“Yeah.”

Throe had the chance to stick out his hand for a shake—and that was it. Rhage grabbed that wrist, spun him around like a ballerina, and shoved him face-first into the nearest wall.

“What are you—”

“Patting you down, asshole.” Okay, so maybe “punching” him down was a little more accurate. “Spread ’em.”

“You’re hurting—”

“If I find a weapon, I’m going to use it on you. Clear?”

“Must you be so—”

“Front side.” Rhage jerked the guy back by his waistband, twirled him like a top, and nailed him to the wall facing out. “Nope, head up.”

He clapped a hand on the guy’s chin and pushed that handsome mug high. After giving a surprisingly thick chest a mammogram, Rhage slapped his way down and honked Throe’s junk so hard, the guy sang a high C.

“I beg your pardon!”

“Nothing in there. Not a surprise.”

Down the thighs. The calves. Back up to eye level.

“Here are the rules. If you make any move toward my King, in any fashion, that I don’t like? You’ll be dead before you hit the floor. Do we understand each other?”

“I’ve come here in peace. I’m through with fighting—”

“Do we have an understanding? If you so much as sneeze on him, try to shake his hand, or look twice at his fucking shitkickers? I’m going to put paid on your toe tag.”

“Are you always so extreme?”

“This is calm, cool, and collected, you little bitch. You don’t want to see me pissed off.”

Rhage shoved the guy toward the door, opened the way out, and locked a hand on the back of Throe’s neck.

“I can walk on my own,” the male drawled.

“Can you? You sure about that?”

Rhage switched his grip around so that he crushed the male’s face in his palm, leading Throe by that collection of eyes, nose, and mouth.

“This working for you better? No? Huh, guess you should have STFU’d.”

As he deliberately kept Throe’s balance off, he enjoyed the Fred Astaire routine as the guy tap-danced past Abalone and entered the library.

“Oh, this is going so well already,” V muttered as he lit up a hand-rolled.

“At least there wasn’t barbecue sauce involved,” the cop tossed back.

“Yet.” V exhaled. “The night is still young.”

Rhage cleared his throat. “My lord and ruler, Wrath, son of Wrath, blooded father of Wrath, I present you with Throe, Piece of Shit.”

On that note, he gave the male a good shove in the direction of the Oriental rug, and what do you know. Ass over teakettle and the motherfucker was where he belonged.

At the foot of the one true King.

FIFTEEN

“No, I’ve got her, thanks.”

As Trez spoke, he shot a smile at Ehlena because he didn’t want the nurse to be offended as he shooed her away. But the truth was, he was beyond ready to be the one who got Selena out of the exam room. Away from the training center. Off to . . . somewhere, anywhere else.

Although that wasn’t going to happen. Barely two hours ago she’d flatlined, been hit by two billion joules of electricity in the chesticular region, and then somehow managed to come back from the brink thanks to him pulling a living, breathing soul-blanket routine.

Oh, you know, just another day in the life.

Or was it night?

Who the fuck knew.

“You ready?” he asked Selena.

It seemed like something out of a dreamscape that she actually looked into his eyes and nodded. He would never have guessed the reconnection was possible—or the fact that her body actually bent as it was supposed to between the holds he put under her knees and at her shoulders.

“I’ll be . . . gentle.” As his voice cracked, he wanted to kick his own ass. “Nice and slow.”

She nodded again, and then gasped as he lifted her off the examining table and moved her out from under the multi-light chandelier that had been pulled down close to her body.

“Which way?” he asked again, even though he’d already been told twice.

Ehlena, who was in charge of holding the IV bag, led the way to a door. “Here.”

On the far side, the recovery room was nothing he wanted for his female. The bed was a hospital one with big handrails running down both sides, and blankets that were thin, and sheets that were plain and white. There was an IV pole set up to hang the bag and a lot of monitoring equipment. The pillows looked hard.

Then again, he could have been laying her on a handmade feather bed and even that would have been inadequate.

Selena shuddered as he put her down carefully. And then, when he went to try to get the covers out from under her, she closed her eyes and shook her head.

“A minute?” she groaned, like everything hurt.

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

Annnnnnnnnnnnd now he had nothing to do. Looking around, he spotted a chair and figured at least if his ass were in it, he wasn’t crowding her.

As he sat down, and Ehlena left them to whatever small peace they could find, he thought, Shit, Selena was so still. But at least her joints were at seminormal angles, and she was breathing on her own. And she was conscious.

She was still very pale, though. Nearly the color of the sheets. And even though her hair had been smoothed, it had knots in the dark lengths.

“I’m . . . sorry. . . .”

“What?” He jacked forward. “What did you say?”

“Sorry . . .”

“About what? Jesus, like you volunteered for this?”

When she started to cry, he ditched the chair and went over to the bed, getting down on his knees next to her. Reaching up, he put the railing down and took the hand that was closest to him.

“Selena, don’t cry.” There was a Kleenex box on the bedside stand and he traded holds so he could snap one free and dry her cheeks. “Oh, no, not sorry. You can’t be sorry for something like this.”

Her inhale was ragged. “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want . . . worry.”

“I wish you’d told me.”

“Nothing to be done.”

Okay, wasn’t that a knife right between his fucking ribs. “We don’t know that. Manny is going to talk to some of his human colleagues. Maybe—”

“I love you.”

As her words hit him with all the slap of an open palm, Trez coughed, gasped, sputtered, and wheezed at the same time. Great response. Just really fucking masculine—reminding him, absurdly, of that synthesizer in Ferris Bueller when the little shit was on the phone with his classmates.

What the hell was his problem? The female he was in love with, the one he wanted above everything in the world, lays the Three Big Ones on him . . . and he turns into a giant bodily function.

So romantic.

Then again, at least he didn’t let loose in his Levi’s.

“I . . .” he stammered out.

Before he could go any farther, she squeezed his hand and shook her head back and forth on the pillow. “Don’t have to tell me back. Wanted you to know. Important . . . for you to know. No time left—”

“Don’t say that.” His voice grew strident. “I need you to not say that ever. There’s time. There’s always time—”

“No.”

God, her pale blue eyes were ancient as she stared at him. Even in her perfectly unlined face, with her beauty shining through in spite of her condition, that exhausted stare of hers made her seem geriatric.

It was so unfair. Her in that bed, him kneeling fit and fine next to her—with no real way to share the health he had in abundance. Sure, when she’d been in cardiac arrest he’d been able to bring her back, but he didn’t want to just drag her away from the brink. He wanted to cure her.

He wanted . . . years with her.

And yet, just as the thought hit him, he realized that was never going to happen: Even if her destiny changed, his wasn’t going to.

“I love you . . .” she breathed.

For a moment, he felt himself hit his own brink, his heart and soul trembling on the edge of falling into her words, her eyes, her everything that made her female and mysterious and wondrous . . . but then he reminded himself that she had nearly died, was half-awake at best, and probably had no idea what she was saying.