The Beast

FIFTEEN

Sometime later, Mary woke up after a good long rest . . . and smiled at her decidedly asleep mate. Rhage was out like a light, his eyes closed, one blond brow twitching, his jaw grinding as if maybe he were dreaming of an argument or a pool game. His breathing was deep and even, and yes, he was snoring. Not like a chain saw, though. Or an unmuffled Mustang revving at a red light. Or even anything close to Butch’s wounded-badger routine—which was something you had to hear to believe.

No, the sounds her man let out were more like a Krups coffee pot right as it was finishing a cycle of brewing; the kind of thing that burbled in the background, offering a comforting rhythm of patter that she could sleep through if she wanted to or stay up and listen to if she were stewing again. Come to think of it, his snores were probably the quietest thing about him, considering how heavy his footfalls were, how loud his laugh was, and how much he spoke, especially if he were giving his Brothers a hard time.

All that out-there was just part of what she loved so much about him.

He was always so alive. So very much alive.

Thank God.

As she went for a stretch, she moved slowly against his body so she didn’t wake him up and glanced at the clock across the recovery room. Seven at night. Past sundown.

Given how tired he had to be, he was liable to sleep another four or five hours. Probably better that she head out now and come back when he was awake.

“I’m going to head into Safe Place for a little bit,” she said softly. “You stay with him. Let him know I’ll be back soon, or he can call me?”

She was talking to the beast, of course—and treating that massive, bone-crushing dragon as some kind of social secretary. But it worked. If she had to leave when Rhage was asleep, she always told the beast what she was doing and when she’d be back. That way, Rhage didn’t wake up in a cold sweat that she’d been abducted. Murdered. Or had a slip and fall in the bathroom that had knocked her out and left her bleeding all over the marble floor.

Yeah, bonded males tended to jump to conclusions that were just a liiiiiiiiiiiiiittle over the top.

Mary carefully disengaged herself from Rhage’s hold—only to stop when she was halfway free. Staring down at his unmarred, completely intact sternum, she brushed her fingertips over where the gunshot had been.

“I didn’t say thank you,” she whispered. “You saved him. I owe you . . . so very much.”

All at once, Rhage’s lids flipped open—but it wasn’t him waking up. His eyes were nothing but white orbs, that telltale illumination of the beast’s consciousness training on her with total focus.

She smiled and brushed her mate’s face, knowing that the dragon would feel her touch. “Thank you. You’re a good boy.”

A quieter version of the affectionate chuff the beast always gave her reverberated up and out of Rhage’s throat.

“Go back to sleep, too, okay? You need your rest as well. You worked hard last night.”

One more chuff . . . and those lids started to sink. The beast fought the tide like a puppy, but ultimately lost the battle, the snoring returning, the pair of them both reengaging with whatever versions of dreamland they were in.

Leaning down, she kissed her mate’s forehead and smoothed his hair back. Then she padded over to the bathroom and shut the door. As soon as she turned to the counter by the sink, she smiled. Someone—oh, who was she kidding, it had to have been Fritz—had laid out complete changes of clothes for the both of them. As well as toothbrushes, a razor and shaving cream, and shampoo and conditioner.

“Fritz, thy name truly is thoughtfulness.”

And oh, what a shower it was. From time to time, she wondered whether the sounds or scents were going to wake up Rhage, but when she was drying off, she cracked the door and found that, other than having turned to face the bathroom, he remained out cold.

Probably because she’d told the beast what was up.

As she was blowing dry her hair, she wondered where the Volvo had ended up. She had ridden here from the battle in the surgical unit, but surely someone had brought that station wagon back?

Well, she could always take something else to Safe Place.

Fifteen minutes later, she whispered her way across to the door. After a prolonged stare at Rhage, she opened the way out and—

“Oh! God!” she hissed as she recoiled.

The very last thing she had expected to see was the entire Brotherhood standing outside her hellren’s recovery room.

Then again, she should have known. Everyone was there, from V and Butch to Phury and Z . . . Blay and Qhuinn . . . Tohr and John Matthew . . . even Wrath and Rehvenge. It was like standing in front of a football squad . . . that was made up of pro wrestlers . . . in full-contact game gear.

Okay that didn’t go even far enough to describe the amount of male in the corridor.

“Hey, guys,” she said quietly as she pulled the handle and made sure things were closed. “He’s asleep right now, but I’m sure he won’t mind being woken up.”

“We didn’t come for him,” Wrath said in a low voice.

