Two weeks after Jace was shot, Dr. Carver pronounced him fit to Shift and accelerate his healing. Jace was thrilled. If the transformation was painful for him, he showed no sign of it, enduring the process in stoic silence, monitored closely by Dr. Carver and my mother. Then, two hours later, he Shifted back, apparently pleased with the results.

As the on-screen heroine fled back into her cabin, my mother appeared in the doorway, carrying a plate piled high with double-fudge brownies. She stopped by my chair and looked down at me, frowning in concern. She’d been doing that a lot lately. “I’m making some tea for your father,” she said, balancing flawlessly on two-inch heels. “Would you like some?”

“No, thanks. But I’ll take one of those.”

She smiled and held the plate out to me.

“Thanks.” I took several, and bit into the first, watching as my mother carried the plate into the center of the room, to pass out her treats. She and I were getting along better than ever. Fighting side by side had created a bond between us that two decades under the same roof had been unable to. But I’d gained the most from our shared encounter with Luiz. I’d learned that my mother was a badass in disguise. She was Van Helsing in an apron and heels, and—at least for the time being—I couldn’t think of a single thing cooler than that. Except having inherited it from her.

On her way out of the room with the nearly empty plate, my mother set another brownie on the end table next to me and smiled. She hadn’t actually gotten a full dose of the sedative that day in the basement.

Apparently stabbing someone with the needle didn’t provide the same force as shooting it from a pistol powered by pressurized air. And, anyway, Dr. Carver had assured me that even an entire dartful wouldn’t have been enough to completely immobilize a ful -grown werecat. Luiz must have been counting on shooting me twice, as he had Ryan. Mom had actually passed out from being choked.

She dealt with it pretty well, I thought. She wore silk scarves until the bruises around her throat faded completely, and referred to the attack as a “little incident,” as if not calling a rose a rose made the fight any less real. It didn’t, but hey, whatever got her through the day….

My father couldn’t have been prouder of “his women.” He regaled his Alpha friends several times apiece with the story of how Mom and I had defeated the jungle stray who’d snuck past an army of enforcers to invade our lives and destroy the facade of security we’d previously enjoyed. Of course, he left out the part where, instead of locking Luiz out, I’d actually locked him in with us. I think he was finally starting to understand that there’s real y something to be said for selective omission.

Unfortunately, that principle could not be applied where Manx was concerned. With Luiz dead, she agreed to a full disclosure, and finally told us her birth Pride and homeland. Mercedes Carreño was from one of the oldest Prides in Venezuela, and as soon as she said her surname, my father’s eyes closed in what could only be grief. Or frustration. He obviously already knew what she went on to tell us.

Two years after Manx’s disappearance, her father was kil ed by an ambitious neighboring Alpha, who then took over the territory Manx was born into. Her brothers died in defense of their territory, and her mother died of heartbreak less than a year later. By the time she fought free from her captors, Manx had no home to return to and no family left to care for, other than the child in her womb. So she’d set her sights on revenge, convinced that she could never raise her son in peace while Luiz—the baby’s father—still breathed.

While the new Alpha of her old territory would no doubt have taken her in, Manx would no more turn to the man who’d killed her father than she would return to the men who’d kil ed her sons. So, with no Pride to defend her or demand her return, her fate was officially in the hands of our Territorial Council, which elected to try her on three counts of murder. However, for the safety of her unborn child, her hearing would be deferred until after the birth of her son.

The council was still arguing over what to do with me. My father’s al ies wanted to let me go with a warning. His enemies wanted to make an example of me. And because of his relationship to the accused—me—my father was not privy to any of the discussions. So we lived in ignorance of the proceedings, waiting for the other Alphas to come to some sort of an agreement. And until that time, I’d been suspended from duty as an enforcer. The closest I could get to the action now was answering my father’s phone.

“It’s because she’s a reporter,” Owen said, stil watching the movie from the floor at Ethan’s feet. “She’s natural y curious. She can’t help it.”

I laughed. It was just like Owen to make excuses for someone else’s shortcomings. Even fictional characters. Owen found my tendency to speak my mind “refreshingly honest,” and hailed Marc’s temper as “a deep protective instinct.” He said Ethan “thoroughly enjoyed life,” and that Parker “really knew how to have a good time.” According to Owen, we were all doing just fine, and all was right with the world. I wanted to share his optimism, but try as I might, I couldn’t help seeing things through my smog-colored glasses.

“Hello, Faythe,” Manx said, padding into the living room in her bare feet to stand by my chair. Her little baby bulge brushed the end table, and she reached down to caress her stomach through a loose peach maternity blouse. She was swelling every single day, and was more tickled with her expanding shape than I could imagine ever being.