Historically, back in the Old Country, it had been part of the normal functioning of life for the King to hold audiences with his subjects, ruling on everything from property disputes and petitions for sehclusion to noble matings, rythes, and even murders and other crimes.

However, when Wrath had refused to ascend to the throne for, oh, a couple of centuries, the practice fell by the wayside. All that had changed recently, though, and now the tradition was back in full swing, the audiences being conducted out of the Federal-style mansion Darius had lived in before he’d been blown up in his BMW by the enemy: Every night, Monday through Friday, members of the race came to the great Blind King and sought his advice, counsel, declarations, and blessings.

And tonight’s docket was full, Rhage thought as he opened the double doors to the dining room yet again and let out a hellren with his shellan and new baby son. The couple were commoners, dressed in clean but unfancy clothes, their miracle wrapped up in a humble swaddling blanket. Ordinarily, Rhage would have nodded and just let them go, but now he really looked at the family, and even rushed forward to open the heavy main door for them.

“You take care of them,” he said to the male.

The guy seemed flustered to be spoken to at all by a brother, and as he stammered, Rhage put a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “I know you will.”

“Yes, my Lord, yes,” he said with a bow. “I shall lay down my life for them both.”

Rhage smiled at the female and the young, but he made no move to touch them—certainly not the female, definitely not the baby. That would have broken protocol: Even though he was at the top of the food chain socially and accorded all kinds of honor and respect, it would have been inconceivable in the Old Country for a newborn and its mother to have contact with a male, even in a formal setting, during the first year of life.

It was funny, ever since they had started up with the audiences again, Rhage and the brothers had fallen into the Old Ways again. It just felt right.

Especially in this case, now that Rhage knew firsthand what it was like to be a dad.

“Congratulations again,” he said to the couple as he stood to the side and watched them go off into the cold.

The female’s father was waiting for them in the driveway in a ten-year-old Honda Accord, and the way the guy jumped out and beamed at the young family, you’d have sworn he was driving a Rolls-Royce.

Rhage gave the grandfather a wave, which floored the male and caused him to bow so fast he nearly fell over—and then Hollywood shut the door to keep the winter breeze from sucking all the warmth out of the foyer.

“Last night’s good weather was just a chimera, huh,” he said to the receptionist.

Paradise’s second cousin, Beline, looked up from her computer. “I know, right? Don’t tell anyone, but under my desk, I’ve taken my heels off and put fleece socks on.”

Rhage nodded to the fire, which had gone down a lot since he’d stoked it an hour ago. “You want me to throw some more wood on?”

“No, thanks.” She smiled and pushed up her glasses. “It’s just my feet.”

There were two people in the waiting room, but there was another wave coming in.

On a lot of levels, he’d rather be in the field, or beating the crap out of the trainees, but he never was at full capacity right after the beast made an appearance, and it was better for him to pull this admin shift now.

After all, every brother had to put in time here, fulfilling their duty as personal guard to Wrath. Between humans, lessers, and members of the glymera linking up with the Band of Bastards, they didn’t take any chances with the King’s life: There were always a minimum of two members of the Brotherhood on site with Wrath. Tonight, it was he and Vishous, which was always fun.

Mostly because the pair of them could do good cop/bad cop. Or rather, V could sit there with his icy eyes and his hands rolled, making the civilians shit themselves in their pants, and Rhage could be a yo-ho-ho, Steve Harvey– on– Family Feud grin-and-greeter.

Striding back to what had been the dining room, Rhage stood in between the carved jambs and waited as Saxton reviewed a couple of documents with Wrath down at the far end by the flap door into the kitchen. Saxton was frickin’ amazing, keeping all the paperwork and documentation straight as well as making sure that the Old Laws were consulted when appropriate.

The set-up for the private meetings was simple and very non-thronal: just two armchairs facing each other in front of the fire, one for the King and one for his subjects—although there were other seats off to the side to be pulled in as needed. Whichever brothers were on stayed at a discreet distance, with Saxton at a desk that was halfway in between. There was a rolling cart of coffee, tea, and sodas, along with cookies and other kinds of snacks—

A blast of cold air whipped into the foyer behind him, and Rhage turned with a smile at whoever … it …

… was …

Rhage’s heart didn’t so much stop … as die in his chest.

The male who had come in was young and healthy, heavily muscled, but not obviously weaponed, as if he were a manual laborer of some kind as opposed to a fighter. His clothes were so well washed that his jeans fell from his hips like drapes, and his jacket was way too light for December. Construction boots were well worn. No jewelry. Nothing in his hands. No strange scents on him.

All of that was incidental to what had driven a stake right through Rhage’s sternum.

The face … was Bitty’s.

The male’s face had the same nose and cheeks, the same jaw and mouth, the features simply passed through a filter of masculinity and age. And then there was the hair—his hair was the exact shade of brown and the precise thickness even though it was shorter.

The eyes were a carbon copy, too.

The male didn’t look Rhage’s way, but instead, went to the reception desk, one hand lifting up to his temples as if he usually wore a hat and was reflexively trying to take it off.

Fast footsteps approached from behind Rhage, but he didn’t pay them any mind, at least not until V appeared with a gun out.

“What the fuck’s wrong?” the brother demanded.

Rhage tried to answer. Well, he guessed he did. Something was coming out of his mouth.

“What?” V demanded, looking all around and seeing nothing wrong. “Are you okay?”

It was at that moment that the male, who was clearly a relative of Bitty’s, glanced up from the reception desk, as if he had heard Vishous’s voice. And the second V saw what he was doing, the brother cursed long and low.

Rhage’s phone began to ring, but he didn’t even think of answering it.

