* * *
When Mary was sure that Rhage was fairly okay-ish, she stood up and carefully walked over to where one of Rhage’s thick terry-cloth bathrobes was hanging on a hook. She figured he’d like her in that the best because it smelled like him, and it had so much surface area, it would cover her from collarbone to ankle with yards to spare.
Then she went across to the archway–
Well, waded across, she amended, as water literally splashed up onto her feet. Shoot, this was out of the realm of towels, and seriously into the wet-vac zip code.
“This is bad, this is really bad,” she said.
“I’ll be fine—ow. Fuck, I think I broke my arm.”
“We’re never doing that again. Ever.”
“Sex?!” he sputtered. “What?”
She pivoted back around to the sight of him buck-ass naked, covered with vaguely pinkish bubbles, in the midst of a giant pool of water, with an expression of total, abject, and enduring horror on his face.
Mary burst out laughing so hard, she had to reach out and steady herself on the wall. “Oh, my God, I need to stop—”
“Tell me we’re still having sex—”
“Of course! Just maybe not in the tub with that much water!”
“Jesus, don’t scare me like that. You’ll give me a damn aneurysm.”
“You may already have one. And can I let them in now?”
Rhage grunted as he sat up, the tattoo on his back writhing as if the beast were feeling a little beaten-up, too. “Fine, but I don’t know what they’re bitching about. Jeez, you spill a little water and everyone has a fucking cow.”
“Try a swimming pool’s worth.”
It was a relief to get out onto the carpet, where the traction was good and she didn’t have to think about exactly how she was stepping.
“I’m coming! You can stop pounding now!” she hollered over the din.
When she got to the door, she found that it had been locked. No doubt Rhage had willed the dead bolt into place—which made her smile.
Opening things up, she faced off with—
“Wow.” Okay, there were a lot of Brothers out there. “It’s a convention.”
Butch was in the front of the pack, a glass of what had to be Lagavulin in his hand, a wry smile on his face. John Matthew was behind him, along with Blay and Qhuinn. V. Zsadist. And Phury. And Tohr.
“What are you two doing in there?” someone asked.
“Don’t answer that, Mary!” Rhage shouted.
“Did you think there was a fire in the pantry?”
“I’m coming!” Rhage said.
“I think he already did,” somebody else muttered.
A collective oooooooooooow! rose from the group as Rhage appeared behind her.
“That arm is wicked bad,” Butch said. “I mean, it’s like you have a second elbow.”
As Mary glanced over her shoulder, she recoiled, too. “Oh, Rhage, you need to get that set.”
Rhage glared at the group. “Just gimme a Band-Aid, I’ll be fine. Now will you give us some privacy?”
Butch shook his head. “Okay, one, no, we will not, because where do you think all that water is going? And two, you are on your way to the clinic—”
“It’s fine!”
“Then why are you holding it with your free hand?”
Rhage looked down at himself as if he’d been unaware of what he’d been doing. “Oh, shit.”
Mary patted his shoulder. “I’ll go with you, okay?”
He stared at her, and dropped his voice. “This was not how I envisioned the session ending.”
“They’ll be other opportunities—”
“Just not in water,” came the collective response.
Striding back to the bathroom, she snagged a towel and returned, wrapping it around her mate’s waist and tucking the end in so the thing stayed put.
Getting up onto her tiptoes, she whispered, “If you’re a good boy, I’ll play nurse and patient with you after you get your cast.”
Rhage’s laugh was low and a little evil, his eyes going half-lidded and hot. “Deal.”
FORTY-ONE
As night fell, Rhage was, yet again, back down in the clinic, sitting shirt-less on an exam table, his leather-clad legs and shitkickered feet dangling free off one end. His weapons were over on a chair, and as soon as he got this cast sawed off, he was going to catch a quick meal in the cafeteria that had been set up for the future trainees and go to work.
Mary had left early for Safe Place so she could get ready for a staff meeting—although she’d offered to stay for the buzz cut. Man, thank God he’d fed a week ago from one of the Chosen, and his body could heal a simple fracture like that in a matter of twelve hours. He’d heard humans had to live with these plaster deadweights for weeks and weeks.
Insanity.
When a knock sounded on the door, he called out, “Come on in, Manny. I’m ready to get this—oh, hey, V. Wassup.”
His brother was dressed to fight, black daggers strapped to his chest, a newspaper folded up under his arm by one of his twin forties. “How’s that arm?”
“You’re coming to free me from my cage of plaster?” Rhage knocked on the thing with his fist. “Or whatever it’s made out of.”
“Nope.” V settled back against the door. “I got no news and bad news, what do you want first?”
“You didn’t find shit on Bitty’s uncle, did you.”