Dearest Virgin Scribe, this was not them.
Wrath didn’t wake up so much as surface from sleep like a buoy floating up from the depths to bounce on a choppy surface.
He was in the pitch dark of his blindness, naturally—and as always, he threw out his arm to the opposite side of the bed—
Crash!
Wrath lifted his head and frowned. Patting around with his hand, he encountered things that felt like books, a coaster, an ashtray.
Firewood burning.
He was not in his room. And Beth was not with him.
Flipping over, he jacked upright, heart skipping in his chest, the arrhythmia making him light-headed. “Beth?”
In the basement of his brain, he recognized that he was in the library downstairs in the Brotherhood mansion, but his thoughts were like worms in wet soil, twisting around incessantly, going nowhere.
“Beth …?”
A distant whimper.
“George?”
Louder whimper.
Wrath rubbed his face. Wondered where his wraparounds were. Thought, yeah, he was on that couch in the library, the one in front of the fireplace.
“Oh … f**k me…” he groaned as he tried to get vertical.
Standing up was flat-out awesome. Head swimming, stomach clenched like a fist, he had to grip the arm of the couch or he was going to timber all over the place.
Lurching through dead space, he didn’t make it to the doors so much as run into them, the hard panels punching back at his chest. Flubbering around for the handles, he popped the latches and—
George exploded into the room, the golden running around in circles, the sneezes suggesting he was smiling.
“Hey, hey…”
Wrath meant to make it back to the sofa, because he didn’t want all the functional eyes in the house seeing him like this—but his body had different ideas. And as he went down on his ass, George took the opportunity to jump right in there, getting throw-blanket close.
“Hey, big guy, yup, we’re both still here…” Stroking the retriever’s broad chest, he buried his nose into that fur and let the scent of good, clean dog work some aromatherapy on him. “Where’s Mom? Do you know where she is?”
Dumb f**king question. She was not here, and it was his own damn fault.
“Shit, George.”
That big tail was banging against his ribs, and that muzzle was snuffling, and those ears were flapping around. And it was good, it was normal—but it didn’t go nearly far enough.
“Wonder what time it is?”
Goddamn … he’d lost it at John and V but good, hadn’t he. And that hadn’t been the half of it. He had some vague memory of trashing the billiards room, flipping all kinds of shit, fighting with anyone who got too close—then it had been nap time. He was pretty sure someone had drugged him, and he couldn’t say he blamed whoever had done it. Short of a tranq-induced lights-out, he didn’t know when he would have stopped.
And he hadn’t wanted to hurt any of his brothers or the staff. Or the house.
“Shit.”
Seemed like that was the extent of his vocabulary.
Man, he should have let Vishous take him in here and tell him what was going on. But at least there were only two places his mate would go. One was Marissa’s Safe Place, and the other was Darius’s old house. And no doubt that was what John had been trying to tell him.
Fuck, he thought. This was not him and Beth. This was not where they were supposed to end up.
Matter of fact, things had always felt like fate with her; from the timing of when she’d come into his life to the completion that she brought to him, everything had always seemed like destiny. They’d had arguments, sure. He was a hotheaded a**hole and she didn’t take any of his shit. Duh.
But never this separation. Ever.
“Come on, bud. We need some privacy.”
George hopped off and let Wrath push himself up from the floor. After reshutting the doors, he embarked on a game of find-the-phone. Talk about your emasculations. Hands thrust forward, torso bent, feet shuffling, he bumped into things and felt them up to figure out whether it was a love seat, an armchair, a side table …
The desk seemed like the last f**king thing he ran into, and he discovered where the phone was when his man hand knocked the receiver off its cradle. Putting the thing up to his ear, he finger-tipped around until he located the buttons and then had to recock the dial tone before he could start dialing.
Picturing the ten digits with the pound sign and the star key at the base of the set-of-twelve arrangement, he punched in a seven-number sequence and waited.
“Safe Place, good afternoon.”
He closed his eyes. He’d hoped it was closer to dark because then he could go looking for her. “Hey, is Beth there?”
“No, I’m sorry, she’s not. May I take a message?” As he closed his eyes, the female said, “Hello? Is anybody there?”
“No message.”
“May I tell her who’s calling if she comes in later?”
He briefly wondered what the receptionist would do if he told her who it was. “I’ll find her elsewhere. Thanks.”
As he hung up, he felt George’s big head nudge his thigh. So typical of the dog—wanting to help.
