There had been no experimentation, however. They had lost interest in him, or forgotten about him, or some other outcome had transpired.

Unable to get free, he had suffered in the black viscous void, living but barely alive, waiting for his doom to come, for what had felt like an eternity.

Unsure whether he had been in some way turned.

His mind, once a thing he had held with great pride for its scholarly achievement and capacity, had become as crippled as his body, twisting in on itself, once clear pathways of thought tangling into a dark nightmare of paranoia and terror.

And then his brother, the one he had never had time for, the one he’d looked down upon, the one he’d always felt so superior to . . . had arrived and become his savior. Qhuinn, the deviant with the blue eye and the green eye, the family embarrassment with the critical defect, the one who had been kicked out of the house and therefore not at home when the attack occurred, had turned out to be the only reason he had gotten free.

That male had also turned out to be the strongest member of the bloodline, living and working with the Black Dagger Brotherhood, fighting with honor, defending the Race against the enemy with distinction.

Whilst Luchas, the former golden boy, the heir to the mantle that no longer existed . . . was now the one with the defects.

Karma?

He lifted his now-mangled hand, staring at the stubs that were all that were left of four out of his five fingers.

Probably.

The knock upon the door was soft, and as he inhaled, he caught the scents on the other side. Bracing himself, he pulled the sheets up higher on his thin chest.

The Chosen Selena wasn’t alone, as she had been last evening.

And he knew what this was about.

“Come in,” he said in a voice he still didn’t recognize. Ever since his ordeal, his speech had been huskier, deeper.

Qhuinn came in first, and for a moment, Luchas recoiled. Whenever he had seen his brother previously, the male had been in civilian garb. Not tonight. He’d clearly come fresh from the theater of conflict, black leather covering his powerful body, weapons strapped on his hips, his thighs . . . his chest.

Luchas frowned as he noticed two particular fighting implements: His brother had a pair of black daggers upon his sternum, the handles facing down.

Strange, he thought. It was his understanding that such blades were reserved only for members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood.

Mayhap they allowed their soldiers to wear them as well now?

“Hey,” Qhuinn said.

Behind him, the Chosen Selena was silent as a ghost, her white robes floating around her slender body, her dark hair woven up high on her head in the traditional style of her sacred order.

“Greetings, sire,” she said with an elegant bow.

Glancing down at his leg, Luchas wanted desperately to get out of bed and pay her the respect she was due. Not an option. The limb was, as always, wrapped up tight in white gauze from toe to knee, and underneath that sterile dressing? Flesh that would not heal, the heat of the infection simmering like a pot of water on the verge of breaking into a boil.

“So they tell me you’ve stopped feeding,” Qhuinn said.

Luchas looked away, wishing there was a window so that he could feign distraction.

“Well?” Qhuinn demanded. “Is that true?”

“Chosen,” Luchas murmured. “Will you kindly permit us a moment alone?”

“But of course. I shall await your summoning.”

The door shut silently. And Luchas found that all of the oxygen in the room appeared to have departed with the female.

Qhuinn pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat down, propping his elbows on his knees. His shoulders were so wide, the leather jacket he had on creaked in protest.

“What’s going on, Luchas?” he asked.

“This could have waited. You shouldn’t have come in from fighting.”

“Not according to your vital signs.”

“So the doctor called you in, did she?”

“She talked to me, yes.”

Luchas closed his eyes. “I had a . . .” He cleared his throat. “Before all of this, I’d had a vision of what I would be doing, what my future was going to be. I was . . .”

“You were going to be like Father.”

“Yes. I wanted . . . all the things I had been taught defined a life as worth living.” He lifted his lids and glared at his body. “This was not it. This . . . I am as a young is. People tending to my needs, bringing me food, washing me, wiping me. I am a brain trapped in a broken vessel. I do nothing for myself—”

“Luchas—”

“No!” He slashed his mutilated hand through the air. “Do not placate me with promises of some future health. It’s been nine months, brother mine. Preceded by a captivity in Hell that lasted a century. I’m done with being a prisoner. Done with it.”

“You can’t kill yourself.”

“I know. Then I do not enter the Fade. But if I don’t eat, and I don’t feed, that”—he jabbed a finger at his leg—“will get the best of me and carry me off. Not suicide. Death by sepsis—isn’t that what Doc Jane is so worried about?”

With a sharp motion, Qhuinn took off his jacket and let it land on the floor. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Luchas put his hands over his face. “How can you say that . . . after all the cruelty in our household . . .”

“Not your doing. That was the ’rents.”

“I participated.”

“You apologized.”

At least that was one thing he’d done right. “Qhuinn, let me go. Please. Just let me . . . go.”

The silence lasted so long, Luchas began to breathe easier, thinking that his argument had been accepted.

“I know what it’s like to not have hope,” Qhuinn said roughly. “But destiny can surprise you.”

Luchas dropped his arms and laughed bitterly. “Not in a good way, I’m afraid. Not in a good way—”

“You’re wrong—”

“Stop—”

“Luchas. I’m telling you—”

“I’m a fucking cripple!”

“So was I.” Qhuinn pointed to his eyes. “All my life.”

Luchas turned away, staring at the cream-colored wall. “There’s nothing you can say, Qhuinn. It’s over. I’m tired of fighting for a life I don’t want.”

Another silence stretched out. Eventually, Qhuinn cursed under his breath. “You just need to feed and get your strength back—”

“I will e’er refuse her vein. You might as well accept this now and not waste any further time on arguments I find unpersuasive. I am done.”

As Selena waited in the corridor, exhaustion cloaked her in heavy folds that were no less real for being invisible.

And yet she was antsy. Fidgeting with her robing, her hair, her hands.

She did not like time that was unconsumed by her duties. With nothing to occupy herself, her thoughts and fears became too loud to contain within her skull.

And yet she supposed there was a utility in this solitude. If she could stand to take advantage of it.

What she needed to do as she stood out here was practice her good-bye. She should try to compose the words she wanted to speak before she ran out of time. She should get up the courage that was going to be required to say aloud that which was in her heart.

She was going to follow through on the impulse to tell Trez good-bye.

Of the many people she would leave behind, the Primale and her Chosen sisters, the Brothers and their shellans, Trez was the one whom she mourned already. Even though she hadn’t seen him in . . . many, many nights.

Even though she hadn’t been alone with him in . . . many, many months.

In fact, after they had ended their . . . relationship, or whatever it was, he had all but moved out of the mansion. No matter what time she had come or gone, she had not seen him face-to-face, and only on occasion caught a glimpse of his big shoulders as he headed in an opposite direction from her.

That he was avoiding her had been a treacherous relief at first. It was going to be hardest leaving him, and harder still if they had continued their assignations. But lately, as her time grew shorter and shorter, she had come to decide that she needed to tell him. . . .