by J. R. Ward
"Come in," Mary said. "Oh, hey! Marissa, how are you?"
Butch's mate looked drop-dead beautiful as always, her blond hair down and curling perfectly on her slender shoulders as if it had been trained in good manners and wouldn't think of frizzing out. Dressed in a black cashmere sweater and sleek black slacks, she was like the female Rhage in a lot of ways--too physically exquisite to actually exist.
And like Rhage, the outside wasn't nearly as lovely as the inside.
With a Vogue-worthy smile, Marissa sat in the creaky chair on the other side of the desk. "I'm okay. More importantly, how are you?"
Mary eased back, crossed her arms over her chest, and thought, ah, so this was not a social visit.
"I guess you've heard," she murmured.
"Yes."
"I swear, Marissa, I had no idea it was going to be that bad."
"Of course you didn't. Who could have?"
"Well, just as long as you know that I didn't mean for things to go the way they did--"
Marissa frowned. "I'm sorry, what?"
"When Bitty and I went to see her mother--"
"Wait, wait." Marissa put up her palms. "What? No, I'm talking about Rhage getting shot on the battlefield. And your saving his life in front of the Brothers."
Mary popped her brows. "Oh, that."
"Yes . . . that." A strange look entered Marissa's eyes. "You know, frankly, I'm not sure why you came in tonight. I thought you'd be home with him."
"Oh, well, yes. But with everything that's going on with Bitty, how could I not come in? And besides, I spent all day with Rhage, making sure he was okay. While he continues to sleep at the clinic, I wanted to check on her. God . . . the idea that I made things worse for that girl makes me feel horrible. I mean, I'm sure you know what happened."
"You mean at Havers's? Yes, I do. And I can understand your being upset. But I really think you should have stayed with Rhage."
Mary waved a casual hand. "I'm fine. He's fine--"
"And I think you should go home now."
With a sudden shot of dread, Mary sat forward. "Wait, you're not firing me because of Bitty, are you?"
"Oh, my God--no! Are you kidding me? You're the best therapist we have!" Marissa shook her head. "And I wouldn't presume to tell you how to do your job here. But it's pretty clear that you've had a long twenty-four hours, and however much you want to be there for the girl in a professional capacity, you're going to be even more effective if you've had some R-and-R."
"Well, that's a relief." She sat back. "The not-getting-fired part, that is."
"Don't you want to be with Rhage?"
"Of course I do. I'm just really worried about Bitty. It's crisis time, you know? The loss of her mother is not just a tragedy that leaves her orphaned, it's a huge trigger point for everything else. I just . . . I really want to make sure she's okay."
"You're a dedicated therapist, you know that."
"She keeps talking about an uncle?" As Marissa frowned again, Mary reopened Annalye's file and flipped through the pages. "Yeah, I know, right? I hadn't heard about one before now, either. And I went through everything we have on either of them and there's no mention of any family. I just put up a post for the race on that closed page on Facebook? I'll see if I can find him that way." Mary shook her head as she stared at an entry that had been written by Rhym. "Part of me wonders whether or not I could get the phone records for here to see what calls have gone in and out over the last month? Maybe there's something there? No mail has been returned here. And as far as I know, Bitty's mom never used e-mail."
When there was a period of silence, Mary looked up--and found that her boss was staring at her with an inscrutable expression.
"What?" Mary said.
Marissa cleared her throat. "I admire your commitment. But I think it's best that you take at least the rest of tonight off. A little distance to refocus is best. Bitty will be here tomorrow and you can continue to be her primary staff member."
"I just want to make it right."
"I know and I don't blame you. But I can't escape the feeling that if I had showed up here for work a night after Butch had almost died in my arms? You'd make me go home. No matter what was happening under this roof."
Mary opened her mouth to deny it. Then shut things up as Marissa cocked a brow.
As if the boss knew she'd won the argument, Marissa got to her feet and smiled a little. "You've always been devoted to your job. But it's important that Safe Place not take over your life."