In slow motion, he took step after step toward the male.

Whoever the guy was, he had refocused on the receptionist and was speaking in a quiet voice with a commoner’s accent—but then he stopped and turned as Rhage halted in front of him.

Rhage said nothing as he stared into those eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the male said. “I don’t have an appointment. I wasn’t sure where to go. I can leave. I’ll just leave—I gave her my number. I’m not looking for any trouble.”

The male lifted his fists up as if he were ready to defend himself, even against a brother—but it was clear he would prefer not to have to: His stare was level without being aggressive, his affect calm and watchful as his stance widened, and he settled his weight.

It was the classic preparation of someone used to fighting, who was also not an instigator.

“What is your name?” Rhage asked, grimly aware that people were coming around them. V, Saxton … even Wrath himself.

Don’t say it, Rhage prayed. Don’t say it, dontsayit—

“Ruhn. My name is Ruhn. My sister died about two months ago. I’m here for my niece, Lizabitte.”

Mary put her phone down again and lifted her hands to her face. As she stared at the computer screen, reading and rereading the short PM, she was screaming in her head even as she remained silent.

“Rhage …,” she moaned. “Oh, God …”

Back with the phone. Calling him again. Voice mail for the fourth time.

He had to be in with the King, but God! why now—

“Calm down,” she said aloud. “Breathe and relax.”

This could be anything. Someone who was playing a practical joke—who just happened to have the name that Bitty had used. Somebody who had heard Mary was mated to a Brother and wanted to take advantage of that by posing as Bitty’s uncle—even though … well, she hadn’t identified herself as a foster parent.

Or maybe it was a total mistake, a message for somebody else entirely.

Yeah, ’cuz that was likely.

“Damn it, Rhage.”

Her hands were shaking so badly that she fumbled the cell phone, and had to bend over and fish around the dark foot-well of the desk to find the thing.

The downward repositioning was kind of handy, really, considering she was seriously thinking about throwing up.

Righting herself, she looked—

Marissa was in the open doorway of her office and her boss seemed like she had seen a ghost. Great. Did the universe have a BOGO on potentially life-shattering events tonight?

“Mary.”

The instant she heard the grim tone of voice, Mary clamped her molars together and thought, Nope, not a two-for-one. This was about her. This was about the private message.

Or that Rhage had been hurt or killed.

Mary got to her feet. “Tell me.”

“You have to get to the Audience House right now. A young male has shown up and—”

“He says he’s Bitty’s uncle.”

Marissa came in. “Did Rhage call you?”

“No. I … it doesn’t matter.”

Mary reached for her coat. Dropped it as she had the phone. Took two tries to pick the thing up. Then couldn’t get her arm through the sleeve.

“Zsadist is outside.” Marissa helped her with the sleeves and then pulled the lapels to order as if Mary were a child. “He’s going to drive you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“No.” Marissa handed Mary her purse. Her phone. Put her red scarf around her neck and tied it in a loose knot. “He’s going to take you.”

Marissa stepped back so Mary could go out first.

But Mary didn’t move. Somehow, the messages from her brain to her feet were getting lost in the pathways of her gray matter, the command to left-and-right it out of her office, to the stairs, and down to the front door scattering like autumn leaves in a cold north wind.

Her family. Her precious little family.

Her and Rhage, now with Bitty.

Or maybe … not with Bitty.

“I just want to go back,” she heard herself whisper through sudden tears. “I want to run the night back, I want a reverse lever, a way to back up. I want to be at home during the day, watching movies and sleeping with them both.”

It was emotions, not logic, speaking, of course. Because even if there were a magic remote that could rewind time, the private message would still have been sent … and the collision would still be occurring.

Even more to the point, if by some horrible fate the male actually was Bitty’s uncle? Mary had no right to rob the little girl of her blood relatives.

“I can’t do this.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I can’t do this.…”

Marissa hugged her close and she clung to her friend. There were no words spoken, because what could be said? This might be a fraud.

Or this might be a rightful, totally legal parental figure coming to claim Bitty.

“Rhage is there,” she said suddenly as she jerked back. “Oh, God … Rhage … is at the Audience House.”

That’s why he wasn’t answering the phone. The uncle or whatever had shown up at the Audience House.

Mary broke into a run for the stairs, her formerly paralyzed legs putting a rush to the descent.

As she hit the front door with Marissa now racing behind her, her tears were flowing fast, streaking off her face. She didn’t pay them any mind. She tore across the lawn, feeling nothing of the cold, or the fact that her purse was slapping against her hip, or that she had her phone locked in a death grip in her other hand.

Z was right by Rhage’s GTO, his skull-trimmed hair and his scarred face glowing in the darkness like a destination.

He opened the passenger door for her, and when she jumped in and couldn’t work the seat belt, he reached inside, even though he hated being close to people, and clicked the tab into place. A split second later, he was behind the wheel and roaring the engine to life.

The tires skidded out on the pavement as he floored the accelerator, the powerful engine fishtailing the rear end before rubber tread found purchase and they exploded forward.

As they sped off, Mary was panting, panting so hard, panting—until she was dizzy and had to lean forward and brace her hands against the dashboard.

Even though they had had Bitty for such a short time, the girl was like a part of Mary’s body, and not an arm or a leg. More like an organ you couldn’t live without. The heart. The brain. The soul. Only in this case, no transplants.

God, she couldn’t do this—

Zsadist covered her hand with one of his, and stayed like that, relinquishing his hold only when he had to shift. And the sense of his strength was the only thing that kept her from screaming out loud until she shattered the windshield in front of her.

She was going to remember this car ride for the rest of her life.

Tragically.