Wrath kept his finger on the toggle, pushing down. He didn’t know if he was ready for another dial tone. If she didn’t pick up at the next number? He was going to have no f**king clue where she was. And the idea that he might have to go to Vishous or John for that kind of information was too shameful to bear.
As he punched in a different sequence, he thought to himself …
I can’t believe this is us. This just isn’t … us.
TWENTY-FOUR
Turning her head on her pillow, Sola stared at the door of the hospital room she’d been given. She wasn’t looking at it, though.
Instead, flashes of the abduction kept playing in front of her eyes, blocking everything out: Her arriving home and getting hit on the head. The car ride. The flare. The chase through the snow. Then the prison cell and that guard who’d come down to—
The knock made her jump. And it was funny; she knew who it was. “I’m glad you’re back.”
Assail eased the door open, and put only his head in, as if he were afraid of overwhelming her. “You wake.”
She pulled the blankets up higher on her chest. “Never slept.”
“No?” Pushing the door wider, he came in with a tray of food. “I had hoped … well, mayhap you would care for victuals?”
Sola tilted her head. “You have the most old-fashioned way of talking.”
“English is not my first language.” He put the tray down on a rolling table and brought it over. “It is not my second, either.”
“Probably the reason I love to listen to you.”
He froze as he heard her words—and yeah, maybe if she hadn’t been hopped up on pain meds, she wouldn’t have admitted such a thing. But what the hell.
Abruptly, he looked at her, an intense light in his eyes making them appear even more shimmery than usual. “I am glad my voice pleases you,” he said roughly.
Sola focused on the food as she began to feel warm inside for the first time since … everything. “Thanks for making the effort, but I’m not hungry.”
“You need food.”
“The antibiotics are making me sick.” She nodded at the IV bag hanging off the pole next to her bed. “Whatever’s in there is just … awful.”
“I will feed you.”
“I…”
For some reason, she thought back to that night out in the snow, when he’d tracked her off his property and confronted her at her car. Talk about menacing in the dark—Jesus, he’d scared the shit out of her. But that wasn’t all she’d felt.
Assail brought the one chair in the room over. Funny, it wasn’t one of those rickety plastic jobbies that you normally found in clinics; it was like something out of Pottery Barn, padded, cozy, and with a nice pattern. As he sat down, he didn’t fit in it, and not because he was overweight. He was too big, his powerful body dwarfing its arms and back, his clothes too black for the pale color—
There were bloodstains on his jacket, brown and dried. And on his shirt. His pants.
“Do not look upon that,” he said softly. “Here. For you, I chose only the best.”
Lifting up the cloche, he revealed …
“Where the hell am I?” she demanded as she leaned in and breathed deep. “Does, like, Jean-Georges have a medical division or something?”
“Who is this Jean-Georges?”
“Some fancy chef in New York City. I heard about him on Food Network.” She sat up, wincing as her thigh let out a hey-girlie. “I don’t even like roast beef—but that looks amazing.”
“I thought the iron would be good for you.”
The slab of beef was beautifully cooked, with a crust that cracked as he cut into it with—
“Are those sterling silver?” she wondered at the fork, the knife—the spoon that was still on a fancy folded napkin.
“Eat.” He brought a precisely cut piece to her mouth. “Eat for me.”
Without any prompting, her mouth opened on its own, like it was going to have none of the I-can-feed-myself delays.
Closing her eyes, she groaned. Yeah, she wasn’t hungry. Not at all.
“This is the single best thing I have ever eaten.”
The smile that lit his face made no sense. It was too bright to be just about her having some grub—and he must have known this, because he turned his head so she only saw a flash of the expression.
For the next fifteen, twenty minutes, the only sounds in the room, apart from the whistling heating vents, was that luxe silverware hitting a porcelain plate. And yup, in spite of her oh-no-I-couldn’t-possiblies, she ate that huge slice of beef, and the scalloped potatoes, and the creamed spinach. As well as the dinner roll that surely was homemade. And the peach cobbler. And she even had some of the chilled bottled water and the coffee that came in a carafe.
She probably would have eaten the napkin, the tray, all that sterling and the rolling table if given the chance.
Collapsing back against the pillow, she put her hand over her belly. “I think I’m going to explode.”
“I shall just put this out in the hall. Pardon me.”
From her vantage point, she measured every move he made: the way he stood up, gripped the sides of the tray in long, elegant hands, turned away, walked smoothly.
Talk about your table manners. He’d handled the silver with a genteel flare, as if he used that kind of thing in his own home. And he hadn’t spilled a drop as he’d poured her coffee. Or missed any food getting into her mouth.
