When he went through it, he found one of his straight-edged razors.

"I can't have you armed." He folded the coat up with care and put it at the foot of the bed, knowing she wouldn't come near him if she was paid to. "If you attacked me or one of my brothers with something like this, you could get hurt."

A curse left her on a hard exhale. Then she surprised him. "What tipped you off?"

"Your hand going to find it as Butch brought in the tray."

She put her arms around herself. "Shit. Thought I'd been more discreet."

"I have some experience with concealed weapons." He reached down and pulled opened the drawer to his bedside table. The razor made a dull thud as he dropped it inside. After he shut the thing in, he triggered a lock with his mind.

When he looked back up she was doing a quick sweep under her eyes. Like she was crying. With a quick twist, she turned away from him and faced into the corner, her shoulders curling in. She made no sound. Her body did not move. Her dignity remained intact.

He shifted his legs over and put his feet on the floor.

"If you come anywhere near me," she said hoarsely, "I will figure out some way to hurt you. Probably won't be much, but I'll take a hunk out of you one way or the other. We clear? Leave me the hell alone."

He propped his arms on the bed and hung his head. He was gutted as he listened to the nothing-at-all sound of her tears. Would rather have been beaten with a hammer.

He had caused her this.

All at once she wheeled around to him and took a deep breath. Except for the red rims around her eyes, he would never have guessed she'd been upset. "Okay. You eating on your own or do you really need help with the fork-and-knife stuff?"

V blinked.

I am in love, V thought as he looked at her. I have so fallen in love.

As class progressed, John felt like holy hell on the end of a shovel: Achy. Nauseous. Exhausted and restless. And his head hurt so badly he could have sworn his hair was on fire.

Squinting like he was facing headlights instead of a blackboard, he swallowed through a dry throat. He hadn't written anything down in his notebook for a while and wasn't sure what Phury was lecturing on. Was it still firearms?

"Yo, John?" Blay whispered. "You okay, my man?"

John nodded, because that was what you did when someone asked you a question.

"You want to go lie down?"

John shook his head, figuring it was another appropriate response, and he wanted to spice things up. No reason to get stuck in a nod rut.

God, what the hell was wrong with him. His brain was like cotton candy, a tangle that took up space but was mostly nothing.

Up front, Phury closed the textbook he'd been teaching from. "And now you get to try out some firearms for real. Zsadist is on deck for the shooting range tonight, and I'll see you tomorrow."

As talk sprang up like a gusty wind, John dragged his backpack onto the table. At least they weren't doing any physical training. As it was, getting his sorry ass out of this chair and down to the range was going to be enough of a production.

The shooting range was located behind the gym, and on the way there it was hard not to notice how Qhuinn and Blay flanked him tight as bodyguards. John's ego hated it, but the practical side of him was grateful. Every step of the way he could feel Lash's stare, and it was like having a lit stick of dynamite in your back pocket.

Zsadist was waiting at the range's steel door, and as he opened it he said, "Line up against the wall, ladies."

John followed the others in and settled back against the whitewashed concrete. The place was built along the lines of a shoe box, all long and thin, and had more than a dozen shooting booths facing outward. The targets were shaped like heads and torsos and hung from tracks stretching down the ceiling. From the master station each one could be manipulated remotely to vary distance or provide movement.

Lash was the last trainee in, and he marched to the end of the line with his head up high, like he knew he was going to kick ass with a pistol. He didn't look anyone in the eye. Except for John.

Zsadist shut the door, then frowned and went for the cell phone on his hip.

"Excuse me." He went over to a corner and talked on the RAZR then came back, seeming pale. "Change of instruction. Wrath is going to take over tonight."

A split second later, like the king had dematerialized to the door, Wrath came in.

He was bigger even than Zsadist and dressed in black leathers and a black shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves. He and Z talked for a moment; then the king clasped the Brother's shoulder and squeezed like he was offering reassurance.

Bella, John thought. This had to be about Bella and the pregnancy. Shit, he hoped everything was okay.

Wrath shut the door after Z left, then stood in front of the class, crossing his tattooed forearms over his chest and spreading his stance. As he looked the eleven trainees over, he seemed as impenetrable as what John was leaning again it.

"Weapon tonight is the nine-millimeter autoloader. The term semiautomatic for these handguns is a misnomer. You will be using Glocks." He reached behind to the small of his back and took out a lethal piece of black metal. "Note that the safety on these weapons is on the trigger."

He reviewed the specs of the gun and the bullets as two doggen came forward rolling a cart the size of a hospital gurney. Eleven guns of the exact same make and model were laid out on top, and next to each was a clip.

"Tonight we work on stance and aim."

John stared at the guns. He was willing to bet he was going to suck at shooting, just like he sucked at every other aspect of training. Anger spiked, making his head pound even worse.

Just once he'd like to find something he was good at. Just. Once.

Chapter Sixteen

As the patient stared at her funny, Jane did a quick check of her clothes, wondering if anything was hanging out.

"What," she muttered as she kicked her foot and her pant leg slid back down.

She didn't really have to ask, though. Hard-asses like him usually didn't appreciate women doing the crying thing, but assuming that was the case, he was going to have to suck it up. Anyone would be having trouble in her shoes. Anyone.

Except instead of saying anything about the weakness of weepers in general or of her in particular, he picked the plate of chicken up off the tray and started to eat.

Disgusted with him and the whole situation, she went back to her chair. Losing the razor had taken the starch out of her overt rebellion, and in spite of the fact that she was a fighter by nature, she was resigned to a waiting game. If they were going to kill her outright, they would have; the issue now was the exit. She prayed there was one coming soon. And that it didn't involve a funeral director and a coffee can full of her ashes.

As the patient cut into a thigh, she thought absently that he had beautiful hands.

Okay, now she was disgusted with herself, too. Hell, he'd used them to hold her down and strip her coat off like she was nothing more than a doll. And just because he'd carefully folded what she'd had on afterward didn't make him a hero.

Silence stretched, and the sounds of his silverware softly hitting the plate reminded her of horribly quiet dinners with her parents.

God, those meals eaten in that stuffy Georgian dining room had been painful. Her father had sat at the head of the table like a disapproving king, monitoring the way food was salted and consumed. To Dr. William Rosdale Whitcomb, only meat was to be salted, never vegetables, and as that was his stand on the matter, everyone in the household had had to follow the example. In theory. Jane had been a frequent violator of the no-salt rule, learning how to flick her wrist so she was able to sprinkle her steamed broccoli or boiled beans or grilled zucchini.