At that moment, the piece of meat on V’s rack twitched—and V had to give the black-and-blond asshole in the tanning position credit: Lassiter was up and out of that thing faster than a blink, gun pointed at Xcor’s chest like he was prepared to blow a hole through his heart.

“Easy, cowboy,” V said. “It was just an involuntary muscle spasm.”

The angel didn’t seem to hear him—or maybe he didn’t care for anybody else making an assessment for his trigger finger, even if they’d had medical training.

Hard not to approve of the guy. Hard also not to notice that Lassiter clearly wasn’t leaving Xcor, as if he trusted only himself to take care of business.

Shit, as long as that angel didn’t open his mouth, and provided V didn’t think about their little difficulties in the past, you could almost forget how much you wanted to shank the motherfucker.

Going over to their prisoner, Vishous performed a visual assessment on Xcor. When they’d brought the bastard in here, V had strapped him onto the wooden slab table face-up and spread-eagled, locking stainless-steel cuffs on those wrists and ankles and around that thick neck—and what do you know, the guy was right where he’d left him. Color was passable. Eyes were closed. Head wound at the rear of the skull was no longer leaking, having healed already.

“Do you need help?” Blay asked.

“Nah, I got it.”

Opening up the duffel, V used what was inside to check heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, and oxygenation. The thing he was most concerned with was the inevitable hematoma from where he’d pistol-whipped the fucker—and its possible complications, which included anything from the inconvenient to the catastrophic. However, without moving him or bringing in some seriously heavy and expensive equipment, there was going to be no way of checking any of that out.

He had his suspicions, though. It was entirely possible the concussion had caused an ischemic stroke due to a blood clot blocking a vessel.

Just their frickin’ luck. They capture the enemy and the bastard goes brain-dead on them.

After V had put his toys away and made his notes in the digital file with his phone, he took a step back and just stared at the male’s ugly face. In the absence of being able to do a battery of tests, he had to rely on his own observation—and sometimes, even with the heavy-duty equipment, nothing beat a medic’s own extraoplation from what he could see.

Narrowing his eyes, he tracked every single breath, each exhale . . . the twitches across the brows and the stillness of the lids . . . the random movements of fingers . . . the skin contractions across the thighs.

Stroke. Definitely a stroke. No movement on the left side at all.

Wake the fuck up, V thought. So I can give you a pounding and put you back to sleep.

“Goddamn it.”

“What’s wrong?” Blay asked.

If there was no change in status soon, he was going to have to make a judgment call on whether to keep Xcor—or throw his body out with the trash.

“Are you okay?”

V turned to Blay. “What?”

“Your eye is having a seizure.”

Vishous rubbed at the thing until it stopped. And then wondered, with everything that was going on, whether he was going to be next on the TIA stroke list.

“Let me know if he regains consciousness?”

“Will do,” Lassiter said. “And I’ll also tell you when I need my next strawberry milk shake.”

“I’m not your butler, true.” V put the duffel back up on his shoulder and headed for the door. “And you blow me a kiss again? Ima put an MRI in you, instead of the other way around.”

“What happens if I pinch your ass next?” the angel called out.

“Try it and you’ll find that immortality, like time, is relative.”

“You know you love me!”

Vishous was shaking his head as he pushed his way back out into the corridor. Lassiter was like a head cold, contagious, annoying and nothing you ever looked forward to.

And yet he was glad the fucker was in there. Even if Xcor was little more than a piece of furniture.

Beth Randall, mated of the Blind King, Wrath son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, Queen of all vampires, headed back for the Pit’s front door even though Doc Jane was still taping up the bandage on her freshly stitched hand.

“This is great! Thanks—”

V’s mate was following along at a jog, the pair of them dodging a gym bag, a duffel . . . a blow-up doll that really, totally needed clothes. “You need to seriously stop!”

“It’ll be fine—”

“Beth!” Jane fumbled with her roll of white surgical tape and started laughing. “I can’t get this end—”

“I’ll do it—”

“What’s the hurry?”

Beth stopped. “I left L.W. with Rhage in the kitchen.”

Doc Jane blinked. “Oh, God—go!”

Beth was summarily shoved out of the Pit with the tape, and she finished the job while bolting across the courtyard, biting the strip off with her teeth and smoothing the sticky stuff onto the white gauze that had been wrapped around the heel of her palm. Taking the steps up to the mansion’s grand entrance on a oner, she peeled open the door to the vestibule and put her face into the camera.

“Come on . . . open,” she muttered as she transferred her weight back and forth on her feet.

Rhage wasn’t going to hurt the kid. At least, not intentionally. But holy crap, she was channeling visions of Annie Potts babysitting in Ghostbusters 2, feeding an infant French pizza.

When the lock finally was sprung from the inside, she pile-drove into the foyer, bolting past the maid who’d opened the way in for her.

“My Queen!” the doggen said as she bowed.

“Oh, jeez, sorry, I’m sorry! Thank you!”

No clue what exactly she was apologizing for as she hightailed it through the empty dining room and pushed her way into—

Beth skidded to a halt.

Rhage was seated by himself at the table and had L.W. up on his shoulder, the baby nestled in close to his neck, that huge arm cradling the infant with all the protectiveness any parent could have shown. The Brother was staring straight ahead over his half-eaten display of carbs and nearly-consumed pot of coffee.

Tears were rolling down his face.

“Rhage?” Beth said softly. “What’s wrong?”

Putting the tape roll on the counter, she padded over to the pair of them—and when he didn’t acknowledge her, she laid her fingertips on his shoulder. And still he didn’t respond.

She spoke a little louder. “Rhage—”

He jerked and looked at her in surprise. “Oh, hey. Is your hand okay?”

The male didn’t seem to be aware of his emotions. And for some very sad reason, it seemed appropriate that he was surrounded by the chaos of his meal, open sleeves of bagels and bread scattered across the rough, wooden table, sticks of butter and blocks of cream cheese and smeared napkins all around him.

He was, in this quiet moment, as undone as everything before him.

Kneeling down, she touched his arm. “Rhage, sweetheart, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” The smile that hit that handsome face was empty. “I stopped him from crying.”

“Yes, you did. Thank you.”

Rhage nodded. And then shook his head. “Here, I should give him back now.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Hold him as long as you like. He really trusts you—I’ve never seen him settle for anyone but Wrath or me.”

“I, ah . . . I patted him on the back. You know. Just like you guys do.” Rhage cleared his throat. “I’ve been watching you with him. You and Wrath.”

Now he resumed staring across the empty kitchen.

“Not in a creepy way,” he tacked on.

“Of course not.”

“But I’ve been . . .” He swallowed hard. “I’m crying. Aren’t I.”

“Yes.” Reaching out, she took a paper napkin from a holder. “Here.”

Rising to her full height, she dried under his beautiful teal blue eyes—and thought of the first time she’d met him. It had been at her father, Darius’s, old house. Rhage had been stitching himself up at one of the bathroom sinks, working the thread and needle through his own skin as if it were no big deal.