Rhage pushed himself back a little farther so he could meet her in the eye.

“You look so sad.” She traced his brows. The sorrowful cast to his perfect mouth. The bruises on his jaw. “It’s always better if you talk to someone.”

After a long moment, he opened his mouth—

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Out in the bedroom, the unmistakable impact of a Brother pounding on the door was not muffled in the slightest.

Rhage twisted around and shouted, “Yeah?”

V’s voice carried through into the loo. “We got a meeting. Now.”

“Roger that. Coming.”

Rhage turned back and kissed her. “I’d better go.”

His withdrawal was quick, and his eyes stayed ducked as he helped her up off the rug and over to the shower.

“I wish I were getting in there with you,” he said as he cranked on the hot water.

No, she thought, as he wouldn’t look at her. You actually don’t.

“Rhage, I know you have to go. But you’re scaring me.”

As he moved her under the spray, he took her face in his hands and stared her dead in the eye. “You don’t have anything to worry about. Not now and not ever—at least not about me. I love you til forever and back, and nothing else matters as long as that is true.”

Mary took a deep breath. “Okay. All right.”

“I’ll return soon as the meeting’s over. And we can get some food. Watch a movie. You know, do that thing . . . what do the humans call it?”

Mary laughed a little. “Netflix and chill.”

“Right. We’re going to Netflix and chill.”

He kissed her even though it got his face wet, and then he backed off and shut the glass door. On his way out, he threw his sweats on again, but kept his feet bare.

She watched him go. And thought it was amazing how someone could reassure you . . . while at the same time make things worse.

What the hell was going on with him?

When she was finished with her shower, she toweled off, brushed the tangles out of her wet hair, and got dressed in a set of yoga pants and a big black cashmere sweater that nearly came down to her knees. She’d bought the thing for Rhage as they’d headed into the previous winter, and she’d even gotten it in his favorite non-color after a longstanding failure at trying to diversify his wardrobe. He hadn’t been able to wear it very often, though, because he’d always overheated with it on.

The weave smelled like him, however.

And as she left their room, she felt as though he were with her—and man, did she need that tonight.

Pausing in front of the King’s study, she listened to the deep male voices on the other side of the closed doors.

Down below in the foyer, she could hear doggen talking. The floor polisher. The tinkling of crystal, as if the sconces were being taken apart to be cleaned in the sink again.

Without making a sound, she padded across the thick red-and-gold runner, heading for the Hall of Statues. But she didn’t go down that corridor, with its Greco-Roman masterpieces in marble and all its bedrooms. No, she was headed for the next floor up.

The door to the mansion’s third level was not locked, but it wasn’t open, either, and she felt a little like she was trespassing as she opened the way to the stairs and went upward. On the top landing, across from Trez’s and iAm’s rooms, was the vaulted steel door to the First Family’s suite, and she hit its bell, standing with her face in the security camera.

Moments later, there was a series of clunks as the bars moved free of their holds, and then the heavy panel opened wide. Beth was on the other side, L.W. on her hip, her hair in a braid over her shoulder, those old blue jeans and bright blue fleece the very definition of homey. What was not cozy in the slightest? The incredible glimmer of the gemstones set into all the walls beyond.

Mary had never been in the private quarters before. Few had, other than Fritz, who insisted on doing the cleaning up there himself. But Mary had heard that the entire suite was studded with precious jewels from the Old Country’s treasury—and clearly that was true.

“Hey, there.” The Queen smiled even as L.W. grabbed onto some hair over her ear and yanked. “Okay, ow. Let’s try something else for biceps curls, shall we?”

As Beth untangled that fat little fist, Mary said grimly, “I need you to tell me what happened with Rhage. And don’t pretend you don’t know what it is.”

Beth’s eyes closed briefly. “Mary, it’s not my place—”

“If the roles were reversed, you would want to know. And I would tell you if you asked me to—because that’s what family does for one another. Especially when someone is hurting.”

The Queen exhaled a curse. Then she stepped aside and nodded at the sparkling suite. “Come on in. We need to do this in private.”

TWENTY-TWO

Usually Rhage had something in his mouth during meetings with the King. Tootsie Pops were his favorite, but in a pinch, he’d rock a pack of Starburst, or maybe a thing of Chips Ahoy!—the old-school ones in the blue bag, crunchy, not chewy and no nuts. His stomach wasn’t up to handling anything like that, though—and not because of the beast shit.

But at least his vision was even better than it had been after V had hit him.

As the shutters came down for the day, he took up res in the corner by the double doors while his brothers settled in their usual places around the room: Butch and V on one of the spindly French sofas, the pair of them settling into nearly identical, ankle-over-knee poses; Z against the wall in the best defensible position with Phury right next to him; John, Blay and Qhuinn grouped together by the fire. Rehvenge, meanwhile, was in front of Wrath’s ornate desk, the leader of the symphaths being one of the King’s closest advisers, and Tohr was sitting at Wrath’s dagger hand due to his position as head of the Brotherhood, a first lieutenant in all things.

Lassiter wasn’t around, and Rhage guessed the fallen angel was watching T.V. somewhere. And Payne, who had taken to attending these sorts of things? She was probably watching Xcor.

’Cuz God knew the female could handle herself, and any male on the planet.

As always, Wrath was the focal point of it all, sitting in the ornate throne his father had used, the Brother’s black wraparound sunglasses surveying the room even though he was blind, his hand resting on the boxy head of his golden retriever service dog.

Qhuinn was doing the talking this morning, however.

“—have two people down there getting care, Layla and my brother. Neither of them is in any shape to defend themselves if he gets free, and Doc Jane, Manny and Ehlena are medical people, not fighters.”

“With all due respect, Xcor’s seriously guarded,” Butch said. “Twenty-four-seven.”

“If Marissa were carrying your kid, would that be good enough?”

The cop opened his mouth. Then shut it and nodded. “Yeah. Too right.”

Qhuinn crossed his arms over his chest. “Personally, I don’t give a fuck if he’s in a Hannibal Lecter, I don’t want him anywhere near that clinic.”

As the Brother went quiet, Wrath asked, “What’s Xcor’s condition now?”

Vishous stroked his goatee. “Still in a coma. Vital signs aren’t strong, but they’re not slipping. No movement on his right side. I’m thinking stroke.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“Not without dragging his ass to Havers’s for a CAT scan. But I don’t want to move him across town just to figure out what I’m pretty damn confident of already—and yes, both Jane and Manny agree with my conclusion.”

“Any idea how long the coma’s liable to last?”

“Nope. He could be waking up now. Or be under for a month. Or go the persistent vegetative state route. There’s really no telling. And if he does wake up? Depending on the severity of the stroke, he could be cognitively impaired. Physically fucked. Or completely normal. Or somewhere in between the extremes.”