But Aunt Val obviously was. “She wouldn’t have liked this.” Her gaze was focused on the floor several feet in front of her chair, her arms draped over the sides, hands dangling. I’d never seen her look so…aimless. Limp.

“My mom?” Nash asked, confused, but I knew what she meant. She was talking about my mother.

“Wouldn’t have liked what?” I asked, curious in spite of my lingering anger. No one ever seemed willing to talk about my mom in front of me.

“If it had gone the other way, she would have told you the truth. But Aiden couldn’t face it. He was never as strong as she was.” Aunt Val’s gaze found me, and I was startled by the sudden clarity in her eyes. The unexpected intensity shining through a glaze of intoxication. “I never met anyone stronger than Darby. I wanted to be just like her until—”

“Valerie!” Uncle Brendon stood frozen in the doorway, a fresh—presumably un-spiked—mug of coffee in one hand.

“Until what?” I glanced from one to the other.

“Nothing. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” He set the mug on the nearest end table—without a coaster—and crossed the room in a blur of denim, practically exhaling frustration and anxiety. Uncle Brendon lifted his wife from her chair with an arm around her shoulders, and she tottered unsteadily, lending credence to his claim.

Yet despite her wobbly legs, her eyes were steady when they met his, and his silent censure did not escape her notice. But neither did it make her retract her statement. Whatever had just passed between them, it was crystal clear that Aunt Val did in fact know what she was saying.

Uncle Brendon half carried his wife toward the hallway. “I’m going to get her settled in for the night. It was good to meet you, Nash, and please give my best to your mother.” He glanced pointedly at me, then at the door.

Evidently visiting hours were over.

“Uncle Brendon?” I had one question that couldn’t wait for my father, and I wanted to be holding Nash’s hand when I heard the answer, just in case.

My uncle hesitated in the doorway, and Aunt Val laid her head on his shoulder, her eyes already closed. “Yeah?”

I took a deep breath. “What did Aunt Val mean when she said I’m living on borrowed time?”

Comprehension washed over him like waves smoothing out sand on the beach. “You heard us this afternoon?”

I nodded, and my hand tightened around Nash’s.

A pained look chased his smile away, and he pulled Aunt Val straighter against him. “That’s part of your father’s story. Have a little patience and let him tell it. And try to trust me—Val really doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

I exhaled in disappointment. “Fine.” That was the best I wasgoing to get; I could already tell. Fortunately, my father would be there in the morning, and this time I wouldn’t let him leave without answering every one of my questions.

“Get some sleep, Kaylee. You too, Nash. With the memorial, tomorrow probably won’t be any easier than today was.”

We both nodded, and Uncle Brendon lifted Aunt Val into his arms—she was snoring lightly now—and carried her down the hall.

“Wow.” Nash whistled as I fell back against the arm of the couch facing him. “How much has she had?”

“No telling. She doesn’t drink much, though, so it probably doesn’t take much to lay her out cold, and she started this afternoon.”

“My mom just bakes when she gets upset. Some weeks I live on brownies and chocolate milk.”

I grinned. “Trade ya.” Aunt Val would rather shoot herself than touch a stick of real butter, much less a bag of chocolate chips. Her theory was that not knowing how to bake saved her thousands of calories a month.

My theory was that for all the brandy she’d had in the past eight hours, she could have had a whole pan of brownies.

“I like brownies. You’re stuck with your aunt.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

Nash stood, and I followed him to the door, my arm threaded through his. “I gotta get Scott’s car back before he calls the cops,” he said. I walked him out, and when we stopped by the driver’s side door, I wrapped my arms around his waist as his went around my back. He felt sooo good, and the thought that I could touch him anytime I wanted sent a whole flock of butterflies fluttering around in my stomach.

I leaned back against the car, and Nash leaned into me. His mouth met mine, and my lips opened, welcoming him. Feeding from him. When his kisses trailed down my chin to my neck, I let my head fall back, grateful for the night air cooling the heat he brought off me in waves. His lips were hot, and the trail of his kisses burned down my throat and over my collarbone.

Each breath came faster than the last. Every kiss, every flick of his tongue against my skin, scalded me in the most delicious way. His fingers trailed up from my waist as his lips dipped lower, pushing aside the neckline of my shirt.

Whoa… “Nash.” I put my hands on his shoulders.

“Mmm?”

“Hey…” I pushed against him, and he rose to meet my own heated gaze, his irises churning furiously in the light from the porch. Was this because we were two of a kind? This irresistible urge to touch each other?

My racing pulse slowed as my heart began to ache. Was it really me he wanted, or did our mutual species throw our hormones into overdrive? Would he want me if I were human?

Did that even matter? I wasn’t human. Neither was he.