“I am worried about him. Very much.” The flash of frustration in Marcus’s eyes confirmed it. Unfortunately, that only made Thomas more concerned, since Marcus also wasn’t the type to overreact.

  “I just know there’s nothing that’s really going to get through to him but her…or a shitload of time.” Marcus sighed, set down the knife. “I haven’t said anything, because it’s hard to explain. He’s a Dom, Thomas. And it’s not a middle ground or light side of the spectrum thing. We’re used to seeing people grow into it, but I think Daralyn brought it to full life in him, because she’s the same, on the sub side. Not learning to be one, not growing into it. Whether it was from nature or the lack of nurturing, or some clash between the two, it doesn’t matter. It runs soul deep for her. And the kind of sub she is, needs the kind of Dom that Rory dug out of his soul to be for her. Remember the moment in the cafeteria that shocked the fuck out of Owen and your mother?”

  Thomas wasn’t likely to forget it. That flash of despair and desperation on Daralyn’s face before she’d collapsed on her knees in front of Rory’s chair. Thomas had recognized the gesture like a shot to the gut. When a sub couldn’t figure out how or where to go, all avenues equally desolate, the only solution left was turning to your Dom, hoping to find in his strength and your submission a way to figure things out. In that moment, even if the sub didn’t consciously realize it, they’d let everything go but faith in the bond between Master and sub. In the love that formed that bond.

  “She made a choice to remove herself from his care and put herself beyond where he can help her.” Marcus gave him a steady look. “Sound familiar?”

  Thomas grimaced. “You figured out a way to bull yourself into that china shop.”

  “Yes, I did. But it took months to reach that point. I had to give you space to self-actualize and realize what parts of your method weren’t working. Or find enough rope to hang yourself. Though it really wasn’t that deliberate on my part. In hindsight, I think I just decided enough was enough. Maybe it’s all the same thing, some tangled ball of fate, cause-and-effect bullshit. Why did she leave?”

  “Because of what happened at the reunion.”

  “That’s the catalyst. Why did she leave? The key is when Rory walked in and saw them.”

  Thomas thought it through. Marcus took a couple bites of salad, tore off a hunk of fresh French bread and put it on Thomas’s bread plate. He had the back door open, so Thomas heard a crow’s rasping call in the field behind the house. He could also hear the faint noise of Daralyn’s chimes, adding music to the bird’s cries. One of them had fallen down yesterday, pushed off its hook by the wind. When Marcus had walked over there to hang it back up, Thomas had been in the loft. He’d watched Marcus run his hand over the strands of sea glass that formed it, then stand there a couple moments.

  They both missed her intensely. Yet when their eyes met across the property, Thomas remembered what it had been like, thinking he had to give up Marcus forever. Their reaction to Daralyn’s absence had to be a mere shadow of how Rory felt. That glass was sitting in his brother’s heart and being churned like a blender, slicing and cutting him every waking hour.

  The light dawned, and he met Marcus’s gaze. “She couldn’t say no to Hayworth, tell him she belonged to someone else. To her Master. Not being able to be everything she wanted to be for Rory, discovering it was literally beyond her abilities, was something she couldn’t accept. It tore her apart.”

  Marcus nodded. “With that kind of submissive, it doesn’t matter how demanding the Master is. No one demands more than the submissive herself. The irony of this is that by leaving, a pretty drastic and decisive step, Daralyn did decide what she wanted.”

  A grim smile touched his mouth at Thomas’s startled look. “She wants Rory, and she wants to be able to tell him that. I expect Dr. Taylor was smart enough to figure that out, and will use it to help her. I wish it could help your brother.”

  Shadows crossed Marcus’s gaze. “I’m sure he’s thought of it, but other things, his own issues, are likely making it hard for him to see it as a hopeful sign. And since it could go a lot of ways…” He lifted a shoulder.

  “Wow.” Thomas blew out a breath. “Hell. So…time.”

  “Time. It’s a total bitch.” Marcus gestured with his fork. “And patience is not your brother’s best trait.”

