Tera sat on the bed. “Nice room.”

“You should have seen the desk clerk. He looked at me like he thought I was going to leap over the counter and try to eat his brains.”

“I’m not surprised. You look like you died three days ago.”

Normally Tera’s casual bluntness didn’t bother Megan, even amused her. Not today. “Yeah, thanks, Tera. I feel just great, so—”

“No, Megan, listen.” Tera took her hand. The touch of her skin felt odd, too cold somehow; it had to fight to reach her through the numbness. “I know I’m not the most sensitive person in the world, okay? I know that. But . . . you look bad, like you feel bad, and I don’t want you to feel that way. It bugs me. I want you to feel better. So you should talk about it if you want. And I won’t say anything mean about him, I promise.”

Megan shrugged. This wasn’t helping her fight the hard ball of pain in her chest. “Say anything you want about him. I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“He lied to me, he . . .” She’d thought she was out of tears. She was wrong. “He lied to me, Tera. I never thought he would do that. Not like that. Not about us. And then he . . . he asked me to marry him, like that was supposed to fix everything, and I said no . . .”

She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say anything more. And lucky for her, she didn’t need to, because Tera reached out and held her while she cried.

It may have been five minutes or half an hour, she didn’t know, but when she pulled away, she felt better. Just telling someone what happened felt better. Well, of course it did. What the hell did she do for a living, if talking to someone about problems didn’t help?

It was her job. And it was important. And she was good at it. She still had that; she was still who she was. She still wasn’t alone. Somehow that gave her the strength to wipe her eyes, to lift her head and straighten her back. “What time is it?”

“Almost six.”

“Shit, I have to get ready. Dinner’s earlier tonight, there’s going to be business discussions, and . . .” He would be there. God damn it, why did this have to happen now? When she’d have to see him that night and every night for the next week? When she was—oh, shit, she was trapped in a hotel with a bunch of demons who would be absolutely fascinated to know what had happened.

She wasn’t just going to have to see him and pretend everything was fine. She was going to have to see all of them and pretend she was fine. Wasn’t that just fucking great?

She made it to the reception room by seven, luckily. Late was not a good thing to be when one was attempting to behave as though nothing at all was the matter, but it was a close call. She’d spent almost twenty minutes with cold wet teabags over her eyes, and Tera promised she looked fine, so she guessed she did, even if she felt like a bombed-out building. One thing about Tera, her judgment was believable.

Tera had also gone back up to the suite to get her a few things, her suitcase and makeup bag. That was when Megan realized Nick had been sitting on the floor outside her door the entire time.

He stood beside her now, his arm reassuring under her hand. Roc sat on her opposite shoulder; she felt bracketed by the two of them, encased in what little protection was available.

“I assume you’d like a drink,” Nick said.

She nodded. The room was fairly full, with the Gretnegs and their assistants . . .

“He’s not here yet. He told me he’d come late, so it wouldn’t look so odd you two arriving separately.”

She forced a smile and hoped it hid her embarrassment. “Was I that obvious?”

“No. But I can imagine what I would do in your situation. I mean, if I ever actually sustained any kind of relationship.”

“Honestly? Right now I think you’re better off.”

They’d reached the bar. The demon behind it—one of Gunnar’s, she thought—poured her a gin and tonic, but before she could get it to her lips, someone touched her shoulder.

Leora. Shit.

The girl’s wide blue eyes met hers without guile. She was wearing a dress almost the exact same color; the effect was to make her look like innocent youth on legs, and Megan feel like a crone in her own black sheath. All of her dresses were black, damn it. She hadn’t brought anything else. If she hadn’t been so busy being miserable and sick, she would have tried to run out and buy something, but as it was, she was just hoping desperately to make it through the evening without bursting into tears.

Her entire body hurt. Her chest felt as if a bomb had gone off inside it.

“Megan, I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes?”

Megan shot a desperate glance at Nick, but his lifted eyebrows indicated the same sort of helplessness she felt. To deny the girl would be rude, and demons were fairly obsessive about manners. On the other hand, though . . . the thought of actually speaking to Leora made her palms sweat.

No real choice, though. So she nodded. “Sure.”

Leora led her off to the side, to the pole where she’d had her discussion with Greyson what felt like hundreds of years before. A new wound opened in her chest.

“My dad wanted me to talk to you,” Leora said. “He thought maybe if we got to know each other better, it would help.”

Oh, no. Oh no no nonononono. “I don’t think we have any issues that need helping.”

“Well, you know, he thought maybe if I talked to you, you could talk to Greyson. I mean, I’m not supposed to tell you that, I don’t think—I’m not very good at all of this stuff.” The blush on her cheeks was very becoming. Megan wanted to slap them. Not so much because she was angry but because it was the only way she could think of to make Leora stop talking.

“I think Greyson can make up his own mind about things.”

“Well, yeah, but my dad says it’s because of you that he hasn’t said yes yet, and . . . I’d really like him to. I think you and I could be really good friends. I don’t want to get in the way of what you two have, but I want to—”

Greyson walked in.

Leora hadn’t finished talking, but Megan heard her voice only as a dull buzz in the background. She was too busy staring, not sure if she was proud or furious that he looked perfectly elegant and well rested, as if not a thing had happened.

Leora followed her gaze. “Oh! There he is.”

He saw them. The faint down-twist of his mouth and wrinkle of his brow gave Megan some satisfaction but not much. She was just miserable, and things did not improve when he approached them.

“Ladies,” he said, with a fluid bow that raised her suspicions. “How lovely to see you both. I hope you’re not talking about me.”

Leora giggled. “Of course we are.”

He cocked his right eyebrow. “I assume you want me to ask what you’re saying? I won’t, you know.”

Megan’s suspicions were confirmed. He was drunk. He never behaved like some Regency ballroom rake unless he was completely plastered. She’d only seen him like this twice; it took a shitload of liquor to make a demon drunk, and he didn’t tend to drink that heavily. He must have spent the entire afternoon guzzling scotch.

Of course, she’d spent hers puking and sobbing. So she couldn’t help feeling he’d had the better idea.

Leora didn’t seem to realize anything was wrong. “You know we’ll tell you anyway.”

“Oh, you might,” he replied. Carter brought him another drink; he tossed it down his throat with an efficiency that made Megan wince. “But Megan? She’d never tell. And I’d certainly never ask her. Her responses to my questions are horrible.”

Megan choked out what she hoped was a close approximation of a lighthearted laugh. “Maybe you just don’t ask them correctly.”

“Maybe I don’t, at that. I always thought women found begging undignified. Looks like my suspicions were confirmed.”

“Maybe begging doesn’t mean anything when it feels like all the decisions are being made for us instead of with us.”