Lover Unbound

going to kick ass with a pistol. He didn't look anyone in the eye. Except for John.

Zsadist shut the door, then frowned and went for the cell phone on his hip.

'Excuse me.' He went over to a corner and talked on the RAZR then came back, seeming pale. 'Change of instruction. Wrath is going to take over tonight.'

A split second later, like the king had dematerialized to the door, Wrath came in.

He was bigger even than Zsadist and dressed in black leathers and a black shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves. He and Z talked for a moment; then the king clasped the Brother's shoulder and squeezed like he was offering reassurance.

Bella, John thought. This had to be about Bella and the pregnancy. Shit, he hoped everything was okay.

Wrath shut the door after Z left, then stood in front of the class, crossing his tattooed forearms over his chest and spreading his stance. As he looked the eleven trainees over, he seemed as impenetrable as what John was leaning again it.

'Weapon tonight is the nine-millimeter autoloader. The term semiautomatic for these handguns is a misnomer. You will be using Glocks.' He reached behind to the small of his back and took out a lethal piece of black metal. 'Note that the safety on these weapons is on the trigger.'

He reviewed the specs of the gun and the bullets as two doggen came forward rolling a cart the size of a hospital gurney. Eleven guns of the exact same make and model were laid out on top, and next to each was a clip.

'Tonight we work on stance and aim.'

John stared at the guns. He was willing to bet he was going to suck at shooting, just like he sucked at every other aspect of training. Anger spiked, making his head pound even worse.

Just once he'd like to find something he was good at. Just. Once.

Chapter Sixteen

As the patient stared at her funny, Jane did a quick check of her clothes, wondering if anything was hanging out.

'What,' she muttered as she kicked her foot and her pant leg slid back down.

She didn't really have to ask, though. Hard-asses like him usually didn't appreciate women doing the crying thing, but assuming that was the case, he was going to have to suck it up. Anyone would be having trouble in her shoes. Anyone.

Except instead of saying anything about the weakness of weepers in general or of her in particular, he picked the plate of chicken up off the tray and started to eat.

Disgusted with him and the whole situation, she went back to her chair. Losing the razor had taken the starch out of her overt rebellion, and in spite of the fact that she was a fighter by nature, she was resigned to a waiting game. If they were going to kill her outright, they would have; the issue now was the exit. She prayed there was one coming soon. And that it didn't involve a funeral director and a coffee can full of her ashes.

As the patient cut into a thigh, she thought absently that he had beautiful hands.

Okay, now she was disgusted with herself, too. Hell, he'd used them to hold her down and strip her coat off like she was nothing more than a doll. And just because he'd carefully folded what she'd had on afterward didn't make him a hero.

Silence stretched, and the sounds of his silverware softly hitting the plate reminded her of horribly quiet dinners with her parents.

God, those meals eaten in that stuffy Georgian dining room had been painful. Her father had sat at the head of the table like a disapproving king, monitoring the way food was salted and consumed. To Dr. William Rosdale Whitcomb, only meat was to be salted, never vegetables, and as that was his stand on the matter, everyone in the household had had to follow the example. In theory. Jane had been a frequent violator of the no-salt rule, learning how to flick her wrist so she was able to sprinkle her steamed broccoli or boiled beans or grilled zucchini.

She shook her head. After all this time, and his passing, she shouldn't still get pissed off, because what a waste of emotion. Besides, she had other things she should be worried about at the moment, didn't she.

'Ask me,' the patient said abruptly.

'About what?'

'Ask me what you want to know.' He wiped his mouth, the damask napkin rasping over his goatee and his beard growth. 'It'll make my job harder at the end, but at least we won't be sitting here listening to the sound of my silverware.'

'What job do you have at the end, exactly?' Please let it not be buying Hefty bags to put her body parts in.

'You aren't interested in what I am?'

'Tell you what, you let me go, and I'll ask you plenty of questions about your race. Until then, I'm slightly distracted with how this happy little vacation on the good ship Holy Shit is going to pan out for me.'

'I gave you my word-'

'Yeah, yeah. But you also just manhandled me. And if you say it was for my own good, I'm not going to be responsible for my comeback.' Jane looked down at her blunt nails and pushed at her cuticles. After getting her left hand done, she glanced up. 'So this 'job' of yours… you going to need a shovel to get it done?'

The patient's eyes dropped to his plate, and he forked at the rice, silver tines slipping in between the grains, penetrating them. 'My job… so to speak… is to make sure you won't remember any part of this.'

'Second time I've heard that, and I've got to be honest-I think it's bullshit. It's a little hard to imagine me breathing and not, I don't know, recalling with the warm and fuzzies how I was draped over some guy's shoulder, hauled out of my hospital, and drafted as your personal physician. Just how you figure I'm going to forget all of that?'

His diamond-bright irises lifted. 'I'm going to take these memories from you. Scrub this whole thing clean. It will be as if I never existed and you were never here.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Uh-huh, ri-'

Her head started to sting, and with a grimace she put her fingertips to her temples. When she dropped her hands, she looked at the patient and frowned. What the hell? He was eating in his lap, but not from the tray that had been here before. Who'd brought the new food in?

'My buddy with the Sox cap,' the patient said as he wiped his mouth. 'Remember?'

In a burning rush, it all came back: Red Sox walking in, the patient taking her razor, her tearing up.

'Good… God,' Jane whispered.

The patient just kept eating, as if eradicating memories were no more exotic than the roasted chicken he was sucking back.

'How?'

'Neuropathway manipulation. A patch job, as it were.'

'How?'

'What do you mean, how?'

'How do you find the memories? How do you differentiate? Do you-'

'My will. Your brain. That is specific enough.'

She narrowed her eyes. 'Quick question. Does this magical skill with gray matter come with a total lack of compunction for your kind, or is it just you who were born without a conscience?'

He lowered his silverware. 'I beg your pardon?'

She so didn't care that he was offended. 'First you abduct me, and now you're going to take my memories, and you're not sorry at all, are you? I'm like a lamp you borrowed-'

'I'm trying to protect you,' he snapped. 'We have enemies, Dr. Whitcomb. The kind who would find out if you knew about us, who would come after you, who would take you to a hidden place and kill you-after a while. I won't let that happen.'

Jane got to her feet. 'Listen, Prince Charming, all the protective rhetoric is fine and dandy, but it wouldn't be