The Beast

TWENTY

Beth Randall, mated of the Blind King, Wrath son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, Queen of all vampires, headed back for the Pit’s front door even though Doc Jane was still taping up the bandage on her freshly stitched hand.

“This is great! Thanks—”

V’s mate was following along at a jog, the pair of them dodging a gym bag, a duffel . . . a blow-up doll that really, totally needed clothes. “You need to seriously stop!”

“It’ll be fine—”

“Beth!” Jane fumbled with her roll of white surgical tape and started laughing. “I can’t get this end—”

“I’ll do it—”

“What’s the hurry?”

Beth stopped. “I left L.W. with Rhage in the kitchen.”

Doc Jane blinked. “Oh, God—go!”

Beth was summarily shoved out of the Pit with the tape, and she finished the job while bolting across the courtyard, biting the strip off with her teeth and smoothing the sticky stuff onto the white gauze that had been wrapped around the heel of her palm. Taking the steps up to the mansion’s grand entrance on a oner, she peeled open the door to the vestibule and put her face into the camera.

“Come on . . . open,” she muttered as she transferred her weight back and forth on her feet.

Rhage wasn’t going to hurt the kid. At least, not intentionally. But holy crap, she was channeling visions of Annie Potts babysitting in Ghostbusters 2, feeding an infant French pizza.

When the lock finally was sprung from the inside, she pile-drove into the foyer, bolting past the maid who’d opened the way in for her.

“My Queen!” the doggen said as she bowed.

“Oh, jeez, sorry, I’m sorry! Thank you!”

No clue what exactly she was apologizing for as she hightailed it through the empty dining room and pushed her way into—

Beth skidded to a halt.

Rhage was seated by himself at the table and had L.W. up on his shoulder, the baby nestled in close to his neck, that huge arm cradling the infant with all the protectiveness any parent could have shown. The Brother was staring straight ahead over his half-eaten display of carbs and nearly-consumed pot of coffee.

Tears were rolling down his face.

“Rhage?” Beth said softly. “What’s wrong?”

Putting the tape roll on the counter, she padded over to the pair of them—and when he didn’t acknowledge her, she laid her fingertips on his shoulder. And still he didn’t respond.

She spoke a little louder. “Rhage—”

He jerked and looked at her in surprise. “Oh, hey. Is your hand okay?”

The male didn’t seem to be aware of his emotions. And for some very sad reason, it seemed appropriate that he was surrounded by the chaos of his meal, open sleeves of bagels and bread scattered across the rough, wooden table, sticks of butter and blocks of cream cheese and smeared napkins all around him.

He was, in this quiet moment, as undone as everything before him.

Kneeling down, she touched his arm. “Rhage, sweetheart, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” The smile that hit that handsome face was empty. “I stopped him from crying.”

“Yes, you did. Thank you.”

Rhage nodded. And then shook his head. “Here, I should give him back now.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Hold him as long as you like. He really trusts you—I’ve never seen him settle for anyone but Wrath or me.”

“I, ah . . . I patted him on the back. You know. Just like you guys do.” Rhage cleared his throat. “I’ve been watching you with him. You and Wrath.”

Now he resumed staring across the empty kitchen.

“Not in a creepy way,” he tacked on.

“Of course not.”

“But I’ve been . . .” He swallowed hard. “I’m crying. Aren’t I.”

“Yes.” Reaching out, she took a paper napkin from a holder. “Here.”

Rising to her full height, she dried under his beautiful teal blue eyes—and thought of the first time she’d met him. It had been at her father, Darius’s, old house. Rhage had been stitching himself up at one of the bathroom sinks, working the thread and needle through his own skin as if it were no big deal.

This is nothing. It’s when you can use your lower intestine for a belt loop that you have to see the pros.

Or something to that effect.

And then she remembered later, after the beast had come out of him and he’d had to lie down in her father’s underground bedroom to recover. She had given him his Alka-Seltzer and soothed him in his blindness and discomfort as much as she could.

How far they had both come.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

She watched as his palm went in circles over L.W.’s little back.

“Nothing.” His lips stretched into what he clearly meant to be another smile. “Just enjoying a quiet time with your amazing son. You’re so lucky. You and Wrath are so lucky.”

