“I just put the towel away.”

“I like to drop them on the floor.”

It was a running joke in a Wild Woman column she read regularly: stories of otherwise competent changelings who drove their lovers crazy because of their towel habits, and the cunning ways said lovers came up with to get revenge.

“Neatness was part of my training.” No smile on Ethan’s face, no teasing comeback about the makeup she’d left strewn on her vanity table, including her collection of vivid lipsticks.

A knock on the door.

Closer to it than Ethan, she opened it to see the round face of one of the sweetest juveniles in her pack. “Hello, Manya.” The sixteen-year-old’s blond hair was combed neatly, his shirt and pants equally precise in their tidiness, and his smile guileless.

“Hi.” Manuil ducked his head shyly as he held out her tray. “Sana said this is for you.”

“Thank you.” She passed the tray back to Ethan, who’d come to her side the instant she opened the door. Then she took Manuil’s face into her hands and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. “You did a great job.”

Blushing, the boy looked over her shoulder with open curiosity. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Ethan responded. “Thank you for the food.”

Manuil’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open for a second. “Your voice is so pretty.” A buzz had him glancing at his beloved sparkly purple wrist unit, which had been a combined gift from his year group on his sixteenth birthday. “I have to go. Sana needs me to do another job.” He straightened his shoulders. “Sana says she can’t do without me.”

“She can’t.” Selenka released him with another kiss. “Off you go.”

Ethan waited until she’d moved the box off her desk, then placed the tray there. “His brain is damaged?”

Selenka didn’t like using that word to describe Manuil, who was so much more. But she knew, to Ethan, it wasn’t pejorative. He’d used the same word to describe himself. “He was born that way. No one knows why and it didn’t become apparent until he was a toddler, but mentally, he’s about half his biological age.”

“Your pack accepts him.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Scowling at him, she suddenly thought about who had made that statement. “I’ve never seen a Psy child like Manya.” Statistically, that was impossible. Even with all the medical advances in the world, nature occasionally took an unexpected turn, or a child had an accident or was harmed by someone evil and survived with lifelong injuries. No race was perfect. Except for the Psy.

“Genetic perfection,” Ethan said, “was the gold standard under Silence.”

Selenka’s hand fisted at her side. “Children who were injured later in life or whose lack of ‘perfection’ became apparent after birth?”

“Since escaping, I’ve spent a lot of time just listening to the world.” Ethan pulled a T-shirt from the box and tugged it over his head. It was white and just a touch too small, hugging his biceps. “I’ve heard rumors that some families protect their less-than-perfect members in secret enclaves, but aside from those who were forcibly brainwiped and institutionalized under the old regime, the only such person I’ve ever seen is an Arrow. Alejandro was damaged by an overdose of the drug Jax—Aden somehow managed to protect him while Ming was in charge.”

Pale eyes the color of starlight on a winter’s night held hers. “Those outside the squad have no Aden. Most don’t have families who’ll risk their own lives to protect them. They . . . disappear.”

Blood cold and eyes hot, Selenka picked up a small object from her vanity and took it to Ethan. “Look.”

Ethan examined the miniature plate that held a pile of equally miniature fruit. “A piece of art, constructed with attention to detail.” He examined it from multiple angles. “The artist thought of the mix of colors, the design of the plate.”

“It’s Manya’s work. He makes tiny sculptures for people he loves.” Taking the precious gift back from Ethan, she returned it to her vanity. “He is a treasured member of the pack.”

“I’m glad you accept your broken.”

“That’s just it, Ethan. Manya’s not broken and neither are you.” Never would she stop trying to teach him that. “You’re you as Manya is Manya. Complete in yourself.”

Ethan said nothing and she didn’t push. The latter was difficult for her wolf, but she was learning that pushing Ethan got her nothing. He’d make his own decision—but Selenka could give him the information he needed to make it. Turning, she lifted the cover on the tray to reveal the dishes within. Small bowls of creamy pasta, a fruit salad, slices of cake, the promised cookies, and a couple of hot flaky rolls with a filling of spiced meat.

“Let’s picnic on the bed.”

Taking a seat across from her after bringing over the tray, Ethan examined the items on it with interest. “I’ve rarely eaten real food.”

