No, it’s a mistake. She misjudged and thought I was closer. She’ll realize it any second now, as she looks back to laugh, to grin, to tease . . .

But the forest stayed silent. No questioning cry. Not even the thump of running feet.

“Liv?” he called.

His heart thudded again, and he gritted his teeth against it. Unreasonable fear. Ungrounded fear. Yet he couldn’t help it. If he woke in the night and saw her side of the bed empty, he’d scramble up, dread filling him, a black wave of it that stole his breath, until he’d hear the flush of the toilet or the pad of her footsteps, and he’d sink down again, closing his eyes so she wouldn’t see the lingering fear. He’d wait until she crawled back into bed and move against her, as if in sleep, his heart slowing only when he felt her there, nestled against him.

“Liv?” he called. Then, “Olivia!”

His voice thundered through the forest, and even after it died away, he swore he could hear the four syllables of her name, pounding like hoofbeats. Then it was actual hooves. The ground shook with them, seeming to come from every direction.

The hoofbeats stopped. Ricky stood there, watching the forest shift as the moon slid between cloud cover, the trees going light and then dark, the branches above and all around rolling like waves. A horse snorted. He turned fast but saw only trees. Even when the moon snuck out, one patch of forest stayed night-dark. He strode toward it, one hand clenched in a fist and the other holding his switchblade, the weight comfortable and reassuring. He flicked the blade then shut it again, never looking down, no need to look, the move reflexive.

A horse whinnied and stamped. Still the patch of forest stayed dark. Ricky pushed aside branches and stepped into a clearing to see a man astride a stallion. The horse was as black as the surrounding night, and it towered above Ricky. Its eyes glowed a faint red. The man wore a cloak so dark it looked black until Ricky’s eyes adjusted enough to see it was black and green, decorated in a swirling Celtic design.

I know that design.

The connection wouldn’t quite close, and he turned his attention to the man instead. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark beard stubble obscuring the bottom half of his face, but even at a glance Ricky knew it was no one he recognized.

And yet it was . . .

Again, the connection wouldn’t form, like a smashed bridge over rapids, no way across, the thunder of water drowning out thought. The thunder of one question drowning out all others.

“Where is she?” Ricky said.

“Gone.” The man looked down at him. “He couldn’t stand to lose her and neither could I, so in the end, we both did.” Pain darkened the man’s eyes to black pits of grief and guilt. “But no one lost more than she did. No one.”

“I don’t under—”

“Find her.”

Ricky jolted from the dream. He pushed up so fast one hand buckled under him and his foot slid in the dew-damp leaves. He patted the ground beside him, not trusting his eyes despite the moonlight flooding through the trees. He reached and he looked, but he knew what he’d see: an empty spot where Liv had been sleeping.

He scrambled to his feet.

“Lose something?” a voice asked.

Ricky spun as Beau sauntered out of the forest. His gaze slid down Ricky. “I’ll give you a moment to get dressed.”

“Where is she?” Ricky advanced on Beau.

“You sure you don’t want to put some clothing on?”

He grabbed Beau by the throat. Fingers closed on warm skin, and he felt the throb of a jugular, and then his hand snapped shut on air. He blinked and stared at the empty space in front of him.

“We do have time for you to get dressed,” Beau said, now ten feet away to his left.

I’m still dreaming.

Except he wasn’t. Everything was as it should be—the forest lit by moonlight, the distant glow of the clubhouse, the smell of burnt rubber from someone tearing out, the whistle of wind in the treetops, even the fact that he was naked. All normal . . . except for a man who could disappear.

Not a man. Not human, at least. When he looked at Beau, he knew everything Liv had told him was true. He hadn’t doubted it, not really. If she believed it and Gabriel believed it, then it must be true, because they were two of the most sensible and grounded people he knew. Yet he had still felt, if not doubt, then confusion, a sense that maybe, just maybe, there was another explanation. Now he knew there was not.

“I really feel we could do this better if you were dressed,” Beau said.

“No,” a woman’s voice whispered from the trees. “That would be such a shame.”

“He’s so pretty,” another giggled.

A third echoed with a lilting, “So very pretty.”

Fingers grazed his ass. He wheeled, but no one was there. He could hear more voices, whispers, and giggles, and feel tickling touches and strokes, fingers running down his cheeks, his thighs, his biceps . . . and elsewhere. He resisted the urge to shove them away. There was no one to shove.

Beau came close—too close. Smirking, as if expecting Ricky to back away. He stood his ground and let Beau step up until his hand brushed Ricky’s hip.

“Where is Olivia?” Ricky said.

“You are pretty.” Beau stroked his cheek. “Such a shame, really. There are so many powers. So many skills and abilities. And this is all your kind get. A pretty face and charming ways. That’s how you won her, you know. Fae charm.” His gaze slid down Ricky, lingering as it went. “As for the rest, if you’re going to fuck it, it helps if it looks deliciously fuckable. But mostly, it’s the charm. That really is all you have.”