She and Dragos had not yet made a formal announcement about the fact that she was pregnant again. So far, only their inner circle knew. While she hadn’t yet begun to show, the pregnancy suited her. Her skin and hair looked more lustrous than ever.

She gave him a tired, cheerful smile. “Everything go all right?”

“Of course,” he told her. “I love spending time with Liam. He’s gone to get a second supper in the cafeteria.”

She shook her head. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“He’ll be up in a half an hour or so.”

Dragos entered the room, his tuxedo tie loosened. He had shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He nodded a greeting to Graydon.

Even though Graydon had already heard a preliminary report, he asked, “How did the evening go?”

With a cynical twist of his lips, Dragos replied, “Same old, same old.”

Pia rolled her eyes. Leaning against the end of the couch, she slipped off her sparkly high heeled pumps.

“There was plenty of ammunition for the gossip magazines. The Light Fae ambassador from Brazil got drunk, took off all his clothes and went for a swim in the big fountain in the hotel lobby, and the heir to the Algerian witches demesne vomited all over the Demonkind prime minister’s Stuart Weitzman diamond stiletto shoes.” She paused thoughtfully. “If you ask me, I think he did that on purpose. The prime minister was being very snippy.”

Graydon gave her a brief smile, then turned to Dragos. “I know it’s late, but I need a few moments.”

Dragos and Pia exchanged a glance. Bending to scoop up her shoes in one hand, she said, “I’m headed for a shower and bed.”

“I’ll wait for Liam to get back and join you later,” Dragos told her.

She nodded and padded over to kiss Graydon on the cheek. “Goodnight, Gray.”

A rush of affection hit him. Pia had only come into their lives a year and a half ago, but now he couldn’t imagine life without her.

“Goodnight, cupcake,” he replied, patting her back.

Both men watched her disappear down the hall. She closed the door to their master suite and a few moments later, Graydon heard a faint, distinct sound of water running.

Only then did Dragos move. He strolled to the bar located at one end of the spacious living room, sloshed brandy into two snifters and returned to hand one of the glasses to Graydon.

“Step out onto the balcony with me,” Dragos said. “I could use some fresh air.”

Graydon blew out a breath. “Sure.”

Outside, the wind was knifelike, but both Wyr males generated enough body heat that the cold felt refreshing. Dragos lifted his face and took a deep breath, the line of his wide shoulders easing.

Graydon couldn’t join him in relaxing. The vision pushed along the edges of his awareness, seeking to take over his mind again. His muscles tightened against the instinctive urge to shift and launch into the night.

Dragos took a mouthful of his brandy. “What’s on your mind?”

Walking to the edge of the balcony, Graydon looked down at the incandescent ribbon of traffic below. “I told you once, a long time ago, that I might have to take a leave of absence. Do you remember?”

His question wasn’t just a conversational prompt. Over the summer, Dragos had sustained a traumatic brain injury that had resulted in odd gaps in his memory.

Dragos joined him at the balcony. Graydon was a big guy, the largest of the sentinels, but even he had to look up a few inches as he glanced at the new pale scar that slashed down the other male’s temple.

None of the Wyr lord’s incisive intelligence or aggressive personality had been affected by his injury. After a few tense days of suffering total post-traumatic amnesia, he had recalled the most vital parts of his life – his mate and family, and those in his closest circle.

Even so, Pia and his seven sentinels kept a sharp watch at public events, so they could help fill in any unexpected blanks Dragos might encounter. In the months that had followed the accident, Dragos had collected countless history books and read through corporate files obsessively in order to recover as much as he possibly could, as quickly as possible.

Graydon thought of all the secrets the Cuelebres were keeping. Pia’s Wyr form. Her new pregnancy. Dragos’s accident, and the fact that he might have recovered most of his memory, but he hadn’t regained all of it.

So far, they’d been damn lucky that none of their secrets had come out.

At least as far as he knew. Blowing out a breath, he rubbed the back of his head and let the thought go. No sense in getting himself riled up until he had reason to.

At Graydon’s question, Dragos’s dark, sleek brows had drawn together. The expression in his fierce gold gaze grew intent.

“Yes, I remember,” he said. “You had talked about taking a leave of absence – what, nearly two hundred years ago?”

“That’s right. Two hundred years, almost to the day.” With a quick flick of his wrist, Graydon tossed back the contents of his brandy glass. The liquor was smooth on his tongue, warm like liquid sunshine, and fiery on the way down. He welcomed the burn.

Dragos’s gaze turned uncomfortably sharp. “I also remember you’d said that if you ever needed to ask for the leave of absence, you might not be able to tell me why. Is that still the case?”

“Yeah. And you promised I could have the time if and when I needed it.” Graydon met the other male’s gaze. “I need to hold you to that promise now.”

Dragos’s frown deepened. He turned to face Graydon fully, and Graydon braced his wide shoulders in response. To get the full focus of the Lord of the Wyr’s attention could sometimes be an unsettling experience.

“I don’t like it,” growled the dragon. “It smells like trouble. Like you’re in trouble. Tell me what’s going on.”