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As he refused to look at her, he sent a clear message that her name in his skin was none of her business. Which was the same kind of line she’d drawn with her cilices, wasn’t it.

Xhex went up to the glass door that separated them. Putting her hand up, she knocked hard.

When, she mouthed.

His eyes squeezed shut, as if he were remembering something that made his stomach hurt. And then with his lids down, he signed slowly . . . and broke her in half:

When I thought you weren’t coming home.

John made quick work with the soap and the shampoo, very aware that Xhex was standing on the cold side of the glass, staring at him. He wanted to help her out with the surprise and all, but given where things stood between them, he was so not about to throw himself on the sword of all his feelings.

Or the tattoo needle, as it were.

When he’d asked her about the cilices, she’d been pretty clear about shutting him out—and that had rebooted his brain. Since he’d been injured the night before, they’d fallen back into their sex connection, and that had a way of blurring reality. But no more.

After he was finished with his wash-up, he stepped out of the shower and went past her, nabbing a towel from a brass bar and wrapping it around his hips. In the mirror, he met her eyes.

I’ll go get your cilices, he signed.

“John . . .”

When she didn’t say anything more, he frowned, thinking this was the pair of them in a nutshell: Standing three feet away from each other and being separated by miles.

He left and went into the bedroom, picking up a pair of jeans and pulling them on. His leather jacket had been brought in with him to the clinic the night before and he’d left it there. Somewhere.

In his bare feet, he walked past the marble statues, down the grand staircase, and around the corner to duck through the hidden door. Man . . . going back into the tunnel was a total crusher; all he could think about was Xhex and him together in the dark.

Like a complete nancy, he wished like hell they could return to those suspended moments when nothing existed except their roaring bodies. Down here, their hearts had been free to pound . . . and sing.

Fucking real life.

Sucked ass.

He was striding toward the training center’s entrance when Z’s voice stopped him.

“Yo, John.”

John pivoted around, his bare feet squeaking on the tunnel floor. As he raised his hand in greeting, the Brother came striding down from the mansion’s door and Z was dressed for fighting, his black leathers and muscle shirt something that they would all be wearing before they headed out once again to hunt Lash. With the Brother’s skull trim, and the ceiling lights streaming down across that jagged scar on his face, it was no wonder people were scared shitless of him.

Especially with his stare narrowed like that and his jaw set grimly.

What’s up, John signed as the Brother stopped in front of him.

When there was no immediate reply, John braced himself, thinking, Oh . . . fuck, now what.

What, he signed.

Zsadist exhaled a curse and started to pace around, his hands on his hips, his eyes locked on the floor. “I don’t even know where to frickin’ start.”

John frowned and eased back against the tunnel wall, ready for more bad news. Although he sure as shit couldn’t imagine what it was, life had a way of getting pretty damned creative, didn’t it.

Eventually, Z halted and when he looked over, his stare was not golden yellow, as it usually was when they were home. It was pitch-black. Vicious black. And the male’s face had gone the color of snow.

John straightened. Jesus . . . what’s wrong?

“You remember all those walks you and I used to take in the woods. Just before your transition . . . after you lost it with Lash the first time.” When John nodded, the Brother continued. “You ever ask yourself why Wrath put us together?”

John nodded slowly. Yeah . . .

“It wasn’t a mistake.” The Brother’s eyes were cold and dark as the cellar in a haunted house, shadows