Craeg shifted his eyes back to Paradise and listened from a great distance as she started talking urgently. He’d never particularly focused on her accent before, because he’d always been so distracted by his attraction to her. But now, the cadence, the tone, the inflection … it was just like Peyton’s. And not because she’d assumed the lilt like some sort of poser.

In a dull voice, he said, “She isn’t just the receptionist at that house, is she.”

When Butch’s phone started going off against his side, he was prepared to let the shit go into voice mail—he was in a sex club trying to get some clues to a murder for godsake. But when the damn thing kept going off, he took it out and answered.

And was not able to hear Vishous at all over the techno music. “What? Hello?”

After the connection was cut, a text from the Brother solved the confusion. The message was short and to the point, nothing but an address in the good part of downtown, the number 18, and a time duration: 5 mins.

It was the code they used for when they were fighting and in trouble.

“We’ve got to go,” he said aloud. Turning to Marissa, he took her arm and spoke more loudly. “We’ve got to leave. Now.”

“What?” She came in tight against him. “But there’s more up ahead?”

When he just shook his head and met her eyes, she stopped arguing. “Yo, Axe,” he called out. “We need to bounce. You good?”

The guy came over. “I thought you wanted to go through everything.”

“Later. See you at the training center.”

The actual departure took a fuck of a lot longer than five minutes, as the process of weeding through the various sex stations and themed rooms was like trying to find your way out of 50 Shades of garden maze. As soon as they were out into the chilly, clear air, and away from the earshot of the bouncers and the line, Butch said, “I’ve got slayer business—”

His phone rang again, and he answered it. “V, I’m on my way, just leaving Marissa—”

The Brother was short, to the point, and very succinct, and as the call was ended, Butch lowered the phone slowly and stared at Marissa. “I think you’d better come, too.”

“What is it?”

“We might have found out who the dead female is.”

Minutes later, he pulled his Lexus up to the front entry of a posh high-rise apartment building that was a mere block from the Commodore. One mental scrub job on a human and an elevator ride later, and they were marching down a hallway that smelled like death. V was waiting for them.

And the brother recoiled as soon as he saw them. “What the hell? And P.S., you both look hot as fuck.”

Butch tore off his mask. “I can smell the blood from out here.”

Lifting her hands to remove her own mask, Marissa recoiled. “Oh, God … it’s her. That’s her scent.”

V led them through an anonymous apartment to an essentially empty bedroom that reminded him of his years with the CPD. And shit, Butch’s first impulse was to put himself between his mate and all the signs of a violent murder. But no more. It killed him to have her exposed to any of this, but she was right. She had to be here.

With her spine straight and her eyes clear, she went over to the bed—and fuck him, the image of her standing with her back to him as she stared at the blood-soaked duvet and pillows was going to give him a whole new category of nightmares.

Cursing, he glanced at Paradise, who was standing next to Peyton, and then he sized up Craeg, who was farther off in the corner. Finally, he assessed the scene, taking note of everything that was and was not in the room.

“Who got here first?” he asked.

Peyton lifted his hand. “I did. My cousin Allishon used this place to … well, you know. She leases it under a human name. I called her cell phone a couple of times to get her to come out with us—her parents had told my parents that she’d been out of touch for, like, a couple of nights, maybe a week, but that wasn’t all that unusual. When I didn’t hear back, I figured I’d stop by here, because she was probably partying hard. I came in through the terrace, because that’s how I usually do—and yeah.”

“Was that slider unlocked?” Butch asked as he lifted the billowing drapes and inspected a bloody handprint on the handle.

“It was open. But if the sun got her, it would have left burns, right? So maybe she’s…” He trailed off as he focused on the stained bed. “She’s not okay, is she.”

Marissa drew her latex hood back from her head and let it hang around her neck. Going over to the male, she took his hands. “I’m Butch’s shellan, Marissa. I’m the executive director of a domestic violence shelter. She came to us—”

“So she’s there? She’s alive!”

Marissa slowly shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I called my brother, Havers, and he treated her with everything he had. She did not make it.”

Peyton’s eyes returned to the bed and he fell silent. Then he whispered, “This is going to kill her parents. They lost my other cousin in the raids. No children now.”

“So that door was unlocked or just open?” Butch asked. “And I don’t mean to be insensitive, but this is a crime scene and whoever did this to her … we’ve got to nail them to the fucking wall.”

Peyton shook his head. “Yeah, no—I mean, she was a wild girl. She was a partier. But she didn’t deserve…” He cleared his throat. “The door was absolutely open.”