Assail had learned, however, that things had changed for him, of late. That he had mated. Had a young. Retracted from the murderous rage that had defined him ever since he, too, had been held against his will.

In fact, as his yellow eyes locked on the male upon the bed, he crossed his arms over his chest, rather as if he were seeking to comfort himself.

“I found him . . .” Assail had to clear his throat. “Chained to the wall.”

Zsadist walked slowly to the bed and stared down at Markcus. He stayed there for the longest time, barely blinking, only the rise and fall of his chest and an occasional twitch of his eyebrows suggesting he was not a statue of some sort.

Assail could imagine what memories had perhaps come for him.

Those slave bands around the Brother’s neck and wrists seemed black as the evil that had put the ink into his skin.

“His name is Markcus,” Assail offered. “That is all I know about him.”

Zsadist nodded. At least, Assail thought he did. Then the fighter spoke. “Let me . . . help. In some way. In any way?”

It was on the tip of Assail’s tongue to say that there was naught to be done. But then a curling fury licked into his chest.

Assail was not a savior. Never had been. His interests had always been his own and no one else’s. He was also not one to form attachments, quickly or permanently.

But Assail found himself narrowing his eyes on the Brother. “Exactly how far does that invitation extend?”

Instantly, that yellow stare flashed black, those eyes becoming soul-less pits of Dhund. “As far as is required. And then a hundred thousand feet farther.”

“Even if it puts you in conflict with the King? For the manner I shall be seeking to exact justice does not involve edicts or resolves. And it will not be with Wrath’s permission.”

“There will be no conflict.”

Assail’s first thought was to rise out of his chair, ask for further arms, and proceed immediately back to that house.

But no, upon further reflection, that was not strategic enough. And not violent enough.

“I pray that you mean that, kind gentlemale.”

“I am not gentle or kind.”

Assail nodded. “Good. And worry not. I sense the outlet you are in search of, and I shall provide it to you, posthaste.”

* * *

Back at the library in Naasha’s hellren’s vast mansion, Throe took the female by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “Listen to me. You must listen to me.”

Even as he sought to quell her incessant ranting, he had to confess, though only to himself, that he was likewise frustrated beyond measure. He had wasted how long in this household? Bedding her, catering to her, seducing her into a false sense that they were in some kind of enduring relationship. And all along, she had assured him of the fealty of her “beloved” hellren. Spoken of how the money would flow like wine all over her when the old male finally passed. Related to Throe her love for him regardless of her mated status or her other lovers.

Assail had entered the picture, however—and that bastard’s presence had created such a flush in between Naasha’s thighs that Throe had had to act earlier than he would have liked: The proper sequence would have been first to change Naasha’s own will, naming Throe her next of kin—under the guise that he would be mating her as soon as the mourning period for her current hellren had passed. And then for Throe to arrange for the death of the old male. Followed by a “suicide” for her.

Whereupon Throe’s coffers would be set and he could use the funds to imbed himself in the glymera properly and set up a strategy for taking Wrath off that ridiculous elected throne he had created for himself.

Assail, that fucking slut, however, had changed the order, forcing Throe’s hand such that forgeries were going to become necessary. It was either early action, though, or him running the risk that Naasha’s rather oily affections could transfer to her newest suitor, upsetting the applecart all over the market square, as it were.

Throe had seen the way she looked at Assail.

Had felt the pull to that male himself, goddamn them both.

And, now, this mess.

That old hellren of hers had left everything to a distant relation, a male whose name Throe did not recognize.

“Naasha, my love,” Throe said urgently. “I need you to be logical.”

This looked so bad. That solicitor waiting out in the foyer, no doubt coming to all kinds of conclusions that were both accurate and unhelpful. Her falling apart to anger. Him getting increasingly frustrated.

Taking another tactic, Throe walked over to the ornate desk and placed his hand upon the stack of papers that Saxton had brought with him. “This. This is your only focus. Anything other than successfully challenging these provisions is an unacceptable distraction.”

“I have been shamed! To be forsaken like this is an abomination! It is—”

“Do you want to be reasonable? Or poor? Your choice is now.” That shut her up. “Imagine all of this gone, yourself surrounded by none of this, your clothes, the jewels, the servants, this very roof o’er your head—gone. Because that is what is going to happen unless you get some control over yourself. The abomination is not what your hellren did to you. The abomination is your letting it happen. Now, I am going to get the attorney back in here. You are going to shut up and listen to what he says. Or you can continue to prance and stamp around here, wasting time and strategy, just so that you can enhance your victim status—to absolutely no cash avail.”