"No, thanks. I can-"

"You're too hard on yourself. Go on now." She gave him a little shove to the left. "Let me do it."

For no good reason, and a lot of bad ones, he went over and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest and bracing himself. Bella started at the bottom of his mane, the brush clipping the ends first, then working its way up until he felt it come down on the crown of his head and slowly, get drawn all the way out. Her free palm followed the strokes, smoothing, soothing. The sound of the bristles going through his hair and the tug on his forehead and her scent in his nose were bittersweet pleasures that left him defenseless.

Tears matted his lashes. It seemed so cruel to have met her, to see what he wanted but never be able to have it. Although that was fitting, wasn't it. He'd always lived his life with things out of his reach. First he'd spent decades searching for his twin, sensing that Zsadist was alive in the world but being unable to rescue him. Then he'd freed his brother, only to find that the male was still far from in hand. The century that had followed their escape from Z's Mistress had been a different kind of hell, with him always waiting for Z to lose it, interceding when the brother did, and worrying when the next round of drama would get started.

Then Bella had come and they'd both fallen in love with her.

Bella was the old torture in a new guise, wasn't she. Because his was a destiny of yearning, of being outside looking in, of seeing the fire but not being able to get close enough to it to be warmed by it.

"Will you ever be back?" she asked.

"I don't know."

The brush paused. "Maybe you'll like her."

"Maybe. Don't stop yet. Please… not yet."

Phury rubbed his eyes as the brush resumed its strokes. This quiet time was their good-bye, and she knew it. She was crying too. He could smell the fresh, rainy tang in the air.

Except she didn't cry for the same reason he did. She cried because she pitied him and his future, not because she loved him and her heart was breaking at the thought that she would never, ever see him again. She would miss him, yes. Worry about him, sure. But she wouldn't yearn for him. She never had.

And all this should have snapped his chain and gotten him to cut out the pansy-ass routine, but he couldn't. He was submerged by his sadness.

He would, of course, see Zsadist on the Other Side. But her… he couldn't imagine her coming over to see him. And it wouldn't really be appropriate, as he'd be the Primale, and it wouldn't look right if he took private audiences with a female from the outside-even if she was his twin's shellan. Monogamy to his Chosen in deed, thought, and appearance was the Primale's pledge.

Then it dawned on him. The baby. He would never get to see her and Z's young. Except maybe in pictures.

The brush tucked under his hair and ran up his nape. Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to the rhythmic pull and release on his head.

"I want you to fall in love," she said.

I am in love. "It's all right."

She stopped and stepped in front of him. "I want you to love someone for real. Not like you think you love me."

He frowned. "No offense. But you can't know what I-"

"Phury, you don't really love-"

He stood up and met her in the eye. "Please pay me the respect of not assuming to know my emotions better than I do."

"You've never been with a female."

"I was last night."

That shut her up for a moment. Then she said, "Not at the club. Please, not at-"

"In a bathroom in the back. It was good, too. Then again, she was a professional." Okay, now he was being an asshole.

"Phury… no."

"May I have my brush back? I think my hair's good now."

"Phury-"

"The brush. Please."

After a moment that was long as a century, she extended the thing toward him. When he reached out and took it, they were linked by the wooden handle for a mere breath, then she dropped her hand.

"You deserve better than that," she whispered. "You're better than that."

"No, I'm not." Oh, man, he had to get away from her heartbroken expression. "Don't let your pity turn me into a prince, Bella."

"This is self-destructive. All of it."

"Hardly." He went over to the bureau, picked up his blunt, and took a drag on it. "I want this."

"Do you? Is that why you've been lighting up red smokes all afternoon? The whole mansion smells of it."

"I smoke because I'm an addict. I'm a loose-willed drug addict, Bella, who was with a whore last night in a public place. You should condemn me, not pity me."

She shook her head. "Don't try to make yourself look ugly in front of me. It won't work. You are a male of worth-"

"For fuck's sake-"

"-who has sacrificed much for his brothers. Probably too much."

"Bella, stop it."

"A male who gave up his leg to save his twin. Who has fought bravely for his race. Who is giving up his future for his brother's happiness. You can't get much more noble than that." Her eyes were rock-solid as she stared up at him. "Don't tell me who you are. I see you more clearly than you see yourself."

He paced around the room until he found himself back in front of the dresser. He hoped there were no mirrors on the Other Side. He hated his reflection. Always had.

"Phury-"

"Go," he said hoarsely. "Please just go." When she didn't, he turned around. "For God's sake, don't make me break down in front of you. I need my pride right now. It's the only thing keeping me standing."

She put a hand over her mouth and blinked quickly. Then she shored herself up and spoke in the Old Language. "Be of good fortune, Phury, son of Ahgony. May your feet follow a level path and the nightfall gently upon your shoulders."

He bowed. "As for you, Bella, beloved nalla of mine blooded brother, Zsadist."

When the door shut behind her, Phury sank down on the bed and brought the blunt to his lips. As he looked around the room he'd stayed in since the Brotherhood had moved into the compound, he realized it wasn't home to him. It was just a guest room… a luxurious, anonymous guest room… four walls of nice oil paintings with good carpeting and drapes lush as a female's ball gown.

It would be nice to have a home.

He'd never had one. After Zsadist had been abducted as an infant, their mahmen had closed herself in underground, and their father had gone on the hunt for the nursemaid who'd taken Z. Growing up, Phury had lived among the moving, breathing shadows of the household. Everyone, even the doggen, had just gone through the motions of life. There had been no laughter. No happiness. No calendar of ceremonies.

No hugs.

Phury had learned to keep quiet and stay out of the way. It was, after all, the kindest thing he could do. He'd been the replica of what had been lost, the reminder of the heartbreak that was on everyone's mind. He took to wearing hats to hide his face, and he'd walked with a shuffle, curling into himself so as to be smaller, less noticeable.

As soon as he'd gone through his transition, he'd left to find his twin. No one had waved him off. There had been no good-byes. Z's disappearance had used up all of the household's capacity for missing someone, so there was none left over for Phury.

Which had been good, actually. It made everything easier.

About ten years later he'd learned from a distant cousin that his mother had died in her sleep. He'd gone back home immediately, but they'd had the funeral without him. His father had died fighting about eight years later. Phury had made it to that funeral and had spent his last night in the family house. Afterward the property had been sold, the doggen had dispersed, and it was as if his parents had never been.

His rootlessness now was not new. He'd felt it since his first moment of consciousness as a child. He was ever the wanderer, and the Other Side was not going to give him a base. He couldn't make a home there because he couldn't have one without his twin. Or his brothers. Or-