John frowned. What? he signed slowly.
The doctor smiled, trying to be all reassuring. "I'd like you to see that therapist."
John went cold. In a panic, he searched Wellsie's face, then Tohr's, wondering how much the doctor might have told them about what had happened to him a year ago.
Why would I go? he signed. I'm fine.
Wellsie's reply was level. "It's just to help you make the transition to your new world."
"And your first appointment is tomorrow evening," Havers said, tipping his head down. He stared into John's face over the top of the horn-rims, and the message in his eyes was: Either you go or I'll tell them the real reason why you have to.
John was outmaneuvered, and that pissed him off. But he figured it was better to submit to compassionate blackmail than to have Tohr and Wellsie know anything about what had been done to him.
Okay. I'll do it.
"I'll take you," Tohr said quickly. Then he frowned. "I mean... we can find someone to take you - Butch will take you."
John's face burned. Yeah, he didn't want Tohr anywhere near the therapist gig. No way.
The front doorbell rang.
Wellsie grinned. "Oh, good. That's Sarelle. She's come over to work on the solstice festival. John, maybe you'd like to help us?"
Sarelle was here again? She hadn't mentioned that when they'd IM'd last night.
"John? Do you want to work with Sarelle?"
He nodded and tried to keep it cool, although his body had lit up like a neon sign. He was positively tingling. Yeah. I can do that.
He put his hands in his lap and looked down at them, trying to keep his smile to himself.
Chapter Twenty-three
Bella was damn well coming home. Tonight.
Rehvenge was not the kind of male who handled frustration well under the best of circumstances. So he was beyond through waiting to have his sister back where she needed to be. Goddamn it, he was not just her brother, he was her ghardian, and that meant he had rights.
As he yanked on his full-length sable coat, the fur swirled around his big body, then fell to rest at his ankles. The suit he was wearing was black and by Ermenegildo Zegna. The twin nine-millimeter handguns under his arms were by Heckler & Koch.
"Rehvenge, please don't do this."
He looked at his mother. Madalina was standing beneath the chandelier in the hall, the picture of aristocracy with her regal bearing and her diamonds and her satin gown. The only thing out of place was the worry on her face, and that wasn't because the tension clashed with her Harry Winston and haute couture. She never got upset. Ever.
He took a deep breath. He was more likely to calm her down if he didn't show his infamous temper, but more to the point, in his current frame of mind he was liable to shred her where she stood, and that wasn't fair.
"She will come home this way," he said.
His mother's graceful hand lifted to her throat, a sure sign she was caught between what she wanted and what she thought was right. "But it's so extreme."
"You want her sleeping in her own bed? You want her where she should be?" His voice started to punch through the air. "Or do you want her staying with the Brotherhood? Those are warriors, mahmen. Bloodthirsty, blood-hungry warriors. You think they would hesitate to take a female? And you know damn well by law the Blind King can lay with whatever female he chooses. You want her in that kind of environment? I don't."
As his mahmen stepped back, he realized he was yelling at her. He sucked in another deep breath.
"But, Rehvenge, I spoke with her. She doesn't want to come home yet. And they are males of honor. In the Old Country - "
"We don't even know who's in the Brotherhood anymore."
"They saved her."
"Then they can give her back to her family. For God's sake, she's a female of the aristocracy. You think the glymera will accept her after this? She's already had that one affair."
And what a mess that had been. The male had been totally unworthy of her, a crumbling idiot, and yet the bastard had managed to walk away from the split without talk. Bella, on the other hand, had been whispered about for months, and though she'd tried to pretend it hadn't bothered her, Rehv knew it had.
He hated the aristocracy they were stuck in, he really did.
He shook his head, pissed off at himself. "She should never have moved out of this house. I should never have allowed that."
And as soon as he got her back, she was never going to be allowed out again without his approval. He was going to have her anointed as a sehcluded female. Her blood was pure enough to justify it, and frankly she should have been one all along. Once that was done, the Brotherhood was legally required to render her back to Rehvenge's care, and thereafter she would not be able to leave the house without his permission. And there was more. Any male who wanted to see her would have to go through him as head of her household, and he was going to deny every single one of the sons of bitches. He'd failed to protect his sister once. He wasn't going to let that happen again.
Rehv checked his watch even though he knew he was late for his business. He would make the petition for sehclusion to the king from his office. It was odd to do something so ancient and traditional through e-mail, but that was the way of things now.
"Rehvenge..."
"What."
"You will drive her away."
"Not possible. Once I take care of this, she'll have nowhere else to go but here."
He reached for his cane and paused. His mother looked so miserable, he leaned down and kissed her cheek.
"You don't worry about a thing, mahmen. I'm going to fix it so she never gets hurt again. Why don't you ready the house for her? You could take her mourning cloth down."
Madalina shook her head. In a reverent voice she said, "Not until she walks over the threshold. It would offend the Scribe Virgin to assume her safe return."
He held back a curse. His mother's devotion to the Mother of the Race was legendary. Hell, she should have been a member of the Chosen with all her prayers and her rules and her flinching fear that one word askance would bring certain doom.
But whatever. It was her spiritual cage, not his.
"As you wish," he said, leaning on his cane and turning away.
He moved slowly through the house, relying on the different kinds of floorings to tell him which room he was in. There was marble in the hall, a swirling Persian carpet in the dining room, wide-planked hardwood in the kitchen. He used his sight to tell him that his feet were landing squarely and that it was safe for him to put his weight on them. He carried the cane in case he misjudged and lost balance.
As he went out into the garage, he held on to the door frame before putting one foot and then the other down the four steps. After sliding into his bulletproof Bentley, he hit the garage door opener and waited for a clear shot out.
Goddamn it. He wished like hell he knew who those Brothers were and where they lived. He'd go there, blast through the door, and drag Bella away from them.
When he could see the driveway behind him, he threw the sedan in reverse and nailed the gas so hard the tires squealed. Now that he was behind the wheel, he could move at the speed he wanted to. Fast. Nimble. Free of caution.
The long lawn was a blur as he gunned down the winding drive to the gates, which were set back from the street. He suffered a quick pause while the things opened; then he tore out onto Thome Avenue and proceeded down one of the wealthiest streets in Caldwell.
To keep his family safe and never lacking for anything, he worked at despicable things. But he was good at what he did, and his mother and his sister deserved the kind of life they had. He would give them anything they wanted, fulfill any whim they had. Things had been too hard on them for too long -
Yeah, the death of his father had been the first gift he'd given them, the first of many ways he'd improved their lives and kept them out of harm's way. And he wasn't stopping the trend now.
Rehv was going at a clip and heading for downtown when the base of his skull began to tingle. He tried to ignore the sensation, but in a matter of moments it condensed into a tight grip, as if a vise had been clamped around the top of his spine. He lifted his foot from the accelerator and waited for the feeling to pass.
Then it happened.
With a stab of pain his vision went to shades of red, like he'd pulled a transparent veil over his face: The headlights of oncoming cars were neon pink, the road a dull rust, the sky a claret like burgundy wine. He checked the clock on the dash, the numbers of which were now a ruby glow.