“Mary?” Rhage choked out in confusion.

“Rhage!”

Except before she could reach for him, he began to cough in great spasms, his head locking forward, his distended belly clenching, his jaw extending.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mary said as she reached forward, even though it wasn’t like she could do anything to help. Hell, the medical professionals looked equally confused, and they were the ones with the M.D.s after their names—

Rhage coughed the damn bullet out.

Right into her hand.

With one last, great heave, something came flying from his mouth and she caught the pointed piece of lead on reflex—as Rhage abruptly started breathing in deep, easy draws like nothing had ever been wrong with him.

Turning the thing over on her palm, she started laughing.

She couldn’t help it.

Standing the slug between her thumb and forefinger, she held it up for the Brothers and the docs and the fighters—because Rhage was still blind. And then she straddled her mate’s outstretched legs and took his face in her hands.

“Mary . . . ?” he said.

“I’m right here.” She smoothed his hair back. “And so are you.”

Instantly, he calmed even further, a smile pulling at his mouth. “My Mary?”

“Yes . . . I’m right here.”

And then, dear Lord, she was crying so hard that she became as blind as he was. But it didn’t matter. Somehow the beast had done the job and—

“Mary, I . . .”

“I know, I know.” She kissed him. “I love you.”

“Me too, but I’m going to throw up.”

And with that, he moved her gently out of the line of fire, turned to the side, and vomited all over Vishous’s shitkickers.

EIGHT

It was a helluva way to come back from the dead.

As Rhage tossed his cookies all over the place, his brain was nothing but scrambled eggs—

Okay, not a good idea to think of eggs in any form.

Round number two of the abdominal evacs took over his body, contorting him from head to foot, and as he let his guts do the talking, he heard V’s dry voice overhead.

“Not my night,” the Brother muttered. “So not my night with the barfing.”

Huh? Rhage thought, before letting it go. All he really cared about, aside from the fact that he could now breathe and speak again, was his Mary. Sticking his arm out, he went in search of contact with her again—and she grabbed his palm right away, clasping him, holding on, both soothing him and giving him energy.

The instant the connection was made, his confusion started to ebb.

No, that wasn’t exactly right. He had no idea how he’d managed to go from standing in front of the door to the Fade, faced with a choice that he was stunned to be confronted by even though he’d been aware that he’d been dying . . . to somehow slamming back into his own body and hearing his Mary’s most perfect voice clear as day, without the radio static of fear and pain.

None of that mystery had been cleared up—but he just didn’t give a fuck. As long as his Mary was with him? The rest was shit he could—

“Hurt?” he blurted. “Anyone hurt?”

Had the beast—

“Everyone is fine,” she told him.

“I’m sorry about being sick.” God, the post-party visual blackout was awful—but he’d take it over a dirt nap any night and twice on Sundays as the humans would say. “I’m sorry—”

“Rhage, we need to get you into the RV. And no, I’m not going to leave you—Jane’s just going to check your vitals and then we have to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

Oh, right. They were at the campus, in the battlefield, no doubt sitting ducks—

With an explosion of memory, everything came back to him. The argument with V . . . the bum’s rush out into the field . . .

The bullet through his heart.

With his free hand, he slapped against his chest, fumbling around to find a hole, feeling for blood—and finding that though there was a wash of sticky wetness down his torso . . . there was no discernible wound.

Just a strange patch in the center that seemed to glow with the heat of a banked fire.

And that was when the itching started. Beginning with the area over his heart, it shifted around in a solid patch, tracing over his ribs on one side, tickling under his arm, moving to the center of his back.

It was the beast, getting back into position. But why?

Yeah, file that one at the end of a very long line of huh-whats?

“Mary,” he said into his blindness. “Mary . . . ?”

“It’s all right—let’s just get out of here together, and when we’re safe, I’ll explain everything—or at least tell you what I know.”

Over the next hour, his shellan made good on that promise—but when did she ever let anyone down? She stayed beside him every inch of the way, from when he was hefted onto a gurney and given a bumpy ride over to Manny’s RV . . . from the rough evac off the overgrown campus to the smooth glide of the paved roads to the highway . . . from the stop-and-go of the gate system that protected the Brotherhood’s training center . . . to the at-last arrival and processing into his recovery room at the clinic.

The trip exhausted him—then again, he spent most of it throwing up lesser parts and choking on their foul-tasting black blood. And it was funny: Usually, he suffered through this aftermath part pissed off and ready for the suffering to be over. Tonight? He was so fucking grateful to be alive he didn’t care that he had the world’s worst stomach flu/food poisoning/seasickness thing going on.