A perfect gentleman.
Hard to reconcile it with what she’d seen as he’d handed her the cell phone to speak with her grandmother. Then, he’d been unhinged, with blood running down his chin as if he’d taken a hunk out of someone. His hands, too, had been red with blood …
Considering she’d killed everyone in that horrible place before she’d left? He’d obviously brought someone up with him.
Oh, God … she was a murderer.
Assail came back in and sat down, crossing his legs at the knee, not ankle to thigh as men usually did. Steepling his hands, he brought them to his mouth and stared at her.
“You killed him, didn’t you,” she said softly.
“Who.”
“Benloise.”
His magnetic gaze drifted elsewhere. “We shall not speak of it. Any of it.”
Sola took elaborate care folding the top edge of the blanket down. “I can’t … I can’t pretend that last night didn’t happen.”
“You’re going to have to.”
“I killed two men.” She flipped her eyes up to his and blinked fast. “I killed … two human beings. Oh, God…”
Covering her face, she tried to keep her head together.
“Marisol…” There was a squeak as if he’d moved that Pottery Barn chair even closer. “Darling, you must put it from your mind.”
“Two men…”
“Animals,” he said sharply. “They were animals who deserved worse. All of them.”
Lowering her hands, she was not surprised that his expression was deadly, but she wasn’t scared of him. She was, however, frightened of what she’d done.
“I can’t get…” She gestured at the side of her head. “I can’t get the pictures out of my—”
“Block them, darling. Just forget it ever happened.”
“I can’t. Ever. I should turn myself in to the police—”
“They were going to kill you. And do you think if they had they would have paid you any honor of conscience? I can assure you not.”
“This was my fault.” She closed her eyes. “I should have known Benloise would retaliate. I just didn’t think it would be to this level.”
“But, my darling, you’re safe—”
“How many?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How many … have you killed.” She exhaled hard. “And please don’t try to pretend you haven’t. I saw your face, remember. Before you washed it off.”
He looked away, and wiped his chin as if the blood were still on him. “Marisol. Put it away, somewhere deep—and leave it be.”
“Is that how you handle it?”
Assail shook his head, his jaw clenching, his mouth thinning. “No. I remember my kills. Each and every one.”
“So you hate what you had to do?” st Virgin Scribe, this was not them.
Wrath didn’t wake up so much as surface from sleep like a buoy floating up from the depths to bounce on a choppy surface.
He was in the pitch dark of his blindness, naturally—and as always, he threw out his arm to the opposite side of the bed—
Crash!
Wrath lifted his head and frowned. Patting around with his hand, he encountered things that felt like books, a coaster, an ashtray.
Firewood burning.
He was not in his room. And Beth was not with him.
Flipping over, he jacked upright, heart skipping in his chest, the arrhythmia making him light-headed. “Beth?”
In the basement of his brain, he recognized that he was in the library downstairs in the Brotherhood mansion, but his thoughts were like worms in wet soil, twisting around incessantly, going nowhere.
“Beth …?”
A distant whimper.
“George?”
Louder whimper.
Wrath rubbed his face. Wondered where his wraparounds were. Thought, yeah, he was on that couch in the library, the one in front of the fireplace.
“Oh … f**k me…” he groaned as he tried to get vertical.
Standing up was flat-out awesome. Head swimming, stomach clenched like a fist, he had to grip the arm of the couch or he was going to timber all over the place.
Lurching through dead space, he didn’t make it to the doors so much as run into them, the hard panels punching back at his chest. Flubbering around for the handles, he popped the latches and—
George exploded into the room, the golden running around in circles, the sneezes suggesting he was smiling.
“Hey, hey…”
Wrath meant to make it back to the sofa, because he didn’t want all the functional eyes in the house seeing him like this—but his body had different ideas. And as he went down on his ass, George took the opportunity to jump right in there, getting throw-blanket close.
“Hey, big guy, yup, we’re both still here…” Stroking the retriever’s broad chest, he buried his nose into that fur and let the scent of good, clean dog work some aromatherapy on him. “Where’s Mom? Do you know where she is?”
Dumb f**king question. She was not here, and it was his own damn fault.
“Shit, George.”
That big tail was banging against his ribs, and that muzzle was snuffling, and those ears were flapping around. And it was good, it was normal—but it didn’t go nearly far enough.
“Wonder what time it is?”
