Lover Unleashed

there had been a lot of hope, but now . . . that had mostly passed.

Whatever, though. She needed to get out of that room, and that was what he was going to do tonight. He was off rotation, and he was going to take her to the mansion and show her there was something other than that white cage of a recovery room to live for.

She wasn’t getting better physically.

So the mental was going to have to carry her through. It just had to.

Bottom line? He was not prepared to lose her now. Yeah, he’d been around her for a week, but that didn’t mean he knew her any better than he had when this had all started—and he was thinking they both needed each other. No one else was the offspring of that goddamn deity mother of theirs, and maybe together they could sort out the crap that came with their birthright. For shit’s sake, it wasn’t like there was a twelve-step for being the Scribe Virgin’s kid:

Hi, I’m Vishous. I’m her son and I’ve been her son for three hundred years.

HI, VISHOUS.

She’s done a head job on me again, and I’m trying not to go to the Other Side and scream bloody murder at her.

WE UNDERSTAND, VISHOUS.

And on the bloody note, I’d like to dig up my father and kill him all over again, but I can’t. So I’m just going to try to keep my sister alive even though she’s paralyzed, and attempt to fight the urge to find some pain so I can deal with this Payne.

YOU’RE A STRAIGHT-UP PUSSY, VISHOUS, BUT WE SUPPORT YOUR SORRY ASS.

Pushing his way out of the tunnel and into the office, he crossed over to the glass door and then strode down the corridor. As he went by the workout room, someone was running like their Nikes were on fire, but otherwise, there was a whole lot of no one around—and he had a feeling Jane might still be back in their bed, lounging after he’d done her right.

Which the bonded male in him took a fuckload of satisfaction from. For real.

When he came to the recovery room, he didn’t knock, but—

As he stepped inside, the first thing he saw was the hypodermic needle. The next thing was that it was about to change hands, going from his shellan’s to his twin’s.

No therapeutic reason for that.

“What are you doing?” he breathed, abruptly terrified.

Jane’s head whipped around, but Payne didn’t look at him. Her stare was fixated on that needle like it was the key to the lock on her jail cell.

And sure as shit it was going to help her out of that bed . . . right into a coffin.

“What the fuck are you doing.” Not a question. He already knew.

“My choice,” Payne said grimly.

His shellan met him in the eye. “I’m sorry, V.”

A whitewash cut his vision off, but did nothing to slow his body down as he lunged forward. Just as he reached the bedside, his eyes cleared and he saw his gloved hand latch onto his shellan’s wrist.

His death grip was the only thing keeping his twin from death. And he addressed her, not his mate. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Payne’s eyes were violent as they met his own. “And do not you dare!”

V recoiled for a moment. He had stared into the faces of bested enemies and discarded subs and forgotten lovers both male and female, but he had never seen such depths of hatred before.

Ever.

“You are not my god!” she screamed at him. “You are but my brother! And you will not chain me unto this body any more than our mahmen will!”

Their fury was so well matched that for the first time in his life, he was at a loss. After all, it made no sense to enter into conflict if your opponent was equal.

Trouble was, if he left now, he was coming back to a funeral.

V wanted to pace to dial down his pissed-off, but he’d be damned if he was looking away for even a split second. “I want two hours,” he said. “I can’t stop you, but I can ask you to give me one hundred and twenty minutes.”

Payne’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever for.”

Because he was going to do something that would have been inconceivable when this whole thing had started. But this was a type of war, and accordingly, he didn’t have the luxury of picking his weapons—he had to use what he had, even if he hated it.

“I’ll tell you exactly why.” V took the needle from Jane’s hold. “You’re going to do it so this doesn’t haunt me for the rest of my fucking life. How ’bout that for a reason. Good enough?”

Payne’s lids sank down and there was a whole lot of silence. Except then she said, “I will give you what you ask, but my mind will not be changed if I remain in this bed. Assure yourself of your expectations afore you depart —and be forewarned if you attempt to reason with our mahmen. I will not trade this prison for one on her side, in her world.”

Vishous shoved the needle in his pocket and unsheathed the hunting knife that was perm-attached to the belt on his leathers. “Give me your hand.”

When she offered it, he sliced her palm with the blade and did the same to his own flesh. Then he clasped the wounds together.

“Vow it. On our shared blood, you take a vow to me.”

Payne’s mouth twitched as if, once again, she would have smiled under different circumstances. “Trust me not?”

“Nope,” he said roughly. “Not in the slightest, sweetheart.”

A moment later, her hand gripped his and a slick of tears formed over her eyes. “I so vow.”

Vishous’s lungs loosened and he drew a deep breath. “Fair enough.”

He dropped his hold, turned around, and strode for the door. As soon as he was in the corridor, he didn’t waste time heading for the tunnel.

“Vishous.”

At the sound of Jane’s voice, he wheeled around and wanted to curse. Shaking his head, he said, “Don’t follow me. Don’t call me. Nothing good is going to come out of my being within earshot of you right now.”

Jane’s arms crossed over her chest. “She’s my patient, V.”

“She’s my blood.” In frustration, he slashed the air with his hand. “I don’t have time for this. I’m out of here.”

At that, he took off at a run. Leaving her behind.

NINETEEN

When Manny got back to his place, he closed the door, locked it . . . and stood there. Like a piece of furniture. With his briefcase in his hand.

It was amazing how, when you’d lost your mind, you were kind of out of options for what to do next. His will hadn’t changed; he still wanted to get control of himself and this . . . whatever it was that was going on in his life. But there was nothing to grab at, no reins to this beast.

Shit, this had to be how Alzheimer’s patients felt: Their personality was intact and so was their intellect . . . but they were surrounded by a world that no longer made sense because they couldn’t hold on to their memories and associations and extrapolations.

It was all tied to that weekend—or at least, it had started then. But what exactly had changed? He’d lost at least some of one night, as far as he could tell. He remembered the racetrack and Glory’s fall and the vet afterward. Then the trip back to Caldwell, where he went to . . .