Not a pity fuck. A gratitude one.

John rubbed his face. He was so stupid. Thinking that it meant anything.

So very, very stupid.

Tohr woke up with a stomach that had been spray-painted in the color pain. The agony was so bad that in his dead-to-the-world, postfeeding sleep, he’d wrapped his arms around his belly and hunched into himself.

Unfurling from the tuck and shiver, he wondered if there had been something wrong with the blood-

The grumble that rose up was loud enough to rival a garbage disposal.

The pain…was hunger? He looked down at the concave pit between his hips. Rubbed at the hard, flat surface. Listened to another roar.

His body was demanding food, massive quantities of sustenance.

He glanced at the clock. Ten a.m. John hadn’t come by with Last Meal.

Tohr sat up without using his arms and made it into the bathroom on legs that felt curiously steady. He used the toilet, but not to throw up, then washed his face, and realized he had no clothes to wear.

Slipping a terry-cloth robe on, he left his bedroom for the first time since he’d walked into it.

The lights along the hall of statues made him blink like he’d been spotlit on a stage, and he needed a minute to adjust to…everything.

Stretching up and down the corridor, the marble males in their various poses were just as he remembered them, so strong and graceful and static, and for no good reason, he remembered Darius buying them one by one, building up the collection. Back when D had been in acquisition mode, he’d sent Fritz to auctions at Sotheby’s and Christie’s in New York, and when each of the masterpieces had been delivered in its crate with all the shredded stuffing and those cloth wraps, the brother had had an unveiling party.

D had loved art.

Tohr frowned. Wellsie and his unborn child would always be his first and foremost loss. But he had more dead to avenge, didn’t he. The lessers had taken not only his family, but his best friend.

Anger stirred deep in his gut…triggering another hunger. For war.

With a focus and determination that was both foreign and familiar, Tohr headed down toward the grand staircase and paused as he got to the mostly closed doors of the study. He sensed Wrath behind them, but he didn’t really want to interact with anyone.

At least, he didn’t think so.

Why then hadn’t he just called down to the kitchen for an order of food?

Tohr peered in through the slit that was between the doors.

Wrath was asleep at his desk, his long, glossy black hair fanning out over paperwork, one forearm curled under his head as a pillow. In his free hand, he still gripped the magnifying glass he had to use if he wanted to try to read anything.

Tohr stepped into the room. Looking around, he saw the mantelpiece over the fireplace and could just picture Zsadist lounging against it, his scarred face serious, his eyes flashing black. Phury had always been close to him, usually parking it in the pale blue chaise by the window. V and Butch had tended to take that spindly-ass couch. Rhage chose different locales depending on his mood…

Tohr frowned as what was next to Wrath’s desk registered.

The ugly, ratty, avocado green armchair, with patches worn on its leather cushions…was Tohr’s chair. The one his Wellsie had insisted be thrown out because it was a mess. The one he’d put in the office down in the training center.

“We moved it here so John would come back to the mansion.”

Tohr’s head whipped around. Wrath was lifting himself off his arm, his voice as groggy as his face appeared.

The king spoke slowly, as if he didn’t want to spook his visitor. “After…what happened, John wouldn’t leave the office. He refused to sleep anywhere but that chair. What a mess…He was acting out in training. Getting into fights. Eventually, I put my foot down, moved that stinker in here, and things got better.” Wrath turned to the chair. “He used to like to sit there and watch me work. After his transition and the raids over the summer, he’s been out fighting at night and crashing during the day, so he hasn’t been here as much. I kind of miss him.”

Tohr winced. He’d done such a head job on that poor kid. Sure, he’d been incapable of doing anything else, but John had suffered a lot.

Suffered still.

Tohr was ashamed of himself as he thought of his waking up in that bed each morning and every afternoon, John bringing that tray in and sitting while the food was eaten-then staying, as if the kid knew that he was throwing up most of whatever had been served as soon as he was alone.

John had had to deal with Wellsie’s death by himself. Go through his transition by himself. Cross however many first times by himself.

Tohr sat down on V and Butch’s couch. The thing felt surprisingly sturdy, more so than he remembered. Putting his palms on the cushions, he pushed.

“It was reinforced while you were gone,” Wrath said quietly.

There was a long period of quiet, the question Wrath wanted to ask hovering in the air as loud as the echo of clanging bells in a private chapel.

Tohr cleared his throat. The only person he could have talked to about what was on his mind was Darius, but the brother was dead and gone. Wrath was the next person he was closest to though…

“It was…” Tohr crossed his arms over his chest. “It went okay. She stood behind me.”

Wrath nodded slowly. “Good idea.”

“Hers.”

“Selena’s tight. Kind.”

“I’m not sure how long it’s going to take,” Tohr said, not wanting to even talk about the female. “You know, until I’m ready to fight. I’m going to have to spar some. Hit the shooting range. Physically? No clue how my body’s going to rebound.”

“Don’t worry about time. Just get yourself healthy.”

Tohr looked down at his hands and curled up a pair of fists. There was no meat on the bones at all, so his knuckles poked through the skin like a relief map of the Adirondacks, nothing but jagged peaks and hollow valleys.

It was going to be a long trip back, he thought. And even once he was physically strong, his mental deck of cards was still missing all of its aces. No matter how much he weighed or how well he fought, nothing was going to change that.

There was a sharp knock and he shut his eyes, praying it wasn’t one of his brothers. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of returning to the land of living.

Yay. Rah. Whoo. Hoo.

“What’s doing, Qhuinn?” the king asked.

“We found John. Kinda.”

Tohr’s lids popped wide and he shifted around, frowning up at the kid in the doorway. Before Wrath could speak, Tohr said, “Was he missing?”

Qhuinn seemed surprised to see him up and about, but the guy gathered himself quickly as Wrath demanded, “Why wasn’t I told he was gone?”

“I didn’t know he was.” Qhuinn came in, and the redhead from the training classes, Blay, was with him. “He told both of us he was off rotation and going to crash out. We took him at his word, and before you fist my balls, I stayed in my room the entire time because I thought he was in his. As soon as I realized he wasn’t there, we went in search of him.”

Wrath cursed under his breath, then cut off Qhuinn’s apology. “Nah, it’s cool, son. You didn’t know. Nothing you could do. Where the fuck is he?”

Tohr didn’t hear the answer for the roar in his head. John out in Caldwell alone? Gone without telling anyone? What if something had happened?

He cut through the conversation. “Wait, where is he?”

Qhuinn held up his phone. “He won’t say. His text is just that he’s safe, wherever he is, and he’ll meet us out tomorrow night.”

“When’s he coming home?” Tohr demanded.

“I guess”-Qhuinn shrugged-“he’s not.”