Goddamn … he’d lost it at John and V but good, hadn’t he. And that hadn’t been the half of it. He had some vague memory of trashing the billiards room, flipping all kinds of shit, fighting with anyone who got too close—then it had been nap time. He was pretty sure someone had drugged him, and he couldn’t say he blamed whoever had done it. Short of a tranq-induced lights-out, he didn’t know when he would have stopped.
And he hadn’t wanted to hurt any of his brothers or the staff. Or the house.
“Shit.”
Seemed like that was the extent of his vocabulary.
Man, he should have let Vishous take him in here and tell him what was going on. But at least there were only two places his mate would go. One was Marissa’s Safe Place, and the other was Darius’s old house. And no doubt that was what John had been trying to tell him.
Fuck, he thought. This was not him and Beth. This was not where they were supposed to end up.
Matter of fact, things had always felt like fate with her; from the timing of when she’d come into his life to the completion that she brought to him, everything had always seemed like destiny. They’d had arguments, sure. He was a hotheaded a**hole and she didn’t take any of his shit. Duh.
But never this separation. Ever.
“Come on, bud. We need some privacy.”
George hopped off and let Wrath push himself up from the floor. After reshutting the doors, he embarked on a game of find-the-phone. Talk about your emasculations. Hands thrust forward, torso bent, feet shuffling, he bumped into things and felt them up to figure out whether it was a love seat, an armchair, a side table …
The desk seemed like the last f**king thing he ran into, and he discovered where the phone was when his man hand knocked the receiver off its cradle. Putting the thing up to his ear, he finger-tipped around until he located the buttons and then had to recock the dial tone before he could start dialing.
Picturing the ten digits with the pound sign and the star key at the base of the set-of-twelve arrangement, he punched in a seven-number sequence and waited.
“Safe Place, good afternoon.”
He closed his eyes. He’d hoped it was closer to dark because then he could go looking for her. “Hey, is Beth there?”
“No, I’m sorry, she’s not. May I take a message?” As he closed his eyes, the female said, “Hello? Is anybody there?”
“No message.”
“May I tell her who’s calling if she comes in later?”
He briefly wondered what the receptionist would do if he told her who it was. “I’ll find her elsewhere. Thanks.”
As he hung up, he felt George’s big head nudge his thigh. So typical of the dog—wanting to help.
Wrath kept his finger on the toggle, pushing down. He didn’t know if he was ready for another dial tone. If she didn’t pick up at the next number? He was going to have no f**king clue where she was. And the idea that he might have to go to Vishous or John for that kind of information was too shameful to bear.
As he punched in a different sequence, he thought to himself …
I can’t believe this is us. This just isn’t … us.
TWENTY-FOUR
Turning her head on her pillow, Sola stared at the door of the hospital room she’d been given. She wasn’t looking at it, though.
Instead, flashes of the abduction kept playing in front of her eyes, blocking everything out: Her arriving home and getting hit on the head. The car ride. The flare. The chase through the snow. Then the prison cell and that guard who’d come down to—
The knock made her jump. And it was funny; she knew who it was. “I’m glad you’re back.”
Assail eased the door open, and put only his head in, as if he were afraid of overwhelming her. “You wake.”
She pulled the blankets up higher on her chest. “Never slept.”
“No?” Pushing the door wider, he came in with a tray of food. “I had hoped … well, mayhap you would care for victuals?”
Sola tilted her head. “You have the most old-fashioned way of talking.”
“English is not my first language.” He put the tray down on a rolling table and brought it over. “It is not my second, either.”
“Probably the reason I love to listen to you.”
He froze as he heard her words—and yeah, maybe if she hadn’t been hopped up on pain meds, she wouldn’t have admitted such a thing. But what the hell.
Abruptly, he looked at her, an intense light in his eyes making them appear even more shimmery than usual. “I am glad my voice pleases you,” he said roughly.
Sola focused on the food as she began to feel warm inside for the first time since … everything. “Thanks for making the effort, but I’m not hungry.”
“You need food.”
“The antibiotics are making me sick.” She nodded at the IV bag hanging off the pole next to her bed. “Whatever’s in there is just … awful.”
“I will feed you.”
“I…”
For some reason, she thought back to that night out in the snow, when he’d tracked her off his property and confronted her at her car. Talk about menacing in the dark—Jesus, he’d scared the shit out of her. But that wasn’t all she’d felt.
Assail brought the one chair in the room over. Funny, it wasn’t one of those rickety plastic jobbies that you normally found in clinics; it was like something out of Pottery Barn, padded, cozy, and with a nice pattern. As he sat down, he didn’t fit in it, and not because he was overweight. He was too big, his powerful body dwarfing its arms and back, his clothes too black for the pale color—
There were bloodstains on his jacket, brown and dried. And on his shirt. His pants.
