The following nightfall, Mary watched from the end of Bitty’s bed as the girl mulled over which coat to wear out. One was a puffy parka that was red and black, a gift from the King that was, as far as Mary could tell, like bubble-wrapping the kid—Rhage had even joked that it was the Gore-Tex equivalent of one of those human hamster balls that people got into and bounced down hills. The other choice was a sedate, navy blue peacoat, the old-fashioned kind with the sailor buttons and the collar you could stand up like Dracula’s.

A part of Mary’s heart ached that this was the first time in Bitty’s life that she’d had any kind of decision to make. Before, coming out of poverty, she had been lucky to have anything at all—and the idea the girl had spent so many winters cold was enough to make Mary nauseous.

“I don’t see why I have to go to the clinic,” the girl said as she put the parka back in her closet.

Mary had known all along that the wool coat was going to be the choice. Rhage had given the thing to the girl—and Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, might have been the King of the entire race, but no one held a candle to Bitty’s father.

And tonight was going to be scary.

“Do you think there’s something wrong?” Bitty said as she came back from the closet.

“No,” Mary said. “I don’t. But it’s better to know that for sure rather than simply hope that’s the truth.”

“I’m not sore, though.” Bitty walked over to the dressing table and sat down in front of the three-part mirror. “And all pretrans are small.”

“I agree.” Boy, Mary hated to bring up the abuse. “The reality is, though, that your body has been through a lot. It doesn’t mean that you won’t get through your transition and be tall and strong. But what if there’s something we can do now to make sure that happens?”

“Is it because of the broken bones?”

“Yes.”

Bitty fell silent, picking up the hairbrush and running it through the long brown waves that fell past her shoulders—even though she’d already brushed them. And Mary gave the kid space, passing the time looking around the room … and wondering what else they could do to make the otherwise formal surroundings more what a thirteen-year-old girl would be into. Bitty didn’t demand anything, though, and she seemed content.

There also had been a lot of new purchases lately—and it was hard not to give the little girl the world.

Hard, too, to stop the frickin’ Brothers from spoiling her rotten. Bitty had arrived at the Brotherhood mansion with two battered suitcases, a doll head, and her old tiger, Mastimon—and within a night or two, her football team’s worth of overprotective pains in the asses, better known as the BABUs (Bad-Ass Big Uncles), had been laying things at her doorway like offerings to an altar.

Actually, Lassiter called the uncle squad Baboons or Buffoons. And then the beatings occurred. But yeah …

Oh, and that fallen angel was the worst of the bunch when it came to presents. Just tonight, at First Meal, he’d given her yet another copy of the Deadpool DVD and a sweatshirt that had a red and black rendering of Dory with “Where’s Francis?” printed on the front.

“I really don’t want to go to Havers’s clinic,” Bitty said as she looked at herself in the mirror. “I’m scared.”

Mary closed her eyes, recalling Bitty getting treatment there for what her biological father did to her. “Rhage and I are going to be with you the whole time. We aren’t going to leave your side.”

“Can’t Doc Jane do whatever needs to be done at her clinic?”

“I’m sorry, but she can’t.”

“Can she come with us?”

“No, honey, she has her work to do here. But she’s going to talk to Havers herself after all the tests come back. And so will Dr. Manello and maybe even V.”

Bitty put the brush down and ran her palm over her hair. “Okay.”

God, she was so small sitting there, and Mary would have given anything to be the one about to be poked and prodded and X-rayed and imaged. Bitty had been through so much, her poor little body absorbing blows and stress that most adults would have had trouble living through. And the actual experiences had been bad enough. The idea that she was still having to deal with them seemed grossly unfair.

“I think afterward,” Mary said as she got to her feet, “Rhage is going to take the night off and hang out with us.”

“He told me we can have ice cream and watch a movie, if I wanted.”

“You got it.”

When Bitty didn’t stand up, Mary went over. “I’m not going to leave you.”

“Promise?” came the whisper. “I’m scared.”

Mary put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I swear that I will never leave you.”

Thank you, Scribe Virgin. And thank you, Rhage. When they’d decided to move forward with the adoption process, she and Rhage had agreed that even if he died first, Mary would stay with Bitty. Of course, they hadn’t told the girl about all that. There just hadn’t been a right time yet.

Bitty took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s—”

The knock on the door cut her off, and then came Rhage’s deep voice, muffled: “How’re my females in there? We ready?”

“Yup.”

“Yes.”

Rhage opened things up and there he was, big and beautiful, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his preternatural physical perfection the kind of thing Mary still did a double take on every once in a while. With blond hair that was thick and wavy, eyes that were the color of the ocean in the Bahamas, and teeth so white they looked like bathroom tile—even though they’d never been bleached—he was a legend in the race with the females for a good reason.

He was also totally and completely devoted to her and her alone.

