Bella stood up and Z's hand moved to her waist and tucked her into him.

God, they were a family, weren't they? The two of them together with their young in her belly. And in just over a year, if the Scribe Virgin saw fit, they would stand like this with their infant in their arms. Later, years later, their child would be by their side. And then their son or daughter would be mated, and another generation of their blood would carry the race forward: a family, not a fantasy.

To hurry them along, Phury shifted around like he was about to get up.

"I'll see you down in the dining room," Z said, his palm sliding around to his shellan's lower belly. "Bella's going back to bed, aren't you, nalla?"

She checked her watch. "Twenty-two minutes. I'd better get my bath in."

Various goodbye-like words were exchanged, but Phury didn't pay much attention because he was dying for them to leave. When the door finally shut, he reached for his cane, got out of his bed, and went straight to the mirror over his dresser. He eased off the bandage's tape, then peeled free the layers of gauze. Underneath his lashes were so tangled and matted that he went into the bathroom, ran some water, and rinsed his face a number of times before he could get them apart.

He opened his eye.

And saw perfectly.

His total lack of relief at his fine and dandy sight was eerie. He should have cared. He needed to care. About both his body and himself. He just didn't.

Disturbed, he took a shower and shaved, then put his prosthesis on and dressed in his leathers. He was on his way out with his blade and gun holsters in his hand when he paused by the bed. That drawing he'd done was still wadded up in his sheets; he could see the white, crinkled edges in the folds of blue satin.

He pictured his twin's hand on Bella's hair. Then on her lower belly.

Phury went over, picked up the drawing, and flattened it out on the bedside table. He took one last look at it, then ripped it into small pieces, put the pile in an ashtray, and struck a match head with his thumb. With the flame flaring, he leaned into the paper.

When there was nothing but ash, he got up and left his room.

It was time to let go, and he knew how to do it.

Chapter Twenty-seven

V was blissfully happy. Wholly complete. A Rubik's Cube solved. His arms were around his female, his body pressed up close to hers, her scent in his nose. Though it was nighttime, it was as if the sun were shining upon him.

Then he heard the gunshot.

He was in the dream. He was asleep and in the dream.

The horror of the nightmare unfolded as it always did, and yet it was fresh as the first time it had come to him: Blood on his shirt. Pain ripping through his chest. A descent to the ground until he was on his knees, his life over-

V shot upright in bed, screaming.

Jane launched herself at him to calm him down just as the door flew open and Butch rushed in with gun drawn. Both of their voices mixed together, a fruit salad of words spoken fast.

"What the fuck!"

"Are you okay?"

V fumbled with the sheets, tearing them off his torso so he could see his chest. The skin was unmarked, but he ran his hand down it anyway. "Jesus Christ…"

"Was it a flashback from your shooting?" Jane asked as she urged him to lie down in her arms. "Yeah, fuck…" Butch lowered his muzzle and jacked up his boxers.

"Scared the piss out of me and Marissa. You want some Goose to chill?"

"Yeah."

"Jane? Anything for you?"

She was shaking her head when V cut in with, "Hot chocolate. She'd like some hot chocolate. I had Fritz bring some mix over. It's in the kitchen."

When Butch left, V scrubbed his face. "Sorry about that."

"God, don't apologize." She ran her hand up and down his chest. "You okay?"

He nodded. Then, like a total sap, he kissed her and said, "I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too." She wound her arms around him and held him like he was precious.

They were quiet until Butch came back a little later with a glass in one hand and a mug in the other. "I want a nice tip. I burned my pinkie on the stove."

"You want me to look at it?" Jane tucked the sheet under her arms and reached forward for the cocoa.

"I think I'll live, but thanks, Doc Jane." Butch handed the Goose to V. "How about you, big guy? You cool now?"

Not hardly. Not after the dream. Not with Jane leaving. "Yeah."

Butch shook his head. "You're a bad liar."

"Fuck you." There was no heat to V's words at all. And no conviction as he tacked on, "I'm tight."

The cop went over to the door. "Oh, speaking of strong, guess Phury showed up at First Meal, all ready to go out and fight tonight. Z stopped by here a half hour ago on the way to class to thank you, Doc Jane, for everything you did. Phury's face looks good and the brother's eye's working just fine."

Jane blew over the top of the mug. "I'd feel better if he'd go see an optometrist to be sure."

"Z said he push for that and got shut down. Even Wrath took a shot at it."

"I'm glad our boy came out okay," V said, and truly meant it. Trouble was, Jane's only excuse to stay had just vaporized.

"Yeah, me too. I'll leave you two alone. Later."

As the door shut, V listened to the sound of Jane blowing across her hot cocoa again.

"I'm going to bring you home tonight," he said.

She stopped blowing. There was a long pause then she took an inhaling sip. "Yes. It's time."

He swallowed half the Goose in the glass. "But before I do, I'd like to take you somewhere first."

"Where?"

He wasn't sure how to tell her what he wanted to happen before he let her go. He didn't want her to bolt, especially as he contemplated the years and years ahead of him and all of the dishonest, disinterested sex he was going to have to have.

He finished his Goose. "Somewhere private."

As she drank from the mug, her brows dropped down low. "So you're really going to let me go, huh?"

He stared at her profile and wished they had met under different circumstances. Except how in the fuck would that have ever happened?

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I am."

Standing in front of his locker three hours later, John wished Qhuinn would shut his damn piehole. Even though the locker room was loud from the sounds of metal doors banging shut and clothes flapping and shoes dropping, he felt like his buddy had a bullhorn stapled to his upper lip.

"You're flippin' huge, J. M. For real. Like… ginormous."

That is not a word. John shoved his backpack in like he usually did and realized none of the clothes he was crushing would fit him anymore.

"The hell it isn't. Back me up, Blay."

Blay nodded as he pulled on his ji. "Yeah, you fill out? You're going to be, like, Brother-sized."

"Gigundous."

Okay, also not a word, asshole.

"Fine, really, really, really big. How's that?"

John shook his head as he put his books on the floor and deep sixed the little duds in the nearest trash can.

As he came back over, he sized up his friends and realized he was bigger than both of them by a good four inches. Hell, he was as tall as Z.

He glanced down the aisle at Lash. Yup, topped Lash, too.

The bastard looked over as he took his shirt off, as if sensing John's stare. In a smooth move, the guy deliberately flexed his shoulders, the muscles curling up tight under his skin. He had a tattoo across his stomach that hadn't been there two days before, a word in the Old Language John didn't recognize.

"John, getcha ass out in the hall for a sec."

The whole place went silent, John jerked his head around. Zsadist was standing in the door to the locker room, all business.