The Beast

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.

Just shove it to the back of his head and close the door.

Things were going to get back to normal.

It was all going to be fine, goddamn it.

* * *

He was magnificent, as always.

As Mary arched beneath Rhage’s thrusting body, she wasn’t fooling herself—she knew the sex was just a temporary diversion from what had to be some kind of big issue for him. But sometimes you had to give the person the space they needed . . . or in this case, the sex.

Because, dear Lord, she sensed this was somehow significant to him in a different way than usual. Her mate always wanted her in an erotic way, but this seemed . . . well, for one thing, his powerful hips were capable of driving her across the bathroom floor, but instead they were gently thrusting into her. And also, he appeared to be not so much holding back as holding on, his arms wrapping under her torso so she was lifted off the rug, his body riding hers with a rocking rhythm that was all the more vivid for its poignant restraint.

“I love you,” he said in her ear.

“I love you, too—”

Her next orgasm cut off her voice, jerking her up so that her breasts hit the wall of his chest. God, he was so beautiful as he kept going on top of her, the rhythm of his penetrations stretching out the pulsing shocks that kicked through her sex until he was the only thing she knew in the universe, until the past and future disappeared, until all the clutter in her mind and around her heart disintegrated.

For some reason, the silence of those nattering criticisms, the retreat of that incessant worry, the disappearance of the crushing, nightly crucible of wondering if she were doing her job right—and sometimes knowing for sure that she was not—brought tears to her eyes.

Anxiety over Rhage aside, she hadn’t known how tightly she had been wound. How heavy the burden had become. How preoccupied she always was.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out.

Instantly, Rhage froze.

“What?”

His eyes were strangely horrified as he shifted and looked down at her. And she smiled as she brushed away her tears.

“I’m just so . . . grateful for you,” she whispered.