Couple of minutes later, it was a case of push and pray: He shoved his weight off the mattress and hoped—
Bingo. Legs held.
The side that had been worked on by Manello was not exactly ready to run a marathon, but as V ripped off the bandages and did some flexing, he had to be impressed. The scars from the knee surgery were almost completely healed already, nothing except a pale pink line left behind. But more importantly, what was underneath was straight-up magic: The joint felt fantastic. Even with the stiffness that remained, he could tell it was functioning perfectly.
Hip felt good as new, too.
Goddamn human surgeon was a miracle worker.
On his way to the loo, his eyes passed over that duffel bag. Memories from his morphine trip filtered back and were far clearer than the actual experience had been. God, Jane was a spectacular doctor. In the night-to-night running of life, he hadn’t so much forgotten that as not experienced i
t in a while. She always went the extra mile with her patients. Always. And she didn’t treat his brothers so well because they were tied to him. It had nothing to do with his ass—those people were hers in those moments. She would have treated civilians, members of the glymera . . . even humans in exactly the same way.
Inside the bathroom, he got into the shower, and man, it was crowded in the stall. As he thought about Jane and his sister, he had a terrible feeling he’d oversimplified what he’d walked in on the night before yesterday. He hadn’t stopped to consider that there was some other relationship at work between the two females. It had been all about him and his sister . . . nothing about the doctor/patient bond.
Scratch that. It had been all about him; nothing about Payne and what she wanted out of her life. Or what Jane had done or not done for her patient.
Standing with his head down and the water hitting the back of his neck, he stared at the drain between his feet.
He wasn’t good with apologies. Or talking.
But he was not a pussy, either.
Ten minutes later, he threw on a hospital johnny and limped out into the corridor for the office. If his Jane was down here, he figured she’d be asleep at the desk, given how many of the recovery beds were no doubt filled with Brothers she’d treated.
He still had no clue what to say to her about The Leathers, but he could at least give it a shot about Payne.
Except the office was empty.
Sitting down at the computer, it took him less than fifteen seconds to find his shellan. When he’d hardwired the security system for the mansion, the Pit, and this facility, he’d put cameras in every single room there was—except for the First Family’s suite. Naturally, the equipment could be disconnected easily with an unplug, and what do you know, the bedrooms of his brothers all showed black on the computer screen.
Which was a good thing. He didn’t need to see all that banging.
The blue toile guest room up at the big house, however, was still being monitored, and in the light of the bedside lamp that had been left on, he saw the curled figure of his mate. Jane was dead to the world, but it was damn clear she wasn’t resting comfortably: Her brows were clenched as if her brain were desperately trying to hold on to the sleep she was getting. Or maybe she was dreaming of things that prickled instead of pleasured her.
His first instinct was to march right over there, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the kindest thing he could do was leave her where she lay and let her rest. She and Manello had gone for hours straight, all morning long. Besides, he was staying in tonight: Wrath had taken everyone off rotation in light of all the injuries.
Christ . . . that Lessening Society. He hadn’t seen so many slayers in years—and he wasn’t thinking about just the dozen that had shown up last night. Over the previous two weeks, he was willing to bet the Omega had turned a hundred of those fuckers—and he had a feeling they were like cockroaches. For every one you saw, there were another ten that you didn’t.
Good thing the Brothers were lethal as fuck. And Butch healed relatively easily after doing his Dhestroyer business—hell, Vishous had even been able to take care of the cop after the operation. Not that he remembered much about doing it, but still.
Stifled by so much, he patted his pockets for his rolling paper and tobacco . . . and realized he was wearing a johnny: no merch for a smoke.
Out of the chair. Back in the hall. Heading down to where he’d crashed.
The door to Payne’s room was closed, and he didn’t hesitate before he opened the way in. Chances were good that the human surgeon was in there with her, but there was no way the guy wasn’t out like a light. He’d worked his ass off.
As Vishous stepped inside, the scent in the air probably should have registered more clearly. And he maybe should have paid a little more attention to the fact that the shower was running. But he was just so shocked to see the bed was empty . . . and that there were braces and crutches over in the corner.
Patient was paralyzed? You needed a wheelchair, not equipment that aided mobility. So . . . was she walking?
“Payne?”
He raised his voice. “Payne?”
The response he got back was a moan. A very deep, satisfied moan...
Which was not the kind of thing evoked even by the best shower anyone ever had.