“No.”

“Never?”

“No.” Vishous shrugged. “Not sure why you’re asking.”

“There’ve been some kids, you know, coming into this household.”

“So?”

“That doesn’t affect you at all?” When V shook his head, Rhage frowned. “What about Doc Jane? Does she want them?”

“Okay, first, she can’t have any. And second, she’s never mentioned it to me. Ever. She’s mated to her job—hell, her idea of a romantic birthday present is a new autoclave. And I fucking love that about her.”

“But what if she changed her mind?”

“She won’t.”

“How do you know that?” As V just blinked a couple of times, Rhage waved his hand. “Sorry. None of that’s my fucking business.”

“Is this why you got problems with your Mary? And don’t play. It’s been obvious—she want kids?”

“No. No, nothing like that.” Rhage rubbed the tip of his cue with his thumb, transferring the bright blue chalk to the pad of his finger. “I just was wondering. You know, hypothetically. About other people.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be dismissive, but come on—I have a godawful relationship with my mother and had a sadist for a sire. That mother/father business has only ever had bad connotations for me. Besides, I’m about as nurturing as a sawed-off—isn’t that the way the saying goes?”

“Like I said, I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“You gonna play now?”

Rhage shifted his weight from shitkicker to shitkicker. “I got one other thing to ask you, actually.”

THIRTY-FOUR

The last thing Mary did before she left for the day was go to her office and check Facebook on her computer.

Like if she fired the URL up on something other than her phone, the search would give her a different result.

“Okay, let’s do this,” she muttered as she signed on.

As the machine came to life, she got a front-and-center of the closed, vampires-only group she was looking for—because it had been the last thing she’d been on before she’d gone downstairs to wait for Rhage earlier in the evening.

Hitting refresh, she waited for the Internet connection to show her any new posts, and ended up tilting her head back and looking at the ceiling. Bitty was moving around in her attic room, and Mary fought the urge to go and try to talk to her. But no, it was time to go home, and the girl was tired. Also, Mary had an almost superstitious notion that for once, the pair of them had parted on a relatively optimistic note: Bitty was ready for ice cream after nightfall tomorrow, and Mary was hanging on to that one fleeting smile in the back of the GTO as if it were a lifeline in the ocean.

“Okay, what have we got,” she whispered as she focused on the screen.

Nope. Nothing. There were probably only five hundred males and females in the group—mostly females—and the few new posts she saw covered conventional topics that even to human eyes would seem entirely normal.

No one had responded to her query about Bitty’s uncle.

She was disappointed, but that was kind of crazy. The logical part of her knew there was no one out there for the girl, but hearing Bitty talk with such desperation about a hypothetical relative? It made you want a miracle to happen.

Shutting everything down, she got her purse and her coat and went out, pausing at the base of the attic stairs.

“Good day, Bitty girl.”

About twenty minutes later, she was driving up the mhis-covered hill of the compound, going at a slow pace because she didn’t want to go off the lane or hit a deer—

“Shit!”

Slamming on the brakes, she yanked the steering wheel to the right, just as Qhuinn’s Hummer nearly T-boned her.

The SUV skidded to a halt and all kinds of fighters jumped out and rushed toward her like the Volvo was on fire.

“Mary!”

“Maaaaary!”

Butch ripped her door open. “Mary! Motherfucker!”

She had to laugh at the expression on the cop’s face. And on Blay’s. And John Matthew’s. And Qhuinn’s.

Putting her hands up, she said, “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay. Honestly.”

“I’m calling Doc Jane—”

“Butch. Seriously.” She undid her seat belt and shoved the Bostonian out of the way. “See? And the air bag didn’t even deploy. Although I’m getting a little flinchy with all these close encounters. I nearly hit a lesser the other night.”

That shut all four of them up. And then they just stood there, staring at her as if they were going to synchronize-vomit.

“Boys, you didn’t even hit me. I’m fine.” She nodded at the dirt path they’d been on. “I didn’t even know that was there—where are you coming from?”

“Nowhere.” Butch took her elbow and started to try to help her around to the passenger side. “I’ll drive you the rest of the way—”

“No.” She dug her heels in and nailed him with some serious eye-to-eye. “Butch. There is nothing wrong with me. I want all four of you to take a deep breath—and maybe put your heads between your knees so you don’t faint. Close calls happen, we both reacted in time, so let’s move along—or I’m going to call Fritz and have all of your bedrooms painted pink. Right after he puts potpourri on your bureaus, and Elsa and Anna pictures up on your walls.”

“She means business,” Blay said with no small measure of respect.

“Hell, yeah,” Qhuinn muttered. “Man, no wonder you can stand being mated to Rhage. He gets out of line, you just whip him right back into shape, don’t you.”

We’re just worried, John Matthew signed. And we really don’t want to tell your hubs that we hurt you. That’s all.

She went over and hugged John. “I know. And I’m sorry if I’m a little bitchy. It’s been a long couple of nights. Come on, let’s go eat.”

Back behind the wheel of the station wagon, she started up the hill, going the same slow speed as before. The Hummer stayed a DMV-worthy six car lengths behind her—and she was very aware of the fighters watching her every move.

Because all four of them were pressed up against the SUV’s front windshield, clustered like a bunch of mother hens worried about an errant chick.

They sure filled her rearview mirror with love, though.

Which was never, ever a bad thing.

After they all pulled up in front of the mansion and picked their normal spots in the line up of cars—hers by Manny’s Porsche, theirs over by V’s new thingamajiggy, whatever it was—she got out with her bag and was prepared to fend off a bunch of how-’bout-a-quick-physical suggestions from the leather-bound peanut gallery.

And what do you know, the pack of four came at her in formation.

Putting up her hands, she said calmly and reasonably, “I can’t die, remember? Also, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m up and around, speaking in complete sentences—even smiling. See?” She pointed to her mouth. “So how about Last Meal before you all fall over?”

There was a chorus of baritone fines and whatevers, and then John Matthew put his arm around her shoulders, gave her a quick hug and everybody strode up to the vestibule.

Fritz opened the inner door for them. “Greetings! How fare thee all?”

As the butler bowed, and everyone filed in, Mary had to pause. She had walked into the foyer how many times in the last however long, but it had been a while since she’d actually looked at the three-story-high ceiling with its mural of majestic fighters on their warhorses . . . or paused to appreciate the malachite-and-marble columns with their ornate headers and footers  . . . or taken a second to listen to the layers of conversation as members of the house came down to gather in the dining room.

Everything seemed over-the-top luxe, and multi-factorial loud, and altogether wonderful, from Z and Bella descending the grand staircase with Nalla to Wrath and George walking across the mosaic floor with Tohr to John Matthew and Xhex wrapped in each other’s arms.