Markcus shook his head as he ran his fingertips over the band on his left wrist. “Why . . . why would you do that?”

“It is as I told you. You are in need. And I find myself in need of serving someone.” Assail put both palms out. “And there is naught that is dodgy. We are but three males who cohabit one among each other.”

Naturally, he left out the coke habit, the fact that he had arguably whored out his relations, and also his past as a drug importer and dealer.

Was he starting fresh, then, he wondered.

Hmm. Considering the arms deal he had just made for the Brotherhood? Perhaps the term was more starting next, rather than fresh.

“Is there work to be done at your home?” Markcus nodded to Assail’s clothing. “By your wardrobe and your accent, it is clear you are a male of means. Is there work that I may perform so that I can earn my room and board? Otherwise, I cannot avail myself of your offer. I shall not do that.”

Assail shrugged. “It is but menial work.”

“No effort is menial if it is done well.”

Assail eased back in the chair and regarded the haggard scrap of flesh on the hospital bed. Even barely out of captivity—for over thirty fucking years—and already the male was showing a character of note.

“I shall have to leave you the now,” Assail heard himself say. “But I shall return prior to dawn, and when they will release you, you will come home with me. And that is what shall be.”

Markcus lowered his head. “I am e’er in your debt.”

No, Assail thought to himself. I rather sense ’tis the other way around, my good male.

* * *

Rhage and Mary walked arm in arm up the mansion’s grand staircase. As they ascended, she smiled as she remembered them waltzing around that empty gym. And then she flushed as she recalled what they’d done as the dancing had slowed to a stop.

That equipment room had never seen so much action.

“When did she say I had to be there?” Rhage asked.

“You’ve got about thirty minutes to get ready. It’s the I’ve Bean Waitin’ coffee shop down on Hemingway Avenue. I think Rhym is going by car, but you certainly don’t have to.”

“I’m not ordering anything while I’m there. I don’t want to have coffee breath.”

“Rhage. Seriously.” She stopped him as they came up to the second floor. “You’re going to do fine.”

Taking his beautiful face in her hands, she smoothed his worried eyebrows and stroked the shadow of his beard. “Just treat it like any other conversation.”

“I’m being interviewed to be Bitty’s dad. How the hell is that supposed to be like any other conversation? And, God, will you tell me what to wear? Should it be a suit? I feel like it should be a suit.”

Taking his hand, she led him in the direction of their room. “How about just a regular pair of slacks and one of your black silk shirts. She’ll be so distracted by how gorgeous you are, she won’t remember her own name, much less whatever she was going to ask you.”

He was grumbling as they entered their suite, and his attitude didn’t get much better as she shooed him toward the bath.

“No,” she said as he tried to pull her along with him. “We’ll get seriously distracted. Let me go lay out your clothes.”

“You’re right. Plus every time I think about where I’m going I want to throw up.”

They went their separate ways in the middle of the room, he to a cleanly shaven jaw and freshly shampooed hair, she to the walk-in closet, where—

The scream that emanated from the loo was enough to give her a frickin’ heart attack. “Rhage! Rhage—what’s wrong!”

She blasted across the carpet and into the—only to slam against his backside.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” he barked.

“What, what are you . . .”

Mary started laughing, and she got on such a roll with it, she had to sit down on the edge of the Jacuzzi.

Someone, or someones, more like it, had Little Mermaided their bathroom: There were Little Mermaid towels hanging on all the hooks and rods, a Little Mermaid rug in front of the double sinks . . . Little Mermaid cups and toothbrushes and kids’ toothpaste on the counters . . . Little Mermaid shampoo and conditioner in the shower . . . action figures lined up on the lip around the tub and down the sill of the big window that looked out over the gardens.

But the pièce de résistance was undoubtedly the wall stuff. About a hundred and fifty different stickers, posters, clings, and cut-outs from coloring books had been stuck, glued, or pinned to every square inch of vertical surface.

Rhage wheeled around and went to march out—but he didn’t have to go far at all. A gathering of his Brothers filed into their suite, the males high-fiving one another and smacking Rhage on the ass.

“I’m going to get you back,” he growled. “Every single one of you—especially you, Lassiter, you fuck stick.”

“How?” the fallen angel countered. “By flooding my room? You already tried that with the pantry and Fritz got it fixed in a night.”

“No, I’m going to hide every cocksucking remote in this house.”

The angel froze. “Okay, those are fighting words.”

“Blam!” Rhage yelled as he hit his hips. “Wassup, bitch.”

Lassiter started looking to the Brothers for help. “That’s not funny. That shit is so not funny—”