That mind of hers . . . He’d never met its like. Silver Mercant forgot nothing, and she had a steely presence that made even rowdy bears sit up and take notice. Woman like that, she’d make one hell of a mate. Too bad she refused to even consider the idea: Silver wasn’t budging on the whole emotionless Silence thing.

“My people chose Silence for a reason,” she’d said to him three visits earlier. “While parts of that reasoning have proven false enough to topple Silence for many, other parts still apply. I am and always will be Silent. That means I will never be ready to ‘run off ’ and experience ‘shenanigans’ with you.”

No matter. Valentin had a plan.

Because she damn well was going to survive. “Don’t even try to stop me from seeing her, Krychek,” he said to the cardinal, who still hadn’t spilled Silver’s location. “I’m bigger and meaner than you.”

Krychek raised an eyebrow. “Bigger, yes. Meaner? Let’s leave that an open question. However, since she’s alive because of you, I think you can be trusted with her whereabouts.” He told Valentin the name of the hospital.

It happened to be a short ten-minute run from here. Normally, Valentin would’ve covered that distance without hesitation—his bear would’ve barely stretched out by the time he reached the hospital. He could do vehicles, but he didn’t really like them. They were all too damn small as far as he was concerned. But this wasn’t a normal day. “Can I hitch a ride?”

The other man didn’t say anything, but less than a second later, Valentin found himself standing in an antiseptic white corridor, the floor beneath his feet a chilly gray-blue. The chairs on one side were attached to the wall, the seat cushions darkest navy. On the right of the chairs was a door inset with a small square of glass.

Beyond that glass lay an operating theatre where white-garbed doctors and nurses worked with frantic efficiency to stabilize Silver. He couldn’t see her, but regardless of the powerful hospital smells in the air, sharp and biting, he could scent the ice-cold starlight and secret fire of her.

“I thought you’d take her to a private clinic.” This public hospital was an excellent one, but Silver was critical to the fragile balance of their fractured world—and Krychek could teleport anywhere in the blink of an eye.

“The lead doctor working on her is one of the world’s foremost specialists in toxins and poisons and their impact on the Psy body.”

“You download that information from the psychic network you’re all part of?”

Krychek nodded.

“Useful.” Valentin couldn’t imagine a life in which his mind was connected to a limitless vastness that included millions of strangers, but as a bear whose clan was his heartbeat, he could understand it. “You didn’t leave her here alone.” Krychek had been delayed returning to him the first time around. Long enough to bring in someone to watch over Silver.

“No, he didn’t.” The woman who’d spoken had just walked over from where she’d been getting a glass of water not far down the corridor. Her language of choice was English, and she had a scent that was almost no scent. But to a bear, everyone had a scent, and she hadn’t quite managed to erase every thread of hers. The subtle memory of soap, the natural body scent that was uniquely hers, a touch of roses.

He didn’t have to ask her identity; this woman was Silver in fifty years. Her hair pure white and her eyes the same as his Starlight’s, her facial bones fine, she was clearly a Mercant. And, if the rumors Valentin’s third-eldest sister had heard were true, then she was probably the Mercant.

He took a chance. “Grandmother Mercant,” he said in the same language she’d used, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment of another alpha.

Silver’s grandmother didn’t display any surprise at his greeting, so regal, she clearly took it as her due that she’d be recognized—this despite the fact the head of the Mercant family preferred to stay firmly out of the limelight. Yes, the Mercant women were as tough as steel.

More than tough enough to handle bears.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” was her polite but in no way warm response.

“Valentin Nikolaev,” he said. “Alpha of the StoneWater clan.”

“He was with Silver when she collapsed.”

Grandmother Mercant’s eyes bored into Valentin’s on the heels of Krychek’s words. “If my granddaughter survives, it’ll be because of your quick actions.” She shifted her attention to the cardinal who was the third point in their triangle. “Any response from the lab?”

“No,” Krychek said, then paused. “I have the report. I’m sending it through.”

Beyond the square of glass, Valentin saw a doctor lift up her head. She nodded once toward the window to acknowledge the telepathic message before beginning to issue orders to her staff.

Minutes turned to an hour, more.

Still, they waited.

The Human Patriot

HE DIDN’T CONSIDER himself a bad man. He wasn’t in any way like the other self-centered bastards in the Consortium. They wanted to sow division and foster chaos because it would be better for their bottom line. He was disgusted by their greed, had accepted the Consortium’s overture only because he intended to use the group to achieve his aims, aims formed of conscience and hope and love for his people.

To him, the Consortium was a tool to help him mount a righteous revolution. Yes, he made ruthless decisions when called for, but that was in business. In life, in politics, he acted on the conviction of his heart, and that heart was telling him the Trinity Accord would lead to the destruction of all that he held dear.

His beloved children, his accomplished and beautiful wife, they’d all be destroyed by this “proto-Federation” agreement being touted as a force for unity. Psy, humans, changelings, people of all three races would be equal, all have a say in the direction of the world.

“Bullshit.”

He closed his hand into a tight fist on the aged cherrywood of his desk, the top inlaid with fine gold and semiprecious stones. It was a status symbol, this desk. Worth hundreds of times the yearly income of the common man on the street, it reminded him every day of what he’d achieved through determined intelligence . . . and the genetic luck of the draw.

Without the natural shield that protected his mind, he would long ago have become another casualty of Psy arrogance, another human psychically raped and violated by the emotionless, soulless bastards, his ideas and his freedom stolen.

His eyes went to the photo of his wife on his desk. So much light in her eyes. That had been before. She still laughed, she still loved, but she hadn’t been the same since that horrific day when she’d come up with an invention a Psy coveted. The monster had stripped her clean before the man who loved her to the core of his being could find a way to protect her.

She no longer created, knowing it could be taken from her at any instant.

But they were supposed to believe the Psy were turning over a new leaf, that they’d suddenly begun to respect the sanctity of the human mind?

Throwing down the pen he’d picked up to sign a contract, he rose to his feet and, stepping out onto the balcony attached to his home study, looked down at the cool paradise of their white-tiled courtyard with its fountain in the center. His children’s laughter drifted up from below, their small bodies hidden by the black plum trees that hung heavy with fruit.