As they settled in together, she was glad when he held her hand.

“So how was the program’s first night?” she asked, both to make conversation and because she cared.

His brows locked together in a frown. “It was good—no one got seriously hurt. We have seven who made it through. They’re going to spend the day with us—mostly because we don’t want their parents to see them that beat-up. Also, it’s a good chance for the group to start getting tight. I teach the first class at nightfall, and then they’ll be allowed to go home after a workout.”

“I’m really glad it went well.”

“We’ll see. Hey, you know Abalone’s daughter, Paradise? Who helps out at the audience house?”

“Oh, she’s lovely.”

“She lasted the longest. That girl has a core of steel.”

“Abalone must be so proud.”

“He will be.”

They fell silent. Until she spoke up again. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Butch immediately started to jump up, but she patted his arm. “I mean that more as an expression than an actual intention.”

“Do you want to go back to the car? I can bring the remains out to you.”

Marissa shook her head. “No, she’s mine. Until we find her proper family, she’s mine.”

Butch put an arm around her shoulders and drew her in close. “Be ready for that not to change even when you give her back to her bloodline.”

“Is that how you … when you were working, is that how you felt?”

“With every one of my victims.” He exhaled long and slow. “For me, they never went away. Even now, when I can’t sleep, I see their faces on the ceiling above our bed. I remember what they looked like in life, and can’t forget how they lay in death. It’s a stain on my brain.”

Staring at his profile, his hard, beautiful, imperfect profile, she plugged into all the love she had for him. “Why don’t you wake me up and talk to me when you’re like that?”

His tight smile was all about the downplay. “You have a job, too.”

“Yes, but I—”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past now.”

Not if it’s still keeping you up, it isn’t, she thought.

“You and I are so alike,” she murmured. “We’ve both shelved our old lives.”

“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.”

Before she could say anything else, the door across the way opened and a nurse in a white uniform walked in with a black box that absurdly—and inappropriately—made Marissa think of the pair of Stuart Weitzman stilettos that had been delivered to her the other night. Same size.

She’d expected the container to be bigger. Smaller. Different.

God, she didn’t know.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” the nurse said as she went to hand it off to Butch.

Marissa stepped in and took the thing. It weighed less than she’d thought it would. Then again, it was only full of ashes, wasn’t it. “Thank you.”

The female flushed at the lack of protocol: As Marissa was a female from a Founding Family, it was assumed that she would never touch anything pertaining to the dead: In the Old Country, such contact was seen as bad luck, particularly if one was pregnant or of young-bearing age.

Screw that, though.

“Was there anything else with her things?” Marissa asked.

The nurse cleared her throat like she was trying to swallow her disapproval and choking on the stuff. “Actually, there was something.” She glanced at Butch as if she were looking for him to step forward and get his mate to be reasonable. “Ah…”

To his credit, Butch just cocked a brow like he didn’t know what the hell the female was going on about.

The nurse cleared her throat again. “Well, there was one thing. It was the only personal effect we found—it was tucked into her…”

“Into her what?” Marissa demanded.

“Into her brassiere.” The nurse put her hand into the pocket of her uniform and took out a length of black something or another with a ribbon of red fabric on it. “Are you sure you want to…”

Marissa snatched the thing out of the nurse’s hold. “Thank you. We’ll be going now.”

Before anything else could be said, she headed over and punched the “up” arrow on the wall. As if the elevator had been waiting to help her GTFO, the doors opened and she stepped inside. Butch was, as always, right behind her.

It was only when they were ascending back to ground level that she looked at what she’d taken from the other female.

“What is this?” she said, turning over the four-inch-long piece of black metal in her hand. There was a red silk tassel hanging off a cut out on one end, and on the other, a pointed, notched portion seemed like something that would fit in a lock. “Is this a key?”

Butch took it from her and examined the thing. “You know, it might be.”

Chapter Fifteen

By sundown the following evening, Peyton had decided he didn’t like any of them.

Look, it wasn’t that he thought he was better than the other five trainees. There was just something off with each one.

Axe, that outlier with the punk/Goth, yeah-we-get-it-you’re-a-hard-ass style? Obvious. The bastard was one kitchen knife away from being a serial killer. Boone, the Adonis with those muscles? Uh-huh, we know you can walk on your hands and throw your ass around like it’s attached to your throat with a rope—but who cares. You’re here to fight, not slap on a tutu and try to get into the Cirque du Soleil. Anslam? Nothing but an also-ran in the glymera, not even from a Founding Family. Irrelevant, and a shock that he’d made it as far as he had.