“Yes, we are.”

She had almost died delivering L.W., and in order to save her life, they’d had to remove her uterus. No more biological children for her—and yes, that was a disappointment. But every time she stared into the face of her son, she was so grateful for him that the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to chance the lottery again didn’t seem like much of a loss at all.

Rhage and Mary, though? They weren’t even going to get the opportunity to try. And that was clearly what was on Rhage’s mind right now.

“I should give him back to you,” the brother said once more.

Beth swallowed hard. “Take as much time as you need.”

Back at Safe Place, Mary had just finished posting a message on Facebook about Bitty’s hypothetical uncle when there was a knock on her door.

Maybe it was the girl, and they could give the talking thing another try. But probably not—

“Come in,” Mary said. “Oh, hey! Marissa, how are you?”

Butch’s mate looked drop-dead beautiful as always, her blond hair down and curling perfectly on her slender shoulders as if it had been trained in good manners and wouldn’t think of frizzing out. Dressed in a black cashmere sweater and sleek black slacks, she was like the female Rhage in a lot of ways—too physically exquisite to actually exist.

And like Rhage, the outside wasn’t nearly as lovely as the inside.

With a Vogue-worthy smile, Marissa sat in the creaky chair on the other side of the desk. “I’m okay. More importantly, how are you?”

Mary eased back, crossed her arms over her chest, and thought, ah, so this was not a social visit.

“I guess you’ve heard,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

“I swear, Marissa, I had no idea it was going to be that bad.”

“Of course you didn’t. Who could have?”

“Well, just as long as you know that I didn’t mean for things to go the way they did—”

Marissa frowned. “I’m sorry, what?”

“When Bitty and I went to see her mother—”

“Wait, wait.” Marissa put up her palms. “What? No, I’m talking about Rhage getting shot on the battlefield. And your saving his life in front of the Brothers.”

Mary popped her brows. “Oh, that.”

“Yes . . . that.” A strange look entered Marissa’s eyes. “You know, frankly, I’m not sure why you came in tonight. I thought you’d be home with him.”

“Oh, well, yes. But with everything that’s going on with Bitty, how could I not come in? And besides, I spent all day with Rhage, making sure he was okay. While he continues to sleep at the clinic, I wanted to check on her. God . . . the idea that I made things worse for that girl makes me feel horrible. I mean, I’m sure you know what happened.”

“You mean at Havers’s? Yes, I do. And I can understand your being upset. But I really think you should have stayed with Rhage.”

Mary waved a casual hand. “I’m fine. He’s fine—”

“And I think you should go home now.”

With a sudden shot of dread, Mary sat forward. “Wait, you’re not firing me because of Bitty, are you?”

“Oh, my God—no! Are you kidding me? You’re the best therapist we have!” Marissa shook her head. “And I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job here. But it’s pretty clear that you’ve had a long twenty-four hours, and however much you want to be there for the girl in a professional capacity, you’re going to be even more effective if you’ve had some R-and-R.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” She sat back. “The not-getting-fired part, that is.”

“Don’t you want to be with Rhage?”

“Of course I do. I’m just really worried about Bitty. It’s crisis time, you know? The loss of her mother is not just a tragedy that leaves her orphaned, it’s a huge trigger point for everything else. I just . . . I really want to make sure she’s okay.”

“You’re a dedicated therapist, you know that.”

“She keeps talking about an uncle?” As Marissa frowned again, Mary reopened Annalye’s file and flipped through the pages. “Yeah, I know, right? I hadn’t heard about one before now, either. And I went through everything we have on either of them and there’s no mention of any family. I just put up a post for the race on that closed page on Facebook? I’ll see if I can find him that way.” Mary shook her head as she stared at an entry that had been written by Rhym. “Part of me wonders whether or not I could get the phone records for here to see what calls have gone in and out over the last month? Maybe there’s something there? No mail has been returned here. And as far as I know, Bitty’s mom never used e-mail.”

When there was a period of silence, Mary looked up—and found that her boss was staring at her with an inscrutable expression.

“What?” Mary said.

