," the woman said. "Trust me, she's fine. Aren't you?"

Beth nodded and blotted under her eyes. "Yes."

Wrath touched her cheek. "We can stop this."

"No!" she shot back. "I love you, and we're going to get married. Right now."

Some of the brothers laughed softly. "Guess we're straight on that," one of them said with respect in his voice.

When she was under control again, Wrath looked over at Phury and nodded.

"We're going to make the presentation to the Scribe Virgin first," the brother said.

Wrath took her hand and led her over to the robed figure.

"Scribe Virgin, this is Elizabeth, daughter of the Black Dagger warrior Darius, granddaughter of the princeps Marklon, great-granddaughter of the princeps Horusman…"

The list went on for a while. When Wrath fell silent, Beth impulsively reached out to the figure, offering her hand.

There was a shout of alarm and Wrath grabbed her arm, hauling her back. Several of the brothers leaped forward.

"That's my fault," Wrath said, splaying his arms out as if to protect her. "I didn't adequately prepare her. She meant no offense."

A laugh—low, warm, and feminine—came out of the robes. "Fear not, warrior. She's fine. Come here, female."

Wrath moved aside, but stayed close.

Beth approached the figure, worried about every move she made. She could feel herself being surveyed.

"This male asks that you accept him as your hellren, child. Would you have him as your own if he is worthy?"

"Oh, yes." Beth looked at Wrath. He was still tense. "Yes, I will."

The figure nodded. "Warrior, this female will consider you. Will you prove yourself for her?"

"I will." Wrath's deep voice carried throughout the room.

"Will you sacrifice yourself for her?"

"I will."

"Will you defend her against those who would seek to harm her?"

"I will."

"Give me your hand, child."

Beth reached out tentatively.

"Palm up," Wrath whispered.

She flipped her wrist. The folds moved and covered her hand. She felt an odd tingling, like a low-level electrical charge.

"Warrior."

Wrath put his hand out, and it too was obscured by the black robe.

Suddenly, warmth surrounded her, enveloped her. She looked at Wrath. He was smiling back at her.

"Ah," the figure said. "This is a good mating. A very good mating."

Their hands were dropped, and then Wrath had his arms around her and was kissing her.

People started to clap. Someone blew a nose.

Beth held on to her new husband as hard as she could. It was done. It was real. They were—

"Almost finished, leelan."

Wrath stepped back, pulling the sash on his robe free. He took the garment off, revealing his bare chest.

Wellsie came up and took Beth's hand. "It's going to be okay. Just breathe with me."

Beth glanced around nervously as Wrath knelt before his brothers and dropped his head. Fritz brought over a small table with the crystal bowl full of salt, a pitcher of water, and a small lacquer box on it.

Phury stood over Wrath. "My lord, what is the name of your shellan?"

"She is called Elizabeth."

With a rasping sound, Phury unsheathed his black dagger.

And bent down over Wrath's bare back.

Beth gasped and lunged forward as the blade descended. "No—"

Wellsie held her in place. "Stay here."

"What is he—"

"You're mating a warrior," Wellsie whispered fiercely. "Let him have his honor in front of his brothers."

"No!"

"Listen to me-Wrath is giving his body, himself, to you. All of it is yours now. That's the purpose of the ceremony."

Phury stepped back, and Beth caught a trickle of blood running down Wrath's side.

Vishous came forward. "What is the name of your shellan?"

"She is called Elizabeth."

As the brother leaned down, Beth shut her eyes and squeezed Wellsie's hand hard. "He doesn't need to do this to prove himself to me."

"Do you love him?" Wellsie demanded.

"Yes."

"Then you must accept his ways."

Zsadist stepped forward next.

"Easy, Z," Phury said softly, staying close beside his twin.

Oh, God, not more.

The brothers came forward again and again, asking him the question. When they were finished, Phury took the pitcher of water and poured it into the bowl of salt. Then he dumped the thick, briny liquid on Wrath's back.

Beth weaved on her feet as she watched his muscles spasm. She couldn't imagine the agony, but except for bearing down onto the floor, Wrath didn't cry out. As he endured the pain, his brothers growled their approval.

Phury bent down and opened the lacquer box, taking out a pristine white cloth. He dried the wounds, then rolled the material up and put it back inside.

"Rise, my lord," he said.

Wrath stood. Across his shoulders, in an arch of Old English letters, was her name in his skin.

Phury presented Wrath with the box. "Take this to your shellan as a symbol of your strength, so she will know that you are worthy of her and that your body, your heart, and your soul are now hers to command."

Wrath turned around. As he came toward her, she anxiously scanned his face. He was fine. Better than fine. He was positively glowing with love.

Dropping to his knees before her, he bowed his head and held up the box.

"Will you take me as your own?" he asked, looking at her over the top of the sunglasses. His pale, blind eyes were sparkling.

Her hands shook as she accepted the box from him. "Yes. I will."

Wrath rose, and she threw her arms around him, careful not to reach too far up his back.

A chant began with the brothers, a low beat of words she didn't understand.

"Are you okay?" he said into her ear.

She nodded, wondering why couldn't she have been named Mary. Or Sue.

But no, she had to be nine-letter Elizabeth.

"Can we not do that again?" she asked, burying her head into his shoulder.

Wrath laughed softly. "You'd better brace yourself if we have children."

The chanting grew louder, deep male voices pumping.

She looked to the brothers, the tall, fierce men who were now a part of her life. Wrath pivoted and put his arm around her. Together, they swayed to the rhythm that swelled, filling the air. The brothers were as one as they paid homage in their language, a single powerful entity.

But then, in a high, keening call, one voice broke out, lifting above the others, shooting higher and higher. The sound of the tenor was so clear, so pure, it brought shivers to the skin, a yearning warmth to the chest. The sweet notes blew the ceiling off with their glory, turning the chamber into a cathedral, the brothers into a tabernacle.

Bringing the very heavens close enough to touch.

It was Zsadist.

His eyes closed, his head back, his mouth wide open, he sang.

The scarred one, the soulless one, had the voice of an angel.