Choose Slice of Life: SLICES OF LIFE Slices of Life are scenes from the every day lives of the Brothers and their Shellans. These scenes are intended for those readers 18 years old or older. Wrath sat back in his throne and looked at the piles of white before him: Requests to him as king for intervention on civil matters. Powers of attorney to Fritz for banking transactions. It was a wonder the pansy desk could hold it all up. From behind him, he heard a series of metallic clicks and then the shutters rose for the night on a whirring noise. Wrath sat forward and picked up his magnifying glass. The damn thing was getting to be an extension of his arm and he hated it. And secondly, it reminded him that for all intents and purposes his life had been reduced to a desk job. A desk job with purpose and honor and nobility, sure. Idly, he picked up an envelope opener that bore his royal seal and he balanced the tip of it on the end of his forefinger, suspending the knife-shaped slice of silver in mid-air. To make the game harder on himself, he closed his eyes and moved his hand around, creating instability, testing himself, using senses other than his weak eyes. With a curse, he cracked his lids back open. Christ, why was he wasting time here? He had about ten thousand things he needed to do. All of which were urgent- From the open double doors across the study, he heard voices. Riding this uncharacteristic wave of procrastination, he tossed the opener onto the snow bank of shit he had to do and walked out. At the balcony, he planted his hands on the gold-leafed balustrade and looked down. In the foyer below, Vishous, Rhage and Phury were getting ready to go out, yakking it up while they doubled checked their weapons. And off to the side, Zsadist was leaning back against a malachite column, one shitkicker crossed over the other. He had a black dagger in his hand and he was twirling it up into the air and catching it, over and over again. On each trip, the blade caught the light in flashes of navy blue. Damn those daggers V made were fantastic. And fuck you, have-a-nice-trip-back-to-the-Omega for the lessers. Heading over the mosaic tiles of the foyer, he moved with his typical swagger and impatience, clearly craving the fight he was damn well going to find, his beast no doubt as ready for some hand to hand as he was. Vishous was right behind him, all cool strides and lethal calm. Phury was likewise collected, his limp not noticeable in the slightest thanks to the new prosthesis he was using. In their wake, Zsadist stood from the column and sheathed his dagger. The slide of metal on metal reverberated up to Wrath like a sigh of satisfaction. In the light from overhead, his scar was very noticeable, that distorted upper lip more pronounced than ever. With a nasty aura, the burn weaved through his bones and muscles, becoming indistinguishable from his body, making him as he had always been: a savage capable of anything. Not in the slightest. Z walked to the door and then paused. Out into the night. Left by himself, Wrath headed back for his study. He sat down behind the frilly desk and his hand found the envelop opener, his forefinger running up and down the dull edge. As he looked at the thing, he knew someone could kill with it. Just not with any finesse. Cranking his fist tight as if it actually was a weapon, he pointed the thing out in front of him, leveling it over his paper mountain. As he moved, the tattoos running up his forearm stretched out, his crystal clean lineage all loud and clear in black ink. Not that he could read the pure bred stamp of approval. Jesus, what the fuck was he doing here ass-rotting on this throne? How had this happened? His brothers out working the war. Him sitting here with a goddamned letter opener. Beth was in the doorway, wearing a pair of old cut offs and a muscle shirt. Her long dark hair was down past her shoulders and she smelled like night blooming roses… night blooming roses and his bonding scent. As he stared at her, for some reason he thought about the workouts he put himself through in the gym… those hardcore, hamster-wheel, full-body masturbations that got him exactly nowhere. There were things that were missing even if you burned yourself out until the sweat ran fast as the blood in your veins. Yeah… before you knew it, you lost your edge. You went from being a dagger to a desk ornament. And the intelligence in them was just as sharp as that weapon. He had found his first kills for the night, but at the moment he had his body on MasterLock, holding himself back, waiting until there was a little privacy. No fighting in public for the Brotherhood. Unless you absolutely had to. And this little impending shindig was going to create some noise. The three lessers ahead of him were Primes, all paled-out, looking to go at it, moving with a deadly rhythm of heavy bodies on solid ground. As all of them went along, the storm overhead stretched out its arms and started to pound on the night, its lightening flashing, its thunder