“And that is your transgression.” The horrible voice was right next to his ear. “You are supposed to serve me.”

“How?” Mr. F groaned. “You never told me how. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

The evil relented some of the pressure, as if it were briefly reconsidering the condemnations it leveled. “Listen to your mind, it will tell you what I want. And in the meantime, I know what you can do to service me now.”

There was a pause.

And then something was driven so far into him that Mr. F screamed from the pain.

Back at the Brotherhood’s mansion, Butch was in the process of opening the door into the vestibule to leave when a gloved hand slammed the thing shut on him and stayed put like it was a car parked grille into the wood.

“Where do you think you’re going,” V said grimly.

Butch pivoted around, and had to catch himself to keep on his feet. “I’m picking up Marissa.”

V looked confused. “What?”

“I’m going to go pick up Marissa.”

Those diamond eyes narrowed. “You think you’re picking up Marissa?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Not even close, my guy.” V linked an arm through Butch’s. “And you’re going nowhere this drunk—”

Butch meant to separate himself from his roommate, but it was weird. The mosaic floor seemed to be made of liquid, everything shifting under the soles of his loafers. As he went off-kilter, he ended up pulling himself back to rights on V’s biceps.

“I have to go pick her up at work.”

“You mean pick her up from work? It’s not four a.m.”

“Yes, it is?”

Now Butch was the one frowning. And things got even more confusing as he lifted up his wrist and looked down at his Audemars Piguet. The Oak’s famously eight-sided dial was all smudged, and the numbers appeared to be moving instead of the hands.

“I think my watch is broken.”

“You wanna try that again?”

“Is your hearing bad?”

Vishous gave him a bored look. “If what you just asked me was whether my hearing is a problem, I think it’s more your mouth. ’Cuz what just came out of it was something like ‘Ian Ziering mad.’”

“Huh. Weird. Maybe he is mad, though. They’re not doing any more Sharknados.”

“Gimme that.”

When a tumbler half-full of brown liquid was taken out of his hand, Butch wondered where the thing had come from. Then again, everything felt like a mystery.

“You’re done with that.”

Butch released his roommate and tugged his jacket down. “Probably right. Feeling a little loozy. Loser. Loosing? Goosing. Gosling, Ryan, not Reynolds. What was the question?”

By way of answer, Vishous started walking him to the billiard room, but that was a no go. Butch protested by throwing out his anchor.

“No, I’m going to get Marissa.”

“I told you, it’s not time.”

“I’ll sit and waiting. Wait. For four. For her—”

“I’m not letting you drive drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.” Butch stopped as he heard the slur in his words. Holding his forefinger up, he changed tactics. “I’m getting sober up. By the minute.”

“Then you better chill here for about ten hours.”

Determined to win the argument, Butch explained, calmly and concisely, how he didn’t need that much time, and then capped that theory of relativity off with another move to the big-ass door—which would lead him out through the vestibule, which would let him get to the R8, which was parked in the courtyard, which would give him the wheels he needed to go down off the mountain and go into town and find Safe Place’s neighborhood—

“Butch. I’m not letting you drive a car like this.”

V leaned back against the vestibule’s door—which was kind of a surprise. Last time Butch noticed, the guy was standing with his back to the archway into the billiard room. Guess they’d moved.

Whatever. Butch opened his mouth—

“You argue about this anymore and I’m going to give you a nap.”

“I don’t need a nap.” Butch cleared his throat so he didn’t sound like a five-year-old. “I need to go be with Marissa.”

As the name of his shellan came out of his mouth, he had to fight the emotions in his chest. Had to fight the shit in his brain, too. Something about confronting the Omega had hinged him loose in ways he didn’t seem to be coming out of well—but at least he knew the solution. He was going to go be with his female. Even if all he could do was sit in a parked car outside of her work for four hours, six hours, before she got off, that would be enough.

He was untethered. She was his harbor. So the math was obvious—

“No,” his roommate said. “Not when you’re this drunk.”

“Will you drive me then?”

“You need to stay home. That was way too close with the evil, Butch. I need you to stay in the mhis for right now.”

