“Actually, Rhage was shot in the chest—and died for a moment on the battlefield.”

Layla recoiled. “Oh . . . dearest Virgin Scribe, no!”

“He’s fine now, though.”

“Thank goodness. He is indeed a male of great worth.” Layla narrowed her eyes. “But there is someone else down here, isn’t there.”

“I’m afraid I really can’t comment.”

Layla ran her hands over her belly. “The Brotherhood’s business affects all of us. And I really resent the idea that just because I’m a female I somehow can’t ‘handle it.’ Protection is fine, but total insulation is an insult.”

Doc Jane cursed. “Look, Layla, I get where you’re coming from. But if you’re worried about your safety, don’t be. The male is in a coma right now, and V says they’re moving him at nightfall. So you and Luchas will be perfectly safe. Now, you need to eat. Let me call Fritz. And don’t be concerned about those babies. You’re doing great—”

“What kind of injuries does he have? The male. Who’s here.”

Doc Jane shook her head ruefully, as if she knew she wasn’t going make it out of the room without divulging some information. “He was struck on the head. And it’s likely he’s had one or more strokes.”

“Is he going to die?” Layla blurted.

Doc Jane shrugged. “I don’t honestly know. But prisoner or not, I’m going to treat him according to standard medical practice—even though, considering what the Brotherhood will do to him if he recovers, it may be better for him to pass on.”

“That’s . . . terrible.”

“He put a bullet in Wrath’s throat. What do you think he deserves? A tap on the wrist?”

“It’s all so brutal.”

“It’s the nature of war.” Doc Jane waved her hand in the air as if she were erasing the conversation. “This is getting morbid. And besides, it’s nothing either one of us has to worry about. This is out of our hands, and I, for one, am glad.”

“Maybe there’s a way to rehabilitate him or—”

“You are a very kind female, you know that?”

As the doctor rolled out the incubator, Layla looked around at the tiled room, noting the glass-fronted cabinets full of medicines and wraps, the computer showing a screensaver of bubbles over on the desk, the back-less chair that had been rolled off to one side.

No, she wasn’t kind.

She was in love with that Bastard.

Putting her face in her hands, she shook her head at the terrible reality she was in. And also because Doc Jane was right. If Xcor survived his injuries?

The Brotherhood was going to kill him.

Slowly.

TWENTY-SIX

The following evening, Mary got herself into her office clothes and went down to First Meal with Rhage by her side. Like her, he was dressed for work, wearing leathers and a muscle shirt, and carrying a leather jacket in one hand, and a cache of weapons on holsters in the other. His black daggers were already strapped onto his chest, and she could tell by the hard cast to his jaw that he was ready to fight.

In fact, all the Brothers came into the dining room with their autoloaders and their shotguns and their knives with them, too.

There was enough firepower at the table to supply a small army.

Which they were, she supposed as she sat down in her chair.

Rhage pushed her seat in and then took the empty to her left, looping his belts off one side before draping the jacket across the back.

“Oh, good, roast beef,” he said as Fritz appeared behind him with a plate.

Actually, make that a “platter.” And yes, it was roast beef . . . as in, an entire roast beef for him.

“Fritz, how did you know?” Rhage asked as he looked over his shoulder with adoration.

The old, wrinkled butler bowed low at the waist. “Indeed, I was informed that you had had a bit of a trial of late, and I imagined one would require special sustenance.”

“Oh, one does.” The Brother clapped the doggen on the shoulder and sent the poor guy flailing. “Shit, I’m sorry—”

“Got him,” V said as he caught Fritz and stood him upright. “S’all good.”

As a fleet of doggen came in to serve the rest of the household, Mary put her napkin in her lap and waited for the trays of sausages and bowls of oatmeal and cut fruit to make their way down.

“Danish?” she said, reaching out and snagging a basket that was made of sterling-silver weave. “They smell fantastic.”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Rhage answered around a mouthful of protein.

As she pulled back the damask napkin and offered them to her man, Rhage put down his knife and fork and took three, arranging the sweet twists on his platter. Then he picked up his utensils and resumed his careful, measured attack on what had to be an eight-pound roast.

For some reason, as she took her own danish—just one—she thought back to their first meal at TGI Friday’s in Lucas Square. Rhage had ordered, like, four plates of food or something—and she’d braced herself for all kinds of stomach-turning gulping. Instead, he’d had the table manners of Emily Post, everything precise and tidy, from the forkfuls he loaded up, to the slices he made, to the way he stopped between almost every bite to wipe his mouth.

Sitting back in her chair, she found herself staring across the table. The mahogany landscape was broad and studded with all kinds of lovely, shiny, sparkly things, and it was strange to think she’d gotten used to the luxury, the help, the standard of living that was so far outside of the way she’d grown up, so beyond anything she had ever expected to be involved in, that she’d always assumed it was only historical fiction.