“Eat,” he said. “Everything gets better after you eat.”

He put the tray next to her on the bunk and began popping the lids off. One look at the slices of roast beef and the baked potato and she was ravenous.

But before she tucked in, she had to ask, “All seven of us? From the … you know, we walked together? All of us?”

“Axe, Boone, Novo, Anslam, and Craeg.”

She ducked her eyes at the last name. “So that’s our class?”

“Yeah.”

Picking up the fork and knife, she groaned as she twisted toward her plate and her ribs let out a WHAT ARE YOU DOING. “Crap, I can’t move without—”

“Advil. I’ll have them bring you some more.” Peyton headed to the door and stopped. “I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“Thinking that you couldn’t do this.” He glanced back at her. “You were right to call my shit out on the bus. You proved me wrong. I’m sorry.”

Paradise exhaled. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

He nodded. “Come out when you’re ready. We’re just shooting the shit.”

“Hey, Peyton?” she said before he reached for the handle.

“Hmm?”

“Do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“Don’t tell them about … you know, about who I am. I don’t want to be treated any differently. I just want to be like everyone else.”

“Anslam knows. But I can talk to him and give him a gag order.”

“Thank you.”

Peyton looked at the floor for a moment. “Anything for you.”

After he left, Paradise ate as much as she could—which turned out to be everything on the tray, including the fresh roll and the peas. She finished the coffee and drank both of the bottled waters that came with everything. Then she limped over to the bathroom in the corner.

The shower she took was so hot, she was surprised she didn’t melt the paint off the walls, but oh, how her body loosened under the penetrating spray. The blisters on her feet stung, and so did various random places, like her right elbow and her left knee that were scraped and the tops of both her shoulders for some reason. She didn’t care. It was heaven.

Hanging her head, she let the rush of water run down the back of her neck.

She was glad that Peyton had called her father. It was almost dawn, and she didn’t want the male worrying, but she wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened. She needed time—to think, to reassess, to process.

There was shampoo. She used it without checking the label. Same with the conditioner. And the soap.

By the time she got out, she felt closer to herself—but that changed when she looked at her reflection in the mirror over the sink.

Leaning in close, she regarded her features as if they were someone else’s—and they did look unfamiliar. Her face seemed so much leaner, and even with no makeup on, her big eyes seemed to take over everything as a child’s would.

“Who am I?” she whispered to the reflection.

Chapter Thirteen

St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Caldwell was a grand old lady, rising up from the pavement as a testament to both God’s mercy and man’s ability to glue blocks of stones together. As Butch pulled up in his new Lexus and parallel-parked, he thought it was pretty damn funny that of all the human traits to have survived his transition into a vampire, the one that had stuck the most was his faith.

He was a better Catholic now than he had been when he’d been a Homo sapiens.

Tugging his Boston Red Sox cap down low, he went in through the front portal that was bigger than the house he’d grown up in, in Southie.

The cathedral was always open, a Starbucks of spirituality, ready to serve up what was needed when souls were lost and fumbling.

Monsignor, I’d like a venti of forgiveness tonight, thanks so much. And a scone that will magically tell me what the fuck is wrong with my wife.

The security guard sitting in an armchair in the vestibule looked up from his Sports Illustrated and nodded at him. The guy was used to him coming in before dawn.

“Evenin’,” the guard said.

“You good?”

“Yup. You?”

“Yup.”

Always the same conversation, and the six-word exchange was now part of the ritual.

Crossing over the thick red carpet, Butch breathed in deep and caught a contact calm from the familiar smell of incense, beeswax candles, lemon floor polish, and real flowers. And as he pushed through the carved double doors to the majestic sanctuary, he didn’t like keeping his hat on, but he had to stay on the DL.

His mother would have had a fit, though—assuming her dementia lifted long enough for her to track anything.

The fact that she had lost her mind had made leaving the human world so much easier—and from time to time, he and Marissa went to see her, materializing into her room at the nursing home up in Massachusetts and visiting with her because they knew that no memories of them would stay—

Butch stopped and inhaled deep, his blood surging, his skin tingling. Pivoting in a jerk, he frowned as he saw a lone figure seated in the rear pews.

“Marissa?”

Even though his voice didn’t carry far, his mate looked up, his presence registering to her.

Rushing over the stone pavers, he went sideways and shuffled down the row she was in, trying not to trip over the needlepoint prayer stools.

“What are you doing here?” he said as he caught the scent of her tears.