"Yes. Of course. You're right."
"I'll see you at home, later."
"Absolutely."
As Marissa left, Mary intended to do as she was told . . . except it was hard to leave. Even after she got her bag and her coat, and texted for Ryhm to come back in if she wouldn't mind--and the female didn't--she somehow found reasons to delay heading back out to Rhage's car again. First, it was turning over a couple of other responsibilities to another staff member; then it was standing at the base of the attic stairs, debating whether or not to tell Bitty.
In the end, Mary decided not to bother the girl and proceeded down to the first floor. She pulled another pause at the front door, but that one didn't last as long.
When she was finally outside, she breathed deeply and smelled fall in the air.
Just as she was getting into the GTO, she paused and looked up. The light was on in Bitty and her mother's room, and it was impossible not to imagine that little girl waiting with those packed bags for an uncle who didn't exist to come and take her away from a reality that was going to follow her around for the rest of her life.
The trip home took forever, but eventually, she pulled the muscle car into a space in the courtyard between Qhuinn's Hummer II and Manny's Porsche 911 Turbo.
Staring over at the towering gray stone mansion, with its guard-goyles, as Lassiter called them, and its countless windows, and its slanting slate roofs, she wondered what Bitty would think of the place, and figured the girl would probably be intimidated at first. But as scary as it seemed from outside, the people inside made it cozy and warm as a little cottage.
Across the cobblestones and by the fountain which had already been drained for winter. Up the stone steps. Into the vestibule, where she put her face in the security camera and waited.
Beth was the one who opened things wide, and she was balancing L.W. on her hip. "Oh, hey . . . I was about to call you."
"Hey, little man." Mary stroked the boy's cheek and smiled at him, because how could you not? The baby was a tub of cute, an absolute charmer. "Did you need something, you guys?"
As she stepped into the grand foyer, so that L.W. didn't catch cold, she stopped when she saw Beth's expression. "Everything okay?"
"Well, ah . . . so Rhage just went upstairs."
"Oh? He must be feeling better."
"I think you need to go talk to him."
Something in the Queen's voice really wasn't right. "Is there something wrong?"
The female focused on her infant, smoothing his dark hair. "I just think you need to go be with him."
"What happened?" As Beth merely repeated some version of what she'd already said, Mary frowned. "Why aren't you looking at me?"
Beth's eyes finally swung over and held. "He just seems . . . upset. And I think he needs you. That's it."
"Okay. All right. Thanks."
Mary crossed the mosaic floor and took the stairs at a jog. When she got to their bedroom, she opened the door--and was hit with a blast of freezing cold air.
"Rhage?" Putting her arms around herself, she shivered. "Rhage? Why are the windows open?"
Trying not to become alarmed, she went across and closed the sash on the left of their enormous bed. Then she went over and shut the other one. "Rhage?"
"In here."
Thank God, at least he was answering.
Tracking his voice, she went to the bathroom--and found him sitting in the middle of the marble expanse, knees up to his chest, arms linked around hi
s calves, head down and tilted away from her. He was dressed in sweats and as big as ever, but everything about him seemed to have shrunk.
"Rhage!" She rushed across over and crouched beside him. "What's wrong? Do you need Doc Jane?"
"No."
With a curse, she stroked back his hair. "Are you in pain?"
When he didn't answer her or look up, she moved around so that she could see his face. His lids were low and his eyes were unfocused.
He looked as if he had received very bad news.
"Is someone hurt?" One of the Brothers? Layla? Except Beth would have told her that, right? "Rhage, talk to me. You're scaring me."
Lifting his head, he rubbed his face and seemed to realize for the first time she was there. "Hey. I thought you were at work?"
"I came home." And for good reason. What if she had stayed there and he'd been--jeez, Marissa had been so right. "Rhage, what's going on--wait, did someone hit you?"
His jaw seemed swollen, and there were black and blue marks that showed even through his tanned skin.