Mary’s brows popped as she looked at their King. “Oh.”

Jeez, had she done something wrong? It was hard to know given that Wrath, with his widow’s peak and his wraparound sunglasses, always looked pissed off.

The guy didn’t have resting bitch face so much as resting I’m-going-to-kill-someone-and-light-their-house-on-fire face.

Swallowing hard, she stammered, “I, ah—”

“Thank you, Mary,” the King said as he stepped forward with his seeing eye dog, George. “Thank you for saving our brother’s life.”

For a moment, she was utterly dumbfounded. And then the King was pulling her into a hard, tight embrace.

When Wrath stepped back, there was something hanging off her shoulder.

A sword? “Wait, what is this?” She jerked into a second recoil. “Why is this—oh, my God . . .”

The weapon was made of ornate gold, from hilt to sheath, and there were gems flashing on it everywhere, white and red. Likewise, the ruby red sash it hung from was festooned with precious stones and metal. It looked old. Old . . . and priceless.

“Wrath, I can’t accept this—this is too much—”

“You have performed a service of valor unto the throne,” the King announced. “In saving the life of a member of my private guard, you are held in the highest royal esteem—and may call upon me to perform at your direction a benefit of comparable worth at some future time.”

She shook her head over and over again. “That is not necessary. Really. It’s not.”

And suddenly, she felt bad. Very bad. Because she hadn’t saved Rhage for these wonderful males who loved him so. Hadn’t saved him for herself, either.

God, why . . . why did that one moment have to be contaminated with all the drama with Bitty?

Mary went to take the sword off. “Really, I can’t—”

One by one, the Brothers came to her, embracing her with hard pulls, holding on to her until her spine bent and her ribs couldn’t expand. Some of them spoke in her ear, saying things that resonated not just because of the words that were chosen, but from the respect and reverence in the tones of those deep voices. Others just made a lot of throat-clearing noises, in the way men did when they were struggling to stay strong and composed in the face of great emotion. And then there was John Matthew, the one she had begun this crazy journey with, the one who had started it all by calling into the suicide hotline she had been volunteering at.

Vishous was the second-to-last of the Brothers to come to her, and as he held her, she caught of a whiff of tobacco. Along with leather. And gunpowder. “We owe you,” he said curtly. “Forever.”

Wiping her eyes, she shook her head once more. “You give me way too much credit.”

“Not even close,” he said as he brushed her cheek with his gloved hand. Staring down at her, his diamond eyes and harsh face with its tattoos were as close to tender as she’d ever seen them. “You knew what to do—”

“But I didn’t, V. I really don’t have a clue where that idea came from.”

For a moment, he frowned. Then he shrugged. “Well, whatever. You gave us our brother back. And even though he’s a pain in the ass, life wouldn’t be the same without him.”

“Or you,” Zsadist tacked on.

Z was the last to come over, and as he opened his arms wide, for some reason, the slave bands that had been tattooed around his throat and wrists stood out to her.

His embrace was stiff. Awkward. Obviously hard for him as he kept his hips far away from her body. But his eyes were yellow, not black, and as he stepped back, he put his hand on her shoulder.

The scar that ran down the bridge of his nose and around to his cheek moved out of place as he gave her a small smile. “You’re really good at saving lives.”

She knew exactly what he was referring to—all those sessions the two of them had had by the boiler in the mansion’s basement, him talking about the horrific abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his Mistress, her listening and offering comments only when he paused for a very long time or looked to her for some sort of life raft as he struggled in a sea of overwhelming shame and pain and sadness.

“Sometimes I wish I were better,” she said as she thought of Bitty.

“Not possible.”

When Z fell back in line with his brothers, Mary smoothed her hair. Swiped under her eyes. Took a deep breath. Even though there were a lot of different emotions going through her, it was really good to be around people who loved Rhage as much as she did.

That much she knew to be true and without question.

“Well.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you all. But honestly . . .”

As every single one of them glared at her, it was the kind of thing that made you grateful they liked you.

She had to laugh. “Okay, okay, I’ll keep it, I’ll keep it.”

Conversation sprang up among the Brothers, and there was some back slapping, like they were proud of themselves for doing right by her.

With a final wave, she forced herself to continue onward toward the entrance to the underground tunnel. . . with her new sword.

Boy, it was heavy, she thought as she hiked it up further on her shoulder.

Almost as heavy as the weight she felt on her heart.

