ASHER
I’m going to rip his fucking head off. I am going to tear his lily-livered, pansy ass to shreds.
“Oh, Cameron. Come out and play!” I shout through the gym. The open concept workout area is empty, so I move on.
That little shit.
He’s probably hiding from me. As he well should. He knows his actions are disgraceful. Not just that, but I could legally light his ass on fire and watch him burn on the front fucking lawn, and no one could do a thing about it. Not even John.
Attacking a mate is the oldest and most sacred of all our laws – not that Wraiths have many. I can only think of three off the top of my head. Rule one – don’t harm a mate. Rule two – fulfill your duty. Rule three – respect your King. That’s it.
So far, old Cam has broken two of the three today, and I am dying to teach him a lesson. I don’t even bother to travel; I walk up the stairs at a slow leisurely pace just waiting for that little fuck to make a move.
Spineless little shit.
After everything I have done for him, after every single time I have saved his ass, he goes and does this? I stalk up the cement stairs leading to the game room, and only briefly pause when I see John in his heavy leather chair. He looks tired and exasperated. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. I know he sees me half-phased, and I don’t give one single, solitary fuck. Before I can make it out of the room, though, John calls me back.
“Asher,” he says. No inflection, not raising his voice at all, but I feel the censure anyway. Even after three hundred years, I still don’t know if that ache in my gut from hearing his voice is from the oath or if it’s just his innate ability to say so much with so few words. I feel scolded, and he only said my name. John is good at that.
“Sir,” I say as I turn around to face my King.
“Teach him a lesson, but don’t kill him. And after you’re done, make him clean up. Let him know from me that I am considering his dismissal. Be it temporary or permanent is still up in the air. One more toe out of line and I’ll have his head.” John’s brown eyes hold mine. I feel less like I am looking at my King and rather like I’m looking at a disappointed father. I hate that, and I’m not even the one in trouble. I’m three hundred and nineteen years old, and I feel more like a fuck-up teenager.
I swallow before moderating my tone, “Yes, sir, I will be sure to convey that message. I most likely will have to wait for him to regain consciousness to deliver it, but it will be done all the same.” I go to leave, and his low voice stops me again.
“She is a good match for you, but I think it will be difficult to win her. She is not built like the rest of them. There is a quiet strength to her. You will most likely have to wait for her to come to you. Be patient,” he advises.
“So trying to touch her hand when she is vulnerable and scared was a bad plan. Got it. Any more sage advice to give me before I beat my cousin within an inch of his life?”
“Maybe. These next few weeks are going to get harder for us. You may want to think about that before you go and burn a bridge.”
“Aww. Why’d you have to go and pull the death card on me? Fine. I’ll talk to Cam first. But if he so much as puts a toe out of line near Mena, I will rip his head off without a second thought. Does that make you feel better?” I concede, but it feels like I’m giving Cam too much leeway again. Coddling that fucker irritates the ever-loving shit out of me. He frightened Mena, made her shrink back into herself just when I was getting her to smile. Dick.
“Immensely.”
I nod and make my way out of the room and slowly scale the stairs to the main level before this feeling of utter loss wars with the fury within my chest. John is dying.
I know he is not my father, but I have called John family for over three centuries. I’ve had John for many more years than the people who bore me. Other than Cam, I have no other blood family, but when John and Olivia go, I will truly feel like an orphan – more than I ever felt when my parent’s necks met with John’s blade.
It was merely chance that brought John into my life. In fact, had John not been out riding that day with Olivia and their Guardians, I would have died near the hearth of my childhood home with my mother’s fingers wrapped around my heart. I hate thinking of my parents that way. I hate remembering my mother’s twisted face, blood dripping from the wide-open maw of her mouth.
Looking back, the bad stuff is sometimes all you remember.
When I reach the landing, I find Aidan and Ian decimating the contents of the refrigerator. The brothers are what I wish Cam and I were. What I wish we could have been. Aidan and Ian have barely been in each other’s lives for fifty years and they are closer than Cam and I have ever been. We should have been like brothers, but we never have been even remotely close.
We deserved better, I think, as I’m tackled from behind by someone the size of a Sub-Zero refrigerator. Before my face can slam into the hardwood, I smoke out from underneath him and reappear in my original position to watch Cam land in a face-first slide across the living room floor.
“You know, I was going to be nice. I was going to talk it out, be friends, but now you’ve pissed me off,” I say as I plant my boot in his ribs, hurtling his body across the room like a rag doll. His body takes out an end table and a lamp before landing in a heap on the raised hearth of the stone fireplace cracking some of the stone with a hiss.
“You’d really pick one of them. Over your own kind?” he groans from the broken grate. “After everything they’ve done to us?” Cam picks himself up off the stone, his joints creaking.
“One, I don’t get to pick. You know that. I know that. Maybe it’s chemistry, maybe it’s fate. Whatever it is, it’s not up to me. Two, I could do a lot worse than a beautiful woman who has endured and survived when so many would not. Three, get the fuck over your hate. You’re not doing yourself any favors.”
I know it’s strange to just be fine with finding my mate, especially in the middle of this turbulent time. I find I’m less concerned with the fact that I have a mate and more anxious that Cam could have hurt her. Mating is something I have always hoped for.
“Oh, really? And I guess you are just looking out for me, huh?” Cam says as he turns his head to the side and pops his neck.
“No. I’m not looking out for you anymore. I have a higher purpose than saving your ass from the fire. And trust me, you’re right in the middle of the flames.”
“You know, you talk too much,” Cam mutters as he lunges for me. I smoke to the side, but he knows my tricks after nearly three hundred years of fighting side-by-side. He travels himself, catching me by the middle and slamming me into a wooden support column. Despite the fact that the pillar is the size of a tree trunk, I still hear the wood crack.
Now, I’m really pissed off. I spring forward, head-butting him right in his dumb-fuck nose. The sound that accompanies the break is exceptionally satisfying. He goes to retaliate, but he is stunned by the blow to his nose and can’t quite catch me. And that is Cam’s biggest problem. For all his posturing, all his confidence, he is just one step slower, one step behind. Then, it goes the way it did just a few weeks ago. Cam tries to kick my ass, fails, and we completely destroy the living room – fireplace, furniture and windows included. Evan is going to kill us. The tiny blonde terror scares the crap out of me.
I think I’ll blame Cam.
Once Cam is in a bloody heap on the hardwood floor, I give him John’s message.
“You have fucked up one too many times, cousin. John told me to give you a little warning. He is considering your dismissal. The permanent kind. The kind where you no longer have a head and the rest of your body is burned to ashes and given to your family as a reminder of your disgrace. Get your shit together, Cameron. As the only family you have left, I really don’t want your ashes on my mantle,” I tell him as I walk to the stairs.
“Yes. You are my only family. Mom and Dad are dead. Burned to ash and God knows what else. Our houses burned to the ground. Our families. And who did that?” Cam gruffly shouts his question, his voice clogged with grief.
I feel the agony of our losses just as much as he does, but I refuse to be hateful because of them. I refuse to be blinded by my grief. I refuse to blame all for the actions of a few. And while I hate that our numbers have dwindled to such a stark number, I will not parcel out my soul to hate a dead enemy.
“Oh, and the King said you have to clean this up. Good luck.”
“Fuck you, Ash.”
“Love you too, cousin,” I say as I walk out of the room.