( varga )
There are crueler punishments than this. Varga rolled the mantra over and over on a silent, disbelieving tongue, yet he found that the repetition failed to remind him the importance of gratitude. To bleed is to live, as Father would say. No truer words to be spoken for a man whose penance saw him playing personal escort to a diamond-collared dog taught to talk and sit with the guests at the dinner table. What a pitiful fucking mess his pride could make across the Coven’s marble floor.
And perhaps his lifeblood soon to join it, if the Lycan insisted on walking two steps behind his every stride. Varga would prefer it ahead of him, if not nowhere at all.
“My opinion of his decision is irrelevant. It’s done, and you’re here.”
“Bit of an impertinent answer, for a soldier,” Asher observed casually. The statuesque blond had a look of dignified ( but loathful ) determination -- rigid spine, shoulders back, chin high. He’d been sent an obedient but not altogether pleased escort, it seemed.
Behind the vampire’s back, Asher’s grin widened a fraction. David’s sense of humor had improved some after all. Bless him.
“And here I thought you were intended to be welcoming.”













