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Why isn’t Vishous assisting? he signed.

“We’re just doing an ultrasound to make sure she’s all right. I’m not operating.” Doc Jane smiled at him in a professional way—which was oddly frightening. And then the door was shut in his face.

He looked around at the others. All the males were locked out in the hall. Only females in there with her.

His mind started to churn and it didn’t take him long to come to a conclusion that couldn’t possibly be right.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and V’s voice was low. “No, you need to stay out here, John. Let go.”

That was when he realized his palm had locked on the door handle. Looking down, he told himself to release his hold . . . and had to send the command twice before his grip slid off the metal.

There was no more screaming. No sounds at all.

He waited. And waited. And paced and waited some more. Vishous lit another hand-rolled. Blay joined him, firing up a Dunhill. Qhuinn drummed a beat out on his thigh. Wrath petted George’s head while the golden retriever watched John with kind brown eyes.

Eventually, Doc Jane poked her head around the door and looked at her mate. “I need you.”

Vishous put out his cig on the sole of his boot and tucked the butt into his back pocket. “Scrubbing in?”

“Yup.”

“Let me go change.”

As the male jogged off to the locker room, Doc Jane met John’s eyes. “I’m going to take good care of her—”

What’s wrong? Why is she bleeding? he signed.

“I’m going to take care of her.”

And then the door shut again.

When V came back, he looked every bit the warrior even though he was out of his leathers, and John hoped like hell the guy’s competency on the field translated into the medical racket.

Those diamond eyes of his flashed and he clapped John on the shoulder before slipping into the exam room . . . which evidently was now functioning as an OR.

As the door closed, John felt like doing a little screaming of his own.

Instead, he kept with the walking, going up and down the corridor. Up and down. Up . . . and down. Eventually, the others dispersed, heading into a nearby classroom, but he couldn’t stand to join them.

With each pass by the door that was closed to him, he went wider afield, until the trip took him all the way to exit into the parking area and then back to the locker room. His long legs ate up the distance, turning what was a good fifty yards into a matter of mere inches.

Or at least it seemed that way.

On what must have been his fifth trip down toward the lockers, John pivoted around and found himself in front of the office’s glass door. The desk and the filing cabinets and the computer seemed relentlessly normal and he took a strange comfort from the inanimate objects.

But the deep breath was lost when he stepped forward once again.

In his peripheral vision, he saw the cracks in the concrete wall across the way, the fissures spidering out from a single impact source.

He remembered the night it had happened. That horrible night.

He and Tohr had been sitting together in the office, him doing schoolwork, the Brother trying to keep calm as he called home over and over again. Every time Wellsie didn’t answer, every time he got voice mail, the tension was cranked up more—until Wrath had appeared with the Brotherhood behind him.

The news that Wellsie was gone was tragic . . . but then Tohr had learned the “how”: Not because she was pregnant with their first child, but because a lesser had killed her in cold blood. Murdered her. Taken her out and the baby with her.

That was what had caused these marks.

John walked over and ran his fingertips across the fine lines in the concrete. The rage had been so great, Tohr had literally imploded into a supernova, the emotional overload dematerializing him to some other place.

John never had learned where he’d gone.

A sense of being observed had him lifting his head and looking over his shoulder. Tohr was on the far side of the glass door, standing in the office, staring out.

The two met each other’s stare and it was male to male, not elder to younger.

John was a different age now.