While Mary walked down the corridor in the direction of the office, Vishous took out a hand-rolled and put it between his front teeth. As he lit the thing, he frowned, thinking about what she’d said to him.

“So Xcor’s not conscious,” Wrath murmured.

Turning to the King, V exhaled and switched gears in his head. “Not yet. And I checked on him about a half hour ago.”

“Where did you put him?”

“Gun range.” V glanced at Tohr, who was out of earshot. “And we have an alternating guard schedule. He’s tied up to my satisfaction—”

“Do you really use that shit for sex?”

On a oner, the entire Brotherhood looked over at the interruption. Lassiter, the fallen angel, had appeared from out of nowhere, and he was looking somewhat less offensive than usual, his blond-and-black hair pulled back in a braid that went to his ass, his black leathers covering his naughty bits, the gold hoops at his ears, bracelets on his wrists and piercings in his nipples glowing under the fluorescent ceiling lights. Or maybe that was just on account of his heavenly frickin’ disposition.

Not.

“What the hell happened to your goddamn shirt?” V shot back. “And why the shits are you off post?”

Goddamn it, he should have known not to put that idiot on guard duty. But at least Payne hadn’t left the gun range—and that was something V didn’t need to check for himself. His sister was the kind of fighter he’d trust not only with his own life and the lives of his brothers and mate, but with making sure their prisoner didn’t so much as sneeze without permission.

“I spilled on it.”

“What? You’re eating in there?”

“No. Of course not.” Lassiter sauntered on by to where the scrubs were kept. “Okay, yes. Fine. It was a strawberry milk shake—and I’m just getting a fresh shirt and going back in. Relax.”

V took a hard drag. It was either that or put the fucker in a choke hold. “Strawberry? Really?”

“Fuck you, Vishous.”

As the angel smiled and blew a kiss over his shoulder, at least the bitch didn’t pump his junk.

“Can I kill him,” V muttered to Wrath. “Please. Just once. Or maybe twice.”

“Get in line.”

V refocused. “As I was saying, Xcor is going nowhere.”

“I want to find out where the Bastards are staying,” Wrath ordered, “and bring the rest of them in. But they’ve got to be assuming he’s been captured. That’s what I would do. No body? No witnesses to a death? Safest course is to assume their leader’s become a prisoner of war and get the fuck out of wherever they’ve been staying.”

“Agreed. But you never know what you can learn when you push the right levers.”

“Keep Tohr away from him.”

“Roger that.”

V glanced at Tohr again. The brother was standing in the back of the group and looking down the hallway where the gun range was. It felt weird to think in terms of reining the guy in or keeping tabs on him, but it was what it was.

Sometimes emotions were too much for even the most logical of fighters.

Except for him, of course.

He was fucking tight as shit.

“So Assail’s two rooms down,” V said. “If you’re ready to talk to him.”

“Take me there, V.”

Again, usually it would have been Tohr doing the duty, but V stepped in close and nudged the King forward, leaving the Brothers to reassume various poses and sit-downs as they waited for Rhage to wake up.

After they had gone some distance, the King said softly, “So what do you know about Rhage and his little premature shooting contest.” When V cursed, Wrath shook his head. “Tell me. And don’t pretend you don’t fucking know something. You were the last one to speak with him.”

Vishous considered keeping shit under wraps, but in the end, lying to Wrath wasn’t in anybody’s best interest. “I foresaw his death and tried to get him to leave the field. He wouldn’t and . . . there you go.”

“He went out there. Knowing he was going to die.”

“Yeah.”

“Goddamn it.” After Wrath dropped a couple of f-bombs, he switched gears to another happy subject. “I also heard you had a visitor. When you went back to the campus.”

“The Omega.” Man, he didn’t like to even say that name. But like he’d enjoyed talking about Rhage’s death wish? “Yeah, my mother’s brother took care of clean-up. If his day job as being the source of all evil in the world doesn’t work out, he has a second career as a janitor waiting for him.”

“Any problems?”

“He didn’t even know we were there.”

“Thank fuck.” Wrath glanced over even though he couldn’t see. “Have you talked to your mother lately?”

“No. Nope. Not at all.”

“I asked her for an audience. She hasn’t acknowledged me.”

“Can’t help you there. Sorry.”

“I’ll go up there uninvited if I have to.”

V stopped at the door to Assail’s recovery room, but didn’t open it. “What exactly are you looking for from her?”