“Do not look upon that,” he said softly. “Here. For you, I chose only the best.”
Lifting up the cloche, he revealed …
“Where the hell am I?” she demanded as she leaned in and breathed deep. “Does, like, Jean-Georges have a medical division or something?”
“Who is this Jean-Georges?”
“Some fancy chef in New York City. I heard about him on Food Network.” She sat up, wincing as her thigh let out a hey-girlie. “I don’t even like roast beef—but that looks amazing.”
“I thought the iron would be good for you.”
The slab of beef was beautifully cooked, with a crust that cracked as he cut into it with—
“Are those sterling silver?” she wondered at the fork, the knife—the spoon that was still on a fancy folded napkin.
“Eat.” He brought a precisely cut piece to her mouth. “Eat for me.”
Without any prompting, her mouth opened on its own, like it was going to have none of the I-can-feed-myself delays.
Closing her eyes, she groaned. Yeah, she wasn’t hungry. Not at all.
“This is the single best thing I have ever eaten.”
The smile that lit his face made no sense. It was too bright to be just about her having some grub—and he must have known this, because he turned his head so she only saw a flash of the expression.
For the next fifteen, twenty minutes, the only sounds in the room, apart from the whistling heating vents, was that luxe silverware hitting a porcelain plate. And yup, in spite of her oh-no-I-couldn’t-possiblies, she ate that huge slice of beef, and the scalloped potatoes, and the creamed spinach. As well as the dinner roll that surely was homemade. And the peach cobbler. And she even had some of the chilled bottled water and the coffee that came in a carafe.
She probably would have eaten the napkin, the tray, all that sterling and the rolling table if given the chance.
Collapsing back against the pillow, she put her hand over her belly. “I think I’m going to explode.”
“I shall just put this out in the hall. Pardon me.”
From her vantage point, she measured every move he made: the way he stood up, gripped the sides of the tray in long, elegant hands, turned away, walked smoothly.
Talk about your table manners. He’d handled the silver with a genteel flare, as if he used that kind of thing in his own home. And he hadn’t spilled a drop as he’d poured her coffee. Or missed any food getting into her mouth.
A perfect gentleman.
Hard to reconcile it with what she’d seen as he’d handed her the cell phone to speak with her grandmother. Then, he’d been unhinged, with blood running down his chin as if he’d taken a hunk out of someone. His hands, too, had been red with blood …
Considering she’d killed everyone in that horrible place before she’d left? He’d obviously brought someone up with him.
Oh, God … she was a murderer.
Assail came back in and sat down, crossing his legs at the knee, not ankle to thigh as men usually did. Steepling his hands, he brought them to his mouth and stared at her.
“You killed him, didn’t you,” she said softly.
“Who.”
“Benloise.”
His magnetic gaze drifted elsewhere. “We shall not speak of it. Any of it.”
Sola took elaborate care folding the top edge of the blanket down. “I can’t … I can’t pretend that last night didn’t happen.”
“You’re going to have to.”
“I killed two men.” She flipped her eyes up to his and blinked fast. “I killed … two human beings. Oh, God…”
Covering her face, she tried to keep her head together.
“Marisol…” There was a squeak as if he’d moved that Pottery Barn chair even closer. “Darling, you must put it from your mind.”
“Two men…”
“Animals,” he said sharply. “They were animals who deserved worse. All of them.”
Lowering her hands, she was not surprised that his expression was deadly, but she wasn’t scared of him. She was, however, frightened of what she’d done.
“I can’t get…” She gestured at the side of her head. “I can’t get the pictures out of my—”
“Block them, darling. Just forget it ever happened.”
“I can’t. Ever. I should turn myself in to the police—”
“They were going to kill you. And do you think if they had they would have paid you any honor of conscience? I can assure you not.”
“This was my fault.” She closed her eyes. “I should have known Benloise would retaliate. I just didn’t think it would be to this level.”
“But, my darling, you’re safe—”
“How many?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How many … have you killed.” She exhaled hard. “And please don’t try to pretend you haven’t. I saw your face, remember. Before you washed it off.”
He looked away, and wiped his chin as if the blood were still on him. “Marisol. Put it away, somewhere deep—and leave it be.”
“Is that how you handle it?”
Assail shook his head, his jaw clenching, his mouth thinning. “No. I remember my kills. Each and every one.”
“So you hate what you had to do?”