“No, no, no, no …”

This time, when she tried to take her hands back, he let her go—and she fell out of the bed, landing in a heap on the rug. Before he could help her, she thrashed her legs around and jumped up to her feet. As she lurched for the bathroom, one of her ankles was killing her. She must have knocked it on the mattress frame.

Like she fucking cared.

Their bathroom was across the way, and she felt like it took a hundred miles of flat-out running to get to it—and as she stubbed her toe on the lip of the marble floor, she caught the door and slammed it shut by mistake.

The light in the shower’s bright white expanse had been left on, so as she went to the sinks, its illumination flooded from behind her—and turned her into a ghost with substance, nothing but a black outline of a figure.

Her hands were shaking so badly that cranking the faucets was like brain surgery, and when she finally got the water running, she didn’t wait for the warmth to come up the pipes. She cupped her palms and splashed her face.

The fact that the dark wine taste of her mate’s blood was still in her mouth shamed her to the point of nausea—and just in case, she glanced over to the alcove where the toilet was.

Yeah, she could make it. If she had to.

Her legs felt better.

More with the water. Splash. Splash. Splash.

Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in that lab, and not in a memory kind of way. As in, she was actually there, in her body, trapped and being worked on by humans.

The cool water was good, but the fact that she shut her lids every time she made the round with her palms was making things worse. She needed to reground in this reality.

In the real reality, that was. Splash. Splash. Splash.

As she finally turned off the water, the dripping into the basin was a soft sound, almost a chiming, and she threw out a hand and patted around, hoping to run into a towel. When she felt some softness, she pulled it over and pushed her face into the terry cloth folds. Then she swept them up and over her nearly shaved head, rubbing, as if that would somehow scrub away the remnants of the trauma.

That was when she heard the voices. Out in the bedroom.

Goddamn it.

See, this was the good news and the bad news about living in the mansion with the Brotherhood. You were never alone when you were in the house … but you were never alone when you were in the house.

Taking the towel with her, she went to the closed door and leaned into the wooden panels.

“—sure you’re both okay.”

That was Qhuinn, which made sense. Qhuinn and Blay’s bedroom was next door—oh, shit. Off in the distance, she could hear the high-pitched howl of a young who had been roused from what had been blissful sleep in its crib.

Great. She draws blood on her hellren, wakes up the neighbors, and scares the shit out of an infant.

There was some silence as John signed whatever response he had. And then Qhuinn was murmuring things about getting help for days like this. Days when Xhex woke up in a fit from a recurrent nightmare that hadn’t been happening anymore.

Until recently.

Now the fucking thing was like the worst houseguest you could have—rude, noisy, and never leaving.

There was another stretch of silence as John communicated with his hands what he could not share with his voice. Then Qhuinn spoke some more. Another silence, briefer now. Then the other Brother was taking his leave.

As the door into the Hall of Statues was shut, Xhex sagged. Then re-braced herself and stepped out of the bathroom.

“Here,” she said briskly. “I’ll clean up what I did.”

John Matthew was … well, pretty fucking resplendent in their now messy, bloody bed. His naked torso was padded with muscle, from his shoulders to his arms to his ribbed stomach—and as she approached him, her eyes lingered on the star-shaped scar that marked his pectoral.

The sign of the Brotherhood. Something a male received when he joined.

Yet John Matthew had had his since birth.

Sitting down, she took his hands and carefully wiped where she had bitten him. He was in such incredible shape, and so well fed from taking her vein on the regular, that she could practically watch the marks of her fangs and front teeth sealing themselves up.

“I’m so sorry,” she said when she could trust her voice.

And even then, it was a croak of syllables more than actual words.

“I’m fucking sorry.”

John shook his head. Then took his hands back and signed, Don’t be. I don’t care about—

“You should. You should care—you’re being terrorized in your own fucking bed.”

Xhex, what can I do to help?

She folded and refolded the towel in her lap. “Wear chain mail? I’d suggest tying me up—but that’s what got me into trouble in the first place.”

In that lab, she added to herself.

Her mate was signing more things, supportive things, things that broke her in half. How this male stayed with her, she had no clue. He was better than her on so many levels.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll deal with this. Somehow.”

Yeah, because the subconscious was easily controlled. Which was why people only ever did shit they were fully in charge of.

No problem.

“I am sorry,” she whispered.

Ordinarily, in her job as head of security for various clubs, and in her life, as a half-breed symphath, she was a hardass, capable of staring down drunk humans who were out of their mind on Molly and wouldn’t have recognized even God Himself standing in front of them.

But in this bedroom, behind their closed door …

John Matthew stopped signing and just held out his battered arms. There was no censure in his face or his eyes, nothing but love and acceptance.

Well—and worry.

Xhex wanted to be strong. But as she collapsed into her hellren’s arms, she didn’t have a choice.

I’ll make it up to him, she vowed.

Somehow, sometime … she’d figure out a way to be normal.

BACK AT THE Wolf Study Project’s headquarters, at just before six p.m., Lydia looked up from a dismal financial spreadsheet. “He’s still not here. Like, not at all?”

Candy pulled on her puffy down coat. “Nope, and before you ask, no, I didn’t put our executive director in a closet. My kidnap fantasies stop at UPS men.”

Sitting back in her chair, Lydia did some math. Peter Wynne hadn’t been in the office for a week and a half now. Unbelievable.

“Hey,” she said. “I heard the vacuum going. Are the cleaners here early? They’re supposed to come in Saturday mornings.”

“They don’t come in on Saturdays anymore.”

“So five-thirty tonight works better?” Lydia frowned when there was no response. “What aren’t you telling me. Did they quit?”

“No, they didn’t quit.” Candy walked forward and put an envelope on the desk. “Here’s your paycheck.”

“What happened to the cleaners?” As Candy fussed with something in her purse, Lydia put her pen down. “You’re kidding me.”

Candy lifted her palms like it was a holdup. “Hey, I happen to like vacuuming. And don’t get me started on Windex. I’m obsessed.”

“That’s not your job—wait, who’s going to take care of cleaning the clinic?” As Candy just lifted a brow, Lydia swallowed twelve kinds of curses. “No, Rick is not cleaning the—he needs to take care of my wolf. The wolf, I mean.”