He loved the idea that she was watching him, seeing what she was doing to him, reveling in the hold she had on him—literally. And if he couldn’t touch her himself, if he had to be a good boy and keep his hands to himself, at least she could enjoy bringing him to his knees and knowing that she alone had the ability to do this to him.

After all, in spite of whatever distance had cropped up between them lately, nothing had changed for him. Mary was the only female he wanted, the only one he saw, scented, couldn’t wait to be with.

This was good for them. This sizzling sexual connection was important for them right now.

Especially as she fell into a rhythm that pumped his shaft and squeezed his tip. Faster. Faster still. Until he was panting and the sweet pain of anticipation ripped through his body and his head spun like a top.

Not tired anymore. Nope.

“Mary.” He strained on the bed, arching up hard, gripping the mattress on one side and a railing on the other. “Mary, wait . . .”

“What is it?”

As she stopped, he shook his head. “No, keep going—I just want you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?” she said as she ran her palm back up his shaft . . . and then down . . . and then up . . .

What the fuck had he—oh, right.

“Come here, come closer.” When she did, he whispered something in her ear.

Her laugher made him smile himself. “Seriously,” she said. “That’s what you want.”

“Yes.” He arched his body again, rolling his hips so that his erection stroked itself in her hold. “Please? And I’ll beg if you’d like. . . . I love it when I beg you for things.”

Mary shifted up higher on the hospital bed and began to work him in earnest again. Then she leaned in close to his own ear . . .

. . . and with perfect pronunciation said, “Antidisestablishmentarianism.”

With a mad barking curse, Rhage came so hard he saw stars, his erection kicking out against her hand, his cum getting things very, very messy underneath those covers. And all the while, his only thought was of how much he loved his female.

How very much he loved her.

Two doors down from Rhage’s vocabulary-induced orgasm, Layla was sitting up in her own hospital bed, a giant ball of red yarn on one side of her, the longest neck scarf in the history of the world stretching down to the floor on the other side. In between the two? A belly that was growing so swollen from the twin youngs she carried that she felt as though someone had folded a mattress up and strapped the thing to her torso.

Not that she was in a position to complain. The two were healthy, and as long as she stayed in bed, she knew she was giving them the best chance of survival. And indeed, Qhuinn, their sire, and his beloved, Blay, spoiled her mercilessly down here, as if they both would rather have been the ones to go through the stay-put for her.

Such wonderful males they were.

As she made another turn at the end of yet another row, she smiled as she remembered Blay suggesting that she knit something as that had helped his mother, Lyric, get through her own bedrest with him. It had proven to be good advice—there was something singularly soothing about the click-click of the needles, and the soft yarn between her fingers, and the progress that she could measure tangibly. However, at this point, she was either going to have to cut the thing into segments or give it to a giraffe.

After all, watching Real Housewives marathons without doing something, anything productive was positively untenable. No matter what Lassiter contended to the contrary.

Now Couples Therapy with Dr. Jenn? That was maybe a different story—although, of course, she didn’t learn things relevant to her own relationship. Because she didn’t have a male to call her own.

No, she had an unhealthy obsession that had crashed and burned. Which was a good thing—even though the loss of that which she should never have wanted in the first place had caused unimaginable, and unjustifiable, pain.

But one did not fall in love with the enemy, after all. And not just because one was a Chosen.

It was because Xcor, and his Band of Bastards, had declared war upon Wrath and the Brotherhood.

That was why—

“Stop it,” she muttered as she closed her eyes and halted her needles. “Just . . . stop.”

Indeed, she did not think she could bear her guilt and the knowledge of her betrayal of those whom she held dearest another moment. Yet what was another a course? Yes, she had been lied to and then coerced . . . but in the end, her heart had gone where it should not have.

And in spite of everything, had ne’er been returned unto her.

As she heard yet another sound out in the corridor, she glanced at her door and forced herself to get lost in the distraction. There had been a lot of activity in the training center tonight—voices, footfalls, doors opening and shutting—and somehow, it all just made her feel more isolated instead of less so. Then again, when things were quiet, there were fewer cues to remind her of everything she was missing.

Yet she wouldn’t have been anywhere else.

Putting her hand on her round stomach, she thought, yes, life as she knew it was of late more inwardly focused than outwardly so—and anytime she got antsy, all she had to do was remind herself of everything that was at stake.

She may never have the love that Qhuinn and Blay shared, but at least the young would be hers and herself theirs.

That was going to have to be enough for her life, and it would be. She couldn’t wait to hold them, care for them, watch them thrive.

Assuming she survived the birthing. Assuming all of them did.

As a soft alarm went off on her phone, she jumped and fumbled to silence the chiming sound. “Is it time already?”

Yes, it was. Her freedom had arrived. Thirty minutes to stretch and walk and go for a wander.

Within the confines of the training center, of course.

Pushing the knitting toward the base of the needles, she stuck the tips into her ball of yarn and stretched her arms and her legs, pointed her toes, flexed her fingers. Then she shifted her feet off the bed and eased her weight onto them. The demands of the pregnancy and all of her forced inactivity had led to a certain weakness in her muscles, one that was not cured no matter how much she fed from Qhuinn and Blay—so she had learned to be cautious whenever she stood up.

First stop was the bathroom, something that she was allowed to use readily, but inevitably put off. There was no need to take a shower, as she had done so twelve hours ago during that half hour to be up and around.

No, this was going to be purely investigatory.

What was going on out there?

As she headed over to the door, she smoothed her hair, which seemed to be growing as fast as her scarf was: the blond waves were down past her hips now, and she supposed she should have it cut at some point. Her flannel nightgown was likewise long and loose, rather the size of a flowered tent, and her slippers made a shhht-shhht-shhht sound over the bare floor. With her back already aching, and one arm thrown out to steady herself, she felt as though she were centuries older than she actually was.

Pushing open the way out, she—

Immediately stepped back.

Such that her butt hit the closing panel.

Across the way, a pair of males were standing tall and proud, identical expressions of tension marking their faces.

And by identical, she meant exactly the same.

They were twins.

As they focused on her, both recoiled sure as if they’d seen a ghost.

“Watch yourself,” came a nasty growl.

Layla whipped her head toward the warning. “Zsadist?”

The Brother with the scarred face stalked over to her, placing his body, with all its weapons, in between her and the two strangers, even though neither of the males had made an aggressive move toward her. Unsurprisingly, it was a very successful block. Zsadist’s torso and shoulders were so large she could no longer see the pair—and that was clearly his plan.