cursing. He told himself patience, but he felt like holding back was punishment. Except then, like a gift from the Scribe Virgin, the trio turned into an alley. And wheeled around to face him. Yeah, well, time to waltz, motherfuckers. Z unsheathed his dagger and fell into a jog, triggering the start gun on the fight. As he came forward, the lessers backed up, disappearing farther into the long alley, finding the shadows necessary to keep what was about to happen from human eyes. Zsadist targeted the slayer on the right because the bastard was the biggest and had the largest knife so disarming him was a tactical priority. It was also something Z was just plain jonesing to do. His momentum carried him faster and faster until he was skimming the ground, shitkickers barely touching the pavement. As he moved in, he was the wind, carrying along, rushing forward, sweeping down on what was ahead of him. The lessers got ready, switching positions, crouching for conflict, so that the big guy was up in front and the other two flanked him. At the last moment, Z tucked into a ball and rolled on the asphalt. Then he sprung up and led with his dagger, catching the linebacker lesser in the gut, opening the bastard up like a pillow. Unfortunately, on the way to his dirt nap, he managed to clip Z right in the neck with his switchblade. He focused on the other two slayers, popping free his second dagger so he was a two-fisted slashing machine. The fight went into hardcore territory fast, and as a second wound broke open on his shoulder, he thought he might even need a pick up at the end of it. Especially as a length of steel chain snaked around his neck and went tight as a tire rim. All the air left his lungs on that eviction notice and it stayed away, his ribcage refusing to re-expand no matter how much he worked his mouth. Right before he blacked out, he thought of Bella and the panic of leaving her gave him the crash cart shock he needed. His sternum heaved for the heavens, drawing in breath so hard the shit went all the way down to his balls. And just in time. As the two lessers fell on him, he twisted to the side and somehow found footing. Going on instinct and experience, he lick-splited a classic two knife lock and cross on the first of the slayers, all but decapitating the thing. Then he stabbed the other one in the ear, shorting him out cold. Except then four more showed up: back ups called in, all nice and fresh, ready to work. Z was now in goat fuck territory. He sheathed a dagger and palmed one of his SIGs, even though the gun would make noise. And took a bite out of his pride. He was just flipping the safety off when he saw the twin, pale green lights at the back of the alley. As the lessers went all standstill, clearly they noticed, too. Dollars to dickheads, that was some new kind of Xenon headlight and they were about to get a visit by a carload of kibitzers. Except then the air temperature dropped twenty degrees. As if someone had unloaded two tons of dry ice back there and hit the shit with an industrial blower. Zsadist threw his head back and laughed loud and long, the power coming back into his body even with his slit throat and his dripping shoulder. As rain started to fall, he positively sizzled with aggression. The lessers clearly thought he was nuts. His glowing eyes were a roaring call of death in the night, his fangs white and sharp and visible from yards and yards away. In his hands were his trademark throwing stars, on his hips were his Berettas… and across his chest, crisscrossed with handles down, were the daggers, the black daggers of the Brotherhood, the weapons that he had not used since his ascension. The king had come out to kill. Zsadist glanced at the lessers, one of whom was dialing for more back up. Man, Z thought, he was so ready to get back in the game. He and Wrath had never fought together before, but they would tonight. And they were going to win. She had zero interest in reliving that nightmare. Except like that all mattered? She was worried about this specific night when he might not make it back. After all, he was flesh and blood and there was a timer on his life, a timer that could zero-out in the work of a moment. Which kind of made sense. Evidently, her feet had just super-glued themselves to the floor. Forcing them to start walking again, she told herself that he was what he was: a warrior. But oh, Christ, did he have to go out there and- The grandfather clock started chiming. Their deep voices were hopping, their words fast with power and life. They were juiced about something, invigorated. Beth went to the doorway… and had to grab onto the jamb. Z was bleeding, his skin tight turtleneck soaked with a red rush, his daggers wet and glossy as well. His face was shining, a sparkle lighting up those eyes of his. Hell, he carried himself as if he had a couple of bug bites instead of two gaping wounds. Feeling lightheaded, because she felt like someone should on his behalf, she watched the four head for the hidden door under the