She turned to look at him. This was a Synjon Wise she’d never met before, but had fantasized about in the wee hours of the night when she’d been on her own, looking for Cruen, scared, lonely. The real and open Synjon. The nurturer, the gentle, thoughtful, sensual, playful caretaker.

“They’ll come to pick up whatever you don’t like,” he continued, his eyes on her, studying her expression.

She heard him, knew what he was saying, and yet she found herself asking, “When did you do this?”

“While you were sleeping.”

Overcome with the moment, the gesture, the happiness inside her, she rose on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her eyes searched his. “Santa, right?”

He laughed. “No, veana. Just a father.”

She gasped, stilled, her gaze locked with his. Oh, gods. His words. This was bad. Or it could be bad. Even she hadn’t gone there in her mind. She’d wanted to. So badly. But she knew where it led. That impossible road. Damn it, why did he have to say that? Something so completely committed? When neither of them knew what the future held. When he was still determined to destroy her father.

“Petra?” His eyes searched her own. She wondered what he saw there. The truth, or a veana so in love that she was overcome by his thoughtfulness?

“I don’t know what to say,” she said.

“You like it?”

She nodded. “I bloody love it.”

His face broke into a ridiculously gorgeous smile. “I told you. No one claims this balas but me.”

Right. The balas.

And what about her?

Don’t ruin it. Don’t. For yourself. For him. For Little Fangs. Just don’t. Because odds are you’ll hear something in there you don’t want to deal with right now.

Her gaze traveled the length of the beautiful pine tree. It smelled amazing. It smelled like family and memories, and a new couple sharing their first Christmas.

She wondered if it would be the same next year. Or if this was it, all she would get.

He broke from her grasp, leaned down, grabbed one of the presents, and held it out to her. “Ready?”

If this was all she got, she was going to enjoy it without regrets.

She ripped off the paper, flung open the box, and squealed like a young female when she saw a tiny T-shirt with the words “Little Fangs” printed on it.

• • •

He was nearly ready to return what should never have belonged to him in the first place. What had been forced on him. What had tried to take him down, make him so ineffectual and weak he might’ve truly gone through with what the bloodletter had said.

Begged Synjon Wise to remove his emotions.

But that was no longer the only option. The water shifter’s flesh, though beyond vile to force down, was slowly rebuilding his power grid. Granted, each burst was short-lived, so he’d been experimenting with stacking his feedings. Once every few hours, then once per hour, then every thirty minutes.

The water shifters had watched him carefully. Taking notes, asking questions, making sure that Cruen had the best and most aged flesh. He’d even been experimenting with his flash. Short trips, and only at night because he knew the Romans and the mutores were searching for him. It took consuming flesh at nearly fifteen-minute intervals, but he could finally travel and return without feeling weakened by the effort.

Tonight, he was going to see his guard. Make sure the male had remained near the gathering stones. If he had, it would tell Cruen everything he needed to know about the guard’s loyalty.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have to die after all.

Stuffing a good-size chunk of flesh into his mouth and another in his pocket, Cruen left the water shifters’ haven and flashed to a stand of trees just a few yards from the gathering stones. Looking around, sniffing the air, he didn’t see or sense the guard, and his anger flared to life, bringing forth visions of quick justice. But then he realized that the male would not remain out in the open. Not with the search for his master going on.

He hated to use his new power for anything other than taking down Wise, but he needed to meet with his guard first.

Checking for movement in the surrounding forest, and finding it quiet, he flashed to a wooded area at the back of the stones and waved his hand in a deep arc.

The guard’s position, his hiding spot, was instantly revealed. And though Cruen felt a twinge of the old weakness stir within him, he moved steadily toward the male.

“Good. You remain.”

The male, who was just emptying his bladder, turned and nodded at Cruen. “Of course, sir.”

“I have nearly completed my business with the shifters and will soon be returning to the States.”

The male eyed him a little too closely. “And when will that be, sir?”

Cruen sniffed. “You don’t question me, male.”

He lowered his head, but his eyes remained fixed on Cruen. “Of course, sir.”

“But I will tell you this, since you have been a loyal servant to me thus far. My strength has nearly returned, and I won’t need your flash.”

“Yet you want me to remain, sir?”

