“So, we’re leaving tomorrow?” Jace set the plate on the desk in front of me, then leaned against the wall where he could see both me and Marc.

“Yeah. I’m trying to book the flights, but the site’s taking forever to load….”

“Here, let me do it,” Marc said, already reaching for the mouse.

“Thanks.” I set my credit card on the desk, then carried my plate and mug slowly to the side of the bed, where I used his old nightstand as a table. But even sitting up hurt my ribs, and it took most of my concentration to ignore the pain. “We need three seats on the earliest flight to Roswell tomorrow morning.” Because Roswell was the nearest airport to the thunderbirds’ nest. Seriously.

“So we’re just gonna, what?” Jace frowned, as I bit into the first sandwich, wincing over the pain in my nose when I chewed. “Storm in on the ranch and start throwing punches? Don’t you think they’ll be expecting that?”

“Probably.” I shrugged, then swallowed. “But the classics never die. And hopefully they won’t be expecting air support.” And I was just as bothered as the next guy by the fact that we needed help from another species to even our own odds. “We go in when they’re not expecting us and we target Malone and Dean. And we fight anyone who stands between us and them.”

“We might have to kill Kent,” Marc said, as his computer hummed and beeped, the outdated dial-up modem protesting its involvement in the day’s work.

“Kent’s already made his choice, and he’ll have to live with the consequences. Or not.” Jace frowned again, and I knew what he was thinking. I didn’t want Parker to lose another brother, and I certainly didn’t want to be the one who made that happen. Especially after Kent had offered me what he naively considered to be safe asylum in my own former home. But there were bigger issues at stake, and I’d do what I had to do to protect my men.

And to earn their trust back.

I’d just finished the third and final sandwich when Marc finally spun in his desk chair to face me. “Okay, we take off from Jackson at 9:38 in the morning. We need to be there an hour early, minimum, and it’s a two-hour drive. So we’ll have to leave here around 6:00 a.m.”

“Great. Thanks.” I finished my now-lukewarm coffee, then handed both dishes to Jace. “I’m going to Shift a couple of times, and hopefully start to put this head trauma behind me. Not to mention the broken nose. I can hardly stand to look in the mirror at the moment.” And the lower arc of my field of vision was a bluish-purple haze of bruises I could barely see.

“You’ll have to eat again between Shifts,” Jace said, heading slowly, reluctantly, toward the hall. “I’ll bring some more sandwiches in about half an hour. Do you need anything else?”

“A meat mallet and one more shot at Dean’s head,” I said, carefully pulling the T-shirt over my head all on my own. If I couldn’t take the pain of changing clothes, how the hell was I going to Shift?

Jace forced a grin, but beneath the effort, he looked tense. Disappointed. “Soon, hopefully. Yell if you need anything else.”

I tried on a smile, but it didn’t work. “Thanks, but I just need to Shift.” And to heal. And to think. And to become a competent, respectable Alpha overnight. I met Marc’s gaze. “Can you get the guys up to speed on the plan? And smell Parker’s breath? He’s officially cut off from the bar until further notice.”

“Sure.” Marc selected Shut Down from the start menu on his desktop, then turned off the monitor and stood to push his desk chair in. “Do you want me to bring you more coffee? Or some water?”

“I’m fine for now, guys. Really.” I glanced over Marc’s shoulder into the hallway. “Could you close the door? I don’t think Holly needs another demonstration quite so soon.”

Marc nodded and disappeared into the hall, and the door clicked shut behind him. And I was alone enough that I didn’t have to wear the Alpha face I hadn’t yet perfected. Or the enforcer’s poker face I wore all too often. Or any other face that would hopefully hide how scared, and furious, and unsure, I was. How convinced some deep, dark part of me was that this new plan, this latest reincarnation of the fight-or-die routine, would fail spectacularly and kill not just me, but everyone I loved.

I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t afford to lose again.

I shoved my shorts down and stepped out of them, then carefully lowered myself to my knees on the rough carpet. My side felt like I’d been stabbed. My left hip protested sharply and my shoulder sang in harmony with it. Even my nose throbbed harder from my change of position—or maybe altitude—and it felt like someone had driven a hammer through the left side of my skull.

I embraced the pain as both penance and consolation. It was the consequence of losing the most important fight of my life, as well as proof that I’d survived. Pain was a reminder of my arrogance and weakness, and if I ever forgot that lesson, Dean would kill me. I had no doubt of that.

So instead of ignoring the pain, I called out to it, reaching for more. Pain is part of who I am. It’s the defining characteristic of a Shifter’s transformation. Pain is what I suffer from my enemies. It is what I deal out to those who break our laws. It is what I protect my charges from. Pain is what I inherited from fate, that fickle bitch who gave me a mouth and fists, then put me in a world that wanted only my womb and my cradled arms.