hated social chatter.
Something Rhage had picked up on at TGI Friday's on their first date.
God, that felt like years ago, Mary thought. And who could have foreseen they'd end up here together?
Dr. Delia Croce's office was cluttered with neat piles of papers and files and books. Diplomas from Smith and Har-ard hung on the wall, but the thing that Mary had always found most reassuring was the line of thriving African violets on the windowsill.
She and Rhage sat down as the doctor went behind her desk.
Before the woman was in her chair, Mary said, “So what are you giving me, and how much can I handle?”
Dr. Delia Croce looked up over the medical records and the pens and the binder clips and the phone on her desk.
“I spoke with my colleagues here as well as two other specialists. We've reviewed your records and the results from yesterday's—”
“I'm sure you have. Now tell me where we are.”
The other woman took off her glasses and inhaled deeply. “I think you should get your affairs in order, Mary. There's nothing we can do for you.”
At four thirty in the morning, Rhage left the hospital in an absolute daze. He'd never expected to go home without Mary.
She'd been admitted for a blood transfusion, and because evidently those night fevers and the exhaustion were also tied to the beginnings of pancreatitis. If things improved she'd be released the next morning, but no one was making any commitments.
The cancer was strong: Its presence had multiplied even in the short time between when she'd had her quarterly checkup a week ago and when the blood test had been taken the day before. And Dr. Delia Croce and the specialists all agreed: Because of the treatments Mary had already been through, they couldn't give her any more chemo. Her liver was shot and just couldn't handle the chemical load.
God . He'd been prepared for one hell of fight. And a whole lot of suffering, particularly on her part. But never death. And not so fast.
They only had a matter of months. Springtime. Maybe summer.
Rhage materialized in the courtyard of the main house and headed for the Pit. He couldn't bear to go back to his and Mary's room by himself. Not yet.
Except as he stood in front of Butch and V's door, he didn't knock. Instead he looked over his shoulder at the façade of the main house and thought of Mary feeding the birds. He pictured her there, on the steps, that lovely smile on her face, the sunshine in her hair.
Sweet Jesus . What was he going to do without her?
He thought of the strength and resolve in her eyes after he'd fed from another female in front of her. Of the way she loved him even though she'd seen the beast. Of her quiet, shattering beauty and her laugh and her gunmetal gray eyes.
Mostly he thought of her the night she'd torn out of Bella's, running out into the coldness on her bare feet, running out into his arms, telling him that she wasn't okay… Finally turning to him for help.
He felt something on his face.
Aw, fuck . Was he crying?
Yup.
And he didn't care that he was going soft.
He looked down at the pebbles in the driveway and was struck by the absurd thought that they were very white in the floodlights. And so was the stuccoed retaining wall that ran around the courtyard. And so was the fountain in the center that had been drained for winter—
He froze. Then his eyes peeled open.
He slowly pivoted toward the mansion, lifting his head up to the window of their room.
Purpose galvanized him and carried him into the vestibule at a dead run.
Mary lay in the hospital bed and tried to smile at Butch, who was sitting in a chair in the corner with his hat and sunglasses on. He'd come as soon as Rhage had left, to guard her and keep her safe until nightfall.
“You don't have to be social,” Butch said softly, as if he knew she was struggling to be polite. “You just do your thing.”
She nodded and looked out the window. The IV in her arm wasn't bad; it didn't hurt or anything. Then again, she was so numb they could have hammered nails into her veins and she probably wouldn't have felt a thing.
Holy hell . The end had finally come. The inescapable reality of dying was finally upon her. No outs this time. Nothing to be done, no battle to be