Read Online Books/Novels:

Blood Truth (Black Dagger Legacy #4)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

J.R. Ward

Book Information:

As a trainee in the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s program, Boone has triumphed as a soldier and now fights side by side with the Brothers. Following his sire’s unexpected death, he is taken off rotation against his protests—and he finds himself working with Butch O’Neal, former homicide cop, to catch a serial killer: Someone is targeting females of the species at a live action role play club. When the Brotherhood is called in to help, Boone insists on being a part of the effort—and the last thing he expects is to meet an enticing, mysterious female…who changes his life forever.

Ever since her sister was murdered at the club, Helaine has been committed to finding the killer, no matter the danger she faces. When she crosses paths with Boone, she doesn’t know whether to trust him or not—and then she has no choice. As she herself becomes a target, and someone close to the Brotherhood is identified as the prime suspect, the two must work to together to solve the mystery…before it’s too late. Will a madman come between the lovers or will true love and goodness triumph over a very mortal evil?

Books in Series:

Black Dagger Legacy Series by J.R. Ward

Books by Author:

J.R. Ward Books

One year ago …

Rexboone, blooded son of Altamere,

could Windsor-knot a silk tie blindfolded.

It was not a skill that he had set out to cultivate, but rather one to which he had become inured by virtue of his circumstance in life. In this regard, it was like his knowledge of Domaine Coche-Dury wine, the plays of Shakespeare, and Audemars Piguet watches. Without even being aware of exactly how or where he had picked up the particulars, he knew the difference between a John Frederick Kensett and a Frederic Edwin Church. When Rolls-Royce purchased Bentley (November 1931). When the two split again (31 December 2002). How to lead a female in a waltz. Where to get the best Savile Row suit.

Henry Poole & Co was the answer to that one.

“Damn it.”

He undid the tangle at the popped collar of his monogrammed shirt and tried the knot thing again. Maybe it would go better if he were blindfolded. Clearly, his eyeballs weren’t helping much.

On that note, he closed his lids.

The problem was that his palms were sweaty and he was having trouble breathing. So going choke around this throat of his, even if it was courtesy of a length of Hermès’s best silk, was not making him feel any less woozy.

Emotions were the problem. And wasn’t that a surprise.

As a member of the glymera, the vampire race’s aristocracy, there were only two choices for feelings. You either sported a mild, displaced approval or a patronizing, brow-arch-based disapproval.

Helluva range there. Like choosing between a wax figurine and a plastic mannequin.

Fine, if you were really upset about something or someone—like your lawn man trimming the ivy beds badly or maybe a piano (Steinway, of course) getting dropped on your frickin’ foot—you could, in an icy tone, offer a corrective missive that skewered said gardener or the owner of that concert grand so viciously that they felt compelled to suicide as a public service.

None of these options appealed to him at the moment. Not that he had ever wanted any of them.

With a tug to bring the knot up to his neck, and then a smooth draw down the two tails, he opened his eyes.

Well. What do you know. He’d done it.

Flipping the collar tabs down into place, he drew his bespoke suit jacket off the mahogany dressing stand, shoulder’d and arm’d the fine fabric, and finished his sartorial presentation by tucking a square of coral-and-blue silk into his breast pocket.

“Time to go,” he said to his reflection.

And yet he didn’t step away. Looking into the floor-length mirror, he did not recognize the dark-haired male staring back at him. Not the classic facial features so characteristic of aristocrats. Not the broad chest, which was not. Not the long legs or the veined hands.

You should be able to see yourself clearly. Especially when you were in your own walk-in closet in your own bedroom suite at your own home, with the lights on and no distractions.

Even more disturbing, he could inspect each distinct part of what he had on and recall in precise detail where he had gotten it all: who had made the shirt, jacket, and slacks, how he had chosen them, when they had been fitted. The same was true for the background behind him, the rows and rows of suits hanging from brass rods organized by season and hue, the colorful button-downs grouped together like schools of fish, the lineups of perfectly polished, handmade leather dress shoes like a marching army . . . all of it pieces he had picked out.

So where the hell was he among this enviable wardrobe?

As there would be no answer to that one coming, he strode out of his dressing room and through his bedroom and sitting area. Out in the hall, he passed by flower arrangements on demilune tables, a gallery of oil paintings, and then the closed doors of his blood mahmen’s former suite of rooms. From what he understood, the quarters were left as they had been when the female had died twenty years before, the lock turned one last time, ne’er to be released again.

But not, he gathered, because of his sire’s mourning.

It was more a case of done and dusted. His father’s next shellan had been installed, like a painting, a mere six months later, with all the rights and privileges accorded thereto. Including the expectation that she be referred to as Boone’s mahmen.

The fact that the female did not play that role, even on a step level, was never taken into account, and the same was true of Boone’s feelings both about the loss of who had birthed him. Then again, Altamere didn’t believe in giving emotions any airtime, and he extended that dubious courtesy to his new mate. Once their mating ceremony was over, Boone never saw them together outside of social engagements.

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