  “What is?”

  “Since he wears it on his shoulders a lot, I’ve gotten a close look. He has an excellent ass.”

  Marcus chuckled as Thomas shot a grape at him. Thomas shook his head. “Mom’s pretty upset. She has that two-week trip to Flagstaff with her church group, and Rory wouldn’t let her cancel it. He also told me this morning, before I even brought it up, that if I didn’t keep the San Diego show date, he would fucking shoot me. Quote unquote.”

  “He needs time and space, Thomas. Let’s give it to him.”

  Thomas knew he was right, but it didn’t dissipate his worry. Marcus reached across the table, closed his hand on Thomas’s. “We’ll check in with him. Give Johnny and Amanda our cell numbers just in case.”

  Thomas made a face. “I know he’s a grown man. I guess I can’t stop being a big brother.”

  “Nor should you.”

  Thomas looked across the corner of the table at Marcus. No matter that time had healed it, he still felt the pain of their shared past. “Did you feel like Rory feels now?”

  Marcus’s eyes flickered. “Yes. I did. And though you had your family, I knew you had isolated yourself from them emotionally, because they couldn’t understand. So you were dealing with everything seemingly alone, and you’d told me you didn’t want my help. There might be nothing worse for a person to hear, whether they’re a brother, spouse, or lover. But for a Dom in particular, it’s tough as hell.”

  Thomas moved his foot under the table, covering Marcus’s. “I’m a grown man,” he said seriously, “But I didn’t know how to handle the pain of being without you while caring for my family. Which is how my ulcers got worse. I knew something was wrong, but when you’re between a rock and a hard place with nowhere to go, sometimes embracing that physical pain is the only distraction. That’s what concerns me. In focusing on how much Daralyn needed him, how his strength helped her push her own boundaries, I’m worried that we’re overlooking just how much he needs her.”

  Marcus studied him. Inclined his head. “If you want, we’ll cancel the trip.”

  Thomas considered, struggled with it, then shook his head. “No. You’re right. We need to give him space.” A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Plus, he really would shoot me. Rory loves any excuse to pull out his guns. But thanks. I know exactly what a pain in the ass that would have been, cancelling our show appearance.”

  “Well, every time you cause a pain in my ass, it gives me a reason to inflict pain on yours.” Marcus’s green eyes flickered, a light smile on his dangerously sensual lips. “So that’s sufficient compensation.”

  Initially, it was a relief when his mother departed for her trip, Marcus and Thomas heading off to San Diego a couple days later. Though he had to handle more texts and calls from them than would have been the norm, Rory was relieved to have the house to himself. Now Amanda and Johnny were the only ones physically present who might try to push. Everyone else he could keep at arms’ length with canned friendly interaction.

  His mother had said she’d continue her daily calls to Dr. Taylor, and let him know if anything had changed. Nothing had. Nothing did.

  So here he was, eight days later. He’d closed up the store for the night, gone home, eaten a sandwich for dinner. He didn’t want to watch anything on TV, so he sat on the screened porch and stared out at the garden behind the house, the neighbor’s harvested corn field stretching out behind that. Why was the ache in his chest expanding, getting worse? Even talking was an effort.

  He didn’t want to think it, acknowledge it, but he knew the signs.

  He’d fallen out of the boat and was sinking.

  Back when he’d found out he’d never walk again, he’d reached that point without knowing that was where he was. For way too long after that, he’d only done anything thanks to serious bullying from his mother. His reaction to it had been inexcusable. If his father had been alive, Rory wouldn’t have had to worry about how to go on living. His dad had one rule not one of his kids ever broke—not if they wanted to keep breathing. No one talked disrespectfully to their mother.

  During that time, Rory had been even less restrained with Thomas. Thomas didn’t care; he’d practically dragged him out of bed to make him work in the store again.

  Eventually the who-gives-a-shit lassitude had been replaced by anger, and anger, destructive as it could be, had started him up the mountain he needed to climb to get where he eventually needed to go.