It had taken Mary some time to get used to that, to trust it. After all, he could have had anyone or anything he wanted in a mate—someone blond and tall and gorgeous like him. Instead … he only had eyes for her, a brunette with a nice enough face, and a body that had been rendered infertile thanks to chemo.

Rhage thought she was a beauty queen, however, and funny, when she was around him and he was staring at her the way he did? She sure as hell felt like one.

As Bitty burst up and rushed over to him, he got down on one knee so he was closer to her height. And he took her hands, his larger palms engulfing her smaller ones.

“You ready to get this over with so we can watch Deadpool again?”

Mary shook her head. “You guys are in a serious rut.”

“ ‘So what’s it gonna be?’ ” Bitty quipped. “ ‘Long sullen silence or mean comment?’ ”

“ ‘You got me in a box here,’ ” Rhage shot back.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes …” Bitty curled up her fists and pumped the air as she turned in a little circle.

“Promise me again,” Mary cut in, “that you don’t look at the adult parts.”

Bitty and Rhage both covered their eyes as he replied, “Nope. We assume the position and wait till the ugliness passes.”

Pick your battles, Mary reminded herself. You gotta pick your battles.

As the three of them headed out of the suite in a clutch, Mary said, “You know, you could try watching some other things? There are some wonderful documentaries out there on social issues that …”

She let the pitch trail off as the two of them turned around and stared at her as if she’d suggested spray-painting obscenities all over the foyer. Or firing Fritz. Or off-loading Rhage’s GTO on eBay for scrap metal.

“How are you two not blood relations,” she muttered. “But at least you might grow out of this, Bitty.”

The girl came in close and gave one of her hugs, tight and quick. “Maybe.”

As they headed down to the second floor, Rhage said, “Bit, you know we’re not leaving you, right? It’s not appropriate for me to be with you the whole time, but Mary will be, and I’ll be in the waiting room or just outside in the corridor—”

When they emerged out of the stairwell, they stopped on a oner.

Right outside of the King’s study, there was a group of people waiting: Doc Jane, in her surgical scrubs; Manny, in his white coat; Vishous, dressed for war; and Zsadist, in Adidas, with weapons all over him.

Oh, and Lassiter.

In a hockey mask and football pads.

“Well, this is a sweet send-off,” Rhage said as he went to clap hands with his Brothers.

“We’re not sending you off.” Lassiter pounded his pads. “We’re your entourage.”

Mary blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Jane smiled and focused on Bit. “We’re coming with you.”

“Not that the ’rents can’t handle it,” Lassiter volunteered from behind his mask. “But let’s face it, I’m working on my defensive tackle position and this will be good practice. That pencil-necked nightmare of a doctor gets too pokey and I’ma turn him into a splatter painting.”

Vishous put both hands up to his face and rubbed hard. Like in his mind, he was throwing a beat-down in the angel’s direction, but he knew he couldn’t draw blood in front of the girl—and the self-control required was killing him.

“You can stay home,” V muttered. “You really can totally f-in’ stay the f home, you f’ed-up mother-f’ing f-twit.”

Lassiter clasped his breastplate, and swooned like Julie Andrews. “Don’t you love it when he can’t swear? Warms my cockles—it’s like watching a drunk on roller skates try to play dodgeball in the dark—”

Zsadist, who rarely spoke, cut the metaphors off. “We don’t want you three going alone. So we’re coming with you. Some things you need your family for.”

As Rhage cleared his throat like his emotions were getting the best of him, Mary said roughly, “Thank you so much. I really … we really appreciate this.”

Z stepped forward to Bit, and if you went by appearances alone, any parent would want the Brother as far away from their child as possible: with his tattooed slave bands and his scarred face and his enormous warrior’s body with all those weapons on it, he looked more like an abductor than a loving uncle.

Without saying a word, he put out his hand.

And without missing a beat … the little survivor took the big survivor’s palm.

Bitty and Z had always had a special connection. Then again, when you had been forced to endure the cruelty of another for years, there was always going to be a separator between you and the world, no matter how much time had passed or how many good things happened to you since.

That common ground united the pair of them. And although Mary would have wished for something else to bring them together, she was always glad—especially on a night like tonight—that Bitty had Zsadist in her life.

As the pair of them hit the grand staircase, it was as if a bell had been rung and the gates to the race opened, the assembled masses following them down to where Fritz was waiting outside with his black Mercedes.

The great thing about family, Mary mused, was that they showed up.

When it really mattered, your family, be they blood or by choice, were always where you needed them to be, even though they had busy lives and jobs and children of their own.

“Hey,” Lassiter said as he opened the way through the vestibule, “will anyone slap a puck around with me to pass the time?”

“No,” everybody, including Bitty, shot back.

“But I will slap the f-in’ crap out of something else,” V said under his breath.

“I love it when you talk dirty to me. Gimme a hug. C’mon, you know you wanna.…”

Nothing.

