George.
His beloved, docile golden
retriever was directly in his grille, barking loud as a shotgun, sure as
if he were demanding that Wrath cease and desist right this moment.
All at once, the reality of what he was doing flooded into him.
What the f**k was wrong with him?
-The King, pg. 89
His (Wrath's) leelan's voice cracked. "I can't spent the rest of my life thinking it's my fault. I just can't."
"But it isn't. It honestly isn't. Look, I just... I gotta let the past go, you know? I can't hold on to my parents this way.
That sh*t isn't healthy." Wrath let his head fall back. "Godd***, I
mean you'd figure I'd be over this by now. Losing them, that is."
-The King, pg. 401
"Well, I'm just heading upstairs. To go to
bed. To have a shower, and go to bed." As Layla stared taking off her
parka, her smile was about as genuine as Courtney Stodden's. "I'll see
you at... well, later. I'll see you later. Bye. Bye for now!"
-The King 387
Trez stepped in tight, meeting the huge male
grille-to-grille. "The rules are this- you do not hurt them. Rough sex
is okay if it's consensual, but no permanent scars or marks. And you
may not eat them. Those are my only two constraints, and they are not negotiable."
With Shadows, you always had to set limits. especially a Shadow like this one.
"Wait, are they yours?" the male asked.
"Yeah."
"Oh, sh**, why didn't you just say." s'Ex put out his palm. "My vow. Nothing permanent and no lunch."
-The King, pg. 439
Seventeenth Century, Old Country...
“Long live the King.”
At the sound of the deep, grave voice, Wrath, son of Wrath, had an
instinct to look around for his father . . . a spark of hope that the
death had not occurred and the great ruler was as yet still with them.
But of course, his beloved sire remained gone unto the Fade.
How long would this sad searching last? he wondered. It was such
useless folly, especially as the sacred vestments of the vampire King
were upon himself, the bejeweled sashes and silken coat and ceremonial
daggers adorning his own body. His mind cared naught for such proof of
his recent coronation, however . . . or mayhap it was his heart that
remained unswayed by all that now defined him.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, without his father, he was so alone, even as
he was surrounded by people who served him.
“My lord?”
Composing his visage, he turned around. Standing in the doorway
of the royal receiving chambers, his closest adviser was like a column of smoke, long and thin, draped in dark robes.
“My honor to greet you,” the male murmured, bending low. “Are
you ready to receive the female?”
No. “Indeed.”
“Shall we initiate the procession.”
“Yes...”
-The King, pg. 1
9 FUCKING DAYS! THE KING IS COMING!