  Now he’d been blindsided by something he hadn’t expected. He was tumbling back down the rocky slope, without the will to catch himself, stop the fall. Not even the anger was there to help him.

  He hadn’t asked, but he was pretty sure Dr. Taylor hadn’t given Daralyn his messages. She’d said no contact right now, no distractions, and Rory had accepted that. However, maybe because she’d recognized where he was—or his mother had expressed her worries—the doc had suggested Rory could write to Daralyn. For himself. Later he could give Daralyn those missives, or not. It would be an outlet either way.

  He wasn’t much for writing things down. But he tried, and all he ended up doing was writing down the basic, inane wishes of the heart. I’m sorry. I miss you. I need you. I’m fucking losing my mind.

  When he’d fallen in love with Daralyn, he’d overlooked the downside of cracking open his heart. It made him vulnerable to attack in ways he’d thought he’d overcome.

  He stared up at the night sky. “Come back to me, baby,” he murmured. “I love you. Whatever you’re going through, know that you did nothing wrong. Not a damn thing to make me love you less. There’s no possible way you could ever do that. I really…I’m lost without you.”

  It was like praying, wasn’t it? If so, he was fucking it up. This was supposed to be about her. It should be about him praying for her happiness, whether that included him or not. He should ask God for strength to let her go, if that was what was best for her. For the strength to continue to be the best brother, son and friend he could be to the others in his life who counted on him.

  He needed to go to bed. He didn’t. He left the porch, pulled the axe out of the stump that served as a block and began to chop wood. The simple act of swinging and letting the cord of wood split, an ongoing chore for his mother’s wood stove and the fireplace they used in the winter, kept his mind occupied and numb.

  He worked himself into a sweat, long past when exhaustion told him to quit. The ache was still there, and he’d keep going until it became bearable.

  It didn’t.

  He fell asleep in the chair, the axe balanced on his lap. He hadn’t worn gloves, so the blisters had formed and broken. He embraced the pain.

  He didn’t rouse until he felt a hand on his shoulder, a shaking that became more insistent as he didn’t immediately care to respond. “Rory.”

  Johnny’s voice, sharp. Rory raised his head, blinked. It was past sunrise. Well past. Fuck. “Hey, Johnny.” He coughed, straightened. “Hell, sorry. What time is it?”

  “Nine-thirty.” His friend’s bearded face was grave. “I would have been here earlier, but Tim brought that grain delivery and we had those orders to fill. You left a note that you might be in late, but I thought I’d come by anyway.”

  Rory managed a smile. “I looked that bad yesterday, did I?” He coughed again, shifted. Shit. The autumn chill had gotten to him. Big surprise, with him sweating through his shirt, then sitting out here all damn night, hunched over.

  “You’ve looked better.” Johnny peered at him. “You been burning it at both ends, and pushing yourself on your workouts. The other night, you didn’t even hear me honk when I passed you on Gordon Road.” He sobered. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but we know it’s tough on you, being without her.”

  Rory gazed at him distantly. Yeah, that was a word for it. Tough. He shouldn’t be letting it knock him down like this, though.

  “I’ll go get a shower. Then I’ll get to the store.” He coughed again.

  Johnny looked at him dubiously. “Okay. But if you change your mind and want to take a day, just text me, all right? We’ll cover you.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  Rory pushed himself into the house. Handled the bathroom stuff, then pushed himself over to the shower. He sat there for a while, looking at it, imagining the effort to slide himself onto the shower chair, bathe, get back out.

  Slowly he turned, went back to his room. He transferred himself into the bed, sent Johnny that text. Then he rolled over, not caring about putting a pillow between his knees like he usually did. He probably had pressure sores forming on his ass and backs of his legs, because he hadn’t been keeping to his regimen of shifting and lifting his weight throughout the day like he was supposed to. He needed to pay attention to that.

  He needed her.