Elise knew nothing about where she stood: not whether she was able to keep going to school, or if she were stuck in proverbial jail, or even if she still had a roof over her head.

After she had gone to see Peyton out at the cigar bar, and had the collision-as-meeting encounter with that trainee as she’d been leaving, she’d come home and waited for her father’s return. On the bottom step of the carved staircase right across from the front door. Like a lost child.

Three hours later, he had walked in, his head down, his shoulders slumped, his spirit as deflated as a fragile balloon.

He hadn’t even looked at her—or even seemed aware that she was in the foyer. He’d just gone directly to his study and closed himself in.

Well … good talk, Dad, she’d thought. Breaking all kinds of new ground, aren’t we.

But really, how could she have expected anything else?

After an internal debate about the merits of interjecting herself into whatever process he was working through, she’d gone up and gotten into bed. No sleep for her during the day, but that hadn’t just been about her father and the sehclusion petition.

She couldn’t stop thinking about that male … his tattoos, and his piercings, the way he’d looked at her, what he’d said. She’d spent a lot of time replaying that scene on the sidewalk. In her head? They were still back there in the falling snow arguing, the sexual tension so thick it was like a rope she could pull on.

It was a shock, given the very real issues she was dealing with in her life, that she had any interest at all in making things even more chaotic. But she wished she’d given him her number. She was, however, glad she hadn’t—because if he did call her? She would see him again, and what a recipe for disaster that would be.

You didn’t need to know the specifics about a male like that to be fully aware he was a Taylor Swift song waiting to happen.

Or worse—

“Enough,” she said as she stood up from her bed. “Enough with the stewing.”

Her father would be downstairs in his study by now. So it was time to go face the music, as her mother used to say, and talk with him.

As Elise stepped out of her room, she pulled up short. Her father was just emerging from his suite down the hall, and he paused, too.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Father, I—”

He turned away without a word, his hand rising over his shoulder in classic stop fashion. “Not now.”

“Then when,” she demanded.

Her father did not respond. He simply kept going, striding down the hall to the formal staircase and disappearing on the descent.

Short of throwing herself in front of him, she didn’t know how to force him to engage. And even then, he was likely to just Conrail over her.

“Son of a bitch,” she hissed.

Maybe it was time to move out. But undoubtedly, he would cut her off, so how would she pay for anything?

The only reason she was able to go to university now was because of scholarships she’d earned. And they didn’t cover things like room and board.

A sudden urge to throw something had her turning her head toward an antique side table. That vase of flowers would be perfect, the thin neck at the top fitting easily in her palm, the weight of the water and the imported roses heavy enough to make her feel like she could do some damage, but not enough to hinder distance.

Shifting her eyes across the way, she stared at the closed door of the suite where her aunt and uncle stayed.

Her uncle would be out and about soon, but her aunt was no doubt still sleeping. Usually the female stayed in bed until after Elise got back from uni, rising only long enough to do her hair and makeup before returning to her satin pillows. It was no way to live, but after what had happened to her daughter? And the loss of her son?

Elise cursed … and then found herself on the move.

The next thing she knew, she was standing in front of her dead cousin’s door. From a distance, she watched as her hand reached out, clasped the knob, and turned it. When she pushed inside, she caught a whiff of the perfume Allishon had always worn. Poison by Dior—old school, to be sure, but it had fit so well on the female.

Elise had always thought that if the color purple had had a scent, that fragrance would have been it.

Without a sound, she shut herself in and flicked the light switch.

Illumination bloomed in the room, emanating from the crystal chandelier in the center of the high ceiling. The bed was across the way, strewn with pale blue linens that had white and gold accents, and sporting enough pillows to put a Macy’s display in the shade. The walls were papered with handmade Stark, the French scene of peach-and-yellow birds frolicking between blooming fruit trees something you could see down in the gardens during the good months. On the floor, the carpet was thick and of a cream that was so pale, it was nearly white, and the drapes framing the windows were the pale blue of a summer dress and just as diaphanous.

The decor was perfect for a young female of worth.

And yet Allishon’s possessions were the off-notes in the room: a black robe that was part priest, part demon worshipper; a crystal skull on the mantel over the fireplace; books with black and blood-red leather covers scattered in the far corner by a tapestry-covered pallet. There were also chunky black boots that were tall enough to go up over the knee … a high-heeled shoe without a mate that had a gun for a heel … black duffel bags filled with God only knew what else.

It was hard not to see the evidence of her cousin’s other life like potholes in a perfectly paved road. But how judgmental was that.

“No way to think,” she groaned as she rubbed her stiff neck.

The reality, though, was that something evil had come across Allishon’s path as she had searched for herself on the wild side. And that was Felixe’s point, wasn’t it.

Elise frowned as she thought about that trainee with the tattoos. He was everything that her sire was worried about her finding. Except she hadn’t met him at university—and that was her point.

“Just as well,” she muttered to the vacant room. “I’m not going to see him again.”