Ethan frowned, scratching one bare shoulder. “You want me to go to sleep now?”

My father eyed the wall clock pointedly. “It’s almost three in the morning.”

“Yeah, but…” He glanced around the room, appealing silently to the other guys. No one spoke. When Ethan finally glanced at me, I popped the top on my soda and smiled at him, then took a long, slow drink.

“Fine,” he muttered, and shuffled into the hall. Seconds later, he slammed his bedroom door, and my smile widened.

I was the only one who routinely argued with my father, but I wasn’t about to stick my neck out for the brother who’d bet twenty dollars that Marc would dump me.

“Michael couldn’t find mention of any women going missing tonight anywhere in Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, or Arkansas—strippers or otherwise. So the last location we have for Andrew and whoever he’s working with is Henderson, Texas. I doubt he’s stil there, but if the tabby isn’t there yet, I think it’s safe to assume she wil be soon. So I’m sending Marc and Parker to Henderson first thing tomorrow, to look around and see what they can sniff out.”

My father watched Parker as he spoke, leaning forward to emphasize his next words. “You are to bring her in alive, and unharmed. We’re not sure whose daughter she is yet, and we are not going to risk angering the South American Prides by mistreating her without a hearing, no matter what she’s done. Treat her like she’s breakable. Understood?”

Parker nodded. We all nodded. Bringing in a rogue tabby would be necessarily different than bringing in a rogue tom. It only stood to reason. Yet our Alpha continued to eye Parker, as if to further drive home his point. “I told Marc the same thing, but feel free to remind him.”

My father took a long sip of his coffee, then addressed the whole room. “We’ll spend tomorrow tracking Andrew down. In the morning Faythe will call him and see if she can find out who he’s with, where they are, and what business he plans to take care of tomorrow. Any questions?”

No hands went up, and no mouths opened.

“Good. Everyone go get some sleep. But set your alarms. We’re getting an early start.”

The room cleared quickly, with my father leading the way. He took his coffee with him and disappeared into his bedroom.

I plodded down the hall in a daze, oblivious to the broad shoulders brushing past me and the air-conditioned breeze blowing my hopelessly tangled hair back from my face. I’d finally reached the end of a very long day, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of everything that had happened.

That morning, I’d been one of the good guys, traveling to New Orleans to re-create a dead guy’s last hour in order to learn about his killer. I was relatively happy with my life, and proud of the job I was doing.

Sixteen hours later, I’d confessed to a capital crime and become the object of obsession of a psychotic monster of my own making.

But worst of all, Marc and I had…What had we done? We’d fought, of course. But it certainly wasn’t the worst fight we’d ever had. No broken furniture, and no blood. We were even still on speaking terms. So what was my problem? Why was I so disappointed to open my bedroom door and not see him thumbing through my CDs in a pair of low-slung jogging pants, waiting for me to loosen the drawstring and let them fall to the carpet?

It’s not like we stayed together every night. So why did I dread going to bed alone this time?

The answer hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs as I dropped my clothes in my hamper. For the first time since I was sixteen years old, my connection to Marc was undefined. I had no idea where we stood. We hadn’t broken up, but we weren’t exactly together, either. He was no longer mad, but neither was he here.

I took a quick shower, trying to distract myself from thoughts of Marc by planning my upcoming phone call to Andrew. It didn’t work. By the time I stepped out onto the mat, I was replaying the fight with Marc in my head, determined to find something I could have said to end things on better, more sure-footed ground. I came up blank.

In my room again, I dressed in a pair of stretchy black boyshorts and a matching tank top, my preferred pj’s. I was running a comb through my still-damp hair when my bedroom door creaked open.

Whirling around, I found Marc watching me, eyes brooding, face somber. He stood framed by the doorway, wearing nothing but a snug pair of jeans. His bare feet were wet, and thin, short blades of grass clung to them. His chest heaved from what I assumed to be a mad dash across the backyard. Droplets of rain fell from his thick, dark curls to run down his torso, crossing the wel -defined lines of his shoulders and the clawmark scars on his chest, to rol down his abs before soaking into the waistband of his jeans.

“Marc? What’s wrong?” The comb fel from my fingers as he crossed the floor in several long, determined strides. His left hand went around my waist, and his right tangled in my shower-damp hair, tilting my face to meet his.

He kissed me without a word, his lips hard, demanding. He probed my mouth desperately, taking sustenance from my very soul. The fronts of my bare thighs rubbed against his worn-soft denim, and I felt the heat of his skin beneath. My toes barely touched the carpet between his feet.

Suddenly, abruptly, Marc let me go and stepped back, shaking his head in reproach. In denial.

My chest rose and fell, each breath coming hard and fast. Our eyes met, and I gasped at the raw pain in his.

“Marc…”

Marc growled fiercely, possessively. He wrapped both hands around my waist and lifted me, biceps swelling with the motion. My legs wrapped around his waist. His arm snaked around my lower back, holding me up. Holding me close. My arms went around his neck.