The walls crawled now. The shadows thrown by his table spasmed. There were things moving across the floor.
Shit, maybe that was just his conscience talking. But he had a remedy for that.
The kitchen was a stretch of never-used and never-gonna-be, nothing in the sink, the drawers, the cupboards. Which was not to say he wasn’t prepared to be a good host. Four Grey Goose bottles were lined up on the counter, each of them facing label-out like bills put to right in a wallet.
They were not for his guest to drink. They were for him so he could get through this.
As he regarded these labels, he focused on the flying birds, soaring high above their little snowy, two-dimensional mountain scenes.
For a male who spoke as many languages as he did, and knew more obscure facts about the world than a Jeopardy! champion, you’d figure he would be less surprised by this turn of events. Then again, he hadn’t expected to ever be mated. So how could he have foreseen this…resumption of his old life, his old ways…his former coping mechanism…rearing up to address an itch he could no longer stand and couldn’t seem to scratch any other way.
Liar. Cheat. Whore.
From out of nowhere, he saw himself up in the Sanctuary, walking through his mahmen’s private quarters, proceeding out to the resting place of the Chosen who had had the Arrest and passed unto the Fade. He recalled reading the Scribe Virgin’s departing missive, the symbols in the Old Language floating in the air as if they were mounted on an invisible flag, disappearing as soon as he had read them.
He had hated that sacred female for so long that it had become a habit, and now that she was gone, there was the strangest void in him. He couldn’t say he mourned her, however—really, the only time they had gotten along had been right after she had turned Jane into an immortal. And even after that gift, their relationship hadn’t stayed improved.
There was something missing from his life, nonetheless.
Two somethings missing, actually. Jane was also gone, and not just when she chose to be in ghost form, as opposed to corporeal.
It was hard to recall the last time he had felt truly connected to his shellan. When they had spent a day sleeping together, for example, or had truly talked, or had—
The image of the stone corridor of the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s Tomb came to his mind, and he remembered Jane coming to check Xcor’s vitals when the Bastard had been in their custody. Yes…it was then, when the pair of them had spoken about how neither of them wanted young. He’d felt such relief that they were both on the same page, that there was going to be no conflict on that subject. Now, it seemed ironic that they had bonded over a shared decision not to do what so many mated pairs built their entire lives around.
Young required a shared, common commitment, a joint connection, a partnership.
Yet he and Jane had dropped the prospect of all that entanglement like a hot potato and promptly resumed their separate, parallel, no-overlap existences: He was out in the field, fighting the war and engaging in the King’s business. While she treated a boatload of patients with astonishing competence and compassion.
And never the twain shall meet.
Freedom and autonomy were something he had valued in his mating and his mate—to the point where he had assumed those interrelated aspects were mission critical for him to find any future with any one person. But all of that non-constraint, which had seemed so important, had proven to be a double-edged sword.
The flip side of the independence coin was neglect, distance…disintegration.
No young to worry about, yay! had turned into Where are you? Where are we?
At least in his mind.
Somehow, with his mahmen “dying,” and the great massacre at that warehouse, and the addition of the Band of Bastards into the household…and almost every single brother he had suddenly having young…in the midst of that thick swill of change and confusion, he had lost the thread that had tied him to Jane, and on her side, she was too busy to notice.
Neither of them was bad or wrong.
Well, at least not until tonight. At least not until right now.
He had agonized about whether or not to check his old email account, to sift through what had turned out to be hundreds of missives and pleadings for his attention, to choose one and reach out.
And meet here.
This evening.
Liarcheatwhore.
The reality was, though, that his brain was clamoring under his skull, his demons were screaming at him, and there seemed like no end in sight to the torture. Fuck, if he didn’t purge the chaos, he was going to end up in Assail’s lunatic shoes.
Psychosis was an old friend, after all.
In fact, for him, madness was like a next-door neighbor who disregarded property lines now and again, not just trespassing on the land, but moving into the house.
And wrecking the place.
He had to do something or the pressure inside was going to consume him—and the fact that he didn’t even think to talk to Jane about what was going on with him? It was hard to know if that was a symptom or the disease itself. Hell, maybe it was more practical than that. Her priorities were many, her time was few, and in the grand scheme of things, as this hateful war ground to its bloody conclusion, whatever that looked like, everyone was better off with her treating her patients rather than trying to save him from himself.
Division of labor and all that shit.
So yes, he would do what he knew he could to bring himself back to earth. And then when his feet were not just touching the ground, but firmly on it, he could resume life next to her.
What was his other option?
As he waited for the hundredth time for a different course of action to come to him, he was dimly aware that he was seeking an answer out of the very thing that was broken: He was looking for his fucked-up brain to provide a path out of this infidelity, even though his mind was the very thing that was unreliable.
Nothing like trying to survey a landscape with a broken compass, a flashlight with no batteries in it, and night goggles with busted lenses—
The scent of a sexually aroused female bloomed in the penthouse and he did not turn around. He knew who had arrived and was standing in that doorway that he had left open. Knew precisely what she was wearing because he had informed her what he was going to see on her body. Knew that she would be, at this very moment, getting onto her hands and knees and entering on all fours.
Knew she would wait until he gave her an order.
Vishous reached out and took the first of the vodka bottles. He opened it like a pro, but then he had had plenty of experience.
LIARCHEATWHORELIARCHEATWHORELIARCHEATWHORE—
He drank from the neck until his stomach burned as much as the center of his chest did. And then he turned around.
FIVE
Wait, what are we doing here? Doc Jane thought as Assail’s cousins turned away from her and walked off down the training center’s corridor. What was the decision?
John Matthew and Rhage were right on the pair’s exit, decamping from their leans by the office’s glass door and falling into a long stride that brought them past her.
Rhage paused as the other fighter continued on. “What did they say?”
Before she could weigh the privacy issues, she replied, “That they were going to do what was necessary.”
“So they’re…ending things?”
“They were really not clear.” She put a hand through her short blond hair. “I’ll follow up with them later.”
It hadn’t felt right to press them, and besides, she was uneasy with this whole thing anyway. Tomorrow at nightfall, she’d call them and see if she could get some clarity. It wasn’t like they had access to Assail without her—so she didn’t need to worry about them going homegrown with a lights-out solution.
Rhage frowned and put his hands on his black-leather-clad hips. “Well, if you need them escorted in here again, just let us know.”
“I will, and thanks.” As the Brother went to stride off, she caught his arm. “Hey, Rhage? Wasn’t Vishous supposed to be with you?”
“Yeah, he was. But he called in and John Matthew took his shift.”
“Is he—well, that’s fine. He’s probably at the Pit.”
“You know, you guys should take some time off.” Hollywood smiled, his Bahama blue eyes glowing. “All you do is work. Both of you.”