At university, she had studied all the time. And after her degree, during her employment at BioMed, she had worked all the time. And then Gerry had died. So she’d worked even more than all the time.

Yes, that was possible.

There had to be another way for her. And there was certainly going to be a different place to live.

She’d already mourned the loss of one man in this house.

She was not going to do that here again.

“Does everyone understand their positions?” Tohr asked the brothers as everyone gathered in the mansion’s grand foyer. “Is everyone clear?”

He was aware of a sense of foreboding creeping up the back of his neck and he rubbed his nape, trying to convince himself that he’d just slept funny.

“Actually, I’m confused.” Rhage bit down on a cherry Tootsie Pop. “Am I devastatingly handsome tonight facing here to the left.” He shifted to the other side. “Or the right? Left … right. Left. Right—”

“I’m going to break his nose,” Vishous said. “I swear to God, I am going to bust his fucking septum just so we can stop this conversation.”

“I think left and right,” Rhage announced. “I think there are no bad angles.”

“You sure about that, Barbra Streisand?” someone called out.

The voices of the Brotherhood filled the space as much as their huge, leather-clad bodies did, and Tohr let them all go with the verbal jabbing. It was typical nervous energy bubbling around, and he knew better than to try to quell the chatter.

Instead, he went over to his half brother. Xcor was still as a statue, his face too composed. His body too tense.

“How you doing?” Tohr asked quietly, making sure his back was to the group so no one overheard them. But like they all didn’t know what the male was facing tonight?

Xcor kept his voice down, too. “Just so you know, I will kill Throe myself if he’s going after the throne. I will not hesitate. I know where my allegiance lies.”

Tohr put his hand on the male’s shoulder. “I never doubt it, brother mine. Ever.”

Xcor’s eyes shined out of his brutal, harelipped face, and, not for the first time, Tohr was glad that the fighter was on their side. Xcor was formidable on a good day. A night like tonight? He was beyond deadly.

And what do you know, they had another thing going for them. Wrath was not heading down to the Audience House. Thank God. In a rare change of habit, the King had actually listened to reason. He was staying put here at the mansion, with Phury and Z on guard along with Payne. Rehvenge, with all his tricks as a symphath, was also hanging in for the night. Just in a case.

And symphaths had special weapons.

As Murhder had learned firsthand, Tohr thought with regret.

“Okay, let’s do this,” he said as he headed for the grand door.

Pushing his way through the vestibule, he was aware that a piece was missing. But Murhder was free to make his own decisions, and at least John was back and ready to fight—

Tohr stopped short without any warning, and John, who was right behind him, slammed into him, bumping his body out over the threshold.

A tall, powerful figure stood on the stone steps in the wind, unmoving in spite of the gusts that rushed the top of the mountain. Feet planted, hands down, head up, the male was prepared for what he had been bred to do.

Fight in defense of the species.

Tohr started to smile as he resumed walking forward. “You have a change of a heart, then?”

As he put his dagger hand out to Murhder, he had not expected to see the other male ever again.

Sometimes, separation was what destiny provided, regardless of what you wanted. Tohr had lived, fought, and loved long enough to have learned that lesson the hard way. But shit … it would be really goddamn good if in Murhder’s case, things didn’t go down like that.

It would be really good to have him back.

Murhder had not been able to sleep all day long. This was not unusual. What had been a fresh change to his chronic insomnia was that instead of his mind racing around how crazy he was, he’d spent the hours reviewing his life and all the people he had known, loved, and lost. Especially that last one.

There were new names on that list. Sarah, obviously. But also Nate. John.

The Brotherhood and the King.

What are you going to do about Sarah?

Did you mention her? I must have missed it.

That exchange with Tohr, just as the Brother had been leaving the B&B, had haunted Murhder the most—in a good way. It was a reminder of the loyalty he’d once had with the Brotherhood, and also a powerful statement that such fidelity was clearly still available to him.

Of course, Tohr wouldn’t have kept a secret that jeopardized the King’s security or that of the Brotherhood’s or the race’s. But he’d backed Murhder in that moment, and it had been a long time since someone had done that. More importantly, among males of worth, loyalty was like trust and respect: earned and reciprocal. With Tohr’s pledge, Murhder was inclined to offer the same, and not just to the one Brother.

