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admitted his faults, his mistakes, and did his best to learn from them with the help of his two loving Doms.
    Nearly crippled with the weight of the trepidation, Mason was forced to reach out a shaking hand and support himself against the doorjamb as a wave of nausea ripped through him. He swallowed hard, the bile burning his throat and took harsh breaths through his nose. Jesus! What had he done? What offense could he have possibly committed that had him so scared? He tried once again to poke at the bubble, but it continued to elude him.
    It was no use.
    Mason barely made it to the bathroom before falling to his knees next to the commode and retching. Tears streamed down his eyes, tears he knew not the cause of, as his stomach spasmed. Nothing came up. And he continued to dry heave. Why wasn’t his dinner coming up? They always ate dinner at six o’clock, Gregory a stickler for routine. Had he not eaten? Had that been when he messed up?
    When his stomach finally gave up and settled to a slow churn, Mason wiped a hand across his mouth and rubbed at his wet eyes.
    Where are they?
    Mason stared down at his body. His skin was a sickly pale color, and his normally flat stomach seemed to have folded in on itself. So thin. He appeared to have lost weight, a lot of weight, but that made no sense. The dark bubble floated once again to the surface. Instead of trying to poke it, he did his best to peer through the swirling clouds within it. He watched in fascination as the dark clouds pulsed, began to clear, only to darken again before he found the answer.
    You’ve gone mad .
    No! Mason forced himself to rise, the room swaying, and he held on to the counter momentarily until the sensation calmed. He wasn’t crazy. There was something going on inside his head he couldn’t explain, but he wasn’t without hope. He knew who could help him figure this out.
    Mason moved to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, held his cold hands against his burning eyes until the pain eased slightly, and then rinsed out his mouth. Grabbing a hand towel from the counter, Mason ran the soft material over his face and neck.
    His heart stopped dead in his chest when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. A stranger looked back at him, an emaciated man with hollow, dead eyes. What the fuck is wrong with me! He continued to stare at the stranger in the mirror. He blinked when Mason did, trembled as Mason did, but it couldn’t—
    Maybe I’m still dreaming .
    That had to be it. Obviously the wonderful dream he’d been having had morphed into a nightmare. Soon he’d wake wrapped in a jumble of arms and legs, and the three of them would have a good laugh together over breakfast. Charles always loved to interpret his dreams, came up with the most creative, silly reasons for them.
    Mason threw the towel at his nightmarish self in the mirror and laughed.
    Without hesitating Mason threw open the door to his bedroom, no longer concerned about the feeling of dread, and stepped inside. The blinds covered the window, but the bright sun streamed through the slits, washing the room in bright light. His blankets were still a tangled mess on the floor where he’d left them, but it was the king-size bed that seemed completely out of place. The tan bedspread was neatly in place; the white pillows rested against the headboard, neat and empty.
    Mason automatically picked up his blankets from the floor and absently folded them as he continued to stare at the bed. Where were his men? He willed himself to wake up, but even as he set his blankets on the dresser, the bed remained empty. He scanned the room to see if anything else was unusual, but everything was in its place, perfectly neat. He knew he hadn’t made the bed before leaving to make breakfast; he’d left Gregory and Charles sleeping.
    “Wake up,” Mason ordered himself and slapped his checks.
    Still the bed remained empty.
    Mason searched the room, then the guest room, the bathroom. His