Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(91)

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Right, right . . . your brothers.” Manny paused for a split second. “You’re all right, you know that.”

“Fuck . . . that . . .” The fighter smiled, flashing fangs. “I’m . . . perfect.”

Then the guy closed his eyes and lay back, his jaw so tight it was a wonder he could swallow.

Manny worked as quickly as he could without sacrificing quality. And just as he was swiping down his line of sixty sutures with a gauze cloth, he heard Jane cry out.

Jacking his head around, he muttered, “Fucking hell.”

In the doorway to the exam room, Jane’s husband was draped in the arms of Red Sox, looking like he’d been run over by a car: His skin was pasty, his eyes had rolled back in his head, and . . . holy hell, his boot—shitkicker—was facing the wrong way.

Manny called out for the nurse. “Could you bandage this?” Glancing at his current patient, he said, “I’ve got to go look at—”

“Go.” The guy slapped his shoulder. “And thanks, Doc. I won’t forget this.”

As he headed for the newest arrival, Manny had to wonder whether that goateed big-mouth was going to let him operate. Because that leg? It looked utterly destroyed even from across the damn room.




Vishous was lapsing in and out of consciousness by the time Butch got him to the exam room. That knee and hip combo of his was beyond agony and into some other kind of territory, and the overwhelming sensations were sapping his strength and his thought processes.

He wasn’t the only one in bad shape, however. As Butch lurched weakly through the doorway, he knocked V’s head against the jamb.

“Fuck!”

“Shit—sorry.”

“Drop . . . in the bucket,” V gasped as his temple started screaming, the f*cker harmonizing an a cappella version of “Welcome to the Jungle.”

To shut out the concert from hell, he opened his eyes and hoped for a distraction.

Jane was right in front of him, a suturing needle in one bloody, gloved hand, her hair pulled back by a headband.

“Not her,” he groaned. “Not . . . her . . .”

Medical professionals should never treat their mates; it was a recipe for disaster. If his knee or hip was permanently f*cked-up, he didn’t want that on her conscience. God knew they had enough problems between them already.

Manny stepped in front of his shellan. “Then I’m your only option. You’re welcome.”

Vishous rolled his eyes. Great. What a choice.

“Do you consent?” the human demanded. “Or maybe you’d like to think about it for a while so that your joints heal up like a flamingo’s. Or the leg goes gangrenous and falls the f*ck off.”

“Well, if that . . . isn’t a . . . sales pitch.”

“And the answer is . . . ?”

“Fine. Yes.”

“Get him on the table.”

Butch was careful with the layout routine, but even so, V nearly threw up over both of them as his weight was redistributed.

“Motherf*cker—” Just as the curse was leaving his lips, the surgeon’s face appeared over his own. “Word up, Manello—you don’t want . . . to be that close to me . . .”

“You want to punch me? Okay, but wait until after I’ve worked on your leg.”

“No, sick . . . to stomach.”

Manello shook his head. “I need some pain control over here. Let’s get some Demer—”

“Not Demerol,” V and Jane said together.

V’s eyes shot over in her direction. She’d gone across the way and was down on the floor, leaning over Blaylock’s stomach, stitching up a mean-looking slice. Her hands were rock-steady and her work was absolutely perfect, everything about her the very picture of professional competence. Except for the tears running down her face.

With a moan, he looked up to the chandelier above him.

“Morphine okay?” Manello asked as he cut through the sleeve of V’s biker jacket. “And don’t bother being tough. The last thing I need is you woofing all over yourself while I’m poking around down there.”

Jane didn’t answer this time, so V did. “Yeah. That’s cool.”

As a syringe was filled, Butch stepped up into the surgeon’s grille. Even as incapacitated as the cop was from the inhaling, he was straight-up deadly as he spoke. “I don’t need to tell you not to f*ck my buddy. Right.”

The surgeon looked around his little-glass-bottle-and-needle routine. “I’m not thinking about sex at the moment, thank you very much. But if I was, it sure as shit wouldn’t be with him. So instead of worrying about who I’m tapping, how’d you like to do us all a favor and have a shower. You stink.”

Butch blinked. Then smiled a little. “You have balls.”

“And they’re made of brass. Big as church bells, too.”

Next thing V knew, something cold was rubbing on the juncture of his arm; then there was a prick, and shortly thereafter, he went on a little ride, his body turning into a cotton ball, all light and airy. From time to time, pain broke through, rocking up from his gut and nailing him in the heart. But it wasn’t connected to whatever Manello was doing to his injury: V couldn’t take his eyes off his mate as she treated his brothers.