Lover Reborn

her health, or their future.

Females, after all, were not just the fairer sex, but the fairly reasonable one. Which was the only reason the race had survived this long.

As the Escalade eased off at a snail’s pace, Tohr anticipated all the fun Butch was going to have on the way home. Hard not to feel sorry for the poor bastard.

Annnnnnd then he faced off at his peanut galley. Looked like the cop from Boston wasn’t the only one about to get an earful, and sure enough, each one of the males lobbed a sentence back at him:

“Time to go back to the training center.”

“You need treatment.”

“You are a reasonable male, and I know you see the merits of what I’m saying.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

Rhage summed up the regurgitation with two words: “Kettle. Black.”

Fucking hell. “Did you guys plan that out?”

“Yeah, and if you don’t fight us”—Hollywood bit down on his grape Tootsie Pop—“we’ll do it again—only with the dance moves this time.”

“Spare me.”

“Fine. Unless you agree to home it, we will rock the dance moves.” To prove the point, the moron linked his palms behind his head and started doing something obscene with his hips. Which was backed up by a series of, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, ohhhh, yeeeeeeeaaaah, who’s your daddy…”

The others looked at Rhage like he’d grown a horn in the middle of his forehead. Nothing unusual there. And Tohr knew that, in spite of this ridiculous diversion, if he didn’t cave, the lot of them would crawl so far up his ass, he’d be coughing up shitkickers.

Also nothing unusual.

Rhage wheeled around, shoved out his butt, and started slapping his moneymaker like it was bread dough.

The only advantage? Whatever shit he was spouting was muffled.

“For the love of the Virgin Scribe,” Z muttered, “put us out of this misery, and go the fuck home.”

Someone else chimed in, “You know, I never thought there were advantages to being blind.…”

“Or deaf.”

“Or mute,” somebody added.

Tohr looked around the periphery, hoping that something that smelled like three-day-old sandwich meat would jump out of the shadows.

No luck.

And next thing you knew, Rhage would break into the robot. Or the Cabbage Patch. Or go Twist and Shout on their asses.

His brothers would never forgive him.

An hour and a half…

It took one hour and thirty cocksucking minutes to get back home.

As far as John could figure, the only way the trip could have taken longer was if Butch had detoured through Connecticut. Or maybe Maryland.

When they finally pulled in front of the great stone mansion, he didn’t wait for the Escalade to get parked—or even slow down. He unlocked the door and leaped out while the SUV was still crusing. Landing in a flat-out run, he took the stone steps up to the front entrance in a single leap, and after ripping into the vestibule, shoved his face so tightly into the security camera, he almost broke the lens with his nose.

The massive bronze portal opened fairly quickly, but damned if he could have said who did the honors. And the incredible rainbow-colored foyer with its marble and malachite columns and its lofty painted ceiling made no impression at all. Neither did the mosaic tiles on the floor that he crossed at a dead run, or the calls of his name from who-the-fuck-knew.

Hitting the door that was tucked underneath the grand staircase, he plowed into the underground tunnel that connected to the training center, punching in pass codes so viciously it was a wonder he didn’t break the keypads. Entering through the back of the office’s supply closet, he vaulted around the desk, shot out through the glass door, and—

“She’s being operated on now,” V announced from fifty yards away.

The Brother was standing outside the main examination room’s doorway, a hand-rolled between his teeth, a lighter in his gloved hand.

“It’ll be another twenty minutes or so.”

As a shhhh-ch rose up, a little flame made an appearance, and V brought the heat to the tip of his cigarette. When he exhaled, the scent of Turkish tobacco wafted leisurely down the hall.

Rubbing his aching head, John felt like he’d been put in a metaphorical time-out.

“She’s going to be fine,” V said on a stream of smoke.

No reason to rush now, and not just because she was on the table. It was pretty damn obvious that V had been put out in the hall as a living, breathing doorstop: John wasn’t getting in that room until the Brother let him.

Probably smart. Given his mood, he’d have been perfectly capable of breaking the door down cartoon-style, leaving nothing but the outline of his body in the panel—and naturally, that was what you wanted in the middle of scalpel-palooza.

Robbed of a target, John dragged his sorry ass down to the Brother. They put you out here, didn’t they.

“Nah. Just a cigarette break.”

Yeah, right.

Settling against the wall next to the male, John was tempted to give the back of his head a workout against the concrete, but he didn’t want to risk making any noise.

It was too soon, he thought. Too soon for him to be locked out of yet another procedure of hers. Too soon for them to be fighting. Too soon for the tension and the anger.

Can I try one of those? he signed.

V cocked a brow, but didn’t try to talk sense into him. The Brother just pulled out a pouch and some cigarette papers. “You want to do the honors yourself?”

John shook his head. For one thing, although he’d watched V’s rolling procedure countless times, he’d never tried anything like it before. For another, he didn’t think his hands were steady enough.

V took care of things in the work of a moment, and as he gave the coffin nail over, he flicked his lighter.

They both leaned in. Just before John connected the cigarette to the flame, V said, “Word of advice. These have a kick, so don’t suck too hard—”

Holy hypoxia, Batman.

John’s lungs didn’t just reject the onslaught; they had a seizure over it. And as he coughed his bronchial tubes up, V took the offending item from him. Helpful—meant he could brace both palms on his thighs as he bent over and retched.

When the stars faded from his watering eyes, he looked over at V… and felt his balls shrivel up and hibernate in his lower gut. The Brother had taken John’s hand-rolled and added it to his own, drawing on both of them at the same time.

Great. Like he didn’t already feel like a pussy.

V held the pair out between his fore- and middle fingers. “Unless you want to give it another go?” When John shook his head, he got a nod of approval. “Good call. A second drag and your next stop’s the wastepaper basket— and not to toss your Kleenex, true.”

John let his ass slide down the wall until the linoleum floor came up and caught his tailbone. Where’s Tohr? He come home yet?

“Yup. I sent him to go eat. Told him he wasn’t allowed back here until he had a sworn affidavit that he’d sucked down a full meal with dessert.” V took another drag and talked out the fragrant smoke. “I nearly had to drag