The one he really didn’t like, though, was that Craeg guy—although that was actually more because of the way everybody, even Paradise, treated him like he was the anointed leader of the group.

Not that Peyton was looking for that job, but come on. Nobody had a lock on any of this yet. There was no reason to be getting out the pedestal so soon.

And that wasn’t the only thing that bugged him about the guy. There was something else about the male, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. An instinct, maybe? A sense of some kind of threat?

He didn’t know—but he was damn sure going to figure that one out.

And then there was that Novo female.

Stretching in his chair in the break room, Peyton surreptitiously glanced in her vague-ish direction. She was laying out on the sofa to the left, her long, long, long legs crossed at the ankles, her hands clasped over her flat stomach like she was dead. Her hair was iris-black, stick straight, and plaited tight as a rope. Her skin was honey-brown, and he had never, ever in his fucking life seen a female built with that kind of muscle.

He’d spent most of the day trying to avoid measuring her breasts—mostly because he wasn’t sure whether she’d cut his balls off if she noticed.

Rubbing his eyes, he wanted a blunt so badly he was shaking from it.

Maybe Paradise had a point about the drug use.

Then again, it had been one long frickin’ night and one weird frickin’ day. After he’d made sure Paradise was awake and eating, the rest of them—except for Craeg the Great Fanged One who was better than everybody else—had gone for a wander around the facilities, found a doggen and asked for more food. Then they’d come back here to find Paradise once again in the bunk room asleep, and Craeg sitting up in a chair with his eyes closed.

Probably contemplating how superior his belly lint was to everyone else’s.

At that point, without a lot of conversation, they’d each picked a spot in the unadorned room and proceeded to not sleep very much or very well. Much as he hated to admit the weakness, he was still jumping at any sound that was out of place, his adrenal gland on hyper-alert even though the nurse who’d examined him had told him that the trial was over and nothing else of an electrical-shock/throat-punch nature was going to come at them—

Without warning, Paradise stuck her head out the bunk room door, like maybe she was expecting to find herself left behind.

As Peyton opened his mouth to say her name, he caught Craeg’s eyes shifting over to her … and pulling the classic head-to-toe males did when they were frickin’ man-whore sonsabitches.

It was his own signature move, for fuck’s sake.

Before he could bark at the guy to back off, the door to the outer hall opened wide, and two enormous males walked in like they owned the place.

Brothers.

Talk about coming to attention. All six of the loafer trainees were up and out of their whatevers like someone had goosed them in the ass. By the bunk room door, Paradise straightened and pulled her robe lapels even closer.

The Brother on the left was dressed in jeans and a black shirt—and he was quite possibly the largest living thing Peyton had ever seen outside of an elephant. He was also so good-looking, you had to wonder why the Scribe Virgin had dumped all that hotness on one guy—as opposed to spreading it more evenly over a cast of thousands.

And next to him was a slightly shorter male who was built like a bulldog, drinking a coffee, and wearing a Boston Red Sox sweatshirt.

“The beauty queen next to me is Rhage,” the guy in the sweatshirt said. “I’m Butch. And we already know who the fuck you are. The time is currently six o’clock in the evening. You will have one hour to shower in the locker rooms, dress in the uniforms that will be brought to you, and come back here to eat. After that, we want you lined up outside in the corridor. Anyone who is late is out of the program.”

Butch? Peyton wondered. The Brother’s name was Butch?

As in from the human world…?

Wait a minute.

“You’re the Dhestroyer,” Peyton heard himself say. “Holy shit, I know who you are. You’re mated to Marissa, blooded daughter of—”

“Any questions?” Butch talked over him. “Good. I didn’t think so. One hour. That’s all you got.”

With that shutdown, the male turned and left.

The Brother Rhage gave them a smile. “Try the tenderloin. It’s fucking awesome. And the lamb, too. Oh, and the mashed potatoes. Skip the salad. Waste of chewing. Later.”

At least he didn’t seem to want to kill them, Peyton thought as the door closed once again.

“Wonder what the uniforms look like,” Paradise said.

“This isn’t a fashion show,” Craeg bit out.

Peyton bared his fangs at the guy. “Do you want a problem, asshole? ’Cause I can arrange that.”

Craeg’s head swiveled toward him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Peyton had no clue what got his feet moving, but before he knew it, he was nose-to-nose with the SOB. “Let’s get this straight. You don’t look at her. You don’t talk to her. And you really, totally fucking do not disrespect her. Are we clear.”

The male’s eyes shifted to Paradise. “Think your boy over here is a little territorial. You mind calling him off before he gets hurt?”

Annnnnnnnd it was on.

Peyton had no conscious thought of going for the motherfucker, but next thing he knew, he was on the male like a coat of paint, fists punching, arms grappling, legs kicking.