The Beast

TWENTY-SIX

The following evening, Mary got herself into her office clothes and went down to First Meal with Rhage by her side. Like her, he was dressed for work, wearing leathers and a muscle shirt, and carrying a leather jacket in one hand, and a cache of weapons on holsters in the other. His black daggers were already strapped onto his chest, and she could tell by the hard cast to his jaw that he was ready to fight.

In fact, all the Brothers came into the dining room with their autoloaders and their shotguns and their knives with them, too.

There was enough firepower at the table to supply a small army.

Which they were, she supposed as she sat down in her chair.

Rhage pushed her seat in and then took the empty to her left, looping his belts off one side before draping the jacket across the back.

“Oh, good, roast beef,” he said as Fritz appeared behind him with a plate.

Actually, make that a “platter.” And yes, it was roast beef . . . as in, an entire roast beef for him.

“Fritz, how did you know?” Rhage asked as he looked over his shoulder with adoration.

The old, wrinkled butler bowed low at the waist. “Indeed, I was informed that you had had a bit of a trial of late, and I imagined one would require special sustenance.”

“Oh, one does.” The Brother clapped the doggen on the shoulder and sent the poor guy flailing. “Shit, I’m sorry—”

“Got him,” V said as he caught Fritz and stood him upright. “S’all good.”

As a fleet of doggen came in to serve the rest of the household, Mary put her napkin in her lap and waited for the trays of sausages and bowls of oatmeal and cut fruit to make their way down.

“Danish?” she said, reaching out and snagging a basket that was made of sterling-silver weave. “They smell fantastic.”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Rhage answered around a mouthful of protein.

As she pulled back the damask napkin and offered them to her man, Rhage put down his knife and fork and took three, arranging the sweet twists on his platter. Then he picked up his utensils and resumed his careful, measured attack on what had to be an eight-pound roast.

For some reason, as she took her own danish—just one—she thought back to their first meal at TGI Friday’s in Lucas Square. Rhage had ordered, like, four plates of food or something—and she’d braced herself for all kinds of stomach-turning gulping. Instead, he’d had the table manners of Emily Post, everything precise and tidy, from the forkfuls he loaded up, to the slices he made, to the way he stopped between almost every bite to wipe his mouth.

Sitting back in her chair, she found herself staring across the table. The mahogany landscape was broad and studded with all kinds of lovely, shiny, sparkly things, and it was strange to think she’d gotten used to the luxury, the help, the standard of living that was so far outside of the way she’d grown up, so beyond anything she had ever expected to be involved in, that she’d always assumed it was only historical fiction.

But she didn’t dwell on all the deluxe.

No, she looked at Z and Bella. The pair of them were seated directly across from her, and it was impossible not to watch them as they traded Nalla back and forth, Z choosing morsels off his plate to hand-feed the toddler, Bella dabbing at the chubby chin or tucking a fantastic pink frilly outfit out of the way. From time to time, the parents would lock eyes over the child and a word would be spoken, or maybe just a smile shared.

Mary frowned at the slave bands that had been tattooed on Z’s wrists and neck. They seemed so dark against his tanned skin, an evil stain that was permanent.

She and Z had spent a lot of time in the basement by that old boiler, talking about what had been done to him when he’d been a blood slave. So much abuse. So many scars, inside and out. But he had come through it, triumphed over his past, forged not only a beautiful relationship with the female he loved, but also with the incredible blessing of his daughter.

Jeez, and she was worried about anything that had happened in her own life? Yes, she had had to take care of her mother as the woman died. Yes, she’d had a disease. Yes, she had lost her ability to have children. But that was nothing compared to what Zsadist had been put through, what Bitty had suffered through.

If Z could overcome the torture and the sexual abuse to be a good father to his precious little girl? Now, that was strength.

Mary rubbed the center of her chest, massaging the pain that was still dogging her. Sure, she and Rhage had talked things through, and of course she felt good that he seemed to know where he stood. But it was almost as if Rhage’s sorrow over their inability to have a family was something she’d caught like a cold. After they had finished talking, after they had made love and then settled into their bed, after he had fallen asleep and commenced that percolating snore of his beside her . . . she had stayed awake all day, listening to the dim sounds of the doggen speaking in hushed tones, smelling the faint scent of lemon floor polish, tracking the quiet whir of a vacuum out by Wrath’s office.

She had not slept at all.

The question she had never bothered answering just would not stop posing itself over and over in her head. And, Jesus, what a pain in the ass it was. She could have sworn she’d gotten over the whole child thing before it even started.

Yes, her infertility had saved them both, but it did not mean that it wasn’t a loss—

“Hey.”

Shaking herself, she pinned a smile on her face and resolutely focused on the food that had magically appeared on her plate. Huh, she clearly had served herself and been unaware of it.

“Hey, yourself,” she said with determined cheerfulness. “How’s your half of a cow going down—”

“Mary,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

Taking a deep breath, she shifted her eyes over. He had turned his whole body to her and was looking at her in that way he did, as if everything around him had disappeared, as if nothing else existed but her.

“I love you,” he whispered. “And you’re the only thing I’m ever going to need.”

She blinked hard. And then told herself that if she were smart, she would believe him with every fiber of her being.

That was the way to keep going.

“Have I told you lately,” she said roughly, “that I am the luckiest female on the planet?”

Leaning in, he kissed her softly. “You did. Right before we got down to it at daybreak.”

As he eased back, looking all self-satisfied, she smiled. And then started to laugh. “You are pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He refocused on his roast beef, the picture of innocence. “But if you really do feel lucky, I have a great way for you to show it.”

Mary picked up her own fork and knife and discovered she was, in fact, hungry. “I should send you a card, then?”

