The Beast

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.

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.

Rhage seemed to shake himself. “I—well, I feel the same way.”

“Finish? Inside of me?” She arched up against him. “I want to feel you come.”

Rhage dropped his head into her neck and began moving once more. “Oh, God, Mary . . . Mary . . .”

Two strokes later he was orgasming, his incredible body tightening up, his erection kicking deeply within her and teeing off another release.

He didn’t stop. Not for the longest time. Which was something that vampire males had the ability to do. He just kept orgasming, filling her to overflowing—and still he continued until the releases came so closely together, they became a single pulsing rush.

When he was done, he fell still and drooped, but then he buttressed his weight on his elbows so she could breathe.

God, he was so huge.

She was used to his size to some degree, but as she opened her eyes, all she could see was just part of his shoulder. Everything else was blocked by his bulk.

Stroking his biceps, she said quietly, “Will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

Rhage pushed himself back a little farther so he could meet her in the eye.

“You look so sad.” She traced his brows. The sorrowful cast to his perfect mouth. The bruises on his jaw. “It’s always better if you talk to someone.”

After a long moment, he opened his mouth—

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Out in the bedroom, the unmistakable impact of a Brother pounding on the door was not muffled in the slightest.

Rhage twisted around and shouted, “Yeah?”

V’s voice carried through into the loo. “We got a meeting. Now.”

“Roger that. Coming.”

Rhage turned back and kissed her. “I’d better go.”

His withdrawal was quick, and his eyes stayed ducked as he helped her up off the rug and over to the shower.

“I wish I were getting in there with you,” he said as he cranked on the hot water.

No, she thought, as he wouldn’t look at her. You actually don’t.

“Rhage, I know you have to go. But you’re scaring me.”

As he moved her under the spray, he took her face in his hands and stared her dead in the eye. “You don’t have anything to worry about. Not now and not ever—at least not about me. I love you til forever and back, and nothing else matters as long as that is true.”

Mary took a deep breath. “Okay. All right.”

“I’ll return soon as the meeting’s over. And we can get some food. Watch a movie. You know, do that thing . . . what do the humans call it?”

Mary laughed a little. “Netflix and chill.”

“Right. We’re going to Netflix and chill.”

He kissed her even though it got his face wet, and then he backed off and shut the glass door. On his way out, he threw his sweats on again, but kept his feet bare.

She watched him go. And thought it was amazing how someone could reassure you . . . while at the same time make things worse.

What the hell was going on with him?

When she was finished with her shower, she toweled off, brushed the tangles out of her wet hair, and got dressed in a set of yoga pants and a big black cashmere sweater that nearly came down to her knees. She’d bought the thing for Rhage as they’d headed into the previous winter, and she’d even gotten it in his favorite non-color after a longstanding failure at trying to diversify his wardrobe. He hadn’t been able to wear it very often, though, because he’d always overheated with it on.

The weave smelled like him, however.

And as she left their room, she felt as though he were with her—and man, did she need that tonight.

Pausing in front of the King’s study, she listened to the deep male voices on the other side of the closed doors.

Down below in the foyer, she could hear doggen talking. The floor polisher. The tinkling of crystal, as if the sconces were being taken apart to be cleaned in the sink again.

Without making a sound, she padded across the thick red-and-gold runner, heading for the Hall of Statues. But she didn’t go down that corridor, with its Greco-Roman masterpieces in marble and all its bedrooms. No, she was headed for the next floor up.

The door to the mansion’s third level was not locked, but it wasn’t open, either, and she felt a little like she was trespassing as she opened the way to the stairs and went upward. On the top landing, across from Trez’s and iAm’s rooms, was the vaulted steel door to the First Family’s suite, and she hit its bell, standing with her face in the security camera.

Moments later, there was a series of clunks as the bars moved free of their holds, and then the heavy panel opened wide. Beth was on the other side, L.W. on her hip, her hair in a braid over her shoulder, those old blue jeans and bright blue fleece the very definition of homey. What was not cozy in the slightest? The incredible glimmer of the gemstones set into all the walls beyond.

Mary had never been in the private quarters before. Few had, other than Fritz, who insisted on doing the cleaning up there himself. But Mary had heard that the entire suite was studded with precious jewels from the Old Country’s treasury—and clearly that was true.

“Hey, there.” The Queen smiled even as L.W. grabbed onto some hair over her ear and yanked. “Okay, ow. Let’s try something else for biceps curls, shall we?”

As Beth untangled that fat little fist, Mary said grimly, “I need you to tell me what happened with Rhage. And don’t pretend you don’t know what it is.”

Beth’s eyes closed briefly. “Mary, it’s not my place—”

“If the roles were reversed, you would want to know. And I would tell you if you asked me to—because that’s what family does for one another. Especially when someone is hurting.”

The Queen exhaled a curse. Then she stepped aside and nodded at the sparkling suite. “Come on in. We need to do this in private.”