Marissa cleared her throat. “I admire your commitment. But I think it’s best that you take at least the rest of tonight off. A little distance to refocus is best. Bitty will be here tomorrow and you can continue to be her primary staff member.”

“I just want to make it right.”

“I know and I don’t blame you. But I can’t escape the feeling that if I had showed up here for work a night after Butch had almost died in my arms? You’d make me go home. No matter what was happening under this roof.”

Mary opened her mouth to deny it. Then shut things up as Marissa cocked a brow.

As if the boss knew she’d won the argument, Marissa got to her feet and smiled a little. “You’ve always been devoted to your job. But it’s important that Safe Place not take over your life.”

“Yes. Of course. You’re right.”

“I’ll see you at home, later.”

“Absolutely.”

As Marissa left, Mary intended to do as she was told . . . except it was hard to leave. Even after she got her bag and her coat, and texted for Ryhm to come back in if she wouldn’t mind—and the female didn’t—she somehow found reasons to delay heading back out to Rhage’s car again. First, it was turning over a couple of other responsibilities to another staff member; then it was standing at the base of the attic stairs, debating whether or not to tell Bitty.

In the end, Mary decided not to bother the girl and proceeded down to the first floor. She pulled another pause at the front door, but that one didn’t last as long.

When she was finally outside, she breathed deeply and smelled fall in the air.

Just as she was getting into the GTO, she paused and looked up. The light was on in Bitty and her mother’s room, and it was impossible not to imagine that little girl waiting with those packed bags for an uncle who didn’t exist to come and take her away from a reality that was going to follow her around for the rest of her life.

The trip home took forever, but eventually, she pulled the muscle car into a space in the courtyard between Qhuinn’s Hummer II and Manny’s Porsche 911 Turbo.

Staring over at the towering gray stone mansion, with its guard-goyles, as Lassiter called them, and its countless windows, and its slanting slate roofs, she wondered what Bitty would think of the place, and figured the girl would probably be intimidated at first. But as scary as it seemed from outside, the people inside made it cozy and warm as a little cottage.

Across the cobblestones and by the fountain which had already been drained for winter. Up the stone steps. Into the vestibule, where she put her face in the security camera and waited.

Beth was the one who opened things wide, and she was balancing L.W. on her hip. “Oh, hey . . . I was about to call you.”

“Hey, little man.” Mary stroked the boy’s cheek and smiled at him, because how could you not? The baby was a tub of cute, an absolute charmer. “Did you need something, you guys?”

As she stepped into the grand foyer, so that L.W. didn’t catch cold, she stopped when she saw Beth’s expression. “Everything okay?”

“Well, ah . . . so Rhage just went upstairs.”

“Oh? He must be feeling better.”

“I think you need to go talk to him.”

Something in the Queen’s voice really wasn’t right. “Is there something wrong?”

The female focused on her infant, smoothing his dark hair. “I just think you need to go be with him.”

“What happened?” As Beth merely repeated some version of what she’d already said, Mary frowned. “Why aren’t you looking at me?”

Beth’s eyes finally swung over and held. “He just seems . . . upset. And I think he needs you. That’s it.”

“Okay. All right. Thanks.”

Mary crossed the mosaic floor and took the stairs at a jog. When she got to their bedroom, she opened the door—and was hit with a blast of freezing cold air.

“Rhage?” Putting her arms around herself, she shivered. “Rhage? Why are the windows open?”

Trying not to become alarmed, she went across and closed the sash on the left of their enormous bed. Then she went over and shut the other one. “Rhage?”

“In here.”

Thank God, at least he was answering.

Tracking his voice, she went to the bathroom—and found him sitting in the middle of the marble expanse, knees up to his chest, arms linked around his calves, head down and tilted away from her. He was dressed in sweats and as big as ever, but everything about him seemed to have shrunk.

“Rhage!” She rushed across over and crouched beside him. “What’s wrong? Do you need Doc Jane?”

“No.”

With a curse, she stroked back his hair. “Are you in pain?”

When he didn’t answer her or look up, she moved around so that she could see his face. His lids were low and his eyes were unfocused.

He looked as if he had received very bad news.

