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“No—”

Phury cut Zsadist off. “You have to—”

“No! Get the fuck away from me.”

Z bolted for the door, but the Scribe Virgin got there first, forcing him to spin out to a stop so he didn’t run her over. Trapped in front of the diminutive figure, his legs trembled and his shoulders shook. She talked to him quietly, the words not carrying far enough for Rhage to decipher through his haze of pain.

Finally the Scribe Virgin motioned to Phury, who brought the weapon over to her. When she had it, she reached out, took Z’s hand, and placed the leather-bound grip on his palm. She pointed to the altar and Zsadist dropped his head. A moment later he came up front with a lurching stride.

When Rhage looked at the brother, he almost suggested someone else do the deed for Z. Those black eyes were cracked open so wide, there was white all around the irises. And Zsadist kept swallowing, his throat working like it was keeping a scream down in his chest.

“S’okay, my brother,” Rhage murmured. “But you need to finish. Now.”

Z panted and swayed, sweat rolling into his eyes and down the scar on his face.

“Do it.”

“Brother,” Z whispered, lifting the whip over his shoulder.

He didn’t swing it for momentum, probably couldn’t have coordinated his arm that well at this point. But he was strong, and the weapon sang as it traveled through the air. The chains and danglers streaked across Rhage’s stomach in a blaze of needles.

Rhage’s knees gave out and he tried to catch himself with his arms, only to find that they too refused to hold him. He fell to his knees, palms landing in his own blood.

But at least it was over. He took long breaths, determined not to pass out.

Abruptly a rushing sound cut through the sanctuary, something like metal against metal. He didn’t think much about it. He was busy talking to his stomach, trying to convince it that dry heaves were in fact not a really good plan.

When he was ready, he crawled on his hands and knees around the altar, taking a breather before he tackled the steps. As he glanced ahead, he saw that the brothers had lined up again. Rhage rubbed his eyes at what was before him, getting blood on his face.

This was not part of the ritual, he thought.

Each one of the brothers had a black dagger in his right hand. Wrath started the chant and the others carried it until their voices were loud shouts reverberating around the sanctorum. The buildup didn’t stop until they were almost screaming, and then their voices cut off abruptly.

As a unit, they slashed their daggers across their upper chests.

Zsadist’s cut was the deepest.

Chapter Thirty

Mary was downstairs in the billiard room, talking to Fritz about the history of the house, when the doggen’s ears picked up a sound she hadn’t heard.

“That would be the sires returning.”

She went to one of the windows just as a pair of headlights swung around the courtyard.

The Escalade came to a stop, its doors opened, and the men got out. With the hoods on their robes down, she recognized them from the first night she’d come to the mansion. The guy with the goatee and the tattoos at one of his temples. The man with the spectacular hair. The scarred terror and the military officer. The only one she hadn’t seen before was a man with long black hair and sunglasses.

God, their expressions were bleak. Maybe someone had been hurt.

She searched for Rhage, trying not to panic.

The group milled around and condensed at the back of the SUV just as someone came out of the gatehouse and held the door open. Mary recognized the guy between the jambs as the one who’d caught the football in the foyer.

With all of the big male bodies crowded in a tight circle at the rear of the Escalade, it was hard to tell what they were doing. But it seemed like some kind of heavy weight was being shifted among them….

A blond head of hair caught the light.

Rhage. Unconscious. And his body was being carried toward that open door.

Mary was out of the mansion before she realized she was running.