“What are you talking about?” Butch snatched the tumbler back and took a gulp. And the fact that he felt absolutely no burn in his throat at all should have been a red flag concerning his current level of intoxication. But fuck it. “I’m not a prisoner here.”

“Just until we can get a team around you.”

“A team? Fuck that. I’m—”

“The Omega came out to find you tonight, Butch. Unless you forgot what magically appeared in front of you in that alley?”

“It didn’t come for me.” As V shot him a yeah-right, Butch shook his head. “The Fore-lesser was standing right beside it. The evil came for its subordinate, not for me. It was just a coincidence I was there.”

Butch took another draw on the glass, and as he reflected on the way he’d corrected his roommate’s version of events, he congratulated himself on speaking so much better. Not that he had been bad at it before, no matter what V had said.

“It was after you, Butch.” V shook his head. “And if the Fore-lesser was there, it was because it was working to get to you, too. The pair are always aligned, that’s the way it works.”

“Don’t talk to me like I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

“You’re not thinking straight.”

“I am perfectly fucking fine. Now get out of my way.”

Things got a little wonky at that point and Butch wasn’t exactly sure about the sequence of events. The outcome was clear. When he tried to force his way out of the vestibule so he could get behind the wheel, V ended up taking the glass away for a second time. And then he seemed to look apologetic.

“I’m sorry about this, cop.”

“Sorry about what—”

The right hook came sailing through the air with the greatest of ease. And as it hit Butch solidly in the jaw, kicking his head back like a baseball struck for the stands, he had a thought that he didn’t feel a thing.

In fact, he went on a nice little float, during which the entire mansion, in spite of its size, weight, and foundation, went on a tilt such that, as he stood on his feet, he managed to look straight ahead at the foyer’s dome ceiling three stories up.

Wow, those warriors on their steeds sure looked like they know what they’re doing, he thought.

And then, just as V promised, it was naptime.

zzzzZZZZZZZzzzzzzZZzz.

You want to talk about some Jeopardy! theme playing? As Jo gathered two paper plates, a beer for her, and some napkins in her kitchen, she was counting down the seconds. And when she heard the bathroom door finally open, she had to force herself not to wheel around and check to see what had come out.

And not because she was worried about there being guns involved again.

No, it was because she was hoping there was just going to be a towel. Or maybe even less—

Oh. He was dressed.

To cover her internal conversation about naked things that were none of her business, Jo bustled over to the coffee table, all Suzy Homemaker without any dirty thoughts in her head at all.

Nope. Not a one.

“So how about we try this eating thing again.”

It was a good goal. An appropriate one, given that it did not involve body parts (his) or hot thoughts (hers.) Still, every time she blinked, she saw him scaring the crap out of the delivery boy, that body of Syn’s so spectacularly nude, that gun in his hand so steady . . . that dead stare in his eyes the kind of thing she wasn’t afraid of, but maybe should be.

So naked. So much smooth, hairless skin. So much muscle. So much . . .

Um. Length. And, um. Girth—

Okaaaaaaay, she really needed to stop this—

“Stop what?” he asked. When she looked at him in confusion, he sat down on her sofa. “What do you need to stop?”

Well, for starters, it would be great to quit thinking of you lying faceup on that rug right there and me riding you like Annie-frickin’-Oakley until your six-gun goes off in my—

“Oh, God.” She went to cover the flush on her face with her hands—and ended up smacking herself with the plates and the napkins that she forgot she was holding. “Ow—okay, right. I gotta get a grip here.”

“On what?” he asked.

Don’t say it, she told her mouth. Don’t you dare answer that question.

Delivering the eating accoutrements that had assaulted her to the coffee table, she opened up the pizza box and discovered that the pepperoni and cheese had had some very bad plastic surgery, all the features of the pie’s face horribly rearranged, the molten cheese and toppings slopping over part of the crust.

“Nico’s is just around the corner,” she explained unnecessarily. “It always comes superhot so that’s why . . .” She cleared her throat as she passed him two slices. “Do you want some water?”

Focusing on her empty plate, she put a slice on it and then cracked open her Sam Adams.