staircase. She knew they were making a beeline for the First Aid station in the training center and wondered how Bella would feel if she saw Z like that. The mated males in the house were always careful to get stitched and cleaned before they found their shellans. Beth stepped into the foyer, unable to stand it any longer. Wrath stepped into the mansion and her eyes popped wide. Holy Christ did she see him now. Her hellren was as she had first known him that night he had come into her old apartment: a killing menace dressed in black leather, the weapons strapped on his body as fundamental as his skin or his muscles. And in his war dress, he radiated power, the kind that broke bones and slit throats and bloodied faces. In this his fighting dress, he was a horror, a nightmare… who was nonetheless the male she loved and had mated and always slept beside, who fed her from his hand, who held her during the day, who gave himself to her body and soul. I love you, but I need to fuck you tonight. Run because he wants you to. Run because he wants to come after you. Knowing that she smelled of her arousal, Beth took off in her bare feet, flashing toward the stairs, taking them fast, her legs a blur. When she got to the second floor, she randomly tore down a hallway, not knowing where she was headed, not caring. With every yard she covered, Wrath was closing in on her… she could feel him tight on her heels, a wave about to break all over her, crash down on her, sweep her up and hold her down. She bursting into the second floor sitting room and- He caught her by the hair and the arm, pulling her around, tripping her up, sending her to the floor. Just before she made impact, he twisted so his body absorbed their fall and cushioned hers. As she fought to get up, she had the dim thought that she was face up on him, his chest under her shoulders, his erection right where it needed to be. With rough authority, his hand shot between her thighs and she arched with a cry as he found out exactly how turned on she was. As she stopped fighting, the double doors in front of her slammed shut and then he rolled her, laying her out face down on the floor. He mounted her, holding her in place by the back of the neck and the way he straddled her legs. Up close, he smelled like clean sweat and the bonding scent and the leather of his clothes and the death of their enemies. Jesus, she knew how that felt. Cool air hit her ass as his fangs bit through one side of her panties and then there was the sound of a zipper. His hands angled her hips and the head of him bumped down to what was waiting for him, what was his for the taking. He slammed into her, shoving in hard as a board, wide as a fist. Beth splayed her hands out on the marble as he locked into her body and started pumping with a fierce stride, two hundred and eighty pounds of sex all over the top of her, stretching the inside of her. Her palms squeaked against the marble as the first of the orgasms jumped into her. She was still climaxing as he clamped his hand on her chin and twisted her mouth around. He froze in mid-stroke as he started to feed, sucking hard, pulling at her vein with a wild supremacy. The pain swirled and tingled, mixed with the tail end of the orgasm, kicked off another rush of pleasure. And then he was riding her again, his lower belly rubbing on her ass, his hips slapping against her, his growl that of a lover… And an animal. He roared loud as a beast as he started to come, his erection kicking in her like a living thing with its own mind. The bonding scent rose even stronger as he filled her up, his pulses hot as embers, thick as honey. The instant he was finished, he flipped her over, and loomed between her legs, his sex glistening and proud and completely erect. Linking his tattooed forearm behind one of her knees, he pulled her leg up high and entered her from the front, his huge arms knotting up as he held himself above her body. But not from fear. This was the raw edge, the reality of him under the clothes he wore and the daily life he led. This was her mate at his purest, distilled essence: Power. And God, she loved him. She was everything he needed and would ever want: the soft landing for his aggression, the female sex squeezing him, the love that captivated and captured him. He was the storm bearing down on her; she was the land with the strength to take what he had to let out. As she sang again from her body splinting apart with pleasure, he pitched himself off the ledge and went flying with her. His balls clenched up hard and his orgasm pistoled out of him… bang, bang, bang, bang… Releasing her vein, he collapsed into her hair as he shuddered and bucked. And then there was only their desperate breathing. Dizzy, out of it, satiated, he lifted his head. He bit into his own wrist and brought it to her lips. As she nursed quietly, he stroked her hair with a gentle hand and felt a stupid fucking weak-ass urge to tear up. When her blue black eyes lifted to his, everything disappeared. The room they were i
