He still missed her, though. Still worried about his own mental state. But that little girl . . .

Shifting his legs to the side, he blinked a number of times and yup, remained blind after the lid workout. Whatever. He felt otherwise strong and steady—physically that was—and as long as he took things slowly, he was going to make it into the shower just fine.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom buck-ass naked and smelling like a rose. Amazing what a little soap and shampoo could do for a guy. A good teeth brushing, too. Next stop? Food. After the beast came out and then he did his purging thing afterward, his guts felt not so much hungry as hollow—and the best thing he could do was put some low-fiber carbohydrates in there for processing.

Twelve French baguettes. Four sleeves of bagels. Seven pounds of pasta.

This type of thing.

Stepping out into the corridor, he wondered how long it was going to take to find his way to—

“Fucking finally—”

“Couldn’t you have put a towel on—”

“Fritz brought you clothes—”

“You’re back, motherfucker—”

All of his brothers were there, their scents and voices, their relieved laughter, their curses and jibes exactly what the doctor ordered. And as they embraced him and slapped his bare ass, he had to suck in the emotion.

He was already nakey. #plentyvulnerablethanks

God, in the midst of all the reeeeeunnnnited and it feeeeeeeeeels so gooooooood, it was impossible not to get hit with another load of shame for his selfishness and what he’d put Mary and all of his brothers through.

And then V’s voice was directly in front of him.

“You good?” the brother asked in his raspy voice. “Feeling back to normal?”

“Yeah. I’m back in working order except for my eyesight.” I’m sorry, too. And I’m scared. “You know, just a little tired—”

Whack!

The chin shot came out of nowhere, nailing him so hard, his head knocked back and nearly snapped off his spine.

“What the fuck!” Rhage blurted as he rubbed his jaw. “What—”

“That was for not fucking listening to me.”

Crack!

The second shot came from the opposite direction, which was a good thing—the swelling would be bilateral, so his face wouldn’t look as fucked up.

“And that is for going out early and fucking our strategy.”

As Rhage brought his brains to level for a second time, he held his jaw with both hands. ’Cuz there was a possibility the lower half of his skull was going to fall off.

The good news was that the double shots cleared his vision a little, the blindness receding enough so that he could make out the hazy blotches of his brothers’ bodies and clothes.

“We coulda justh talked thith out,” Rhage bitched. “Great, I’m talkin’ wif a lispth.”

“Where’s the fun in that, true?” V grabbed hold of him and hugged him hard. “Now don’t ever fucking do that again.”

Rhage waited for the others to start asking questions. When no one did, he had to guess that V had already told them about the vision thing. Unless . . . well, everybody had seen him run out into that field early and that kind of shit was grounds for a beat down.

“I can thee now,” he said.

“You can thank me for that later.”

There was a bunch of conversation at that point—which led him to ohhhh-snapping the fact that they had Xcor in custody.

“Tohr kill the fucker yet?” he asked.

“No,” came from all fronts.

Then there was a story about the Omega showing up and doing a Mr. Clean at the campus, and V saving the day with some mhis action.

“I’ll take a thift,” Rhage said. “Guarding the bastard, that ith.”

“Later.” V exhaled some Turkish smoke. “All cylinders first. Then we’ll place you.”

On that note, the group dispersed, some heading up to the mansion, others hitting the workout room. Rhage went along with the ones who took the tunnel to the main house, but as his brothers went for their beds, he walked through the dining room and into the mansion’s kitchen.

God, he wished Mary was with him.

The good news was that there were no doggen around, First Meal having not been served thanks to the number of injuries that had been sustained during the attack and all the drama with him. The household staff were no doubt having a rare and well-deserved rest before they resumed their cleaning and tending, and he was relieved not to be fussed over.

As he wandered around Fritz’s sacred space, however, he did feel like he should put out an offering or something so he didn’t get in trouble with the butler. And on that note, he decided no cooking. He was going to take whatever was readily available and not start thinking independently with the stove or the pantry.

He’d already been punched twice and the night was young.

But first, clothing. He’d been too blind down in the bathroom to see that anything had been left out for him, and he went into the laundry behind the pantry, using his half-assed eyesight and keen sense of touch to locate a set of loose black sweats and a huge sweatshirt with the American Horror Story logo on it. Then it was time to get serious about the calories.

Raiding the bread stash, he began to clean it out by putting bags of bagels and sourdough loaves on the counter—but then he thought, Fuck it. Reaching under the drawer, he took the thing off its track and carried the whole damn shebang over to the oak table. Step two was to double back to the fridge, get out a pound of unsalted butter and a package of cream cheese, and snag the toaster, unplugging it by pulling the body until the cord gave up the ghost.

A serrated knife and a cutting board later, along with the coffee pot, the sugar bowl, and a small carton of half-and-half, and he was in business. While the coffee percolated, he got to slicing, making mountains of butterable pieces off to the right. The bagels he set up on a Henry Ford, so he could process them through the toaster and into the Phillie zone.

Probably should have gotten a plate. And at least one other knife, but the bigger blade was going to be efficient for spreading.

When the coffee had finished brewing, he took the pot out from under, poured the entire sugar bowl into it, and followed that up with as much of the half-and-half as he could fit in. Then he took a test sip.

Perfect.

He put the thing back on the heat plate and started systematically working his way through the bagels—’cuz, hey, that was close to First Meal–type stuff, right? Next up was anything sourdough because that was as lunch-ish as his options allowed. Dessert was going to be a pecan coffee cake. Or two.

As he chewed along, his teeth were a little loose thanks to V. Mayweather’s bare knuckles, but it wasn’t a huge deal. And from time to time, he washed things down with drafts off the lip of the coffee pot.

About two thousand calories into the binge, the reality of how alone he was really hit him.

Then again, the room could have been filled with his brothers and he would have felt the same.

Worse, he had the sense that even his Mary’s presence couldn’t have fixed this isolation for him.

As he sat there, filling his hollow stomach yet unable to do anything about the emptiness that really counted, he thought it would have been so much easier if he had even a clue as to what his problem was—

Off in the distance, in the dining room, a sound echoed around.

And came closer.

It was a flurry of footsteps, like someone was running.

What the hell? he thought as he rose from his chair.

There was a great deal of math to be contemplated when one had an addiction.

As Assail took a seat behind the desk at his glass mansion, he pulled open the long thin drawer that was directly over his thighs and took out three vials that were identical to the one the Brother Vishous had emptied upon his own forearm back at the Brotherhood’s subterranean facility.