To all of them.

And that was what you needed in the field. That was what he required before he could even think of returning. The door, unlocked. The final missing piece of himself, found.

That wasn’t all he’d ruminated over, however. He had also thought about the centuries he had fought. First in the woods and around the villages in the Old Country. Later, down turn-of-the-century streets of Caldwell. And more recently, in the modern world.

It had dawned on him that if he was who he believed himself to be—a warrior—then why in the fuck was he not fighting for what he wanted. What he needed. What he had every right to have.

Sarah.

You have a change of heart, then? Tohr had said.

As the Brother’s dagger hand still waited for his own in the cold breeze, Murhder glanced over at the Brotherhood who were hanging back. John was with them, the younger male looking optimistic—and also worried.

Murhder looked up at the menacing façade of the great gray mansion he remembered Darius building so very long ago. It had aged in the past twenty years, but not by much. A few more streaks down the stone, bigger trees, new plantings around the grounds.

The Brother had built the massive house to last. And now, just as Darius had always wanted, the Brotherhood and the King were living together under its roof.

“Yes, I have had a change of heart,” Murhder said roughly. “I want to come back. But I need two things from you all and the King.”

Tohr’s palm lowered. “Tell us.”

“I need Sarah. My life is nothing without her. I’m not coming back without her being allowed in our world if she so chooses. This cannot be a news flash.”

Tohr inclined his head. “We’re on the way to a potential engagement and Wrath is on lockdown at the moment. Would it be acceptable if we address this as soon as we return? I am prepared to offer my full support. If anyone is going to get behind the importance of a female in a brother’s life, it’s me—and I’m sure the King will agree with me in your case now.”

The King was locked down? Murhder wondered. What the hell is going on here?

“What’s the second request?” Tohr prompted.

Murhder looked over the Brotherhood and focused on John. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. When he was done speaking, Tohr closed his eyes.

“Yes,” the male said hoarsely. “I agree.”

Now Murhder put his own hand out. “Good. We have a deal.”

As they shook, he was aware of a swell of emotion in his chest. There were too many loose ends to start celebrating, however. The King had to sign off on Sarah, for one.

And that was the big deal breaker. But somehow, he had a feeling which way things were going to go on the demand. The rest was going to be up to her.

“Do you want to wait at the Audience House?” Tohr indicated over his shoulder. “We are not going to be back here for a while—”

“Do you need another dagger?”

Tohr started to smile. Then he turned to the group, who immediately sported thumbs-up, fist pumps, high fives.

So Tohr hadn’t lied. All of them did want him back.

It made a brother feel welcome, it truly did.

Amazing, how quickly old habits returned.

As Murhder re-formed in the side yard of a gracious old manse, his body was drumming with strength and power, and he had the kind of weapons and equipment a fighter needed to back that shit up: The holster of daggers he’d been quickly fitted with crisscrossed over his heart, a familiar weight. He had guns around his waist. Hard boots on his feet. A Kevlar vest. Leathers.

His brothers had outfitted him in the work of a moment, everything a backup of what everyone else wore, brought out by a positively skip-happy Fritz.

And now he was here, in the snow and the cold, looking up at windows which revealed a typical glymera cocktail party, all kinds of well-dressed, high-chinned, arched-browed superior types clustered around …

Was that a serve-yourself bar?

Murhder shook his head. He’d been gone awhile, but he had to believe some things hadn’t changed that much: Aristocrats never served themselves. Not even drinks.

They barely blew their own noses.

Going by the haughty looks exchanged as males in tuxedos filled cut crystal wineglasses for their shellans and gave themselves scotch on the rocks, the assembled were likewise not impressed.

A quick head count totaled just over twenty, and he guessed who the host was by the amount of carpet the guy crossed: One male, a handsome, blond-haired number with a cravat, was going back and forth across the parlor, leaving the room to answer the door, returning with guests, making introductions.

Where were the doggen? After all, house like this? Male like that?

Party like what?

Murhder had been told the male’s name was Throe, and that he had recently come over from the Old World. Long story and not relevant to this particular event, so they hadn’t spent a lot of time on it. The only thing Murhder cared about was this guy had had bright ideas about the throne in the very recent past—and was likely at it again.