“Oh, God, seriously . . . seeing you suffering like that—it was one of the worst moments of my life—”

As if he were determined to keep her on track, Rhage talked over her. “You need to tell Bitty that, okay? Tell her that her mother died at that moment because Bitty’s voice was what she needed to hear before she went to the Fade. She needed to know that her daughter was all right before she left—and I guarantee you, Mary, if you said one word in that room, Annalye knew that you were there with her young, too. And that meant Bitty was going to be safe. Annalye left because she knew it was okay to go.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Mary murmured. “You have such a good way of putting it. I wish you could say that to her.”

“Maybe I can someday. Hell, name the date and time and I’m there.”

As Rhage stared across at her, he seemed focused on her even though he couldn’t see—and actually, Mary was very sure, in this moment, that nothing else in the world existed for him but her and her problems. Add onto that his ridiculous masculine beauty and that sex drive and the big heart?

“How on earth did I ever get to end up with you?” she whispered. “I won the lottery.”

Her hellren reached for her and brought her in close again, tucking her under his chin. “Oh, no, Mary. It’s the other way around. Trust me.”

As Rhage felt the tension in his shellan’s body ease, he rubbed her back in slow circles . . . and felt like throwing up.

Not because of the whole beast thing.

“So I know we’re still twelve hours away from nightfall,” she said, “but I’d like to go into work this evening? Just a little while though, and only if you’re—”

“Oh, God, yeah. Bitty needs you.” Wonder if there were any Alka Seltzers left? “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Nope. Not at all. “Hell, yeah—I’ve done this recovery thing how many times? I’m just going to hang down here and sleep it off.” Because if he wasn’t conscious, he wasn’t going to feel like this, right? “And actually, on second thought, you don’t need me to tell Bitty anything. You have even better ways of putting things.”

“I used to believe that.”

“No.” He looked down at where the sound of her voice was coming from and took one of her hands in his with urgency. “Mary, you can’t second-guess yourself. Listen, you go to war in your own way, and the worst thing a soldier can do is have his confidence fried before he hits the field. Not everything is going to end up in victory, but you’ve got to start it all off, every time, knowing that your training and your instincts are sound. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t hurt Bitty on purpose. You certainly are not responsible for her mahmen choosing that moment to go unto the Fade—and in fact, there’s a lot of evidence to suggest the female left because she felt like her young was in good hands. You need to believe all of that—otherwise, you’re going to get stuck in a neutral that isn’t going to help anybody.”

“Lord, you are always so right.”

Meh. Not even close. But like he was going to bring all his wrongs up now, when she had real problems to deal with, with that little girl? He was a selfish prick, but he wasn’t that much of a douche bag.

Fucking hell, he couldn’t believe he’d put his shellan through what he had . . . he couldn’t live with himself knowing that he’d made Mary essentially watch him fucking die last night—and all for no good fucking reason.

All because he hadn’t listened to Vishous.

Actually, no, he thought. It was even worse than that. In fact, he had heard every word the brother had said and had gone out to fight anyway, fully aware of what was waiting for him on the field of combat if the guy was right.

Guess that was the definition of suicidal, wasn’t it.

Which meant that he was . . .

Oh, fuck.

As Rhage’s head began to implode with a reality that was only now dawning on him, Mary continued talking in a slow, considered way about what she was going to do for the little girl, what staff consults she needed to have, and then there was something about an uncle somewhere . . . and Rhage just let the conversation of hers go on its one-sided way.

In all truth, he was infinitely grateful she felt better and more connected to him. That shit mattered. Unfortunately, he was back to being far away from her again, the inside part of him floating off even as his body stayed where it was.

What the hell was wrong with him? He had everything he wanted in life—and she was in his arms at this very moment. He’d had a death scare and come through it. There was so much to live for, fight for, love for.

So why would he do something like that? Why would he run out into an all-but-guaranteed casket? And why was the distance from her back?

Well, there was one explanation. Something that tied everything up with a big, fat, psychotic bow.

He’d often wondered whether he was crazy. Like, intrinsically so.

His emotions had always been so extreme, jumping from mania to anger, that he’d sometimes worried that one day he was going to spiral off on the top end of one of those pendulum swings, never to return to sanity again. Maybe that had finally happened. And if it had? The last thing Mary needed after what had gone on last night was to learn that he was clinically insane.

Because, shit, why else would he feel so damn weird in his own skin?

Damn it, it was like he’d won the lottery only to find out he was allergic to the cash or some shit.

“Rhage?”

He shook himself. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Do you want me to get you some food?”

“Nah. I’m still full.” He retucked her in against him. “I could use a whole lot more of this, though.”

Mary snuggled up close, stretching her arm around his shoulders as far as it would go. “You got it.”

I tried to kill myself last night, he said to her in his head. And I have no idea why.

Yup. It was official.

He’d lost his mind.

FOURTEEN

“It’s up here.”

Jo Early eased off on the accelerator of her Volkswagen piece of crap. “Yeah, I know where it is, Dougie.”

“Right here—”

“I know.”

There was no reason to hit the directional signal. At seven in the morning, there were no other cars around, nobody to care as she went through the off-kilter, paint-flaking iron gates of the old prep school her mother had gone to a million years ago.

Wow. The Brownswick School for Girls had seen better days.

Her mother would so not approve of this landscaping at all. Or lack thereof.

Then again, the woman could throw an aneurysm over a single dandelion head in her five-acre lawn.

Driving down the pitted asphalt lane, Jo steered around holes that were big enough to eat her little Golf, and dodged fallen tree limbs—some of which were old enough to rot.

“God, my head hurts.”

She glanced over at her roommate. Dougie Keefer was Shaggy from Scooby Doo—without the talking Great Dane. And yes, his nickname was Reefer for good reason.

“I told you to go to a doc in the box. When you passed out here last night—”

“I was hit on the head!”

“—you probably got a concussion.”

Although any neuro consult on the guy would be tough to read because he was usually seeing double. And numbness and tingling was a lifestyle choice in his eyes.

Dougie cracked his knuckles one by one. “I’ll be fine.”

“Then stop complaining. Besides, half of the problem is that you’re sobering up. It’s called a hangover.”

As they went further into the campus, buildings appeared, and she imagined them with clean, unbroken windows and freshly painted trim and doors that didn’t hang at bad angles. She could absolutely see her mother here, with her sweater sets and her pearls, gunning for her MRS. degree already even though this had just been a prep school, not a college.