“My mission in life is to make you fat.” Wolf and woman, neither part of her was joking; food was serious business to a wolf. “Just a little bit.” So that he wasn’t honed to the bone, so that she knew he had so much happiness in his life that he could afford to let go of the rigid control he maintained over himself.

“If you want, I can put on weight by eating twice my normal ration of nutrients.”

“No, this is about fun. It’s not the goal that matters but the journey.” Picking up one of the rolls, she held it to his mouth.

He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. No reaction. But he took another bite and another. Until by the time he finally fell asleep, the two of them had cleared the tray, and he’d told her that he had “categorically” blown his nutritional quota for the day. Despite the loss and grief of the hours past, her wolf smiled as she fell into sleep . . . but she woke with a pounding heart.

How do you know?

Ethan’s question reverberated in her head. She’d reacted out of instinct and passion when he’d asked it, but it wasn’t only the single among changelings who went rogue. And being rogue was the worst kind of madness for a changeling—a rogue gave in to the animal and forgot their human self. They began to hunt those who’d once been pack, ravaging and tearing.

Rogues even killed their mates.

So, hard as it was to face, changelings weren’t infallible in choosing mates.

Heart thumping so hard she could feel it against her rib cage just above where Ethan had his arm, she glanced behind her to see that he remained in a deep sleep. It startled her. She hadn’t thought an Arrow would sleep that way . . . but he was her mate. He knew she’d never harm him. Affection had her stroking his forearm, but it didn’t serve to soothe her skittering thoughts. She looked at the bedside table, saw her phone was within reach.

She didn’t know what she was going to do with it until she found herself pulling up the medical alert on Scarab Syndrome. It began with a basic outline of the Syndrome, then gave a list of symptoms, followed by a closing paragraph:

Not every patient who exhibits these symptoms will have the Syndrome, but we urge you to be overcautious in this matter. The team would rather attend multiple false alerts than miss one real case. The earlier a patient is diagnosed, the higher the likelihood that individual can be given assistance to prolong their mental and psychic stability.

Selenka remembered seeing another mention of the Syndrome, though she couldn’t remember where. Putting down her phone, she managed to pull over her organizer without waking Ethan—produced by a Psy manufacturer, the thin high-spec datapad was the best on the market. BlackEdge had been able to purchase fifty from the hotly contested first batch.

Psy usually favored Psy in such cases—Silence hadn’t fallen long enough ago to change such habits, but BlackEdge and StoneWater’d had an in this time around. Silver Mercant had spoken to her well-connected family, and the Mercants had fronted the deal with the actual supplier to ensure the packs received fifty each.

That was the official word anyway—Selenka would bet the bears had received a few extra. Her spies told her Silver’s icy-eyed grandmother was the Mercant, and she apparently liked Valentin.

Bears.

Still, it was a hell of a favor Silver had done BlackEdge, and Selenka wouldn’t forget it.

Organizer in hand, she did a search in her private files, but “Scarab” brought up nothing. So she linked to the private server created for top-level Trinity Accord signatories. In no world was everyone equal, and Trinity couldn’t continue to function unless it had some leadership. Changelings had no issue with that, hierarchy and dominance integral parts of their life. In this situation, that meant a number of senior alphas who spoke for multiple packs.

Lucas Hunter of the DarkRiver leopards represented the largest number, including the far bigger SnowDancer pack. And, by some strange stroke of cooperation—or madness—Selenka currently represented nearly all the packs in Russia—including the bears.

Valentin had volunteered her when the question had come up. “You’re much more diplomatic than I am, Selya,” he’d said, deliberately using the familiar term of address to rile her. “I’d just yell at everyone and get us thrown out of the Accord.”

“Don’t be too sad, Mishka,” she’d said sweetly, using the extra-baby pet name his older sisters had a habit of using. “You can’t help being a bear.”

So now she was part of the Trinity leadership. As such, she had direct access to this server. She’d made sure Valentin had all the passwords, too—he needed to be up to speed should anything happen to her. When she did a search for “Scarab” on the server, the information popped up at once.

Scarab was an experiment run in the early days of Silence. Data retrieved to date suggests it ran from 1999 to 2004, though a dedicated team is continuing to data mine in the hope of recovering more concrete information.