“Ehlena,” she said roughly. “What are the blood results showing?”

“His white count is rising.”

Are you sure, she asked Murhder in her head.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she could have sworn she heard his voice in her mind, clear as day.

Yes, I’m sure.

“Do the final dose,” she said. “Now.”

Sarah stayed right by Murhder’s side. After the last push of the somatropin, he disappeared into the suffering, no longer able to meet her, or anybody else’s, stare or respond to anything. His heart rate was all over the place. His blood pressure was sky-high. The seizures were so bad, he snapped two of the restraints.

Eventually, the big blond warrior with the bright blue eyes had to bring chains.

It was shortly after those metal links got put on that Sarah felt herself crumble on the inside. A trembling overtook her, as if she were following his lead in that regard, and then she couldn’t breathe.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled as she lurched for the door.

Out in the corridor, she wobbled and started to fall.

Hands caught her. Strong hands.

She looked up into the face of the female commando.

“I’ve got you,” Xhex said.

Sarah wasn’t thinking right. Wasn’t thinking at all. She grabbed onto those shoulders, and felt herself get hugged in return.

John was standing behind his mate, his arms crossed over his chest as if he were hugging Sarah as well, just virtually. His eyes were dark with emotion, and she could understand why. With the chains rattling as they were, it was clear Murhder was suffering—and either the male in there was going to die or John was going to have to go through it.

Calling on her professionalism—because it gave her a job, something to focus on other than the nightmare in that operating room—Sarah pulled back and cleared her throat.

“The blood tests are showing what I was hoping to see. So don’t focus on how hard it is going to be for you—think about how the cure—”

John’s brows dropped low, and he started to sign, furiously.

A male voice spoke up behind her. “He says he doesn’t care about anything other than if Murhder is going to be okay—”

Sarah cut off whoever was translating. “I know what he said.”

She turned around and was shocked to find that … there were a dozen males standing around in the corridor. She hadn’t even noticed them, which was a surprise, given how big they all were.

In the back of her mind, she marveled at how so many different faces could show the exact same expression.

Grim terror.

“We’re not giving him any more,” she told the crowd. “So now we have to see how he rides it out. The white blood cell count is doing what … it’s what I thought.” She looked at John. “It’s what I believe you need.”

“Is he going to die?”

She glanced over at the male who had spoken. He was the one with the military haircut and the white streak in the middle of his cowlick. The one that, if she remembered correctly, she had called Sergeant Know-It-All.

“I don’t know.” Abruptly, she threw her shoulders back. “But I can promise you this. I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he lives through this.”

Amazing how being in service to others gave you strength you didn’t know you had. Repurposed and refocused, Sarah pushed open the door and went back to the bedside.

The chains were cutting into Murhder’s ankles and she grabbed two towels from a stack. Waiting until his legs went loose for a split second, she slipped them into place on both sides so the metal links wouldn’t chafe his skin.

Then she resumed her watchful pose up against the wall. As he continued to seize, the medical staff monitored everything—and even though she didn’t doubt their competency, nothing felt like it was enough.

“We’ve got to kill those motherfuckers.”

Out in the concrete corridor, John glanced across as Vishous spoke up. The Brother was lighting a hand-rolled, his teeth holding the cigarette in place, his glowing hand doing the duty of a Bic. His slashing brows were so low, they distorted the tattoos on his temple.

“Those fucking shadows need to be over,” he muttered.

John refocused on the closed door of the operating room. It was impossible for him not to feel responsible for what Murhder was going through. Even as John knew he hadn’t volunteered to get stung, his reaction to the wound … this shit with Murhder … he was never going to forgive himself if the male died on his account.

“John.” Xhex’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. “This is not your fault. You did not do this.”

Turning his back to the crowd, so no one could translate, he signed, They did the right thing.

“What are you talking about?”

The rattling of chains coming through the closed door made him close his eyes. It was all he could do to keep from screaming.

Refocusing, he signed, Not letting me into the Brotherhood. They did the right thing.

Xhex shook her head and said softly, “What are you talking about? Every one of them has gotten injured at one time or another.”

Not like this.

