Chapter 8 Rhage, son of Tohrture #2
He follows through on the bite, and the private smile on his face is a universal one for parents, when we imagine our kids living independent, fulfilling lives. Optimism is its own kind of delusion, but at least it’s a pleasant one.
God, this is hard, and I just have to trust that somehow, some way, everything has always worked out in the end.
“And Mary is…” His eyes assume a faraway look. “She is my biggest blessing. As a bonded male, nothing is more important than my mate—although Bitty is right behind her.”
Even though I didn’t want to write about him, I am so glad I did, and he’s a great example of how HEAs do indeed happen, even when they seem impossible.
And yeah, wow, he and Mary had some serious roadblocks.
However, one of the agreements that I made with myself when I started Dark Lover was that whatever I was shown, I would write.
I figured it would include a lot of fighting and drama and.
..other things of the horizontal variety.
Rhage challenged me to stick to that vow.
The romance market has evolved over the last twenty years.
Needless to say, when I was drafting Lover Eternal back at the end of 2004, it was kind of a different world and the genre conventions were fairly rigid.
Rhage breaks a pretty big foundational construct, and it leads to a heartbreaking scene between him and Mary.
I remember wondering how readers would handle it, whether they would stick with the series, if I’d sunk everything before I even got started.
There’s this old adage for authors, that it’s not what you do in a book, it’s how you do it.
I think that’s totally true, and certainly for what happened between Rhage and Mary early on in their relationship was a brutal conflict.
Yes, there was a reason for it, but Jesus, when he came back to their room, after he did what he had to do to level himself off and keep her safe from the beast?
I can remember that scene like I wrote it yesterday.
I think that’s when I fell in love with him: There was real suffering going on underneath the beautiful exterior.
As I’ve often said, I think one of the reasons the Brothers have had such resonance is because each of them has their own tremendous vulnerability: The King who refuses to lead on account of what he saw as a pretrans.
The blood slave who carries the shame of his abuse.
The twin whose devotion to his ruined brother is sinking him.
The warrior of worth who loses his beloved, pregnant shellan.
The young who was tortured by his father in the War Camp.
The beautiful male with a curse that eats things.
Unqualified strength and superiority is boring and uninspirational. I think the connection, the bond, happens when we see what is hidden, what the weakness is, and how people overcome it.
“I got the better end of this deal.”
I refocus on Hollywood and realize that he’s finished all the ice cream. How long have I just been sitting here like a bump on a log?
As I’m riddling this, Rhage gets up and goes over to the trash. Pulling open the low cabinet, he tosses the empty container and then holds his spoon up over one of the three deep-bellied stainless sinks.
“I am putting this here under protest.” He places the utensil in the basin. “But if I clean it, Fritz will have a heart attack.”
The Brother goes over to the enormous Sub-Zero refrigerator. As he opens both sides, all the clean and empty glass shelves sparkle.
“Is this not the saddest thing you’ve ever seen?
” He steps to the left, all Vanna White except add two hundred pounds, leathers, shitkickers—actually, not like her at all.
“But then again, no one lives here, do they, and perishables are perishables. Let’s try the pantry. I’m still feeling a bit peckish.”
The fridge claps shut and he disappears into that room full of shelving like an explorer determined to find gold.
Left alone, I glance around the commercial kitchen and think of all the meals made here.
It seems like such a waste, this facility empty, once again.
At least Darius’s vision of the Brotherhood and fighters all living together with their families is still being served in a different location, back in town.
Still, the vacancy is sad to me, and if houses had souls, I feel certain this beautiful stone fortress is in pain.
I hear Rhage rifling through various things, and picture him moving Ball jars and commercially prepared canned vegetables around. There is going to be no dust on anything back there because of Fritz, but there’s no mistake to be made. Whatever it is has been forgotten. Left behind.
Abandoned.
“How was there ice cream here?” I ask in a loud voice.
He leans out. “I brought it with me. Always be prepared, you know?”
As he ducks back in, I glance at his trench coat, and all the unevenness under the leather. I think of the beast, his alter ego which is just under the surface of his skin. He and V each have special weapons, and both come with plenty of complications.
“So I know I’m not your favorite,” he says as he reemerges. “Who is?”
He’s managed to find a can of Dinty Moore beef stew. As he pops the metal top, there’s a hiss and he takes a test sniff. “Mmmm.”
I watch him get one of the smaller saucepans from the hanging rack underneath the stainless-steel counter. He uses a big spoon to clear out the inside of the tin, and turns on the gas flame.
Within moments, there’s quite a mouthwatering scent rising up, and he chuckles. “Human-grade dog food is divine.”
“I agree.”
“You’ve eaten this stuff?”
“I take it with me whenever I travel. It’s my source of protein actually. One can a day.”
He blinks. Twice. As if he’s recalibrating some opinion about me.
“How do you warm it up?” He stirs things. “Not every hotel room has a microwave, right?”
“Hot plate.”
“Ah.” He wags the oversized spoon at me. “Brilliant. Although I guess you could use the microwave if there is one.”
I shake my head. “God only knows what’s been put in them.”
“Cod?”
“Lube.”
He barks a laugh. “Look at you, cracking the jokes.”
I flush and stand up out of the chair. “It was a bit ribald.”
Although nothing close to what comes out of my mouth at my events. I think I’m the only author I know who’s called a reader a C*** (I WAS JOKING FYI)—and had the woman come to the following year’s event with a shirt that read: “The Warden called me a C***…and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”
Have I mentioned how much I love the BDB readers and the fandom?
“He’s downstairs.”
I force myself back to attention. “I’m sorry?”
Rhage takes the pan off the heat. “V. He’s in his workshop.”
I look to the door to the lowest level. Of all the Brothers, Vishous is the one I least want to talk to, but I might as well rip the Band-Aid off.
“Roger dodger.” I open my mouth. Close it. Try again. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles in that blinding way of his. “Now tell me what for.”
“I don’t know. Everything…I guess.”
He switches the spoon to the other grip and places his dagger hand over his heart. Inclining his head, he says, “Nice deflection on your favorite, by the way. But I can understand if you don’t want to play favorites.”
“Oh, come on. What am I supposed to say?”
“At least I know who you like the least.”
As he looks pointedly at the door I’m about to put to use, I shake my head. “There are things I value about everyone. The Brotherhood is…”
“Like ice cream, right? Even the worst kinds are still ice cream?”
“I’d go with pizza, but Breyers works, too.”
“Ohhh, pizza. That’s my next stop.”
As I leave Hollywood doing a taste test on the stew and then tucking in with happy abandon, I realize I do adore him.
In the midst of his complications, he is simple in his appetites, clear in his loyalty, and generous with his love.
He’s also intuitive as hell. Vishous and I have never gotten along.
But I guess that’s been obvious to all of them.