J.R. Ward: Lover Reborn

As he forced back tears, he thought, Fan-fucking-tastic. If just the warm-up to the ceremony was getting to him like this? He was going be a goddamn mess when it actually happened.

Zsadist cleared his throat. And then the brother who hated touching others leaned in and put his arms around Tohr. The embrace was so gentle that Tohr had to wonder if it was from lack of practice. Either that or Tohr looked as fragile as he felt.

“This is from my family to yours,” came the soft words.

The brother offered forward a small piece of parchment paper, and Tohr’s fingers shook as he opened it. “Oh… shit…”

In the center was a tiny handprint in red paint. A young’s. Nalla’s…

There was no greater or more precious thing to a male than his offspring—especially if it was a female. So the palm print was the symbol that everything Z had and all that he was, now and in the future, was pledged in support of his brother.

“Fuck,” Tohr said simply as he took a shuddering breath.

“We’ll see you down there,” Phury stated.

They had to close the door.

Tohr backed up and sat down on his mattress, laying the ribbon across his thighs and staring at the child’s print.

When another knock sounded, he didn’t look up. “Yeah?”

It was V.

The brother seemed stiff and awkward, but then, he was probably the worst out of all of them when it came to mushy shit.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t try any of the hugging bullshit, either, which was just as well.

Instead, he placed a wooden case next to Tohr on the bed, exhaled some Turkish smoke, and went back for the exit like he couldn’t wait to get out of the room.

Except he stopped before he left. “I gotchu, my brother,” he said to the door.

“I know, V. You always have.”

As the male nodded and left, Tohr turned to the mahogany case. Freeing the black steel clasp and lifting the lid, he had to curse under his breath.

The set of black daggers was… breathtaking. Taking one out, he marveled at the fit against his hand, and then saw that there were symbols etched into the blade.

More prayers, four of them, one on each side of each of the weapons.

All for strength.

These daggers were really not for fighting—they were too valuable. Christ, V must have worked on these for a year, maybe longer… although of course, as with everything the brother made down in that forge of his, they were deadly as hell—

The next knock was Butch. It had to be.

“Ye—” Tohr had to clear his throat. “Yes?”

Yup, it was the cop. Dressed as all the others were, in that white robe with the white rope tie.

As the brother came across the room, there was nothing in his hands. But he hadn’t come empty-handed.

“On a night like tonight,” the guy said roughly, “I only got my faith. That’s all I got—’cuz there’re no mortal words to ease where you’re at—I know up close and personal.”

He reached up behind his neck and worked at something. When he brought his hands forward once more, he was holding the heavy gold chain and even heavier gold cross that he never, ever took off.

“I know my God is not yours, but can I put this on you?”

Tohr nodded and dropped his head. As the linchpin of the male’s awesome Catholic faith was hung around his neck, he reached up and touched the cross.

It had incredible weight, all that gold. It felt good.

Butch bent over and put a squeeze on Tohr’s shoulder. “I’ll see you down there.”

Fuck. He had nothing to say anymore.

For a while, he just sat there, trying to hold it together. Until he heard something at the door. A scratching, as if…

“My lord?” Tohr said as he forced himself to his feet and went across the way.

You opened the door for the king. No matter what state you were in.

Wrath and George came in together, and his brother was characteristically blunt. “I’m not going to ask how you’re holding up.”

“I appreciate that, my lord. Because I’m pretty fucking ragged.”

“Why wouldn’t you be.”

“It’s almost harder when people are kind.”

“Yeah. Well. Guess you’re going to have to suck some more of that shit up.” The king worked at something on his finger. And then put forward—

“Oh, fuck, no.” Tohr threw his hands up and out of the way even though the male was blind. “Uh-uh. No way. No fucking way—”

“I order you to take it.”

Tohr cursed. Waited to see if the king would change his mind.

Got nowhere on that one.

As Wrath just stared straight ahead, Tohr knew he was going to lose this argument.

With a dizzying feeling of total unreality, he reached out and took the black diamond ring that had only ever been worn by the king.

“My shellan and I are there for you. Wear that during the ceremony so that you know my blood, my body, my beating heart are yours.”

George chuffed and wagged his tail as if backing his master.

“Fucking hell.” This time, Tohr was the one who reached for his brother, and the embrace was returned sharply and with power.

After Wrath left with his dog, Tohr pivoted around and leaned back against the door.

The final knock was soft.

Steeling himself so that he at least appeared to be a male, even though he was feeling like a pussy on the inside, he found John Matthew out in the hall.

The boy didn’t bother signing anything. He just reached out for Tohr’s hand, and pressed…

Darius’s signet ring into Tohr’s palm.

He would have wanted to be here for you , John signed. And his ring is all I’ve got of him. I know he’d want you to wear it during the ceremony.

Tohr stared at the crest that was stamped in the precious metal and thought of his friend, his mentor, the only father he’d really had. “This means… more than you can imagine.”

I’ll be right beside you , John signed. The whole time.

“Right back atchu, son.”

They embraced, and then Tohr shut the door quietly. Going back over to the bed, he looked down at all the symbols of his brothers… and knew that when he faced this crucible, it was with all of them with him—not that that had ever been at issue.

Something was missing, though, in all of this.

Autumn.

He needed his brothers. He needed his son. But he needed her, too.

He hoped what he’d said to her would be enough, but there were some things you couldn’t come back from, some things that there was no healing from.

And maybe she had a point about the cycle thing.

He prayed there was more to it than that, however. He truly did.

As Lassiter stood in the corner of Tohr’s room, he kept himself invisible. Good thing. Watching that in-and-out of males had been rough. How Tohr had managed to get through it in one piece was a flipping miracle.

But this was finally coming together, the angel thought. Finally, after all this time, after all this—well, shit , frankly… things were finally turning in a good direction.

After spending the previous night and day with a very quiet Autumn, he had left her at sunset to stew in her thoughts, putting his faith in the fact that she was replaying that Tohr visit over and over in her head and finding nothing but sincerity in what had been said to her.

If she showed tonight, he was home-fucking-free. He’d done it. Well, okay, fine— they had done it. In truth, he had been a sideline player in all this… except for the fact that he kind of fucking cared about the pair of them. And Wellsie, too.

Across the way, Tohr went to the closet and seemed to brace himself.

Taking out a white robe, the Brother put the thing on and then returned to the bed to gird his waist with the magnificent ribbon Phury had brought. After that, the guy picked up the folded piece of parchment Z had given him, tucked it into the tie, and drew on a white holster—into which he slid V’s two spectacular black daggers. The signet ring went on his left middle finger, the black diamond on the thumb of his fighting hand.