"Rhage," she said with more force. "What the hell happened to you? Who punched you?"
"Vishous. Twice--well, once on each side."
Recoiling, she cursed. "Dear God, why?"
His eyes traced her features and then he reached up with his fingertips, touching her gently. "Don't be mad. I deserved it--and he made my sight come back sooner than usual."
"You're still not answering my question." She tried to keep her voice even. "Did you two get in an argument?"
Rhage brushed her lower lip with his thumb. "I love the way you kiss me."
"What did you fight about?"
"And I love your body." His hands went down to her shoulders and moved to rest on her collarbones. "You're so beautiful, Mary."
"Look, I appreciate the compliments, but I need to know what's going on," she said, putting her palms over his. "You're clearly upset about something."
"Will you let me kiss you?"
As he stared at her, he seemed desperate in a way she didn't understand. And it was because of the pain that she sensed in him that Mary leaned in.
"Yes," she whispered. "Always."
Rhage tilted his head to the side, and contrary to his usual passion, his lips were soft against her own, brushing, lingering. As her pulse quickened, she almost wished it didn't--she didn't want to be distracted with sex . . . except as he continued to stroke against her mouth, all the chaos in her brain rerouted to an electric feeling of anticipation, his flaring scent, his beautiful body, his male power crowding out everything that worried her.
"My Mary," he groaned as he licked his way into her. "Every time with you . . . it's new. It's never the same and always better than the last kiss . . . the last touch."
His hands drifted downward so that she felt the weight of them over her breasts. And then with a slow draw, he peeled the jacket away, sweeping it off her arms, making her feel her silk shirt and her lacy bra and all her skin beneath her clothes with aching clarity.
Except some part of her spoke up. Her conscience, maybe? Because she sure as hell felt as though she had let him down by being gone when he needed her.
"Why were the windows open?" she asked again.
But it was as if he didn't even hear her.
"I love . . ." His voice caught and he had to clear his throat. "I love your body, Mary."
As if she weighed nothing, he lifted her off the hard marble floor and moved her to the side, laying her on the plush fur rug that was in front of the Jacuzzi. Easing back against the softness, she watched his eyes travel down her throat to her breasts . . . and go lower to her hips and legs.
"My Mary."
"Why do you sound so sad?" she said quietly.
When he didn't answer her, she had a moment of true fear. But then he began to slip the buttons free on her blouse, taking his time, keeping the two halves together even as he tugged the tails out of her slacks. Sitting back, he took the silk between his fingertips and revealed her body to the heat in his gaze and the warmth of the bath's interior.
He shifted himself over and knelt across her thighs. "I love your breasts."
Leaning down, he kissed her at her sternum. On the edge of her bra. On the top of her nipple. A sudden release of the subtle pressure of the cups told her that he'd freed the front clasp--and then the air currents brushed against her bare skin as he moved the fragile barrier off to the sides.
He spent . . . forever . . . caressing her breasts, stroking them, thumbing the tight tips. Until she thought she was going mad. And then he was sucking at her, first one side, then the other. She couldn't remember when he'd last taken his time with her--not that he was ever inconsiderate. Her hellren ran on a different Rhage-length, however, which was to say he was all-in, all the time.
Not tonight, apparently.
He kissed his way down onto her abdomen and released her thin belt, the fastener, and the zipper on her slacks. As she lifted her hips, he pulled her pants off and made them disappear, leaving her cream silk underwear behind.
Back at her belly, he splayed his hands wide, until his palms covered her pelvis.
He stayed like that, stroking his thumbs back and forth over her lower abdominals.
"Rhage?" she said in a voice that was choked. "What aren't you telling me?"
TWENTY-ONE
As Rhage knelt above his Mary, he was distinctly aware that she was saying his name, but he was too lost in the clamor between his ears to respond.
