“Good, glad you agree,” Wrath muttered as he cued George. The dog signaled that they’d come up to a barrier by halting, and Wrath reached out, his palm finding a sheet that was stiff and thick. Dropping his hold on the halter, he used two hands to pull it aside so he didn’t tear it from its tethers above. The voices stopped immediately. Except for one that breathed, “Holy . . . shit.” All at once there was a clattering, as if tools were being dropped to the floor—and then a rustling. Like seven males of some size had just gone down on their knees. For a moment, Wrath’s eyes teared up behind his wraparounds. “Evening,” he said, trying to be all casual. “How’s the work going?” No answer. And he could smell the stunned disbelief—it was like sautéed onions, not entirely unpleasant. “My lord,” came a low greeting. “It is a great honor to be in your presence.” He opened his mouth to blow that off . . . except as he inhaled, he realized that was the truth. For each and every one of them. They were honestly in awe and overcome. In a hoarse voice, he said, “Welcome to my home.”
―
J.R. Ward,
The King
