As she turned away, she looked over at the sunken impression in the duvet where he’d sat on her bed. From out of nowhere, she wanted to go over and run her hand over the spot.
“What the hell am I doing?” she said into the silence of her bedroom.
THIRTEEN
The funny thing about watching a movie marathon while you couldn’t see anything was how much you could in fact picture.
Of course, in Rhage’s case, he had essentially memorized Die Hard from the moment John McClane got the advice about taking off his shoes on the plane, all the way until his wife hit that obnoxious newsman right in the piehole.
“How you doing, Bit?” he said.
Hours before, he and Bitty and Mary had taken up res in the reclining leather ass palaces of the mansion’s movie theater for two reasons: one, Bitty was more comfortable sitting up with her legs extending out; and two, the never-ending parade of cinematic distraction, which he’d curated from his repertoire of greatness, had been exactly what they’d all needed to cleanse their mental and emotional palates. They’d seen Deadpool first, of course.
One had to keep current, dontcha know.
And then it had been The Devil Wears Prada, out of deference to Mary, who, in spite of her preference for valid Palme d’Or stuff, loved Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestly. After that, they’d gone back to the ass-kicking with Guardians of the Galaxy—Bit loved Zoe Saldana in that one—and finally, Central Intelligence.
The Rock was probably one of the few humans who you’d want at your side in a fight.
Rhage had had to end with an oldie but goodie, though. Plus it had been at least three weeks since he’d seen Hans Gruber fall off Nakatomi Plaza, and it was Christmas.
#seasonallyappropriate
“Bit? You okay?” When there was still no answer, Rhage turned his head in the other direction. “Is she out?” he asked Mary.
When there was no reply on that side either, he smiled and felt around. He found Mary’s hand first, and as he took it, his mate snuffled and curled in his direction, one of her legs crossing over his, her sigh as she fell back into deep sleep one of total contentment. Then he located Bit’s much smaller version of same, and just as with Mary, the little girl turned to him, her head coming to rest against his bicep, her hair falling forward to tickle his forearm.
Rhage smiled and resumed not watching the movie.
Even though he couldn’t see anything, he felt strong as an ox, big as a mountain, deadly as a cobra—you name the he-man metaphor and he was rocking that shit.
It wasn’t chauvinistic to want to protect your females. It was appropriate, and not because they couldn’t be smart and protect themselves. Females were simply more important than males and always would be, and in the very deepest part of his marrow, he was proud to be in service as a mate and a father to them.
God, he felt so totally whole, his shellan and his daughter bookending him, giving him all his strength and purpose, stabilizing him even though he hadn’t been aware of feeling wobbly.
Funny, the experience was a little like falling in love: a revelation that made everything more beautiful, more precious.
Right on cue, as if fate were determined to give him A Moment, his sight slowly returned, the flickering of the screen, the contours of the seats and the dark theater … his beautiful females … coming into a soft focus.
Like his view of life had taken on a Merchant Ivory filter.
And to think, without his Mary, he wouldn’t even know what that was.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, though, it pained him to see those casts, the reminder of Bit’s suffering and his spectacular flame-out taking him back to a place he didn’t want to be. But he did smile. Bitty had insisted the leg casts be blue and the arm casts silver, for his bloodline’s colors. And everyone in the house had written on them with a black Sharpie, the signatures and messages blurring together, the King’s overlapped by a doggen’s, brother sharing space with Nalla’s scribble, even Boo and George adding a paw print thanks to an ink pad that had been brought up.
Bit was fine now, he told himself. Safe here with him and Mary and the other members of the household.
It was all going to be—
Just as Argyle was getting down in the back of the eighties-era limo, head nodding next to the teddy bear, Rhage saw that he and his family weren’t alone.
Lassiter was over on the left, leaning back against the fabric-covered wall, the light from the film moving over his face like flame from a fire.
His blond-and-black hair was down around his shoulders, the simple muscle shirt and track pants the kind of thing that a normal person would wear—which meant they should have been completely outside of the fallen angel’s wardrobe hangers.
Even from across the way, and in spite of both the dimness and Rhage’s iffy eyesight, it was very obvious Lassiter’s expression was grim.
He wasn’t even looking at the movie.
And that made Rhage wish for the inconceivable.
“Tell me you’re here because there’s a Beaches joke you want to share,” Rhage said roughly. “Or maybe ’cuz you got a Little Mermaid sleeping bag for me?”
Lassiter stayed silent for what felt like a year, but was probably little more than a heartbeat or two.
Which, considering Rhage’s ticker was on a broken field run in his chest, was a helluva commentary on the whole time-is-relative thing.
“I want you to remember what I told you,” the angel said … in a voice that made Walter Cronkite sound like a falsetto with his nuts in a vise. “Keep your faith. It’s all going to work out.”
Rhage’s eyes snapped back to the casts. “Havers told us the reset bones would heal in about six weeks. And after that … I mean, the transition is scary for everybody, but her growth spurt should be tolerated. Even if there has to be some physical therapy afterward, or an operation, at that point, she has different anesthesia and painkiller options and—”
When he glanced back, the angel was gone.
Frowning, Rhage twisted himself around.
Lassiter wasn’t walking to the exit; it was as if he’d never been in the theater.
“Rhage? You okay?”
As Mary spoke up in a groggy voice, he cranked back so he was facing the movie. Opening his mouth, he—
Shut it again. Shook his head. Tried once more. “Ah, yeah. I’m fine. Hey … ah, did you see Lassiter just now?”
“No? There’s no one in here but us?”
Rhage blinked and pulled an optical sweep of the dark space. Was he even seeing this? Or had he imagined everything.…
Was he still blind, and was he dreaming?
“Ah … okay. Yeah. Sure.”
“Do you want me to get you something to eat?” His Mary Madonna leaned up his chest to smooth his hair back. “You don’t look well. Should I get Doc Jane?”
All Rhage could do was stare at her beautiful face. In the history of the world, there might have been females who other people thought were extraordinary beauties, whose bone structure and curve of the lip, whose eyes and brows, equated in the minds of third parties to earth-shattering attractiveness.
Nefertiti had nothing on his shellan as far as he was concerned.