Looking down at his shellan's belly, he imagined her growing big like Layla had, her body harboring their young until their son or daughter could breathe on its own. In the fantasy, both his baby and Mary were perfectly healthy before, during and after the birth: she glowed her way through the eighteen months--or was it nine months, for human women?--and the labor was short and painless, and when it was all through, he was able to gather her and their creation in his arms and love them for the rest of his life.
Maybe their little boy would have blue eyes and blond hair, but his mahmen's incredible character and intelligence. Or perhaps their little girl would have Mary's brunette hair and his teal eyes and be a firecracker.
Whatever the combination of looks and spirit, he pictured the three of them sitting down together for First Meal and Last Meal and all the snacks in between. And he imagined he could take the young to give Mary a break, just like Z and Wrath did for their shellans, bottle-feeding breast milk to the infant. Or, later, giving little pieces from his plate to a small precious mouth as Z got to do now with Nalla.
In this marvelous daydream, years would pass, and there would be tantrums at three and the first deep thoughts and questions at five. Then friends at ten and, God forbid, driving at fifteen. There would be human holidays and vampire festivals . . . followed by a transition that would terrify the shit out of him and Mary--but because this was a fantasy, their young would make it through and come out strong on the other side. After that? The first heartbreak. And maybe the One.
Which, if he and Mary had a daughter, would be a fucking eunuch.
Either because the sonofabitch came that way as the Scribe Virgin made him . . . or because Rhage took care of that problem himself.
And then much, much later . . . grandchildren.
Immortality on earth.
And all because he and Mary loved each other. All because one night years and years, and then decades and centuries ago, she had come to the training center with John Matthew and Bella, and he had been blind and floundering, and she had spoken to him.
"Rhage?"
Shaking himself, he bent down low and put his lips to her belly. "I love you."
Shit, he hoped she took that huskiness for arousal.
With quick hands, he swept her panties off and spread her thighs. As he brought his lips to her sex, he heard her moan his name--and he was determined as he licked and sucked at her: He would love her even without her having their child. Worship her as any bonded male should. Cherish
her, hold her, be her best friend, her lover, her staunchest defender.
There would be a hollow place in him, though.
A small little black hole in his heart for what could have been. What might have been. What he never, ever thought would matter . . . but somehow he would always miss.
Reaching up, he stroked her breasts as he made her come against his mouth.
He wasn't supposed to want young. Hadn't ever considered them--had even thought that having Mary as a mate was a good thing because he would never be where Wrath and Z had been. Where Qhuinn was.
Where Tohr had gone.
In fact, it seemed wrong to covet the very thing that not only could kill his female if she had been normal and able to bear a child, but what would have doomed them both: if his Mary hadn't been infertile, the Scribe Virgin wouldn't have allowed them to be together after saving her life from the cancer. V's mother would have mandated that, in addition to Rhage keeping his curse, the two of them never to cross paths again.
Balance must be preserved, after all.
Lifting his head, he swept off the AHS sweatshirt and what he had on the bottom and moved himself up to mount her--and he was careful as he angled his hard cock to her core. With a gentle roll, he entered her body, and that familiar hold of her, that squeeze, that slick heat, brought tears to his eyes as he imagined, for one and one time only, that the two of them were doing this not to connect . . . but to conceive.
Except then he told himself to stop it.
No more thinking. No more regrets for what would have ruined them anyway.
And there was never going to be any talking.
He would never, ever speak to her about this. She certainly hadn't volunteered for cancer or chemo or infertility. None of it was any of her doing, as far away from an issue of fault as anyone could get.
So there was no way he would ever voice this sorrow of his.
But yes, this was the anxiety he'd been feeling. This was the distance. This was the source of his itch. For the past however long, he had been watching his brothers with their young, seeing the closeness of the families, envying what they had--and burying the lot of it until the emotions had come out unexpectedly in the kitchen with L.W.
Rather like a boil that had festered until it could be contained no longer.
Rhage told himself he should be relieved because he wasn't insane or manic to the point of mental instability. And more to the point, now that he had figured out what it was, he could put this all behind them both.