“Is someone hurt?” One of the Brothers? Layla? Except Beth would have told her that, right? “Rhage, talk to me. You’re scaring me.”

Lifting his head, he rubbed his face and seemed to realize for the first time she was there. “Hey. I thought you were at work?”

“I came home.” And for good reason. What if she had stayed there and he’d been—jeez, Marissa had been so right. “Rhage, what’s going on—wait, did someone hit you?”

His jaw seemed swollen, and there were black and blue marks that showed even through his tanned skin.

“Rhage,” she said with more force. “What the hell happened to you? Who punched you?”

“Vishous. Twice—well, once on each side.”

Recoiling, she cursed. “Dear God, why?”

His eyes traced her features and then he reached up with his fingertips, touching her gently. “Don’t be mad. I deserved it—and he made my sight come back sooner than usual.”

“You’re still not answering my question.” She tried to keep her voice even. “Did you two get in an argument?”

Rhage brushed her lower lip with his thumb. “I love the way you kiss me.”

“What did you fight about?”

“And I love your body.” His hands went down to her shoulders and moved to rest on her collarbones. “You’re so beautiful, Mary.”

“Look, I appreciate the compliments, but I need to know what’s going on,” she said, putting her palms over his. “You’re clearly upset about something.”

“Will you let me kiss you?”

As he stared at her, he seemed desperate in a way she didn’t understand. And it was because of the pain that she sensed in him that Mary leaned in.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Always.”

Rhage tilted his head to the side, and contrary to his usual passion, his lips were soft against her own, brushing, lingering. As her pulse quickened, she almost wished it didn’t—she didn’t want to be distracted with sex . . . except as he continued to stroke against her mouth, all the chaos in her brain rerouted to an electric feeling of anticipation, his flaring scent, his beautiful body, his male power crowding out everything that worried her.

“My Mary,” he groaned as he licked his way into her. “Every time with you . . . it’s new. It’s never the same and always better than the last kiss . . . the last touch.”

His hands drifted downward so that she felt the weight of them over her breasts. And then with a slow draw, he peeled the jacket away, sweeping it off her arms, making her feel her silk shirt and her lacy bra and all her skin beneath her clothes with aching clarity.

Except some part of her spoke up. Her conscience, maybe? Because she sure as hell felt as though she had let him down by being gone when he needed her.

“Why were the windows open?” she asked again.

But it was as if he didn’t even hear her.

“I love . . .” His voice caught and he had to clear his throat. “I love your body, Mary.”

As if she weighed nothing, he lifted her off the hard marble floor and moved her to the side, laying her on the plush fur rug that was in front of the Jacuzzi. Easing back against the softness, she watched his eyes travel down her throat to her breasts . . . and go lower to her hips and legs.

“My Mary.”

“Why do you sound so sad?” she said quietly.

When he didn’t answer her, she had a moment of true fear. But then he began to slip the buttons free on her blouse, taking his time, keeping the two halves together even as he tugged the tails out of her slacks. Sitting back, he took the silk between his fingertips and revealed her body to the heat in his gaze and the warmth of the bath’s interior.

He shifted himself over and knelt across her thighs. “I love your breasts.”

Leaning down, he kissed her at her sternum. On the edge of her bra. On the top of her nipple. A sudden release of the subtle pressure of the cups told her that he’d freed the front clasp—and then the air currents brushed against her bare skin as he moved the fragile barrier off to the sides.

He spent . . . forever . . . caressing her breasts, stroking them, thumbing the tight tips. Until she thought she was going mad. And then he was sucking at her, first one side, then the other. She couldn’t remember when he’d last taken his time with her—not that he was ever inconsiderate. Her hellren ran on a different Rhage-length, however, which was to say he was all-in, all the time.

Not tonight, apparently.

He kissed his way down onto her abdomen and released her thin belt, the fastener, and the zipper on her slacks. As she lifted her hips, he pulled her pants off and made them disappear, leaving her cream silk underwear behind.

Back at her belly, he splayed his hands wide, until his palms covered her pelvis.

He stayed like that, stroking his thumbs back and forth over her lower abdominals.

“Rhage?” she said in a voice that was choked. “What aren’t you telling me?”