  Maybe if he went to sleep long enough, he’d figure out a way to bring her back to him. Or maybe he’d sleep long enough she’d come back to him on her own. He just wanted to talk to her. Hear her voice, know she was okay. Know that he hadn’t done this. Making her feel like she’d let him down, when he was pretty sure the opposite was true.

  Especially right now. Why was it so hard to think? Every day since she’d gone, as the feelings had expanded like an aggressive cancer, he’d tried to shame himself out of acting this way. Telling himself he was acting like a damn two-year-old who’d had a favorite toy taken away.

  The truth was, he was a man in his twenties with half a body, who felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest.

  The truth was—just like for Daralyn—even his best day meant a bigger effort to do what everyone else did without a second thought. He had to talk himself through things, over things, around things. There was a millstone always waiting, eager to yoke itself back around his neck, tell him what he’d lost. And losing her meant that millstone had doubled in size and taken him back down, even deeper than before.

  The truth was, suddenly those things he was so proud of himself for proving he could do, embrace a good life, take stock of his blessings, didn’t seem to mean much.

  The truth was, he couldn’t handle losing something again that meant as much to him—more, even—than his legs.

  Ever since she’d left, that was the feeling that had been growing inside him, taking up every spot until he had nowhere else to contain it.

  Fuck, he needed her so much. But he couldn’t reach out to her, couldn’t do that to her.

  If you tell her not to go, she won’t.

  He was afraid he’d have to live up to what he’d promised himself. He’d have to let her go permanently so she could be happy, healthy. Strong.

  If he had to do that, he could survive, keep moving, keep doing. He just wouldn’t want to.

  He drifted through the day, lying in the bed, staring blankly out the window. Coughed. Thought about getting up and finding water for his dry throat, then decided against it. He sent some texts. Short stuff, to reassure his brother and mother.

  Staying busy. Hope the trip is going well.

  For Johnny and Amanda. Feeling a little under the weather, so might need a couple days.

  Don’t know.

  That last one was for Brick’s text, which came in later that afternoon from Richmond.

  Any word on when your girl’s coming back?

  He’d answered two questions in one. Because he also didn’t know if she was his anymore.

  He woke at three a.m., having trouble breathing. He managed to push himself up to a sitting position, and his head swam. He was feverish.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. He knew better than this. Apathy was an indulgence his body couldn’t afford.

  He dragged himself into position to transfer himself to his chair. Dizziness assaulted him, but he trusted muscle memory to get him from point A to point B. Which would have worked, if he’d braked the damn chair properly. It shot out from under him and he hit the floor. The weight of his legs twisted him around, and he couldn’t stop the momentum. His forehead hit the corner of the foot board with a resounding thwack.

  He saw stars, tried to steady himself. His phone had been left on the nightstand on the other side of the bed, out of reach unless he got himself back in the chair or could drag himself over there. Fear trickled through him, an unwelcome companion he knew too well from his earlier days in the chair, when he was weak and helpless.

  “Damn it,” he snarled. The rage didn’t help. He felt nauseous, and his body wanted him to lie down, go to sleep. He was smart enough to fight it, but he was alone in the house, it was the middle of the night, and he might be too weak to get to his phone.

  If he had a concussion, he could die down here.

  No, he refused to think that. He wouldn’t do that to his mother, to his family. To Daralyn. Damn it, she’d think it was her fault.

  He was better than this. He could be better than this for her. Nothing like a near-death experience to help a guy do a one-eighty and pull his head out of his own ass, but the lesson would be lost if he became a corpse on his bedroom floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, laying his head against the mattress. Weird images were swimming around on the floor, and God, he felt sick. “Please…don’t let me do this to them. I’m sorry. I just miss her so much. I can’t be without her. Daralyn…”

  He whispered her name, felt the tears come, the anger slipping away. He’d figure this out in a minute, be strong. She should be able to expect him to be strong, except he was having trouble pulling air into his lungs in his slumped-over position. He needed to move.

  A door opened somewhere in the house. The kitchen door, maybe? As he strained his ears, he realized he could be hallucinating, caught in a delirium of wishful thinking. It was the middle of the night, after all.