Bella followed his pulse down the corridor of statues, around the corner, and toward the open double doors at the head of the stairs. Angry male voices boiled out of the study, and Zsadist's was one of them.
"The hell you're going out tonight," someone shouted.
Zsadist's tone was downright evil. "Don't try to order me around, Tohr. It just pisses me off and wastes your time."
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"Look at yourself-you're a fucking skeleton! Unless you feed, you're staying in."
Bella came into the room just as Zsadist said, "Try to keep me here and see where it lands you, brother."
With all of the Brotherhood looking on, the two males were nose-to-nose, eyes locked, fangs bared.
Jesus, she thought. Such aggression.
But... Tohrment was right. She hadn't been able to see in the darkness of the bedroom, but here in the light Zsadist looked half-dead. The bones of his skull were pushing through his skin; his T-shirt was hanging from his body; his pants were sagging. His black eyes were intense as always, but the rest of him was in rough shape.
Tohrment shook his head. "Be reasonable-"
"I would see Bella ahvenged. That is totally reasonable."
"No, it isn't," she said. Her interjection brought all the heads her way.
As Zsadist looked at her, his irises changed color, flashing from the angry black she was used to into a glowing, incandescent yellow.
"Your eyes," she whispered. "What's happened to your-"
Wrath cut in. "Bella, your brother has asked that you stay here a little longer."
Her surprise was so great, she looked away from Zsadist. "What, my lord?"
"He doesn't want me to rule on your sehclusion right now, and he wants you to remain here."
"Why?"
"No idea. Maybe you could ask him."
God, as if things aren't confusing enough. She glanced back at Zsadist, but he was focused on a window across the room.
"You are, of course, welcome to stay," Wrath said.
As Zsadist stiffened, she wondered how true that was.
"I don't want to be ahvenged," she said loudly. When Zsadist's head whipped around, she spoke directly to him. "I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. But I don't want anyone hurt trying to get at the lesser who kept me. Especially not you."
His brows cranked down on his eyes. "That is not your call."
"The hell it's not." As she pictured him going to fight, terror overrode everything. "God, Zsadist... I don't want to be responsible for your going out and getting yourself killed."
"That lesser's going to end up pine-boxing it, not me."
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"You can't be serious! Dear Virgin, look at you. You can't possibly fight. You're so weak."
There was a collective hiss in the room, and Zsadist's eyes went black.
Oh... shit. Bella put her hand over her mouth. Weak. She'd called him weak. In front of the whole Brotherhood.
There was no greater insult. To merely insinuate that a male couldn't handle himself with strength was unforgivable in the warrior class, no matter the basis. But to come flat out and say so, in front of witnesses, was a complete social castration, an irrevocable condemnation of his worth as a male.
Bella rushed over. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
Zsadist lifted his arms out of her reach. "Get away from me."
She put her hand back to her mouth as he stepped around her like she was a grenade. He headed out the door and his footsteps receded down the hall. When she was able, she met the disapproving eyes of his brothers.
"I will apologize to him immediately. And hear this now, I do not doubt his courage or his strength. I worry over him because..."
Say it to them, she thought. Surely they would understand.
"I love him."
Abruptly the tension in the room eased. Well, most of it. Phury turned away and went to the fire, leaning up against the mantel. His head dipped down as if he wanted to be in the flames.
"'I'm glad you feel that way," Wrath said. "He needs it. Now go find him and apologize."
On her way out of the study, Tohrment stepped in front of her and gave her a level look. "Try to feed him while you're at it, okay?"
"I'm praying he'll let me."
Chapter Thirty-seven
Rehvenge prowled around his house, going from room to room with a restless, punching stride. His visual field was red, his senses alive, his cane left behind hours ago. No longer cold as he always was, he'd ditched the turtleneck, hanging his weapons on his bare skin. He felt all of his body, reveled in