The weapon was made of ornate gold, from hilt to sheath, and there were gems flashing on it everywhere, white and red. Likewise, the ruby red sash it hung from was festooned with precious stones and metal. It looked old. Old . . . and priceless.
“Wrath, I can’t accept this—this is too much—”
“You have performed a service of valor unto the throne,” the King announced. “In saving the life of a member of my private guard, you are held in the highest royal esteem—and may call upon me to perform at your direction a benefit of comparable worth at some future time.”
She shook her head over and over again. “That is not necessary. Really. It’s not.”
And suddenly, she felt bad. Very bad. Because she hadn’t saved Rhage for these wonderful males who loved him so. Hadn’t saved him for herself, either.
God, why . . . why did that one moment have to be contaminated with all the drama with Bitty?
Mary went to take the sword off. “Really, I can’t—”
One by one, the Brothers came to her, embracing her with hard pulls, holding on to her until her spine bent and her ribs couldn’t expand. Some of them spoke in her ear, saying things that resonated not just because of the words that were chosen, but from the respect and reverence in the tones of those deep voices. Others just made a lot of throat-clearing noises, in the way men did when they were struggling to stay strong and composed in the face of great emotion. And then there was John Matthew, the one she had begun this crazy journey with, the one who had started it all by calling into the suicide hotline she had been volunteering at.
Vishous was the second-to-last of the Brothers to come to her, and as he held her, she caught of a whiff of tobacco. Along with leather. And gunpowder. “We owe you,” he said curtly. “Forever.”
Wiping her eyes, she shook her head once more. “You give me way too much credit.”
“Not even close,” he said as he brushed her cheek with his gloved hand. Staring down at her, his diamond eyes and harsh face with its tattoos were as close to tender as she’d ever seen them. “You knew what to do—”
“But I didn’t, V. I really don’t have a clue where that idea came from.”
For a moment, he frowned. Then he shrugged. “Well, whatever. You gave us our brother back. And even though he’s a pain in the ass, life wouldn’t be the same without him.”
“Or you,” Zsadist tacked on.
Z was the last to come over, and as he opened his arms wide, for some reason, the slave bands that had been tattooed around his throat and wrists stood out to her.
His embrace was stiff. Awkward. Obviously hard for him as he kept his hips far away from her body. But his eyes were yellow, not black, and as he stepped back, he put his hand on her shoulder.
The scar that ran down the bridge of his nose and around to his cheek moved out of place as he gave her a small smile. “You’re really good at saving lives.”
She knew exactly what he was referring to—all those sessions the two of them had had by the boiler in the mansion’s basement, him talking about the horrific abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his Mistress, her listening and offering comments only when he paused for a very long time or looked to her for some sort of life raft as he struggled in a sea of overwhelming shame and pain and sadness.
“Sometimes I wish I were better,” she said as she thought of Bitty.
“Not possible.”
When Z fell back in line with his brothers, Mary smoothed her hair. Swiped under her eyes. Took a deep breath. Even though there were a lot of different emotions going through her, it was really good to be around people who loved Rhage as much as she did.
That much she knew to be true and without question.
“Well.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you all. But honestly . . .”
As every single one of them glared at her, it was the kind of thing that made you grateful they liked you.
She had to laugh. “Okay, okay, I’ll keep it, I’ll keep it.”
Conversation sprang up among the Brothers, and there was some back slapping, like they were proud of themselves for doing right by her.
With a final wave, she forced herself to continue onward toward the entrance to the underground tunnel. . . with her new sword.
Boy, it was heavy, she thought as she hiked it up further on her shoulder.
Almost as heavy as the weight she felt on her heart.
* * *
While Mary walked down the corridor in the direction of the office, Vishous took out a hand-rolled and put it between his front teeth. As he lit the thing, he frowned, thinking about what she’d said to him.
“So Xcor’s not conscious,” Wrath murmured.
Turning to the King, V exhaled and switched gears in his head. “Not yet. And I checked on him about a half hour ago.”
“Where did you put him?”
“Gun range.” V glanced at Tohr, who was out of earshot. “And we have an alternating guard schedule. He’s tied up to my satisfaction—”
“Do you really use that shit for sex?”
On a oner, the entire Brotherhood looked over at the interruption. Lassiter, the fallen angel, had appeared from out of nowhere, and he was looking somewhat less offensive than usual, his blond-and-black hair pulled back in a braid that went to his ass, his black leathers covering his naughty bits, the gold hoops at his ears, bracelets on his wrists and piercings in his nipples glowing under the fluorescent ceiling lights. Or maybe that was just on account of his heavenly frickin’ disposition.