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“You have got to be kidding me.” He all but rips off his leather jacket and throws it across the Pit. He’s more careful as he removes his daggers. “Man, this night just keeps getting worse.”

I kept my piehole shut. I mean, like there’s any response to that kind of welcome ? Short of hanging myself in the bathroom, I’m pretty confident there’s nothing I can do to cheer him up.

Vishous stomps by me to get to Butch and I make like a wall hanging, trying to get as flat as I can. Which is easy. I’m built like a plank to begin with, long and curveless.

I’d like to point out that V is huge, by the way. HUGE. As he passes by my head barely reaches the top of his shoulder, and the size of his body makes me feel like I’m five years old and in a sea of grown-ups.

As he pauses in Butch’s bedroom doorway, I find myself unable to leave, even though I know I should go. I just can’t, though. Fortunately, V focuses on the cop.

Poor Butch.

“What the fuck were you doing?” V barks.

The cop’s voice is rough, but not weak. “Can we shelve this for about ten minutes? I’m going to throw up—”

“Did you think those slayers weren’t armed?”

“You know, this shrewish wife thing is so not helping—”

“If you’d used your brain for once—”

As the two start in on each other, I think, Okay, I am ready to leave. Too much testosterone in the air like this and I get woozy. And not in a good way.

I back down the hall, wondering what the hell I’m going to do about the interview I was supposed to have with them, when I realize . . . bloody footprints. V has left bloody footprints. And he must have been injured quite badly, given the amount of glossy crimson on the floorboards.

Stupid male. Stupid, arrogant, miserable, reclusive SOB. Stupid, reckless, pigheaded, nasty-tempered, bullhorned, I-am-an-island, close-lipped bastard—

Have I mentioned that after the horrid process of writing V’s book, I have a couple of issues with him, too? He’s not the only hater in our relationship.

As Butch and V continue to growl at each other like a pair of Dobermans, I get pissed. I march over to V’s leather jacket and grunt as I pick it up off the floor. The thing weighs almost as much as I do, and to be honest, I really don’t want to know what’s in it.

But I find out, because I go through his pockets.

Ammo for his Glock. Hunting knife with lesser blood on it. Solid-gold lighter. A little black book I don’t flip through (because, hey, that is SUCH an invasion of privacy). Wrigley’s spearmint gum. Swiss Army knife (probably because his hunting one doesn’t have that nifty scissors attachment).

Cell phone.

I flip the RAZR open and hit *J. Two seconds later, Jane answers the ring. “Hey, you. How’s my puppy?”

Yeah, she calls him puppy. I’ve never asked for deets. V would just bite my head off, and it seems too intrusive to ask Jane herself. Although Rhage would know . . . hmm . . .

“Hi, Jane,” I say.

“Oh, it’s you!” She laughs. Jane has a warm laugh, the kind that makes you take a deep breath and release it nice and slow, because you know everything’s going to be all right if she’s involved. “How’s the interview going?”

“It isn’t. Your man’s injured, Butch is down for the count, and I get the sense that if I don’t leave ASAP, I’m going to be shown the door by your mate. Headfirst.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, V can be such an ass.”

“Which is why I dedicated Lover Unbound to you.”

“I’m coming right now. Let me just tell Marissa.”

As I hang up, I realize the Pit is much quieter now . . . and that there’s a glow coming from the hallway. I tiptoe down and freeze when I get to the doorway of Butch’s room.

They’re on the bed. Together. Vishous has lain down and wrapped his arms around Butch, and his whole body is glowing softly. Butch is flush against the Brother, breathing slowly. V’s healing power is working. You can tell because the smell of lesser is going away.

V’s ice-white eyes flip open and nail me with the unblinking stare of a predator. My hand goes to my throat.

In this moment between us, I wonder why he hates me so much. It hurts.

The response I get