“Just stop,” she said with exhaustion. “You’re not making any sense.”

He turned back around and faced the door. The bumping and slamming, the rattling, the barked orders of the medical staff on the far side of the wood panel—it was the soundtrack to a nightmare. And as he listened to the different noises, separating each component of the suffering, he felt a shift in the center of his chest.

Xhex was right. He was being ridiculous. He had fought with courage and strength, and what he had happened to him could have happened to anyone. What did it matter whether or not he was a Brother?

Murhder wasn’t one any longer, and look at the male of worth he was, sacrificing himself for somebody he barely knew, putting his life on the very line.

I will fight in your honor, he vowed to the male on that operating table. I’m going to take this cure after they’re done with you, and if I live through it, I will evermore fight for you.

Xhex tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be harsh.”

I love you, he signed. With all my heart. Always.

His shellan gave him a strong hug. And then as she tucked herself against him, she trained those gunmetal-gray eyes on the door. As he studied her profile, he decided he’d been very lucky in his life. In spite of all the setbacks and the hard start, his female was his luck. She was his good fortune. She was his risen star that guided him to a safe harbor.

Looking around at the Brotherhood, at his friends, at the shellans who had showed up in support, he decided that, whatever higher power was up there after the Scribe Virgin’s disappearance, surely it would respond to all this collective worry over what was, without a doubt, a male of worth.

Surely it would help.

Surely the one overseeing them was a savior instead of a foe.

Murhder was totally unaware of the passage of time. The roaring heat inside of him stripped everything away, and yet, as he burned in the fire, he knew he would come through. He had been here before. He had lived through what the symphaths had done to him, had survived the torture of his mind turning against his body—and even though this was the reverse, his body turning against his mind, he knew he was going to make it.

Strength did not exist unless it was tested.

And he had been tested before.

There was no end in sight, no hint of an easing, no relent to any of the present suffering, but there had been none of that before. That was the nature of torture—it was not just the pain; it was the not knowing when, or even if, the end was coming. But he knew better than to believe in all that forevermore nonsense. There was going to be a terminal event: Either the agony stopped or he did.

And until either of those happened, it was just a miserable waiting game—that he could withstand.

Hell, the chaos in his brain caused by the symphaths had been much worse than all this. At least now, in the center of the firestorm, he was still himself. Even though he was blinded, unable to hear, lost in the sea of suffering, he still he knew who he was. He knew where he was. He knew why he was putting himself through this.

Most importantly, he knew who he loved.

When the symphaths had played with him, when they had filled his head full of terrible images and thoughts—triggers, triggers, everywhere—he had lost himself and his way. Anchorless, with nothing really significant to live for, he had floated off into an ether of madness. And afterward, when it was over, he had not been able to find his way back.

No matter how hard he had tried to ahvenge Xhex.

Now, however, this kiln of incredible heat, coupled with his bonding for Sarah, forged him like steel, the remaining scattered parts of him uniting and hardening … baking into an unassailable whole … sealing up, the cracks gone.

His foundation once again became solid and strong in this second transition of his.

The instant the conviction arrived unto him, he snapped free from his spasming body, his soul floating up over the table he was tied down on, his closed eyes nonetheless seeing his arms and legs strain and jerk, his ribs pump from hard breath, his head thrash.

He watched himself.

And the medical staff. And especially his Sarah. She was right by him, standing next to him, hand on his shoulder no matter how much his torso twisted and pulled. She was his angel, making sure he came through.

I’ll be back soon, my love, he said from his lofty observation. I’m here with you now—

Sarah looked up abruptly, sure as if she heard him.

I’m coming back. I promise …

The next thing Murhder was aware of was silence. Stillness.

He came awake, but it was inside the cage of his body. His eyes were closed—either that or the blindness he’d experienced was permanent—and he couldn’t really feel the bed under him. He did even know if he was having seizures anymore or not.

Beep. Beep. Beep—

His lids lifted slowly. All he saw was white, and for a moment, he thought, Goddamn it, I’ve died. This white landscape is the Fade. After all his “I’m going to make it through this,” he’d ended up dying—