Now as he glanced over, his teal eyes were burning. “Nah, words only go so far. And I have nothing planned after work tonight sooooooo . . .”

While he deliberately ran his tongue around one fang, his stare dipped down low, as if he were imagining her sitting in the chair completely naked—and he intended to drop his napkin and go on all fours to find it under the table.

Mary’s body started to heat, and her head began to swim, and her skin tingled.

“I can’t wait,” she breathed.

“Neither can I, Mary mine. Neither can I.”

Rhage sent Mary off after First Meal was done, standing on the front steps of the mansion and waving as she and the Volvo disappeared down the hill and into the mhis. After she was gone, he stayed there for a moment, breathing the cold air.

It was obvious that all the heavy-duty they’d grappled with was lingering for her, but how could it not? Hell, as they’d headed into the dining room together, he’d braced himself for another onslaught of his own emotional shit. But clearly, he’d gotten to the root of his problem, processed it—or whatever the term was—and been able to get to a different place. Seeing his brothers with their young hadn’t been upsetting; he’d actually been able to help Mary when it became obvious she was having a collywobble.

Being back on track with her felt incredible. Being there for her when she needed him? Even fucking better.

And now it was time to go to work.

When he turned back to face the mansion, he was a deadly machine.

Stalking up the stone steps and through the vestibule, he joined his brothers in the foyer. No one was speaking as everybody got good and armed, strapping twelve different kinds of metal to their chests and their thighs and under their arms.

As he did the duty himself, he was aware of the doggen standing on the periphery, worry on their kind, gentle faces.

They were part of the reason this needed to happen.

One by one, the warriors proceeded through the hidden door under the stairs and down into the underground tunnel. As they walked to the training center, they were in formation, breaking up only to pass through the supply closet and the office. Out in the corridor, Doc Jane and Manny were waiting with a stretcher and life-support equipment, and neither of the medical people said a word as everyone went to the target range.

Lassiter had been on guard the whole day, and even though the fallen angel needed sunlight to thrive, he showed no sign of exhaustion or loss of focus as he stood over Xcor’s unmoving body.

Certainly made last week’s Punky-fucking-Brewster marathon more forgivable.

“Who’s helping me with the transfer,” Manny said as he pulled the gurney up to V’s worktable.

Rhage, V, and Butch stepped in and released the steel shanks, momentarily freeing Xcor from all tethers—but there were two reasons not to worry: One, the rest of the Brotherhood was standing around with guns up and itchy trigger fingers; and two, the fucker was out cold, not so much deadweight as dead, period.

Only the slight warmth of his bare ankles and the fact that he wasn’t completely gray in the face led a male to believe the bastard didn’t need a grave and a headstone.

Onto the gurney. Then strapped down with leather this time at the throat, wrists, ankles, thighs, and around the waist. Then the machines were switched, wires being traded from the less portable monitors to ones that were smaller and lighter. The process took a good twenty minutes or so, and the whole time, Rhage stayed right next to their prisoner, searching for signs that Xcor was playing possum—and after eagle-eyeing every inch of exposed skin and all those harsh features? He decided that the bastard had either stroked out completely or had things to teach De Niro.

When it was go time, John Matthew and Qhuinn held open the gun range’s door, and Rhage took the feet with V and Butch at the head leading the way.

“Wait!” Manny said.

With a quick shake, he unfurled a white sheet and draped it over Xcor’s body and face. “We don’t need anyone seeing this.”

“Good job,” someone muttered. “No reason to scare the young.”

The trip down the corridor was fast, and then they were at the steel door that led out to the parking area, with John Matthew and Blay this time holding things open and standing guard. There was an ambulance with human markings all over it parked at the curb, and Rhage released a grunt of relief as Xcor’s gurney was rolled into the ass of the vehicle and locked in with them. As he, V, and Butch took seats where they could among all the cupboards and equipment, Z got behind the wheel, and Manny hit the passenger seat in case of medical emergency.

The trip out through the gating system took forever, but then again, it wasn’t like they were in a built-for-speed situation. And, because of the way the compound was set up, they had to proceed allll the way out to the main road, hang a right, and go allllll the way around the base of the mountain to the road that led up to the mansion.

The incline was yet another slow go, but halfway to the house, they took a left onto a goat path offshoot. Things got bumpier at that point, and it was a good job the gurney was locked in place on the floor. From time to time, when there was a big hump, or a hard knock that had the three of them going starship Enterprise with a lurch to one side, Rhage checked out the machines. Xcor’s heart rate, which seemed slow as molasses and as uneven as the dirt lane they were on, never changed. And neither did the low oxygen stats or the blood pressure.

The bastard certainly didn’t move. Not independently of the rough ride, at least.

After a forever of travel, which was actually only ten minutes or so, Rhage couldn’t stand it anymore and leaned forward to look through the front windshield. Lots of pines in the headlights. More of the rough road ahead. Nothing else.

“You had a wicked good idea,” Butch said.

“Doesn’t feel right.” Rhage shrugged. “But needs must and all that bullshit.”

“He’ll never get out of there,” V sneered, his icy eyes flaring with pure violence. “Not alive, at any rate.”

“Good thing you have more than one table.” Butch clapped his bestie on the shoulder. “You sick fuck.”

“Don’t knock it till you tried it.”

“Nah, I’m a good Catholic boy. I go that route and my body would incinerate on the spot—and not from hot wax.”

“Pansy.”

“Pervert.”

The pair of them chuckled at their inside joke and then got serious again—because with a squeak of the brakes, the ambulance stopped.

“Let’s do this,” Rhage announced as the double doors were opened from the outside and the scent of pine trees flooded the sterile interior. “Let’s move him into the Tomb.”