“I want to know if she’s still up there.” Wrath’s cruel, aristocratic face got tight. “Going up against slayers is one thing, but we’re going to need a wingman with serious power to face the Omega head-on—and I’m not kidding myself. We just knocked out ninety percent of what he has on the earth. He will respond, and we’re not going to like whatever it is.”

“Fuck me,” V muttered.

“More like ‘us,’ my brother.”

“Yeah. That, too.” V took another drag to get his shit together. “But you know, if you want me to talk to her or . . .”

“Hopefully it won’t be necessary.”

Annnnd that makes two of us, buddy, V thought.

Before his mommy issues made him even crankier than he usually was, he rapped on the door. “You decent in there, motherfucker?” He pushed in without waiting for permission. “How we doing, assholes?”

Well, well, well, he thought as he saw Assail sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed. Detox much?

The male was sweating like he was a chicken dinner under a heat lamp, but also shivering sure as if his lower body were in an ice bath. There were circles the color of crankcase oil under both his eyes, and his hands kept going to his face and his forearms, brushing at some kind of lint or stray piece of hair that didn’t exist.

“To w-w-what do I owe this h-h-honor?”

Wrath’s nostrils flared as the King tested the scent in the air. “You got a monkey on your back, huh.”

“I b-b-beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

V checked out the twin cousins over in the corner and found them as straight-backed and unmoving as a pair of cannons. And just about as warm and fuzzy.

On that note, they kind of didn’t annoy him.

“What m-m-m-may I do for you?” Assail asked between twitches.

“I want to thank you for working with us last night,” the King drawled. “I understand your wounds are all stitched up.”

“Y-y-yes—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Wrath glared over at V. “Will you get this cocksucker his drug of choice? I can’t talk to him if he’s all jonesing for his sin. It’s like trying to get someone to focus through an epileptic seizure.”

“Looking for this?” V held up a vial full of powder and tilted the thing back and forth, all tick-tock. “Mmm?”

It was pathetic the way the fucker’s eyes latched on and bugged out. But V knew what that was like—how you needed the very burn you didn’t want, how it became all you could think of, how you withered from the not having of it.

Thank God for Jane. Without her, he’d be walking that stretch of gnawing and ever-empty still.

“And he doesn’t even deny how much he needs it,” V murmured as he approached the bed.

Dayum, as the poor bastard reached out, it was clear that Assail’s hands were shaking too badly for him to hold on to anything.

“Allow me, motherfucker.”

Twisting the black top off, V turned the little brown bottle over and made a line down the inside of his own forearm.

Assail took that shit like a pile driver, snorting half up one nostril, half up the other. Then he fell back against the hospital bed like he had a broken leg and his morphine drip had finally kicked in. And yup, from a clinical standpoint, it was a sad commentary on the SOB’s state that a stimulant like cocaine was bringing him down.

But that was addiction for you. No damn sense.

“Now, you want to try this again?” V muttered as he licked his arm clean and tasted bitterness. The buzz was not bad, either.

Assail rubbed his face and then let his arms fall to his sides. “What.”

Wrath smiled without any warmth, revealing his massive fangs. “I want to know what your business plans are.”

“Why is that your concern?” Assail’s voice was reedy, like he was exhausted. “Or have you decided that a dictatorship, rather than a democracy, is more suited to your personality—”

“Watch your fucking tone,” V snapped.

Wrath kept going as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Your track record is questionable at best. In spite of a more recent trend toward loyalty, you seem to always be on the outskirts of my enemies, whether it’s the Band of Bastards or the Lessening Society. And last I checked, you were running a drug ring—something that cannot be done with a mere crew of two, as capable as your henchmen may be. So I find myself wanting to know where you’re going to go for your middlemen now that the slayers who you’ve been working with are out of the black market business.”

Assail drew his jet-black hair back straight from his forehead and held it in place like he was hoping that would help his brain get to work.

V braced himself for some bullshit.

Except then the male said in a curiously dead voice, “I do not know. In truth . . . I know not what I shall do.”

“You speak no falsity.” Wrath inclined his head as he exhaled. “And as your King, I have a suggestion for you.”

“Or would that be a command,” Assail muttered.

“Take it as you will.” Wrath’s brows disappeared under the rims of his wraparounds. “Bearing in mind that I can kill you or let you go from this place on a whim.”

“There are laws against murder.”

“Sometimes.” The King smiled again with those fangs. “In any event, I want your help—and you’re going to give it to me. One way or another.”