“I will be using your abilities for something far more satisfying than a mere flash.” His mouth curved upward, and his hand reached into his pocket and palmed the slimy flesh. “Be ready, male. We will be traveling soon.”

• • •

Syn had amassed his fortune by blowing up shit, protecting shit, rescuing shit, and keeping his nose out of shit that didn’t concern him. He’d been a ghost and an assassin. A lover and a bastard. A good Samaritan and a decent friend. But he believed that in all that time, all those years, he’d never experienced a moment that was perfectly and utterly fun.

Until now.

He leaned back against the club chair and watched Petra go through all the toys and books, baubles and clothing again, her face glowing like a bloody candle. Who would’ve thought that a soon-to-be-stack-of-firewood, some lights, and a few baby gifts would make a veana so happy?

He grinned.

He’d done this. And he was right bloody proud of himself, he was.

“Anything you don’t like, love?”

“Are you kidding? It’s all perfect. I don’t know how you managed it.”

“Could be because I myself am perfect.”

She glanced up, gave him a crooked smile. “Yeah, that must be it.”

He chuckled. “Well, it’s not over yet.”

“Oh, jeez,” She glanced around, “You don’t have a pony or something stashed somewhere, do you?”

Pony. Yes, all children liked to ride those small animals. He’d have to buy a house upstate. Somewhere with a lot of land, stables.

“Synjon.”

He looked up. “Yes, love?”

“I was kidding. No one needs anything else here.”

“Except you.” Grinning like a bloody fool, he reached behind himself, under the chair and took out a final gift. “Happy Christmas, Petra.”

She took the small box from him, then found his gaze and shook her head. “What is this?”

“Just a little something for you.”

“You’ve already done way too much.” Her shoulders slumped and she looked embarrassed. “And I don’t have anything for you.”

He leaned toward her, put a hand on her belly. “Yes, you do.”

He watched her eyes turn color. From the palest of blue to a rich, brilliant sapphire. And within those beautiful orbs, Syn saw something that equally pleased and terrified him. Love. Petra was in love with him.

Something gripped his heart muscle and squeezed the ruddy shite out of it. He thought it was probably his conscience, but he’d been under the impression it wasn’t working. Petra loved him. They had a balas on the way. And he was still intent on Cruen’s destruction. In this very fucking house, no less.

His mind hummed. Maybe Petra didn’t have to know anything. Maybe he could keep the fact that Cruen resided and suffered and died under this roof to himself.

His lip curled.

Was he truly that cold?

Christ, he used to be. Now things were different. So different. Because of her and the balas. They’d changed him somehow. They’d forced new and compelling emotions out of him. He didn’t know how that could be possible, but it was true.

She was still staring at him with unabashed affection.

He nodded at the box, commanded gently, “Open it.”

That seemed to pull her out of the trance she was in, and she shook her head and tugged the red ribbon off the box. Her hands shook slightly as she pried off the top.

“Oh . . . ,” she breathed, her fingers running over the small diamond key necklace. “It’s beautiful.”

“I want you to stay, Petra.”

She looked up. “What?”

“That key. It’s not a real key to the door, of course, but it means the same.” Christ, he sounded like a rambling idiot. Which made him realize how desperately he wanted her to say yes. “Will you think about it?”

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.

Synjon felt the first of many waves of excruciating pain wash over him. He started to get up, but Petra’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“I’m shaking my head, Mr. Wise,” she said, her mouth curving up into a brilliant smile, “not because I’m declining your offer, but because I don’t have to think about it.”

“Oh, bloody hell, veana. I nearly lost my mind there for a moment.”

She reached up and touched his cheek. “I’m willing to give up the Rain Forest, my family, all I’ve known for you.”

He grinned broadly.

Her eyes remained serious. “What will you give up for me?”

“Anything. Everything,” he said without hesitation.

“Will you give up my father?”

Synjon’s smile died a quick, disastrous death, and his gut tightened painfully. What she was saying . . . Christ, what she was asking . . . She didn’t know . . .

“Can you do that?” She swallowed, watching him carefully. “If you can’t, please tell me now. I promise there’ll be no hard feelings, no anger, no bitterness. I know how important the balas is to you, and I wouldn’t keep him or her from you. But I need to know for me.” She closed her eyes and took a quick breath, then opened them again. “I want to be with you more than anything. But if this is something you truly can’t let go of, you’re going to have to let go of me.”