Which was never, ever a bad thing.

After they all pulled up in front of the mansion and picked their normal spots in the line up of cars—hers by Manny’s Porsche, theirs over by V’s new thingamajiggy, whatever it was—she got out with her bag and was prepared to fend off a bunch of how-’bout-a-quick-physical suggestions from the leather-bound peanut gallery.

And what do you know, the pack of four came at her in formation.

Putting up her hands, she said calmly and reasonably, “I can’t die, remember? Also, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m up and around, speaking in complete sentences—even smiling. See?” She pointed to her mouth. “So how about Last Meal before you all fall over?”

There was a chorus of baritone fines and whatevers, and then John Matthew put his arm around her shoulders, gave her a quick hug and everybody strode up to the vestibule.

Fritz opened the inner door for them. “Greetings! How fare thee all?”

As the butler bowed, and everyone filed in, Mary had to pause. She had walked into the foyer how many times in the last however long, but it had been a while since she’d actually looked at the three-story-high ceiling with its mural of majestic fighters on their warhorses . . . or paused to appreciate the malachite-and-marble columns with their ornate headers and footers . . . or taken a second to listen to the layers of conversation as members of the house came down to gather in the dining room.

Everything seemed over-the-top luxe, and multi-factorial loud, and altogether wonderful, from Z and Bella descending the grand staircase with Nalla to Wrath and George walking across the mosaic floor with Tohr to John Matthew and Xhex wrapped in each other’s arms.

Heading into Last Meal, she thought back to what Rhage had told Bitty about the people here, his wonderful, purposely laughable, verbally scribbled caricatures of the very real blessings this family had.

Then she pictured him and Bitty leaning over the engine of his car, him taking the time to explain all kinds of things to her, not one bit of this-is-just-for-boys tinting anything, his face open, his eyes kind.

He had been amazing with the girl—

“Mary mine,” came a whisper in her ear.

As she jumped and turned to Rhage, she didn’t think for a second.

She put her arms around him, pulled him down . . .

. . . and kissed the ever-loving crap out of him.

* * *

Okay, yeah, WOWOWOWOWOWOWOW.

As Mary licked her way into Rhage’s mouth, his mind went blank in the best possible way—especially when he reached for her and brought her body close to his, curling his greater height and weight around her. His shellan’s lips were soft and warm, and her tongue slipped and slid against his, and her breasts, even though her coat, seemed to be brushing naked against his chest.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she said into his mouth.

He resumed the kissing while he eyed the staircase. Yeah, so steep, so long—and their bedroom? Shit, it was like, five hundred miles away. More like five thousand.

“C’mere,” he groaned.

He ended up shuffling her backward, his hands desperate to get under those clothes of hers—but he couldn’t risk that kind of contact. He felt her bare skin? He was liable to take her right there on the mosaic floor.

The pantry was located just off the kitchen and it was about as luxurious and comfortable as a laundry room—with the tragic lack of a washer or dryer that you could put the female you were in love with on and have her at hip height with her thighs spread wide. There were, however, two benes: One, there was a lock on the inside, as if Darius had known what kind of alternate spice might get thrown around among the cans of peaches and jars of pickles; and two, there was a shallow counter four feet above the floor with a good two and a half feet of surface depth that went all the way around the room.

Ostensibly, the thing was there to accommodate the banks of drawers that were under the stacks of shelves.

At the moment? It was the closest thing to Maytag Rhage could get.

“Oh, God, I need you,” Mary said as he slammed the door shut, manually turned the dead bolt, and popped her up off the floor.

As she grabbed the bottom of his muscle shirt and yanked it over his head, the thing got caught on his nose, nearly shearing his nostrils off. But like he gave a fuck? And then her shaking hands were clawing at the zipper on his leathers.

“I need you in me, hurry—I need you.”

“Oh, fuck, Mary, you have me—” The second her hand came into contact with his cock, he arched back and shouted something. Her name? Something about the Scribe Virgin? F-bomb? Again, who the fuck cared. “Let me get you—”

Next thing he knew, she was off the shelf, at his hips, and pushing him back until he slammed into the opposite side of things so hard cans of soup bounced down and rolled across the floor like they feared for their lives.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaary—”

That mouth of hers sucked his erection in deep, and though the warm, wet hold and suction were out-of-this-world erotic, what was even hotter? The sense that she was so fucking desperate for him, she couldn’t wait for him to get his pants down and hers off.

She was so damn hungry and greedy to have him she didn’t want to waste time.

She had to have him.

The bonded male inside of Rhage howled in satisfaction, and the beast surged in a good way under his skin—and oh, yeah, he orgasmed.

God, did he fucking orgasm. And as Mary milked him until he sagged, and then sat back and licked her lips, he felt some part of himself return—a part that had been gone for a while, but that he hadn’t really been aware of missing.