The Beast

No, the sounds her man let out were more like a Krups coffee pot right as it was finishing a cycle of brewing; the kind of thing that burbled in the background, offering a comforting rhythm of patter that she could sleep through if she wanted to or stay up and listen to if she were stewing again. Come to think of it, his snores were probably the quietest thing about him, considering how heavy his footfalls were, how loud his laugh was, and how much he spoke, especially if he were giving his Brothers a hard time.

All that out-there was just part of what she loved so much about him.

He was always so alive. So very much alive.

Thank God.

As she went for a stretch, she moved slowly against his body so she didn’t wake him up and glanced at the clock across the recovery room. Seven at night. Past sundown.

Given how tired he had to be, he was liable to sleep another four or five hours. Probably better that she head out now and come back when he was awake.

“I’m going to head into Safe Place for a little bit,” she said softly. “You stay with him. Let him know I’ll be back soon, or he can call me?”

She was talking to the beast, of course—and treating that massive, bone-crushing dragon as some kind of social secretary. But it worked. If she had to leave when Rhage was asleep, she always told the beast what she was doing and when she’d be back. That way, Rhage didn’t wake up in a cold sweat that she’d been abducted. Murdered. Or had a slip and fall in the bathroom that had knocked her out and left her bleeding all over the marble floor.

Yeah, bonded males tended to jump to conclusions that were just a liiiiiiiiiiiiiittle over the top.

Mary carefully disengaged herself from Rhage’s hold—only to stop when she was halfway free. Staring down at his unmarred, completely intact sternum, she brushed her fingertips over where the gunshot had been.

“I didn’t say thank you,” she whispered. “You saved him. I owe you . . . so very much.”

All at once, Rhage’s lids flipped open—but it wasn’t him waking up. His eyes were nothing but white orbs, that telltale illumination of the beast’s consciousness training on her with total focus.

She smiled and brushed her mate’s face, knowing that the dragon would feel her touch. “Thank you. You’re a good boy.”

A quieter version of the affectionate chuff the beast always gave her reverberated up and out of Rhage’s throat.

“Go back to sleep, too, okay? You need your rest as well. You worked hard last night.”

One more chuff . . . and those lids started to sink. The beast fought the tide like a puppy, but ultimately lost the battle, the snoring returning, the pair of them both reengaging with whatever versions of dreamland they were in.

Leaning down, she kissed her mate’s forehead and smoothed his hair back. Then she padded over to the bathroom and shut the door. As soon as she turned to the counter by the sink, she smiled. Someone—oh, who was she kidding, it had to have been Fritz—had laid out complete changes of clothes for the both of them. As well as toothbrushes, a razor and shaving cream, and shampoo and conditioner.

“Fritz, thy name truly is thoughtfulness.”

And oh, what a shower it was. From time to time, she wondered whether the sounds or scents were going to wake up Rhage, but when she was drying off, she cracked the door and found that, other than having turned to face the bathroom, he remained out cold.

Probably because she’d told the beast what was up.

As she was blowing dry her hair, she wondered where the Volvo had ended up. She had ridden here from the battle in the surgical unit, but surely someone had brought that station wagon back?

Well, she could always take something else to Safe Place.

Fifteen minutes later, she whispered her way across to the door. After a prolonged stare at Rhage, she opened the way out and—

“Oh! God!” she hissed as she recoiled.

The very last thing she had expected to see was the entire Brotherhood standing outside her hellren’s recovery room.

Then again, she should have known. Everyone was there, from V and Butch to Phury and Z . . . Blay and Qhuinn . . . Tohr and John Matthew . . . even Wrath and Rehvenge. It was like standing in front of a football squad . . . that was made up of pro wrestlers . . . in full-contact game gear.

Okay that didn’t go even far enough to describe the amount of male in the corridor.

“Hey, guys,” she said quietly as she pulled the handle and made sure things were closed. “He’s asleep right now, but I’m sure he won’t mind being woken up.”

“We didn’t come for him,” Wrath said in a low voice.

Mary’s brows popped as she looked at their King. “Oh.”

Jeez, had she done something wrong? It was hard to know given that Wrath, with his widow’s peak and his wraparound sunglasses, always looked pissed off.

The guy didn’t have resting bitch face so much as resting I’m-going-to-kill-someone-and-light-their-house-on-fire face.

Swallowing hard, she stammered, “I, ah—”

“Thank you, Mary,” the King said as he stepped forward with his seeing eye dog, George. “Thank you for saving our brother’s life.”

For a moment, she was utterly dumbfounded. And then the King was pulling her into a hard, tight embrace.

When Wrath stepped back, there was something hanging off her shoulder.

A sword? “Wait, what is this?” She jerked into a second recoil. “Why is this—oh, my God . . .”