“I’m not doing it.” I’d never heard Jace sound so strong. So angry, and unmovable. “Calvin’s doing it. He set the thunderbirds after us, and he killed his own son because Brett was defecting with evidence. If you can’t see the truth when it’s staring you in the face, we have nothing else to talk about.”

I was halfway to the door with Marc at my side when a plastic crunch echoed through the room. I turned to see Jace holding the pulverized remains of his cell in one hand, small bits of plastic and electronics spilling between his fingers to clatter on the hardwood.

“Will you accept Marc Ramos as an escort?” my father asked from the hall, making no effort to lower his voice. Marc’s hand tightened around mine beneath the table. At the peninsula, my mother froze in the act of ladling chili into bowls, and her gaze strayed to the doorway. Along with mine.

“Greg…” Blackwell hedged, but my father’s footsteps never paused, and Blackwell had to either keep up or be left behind. Both men stopped in front of the dining room—no doubt strategic positioning on my dad’s part.

“Marc is my best enforcer, Paul.” My Alpha turned with his back toward the kitchen, putting me and Marc in Blackwell’s direct line of sight, over his shoulder. “I can’t in good conscience send you off with anything less than my best.”

I glanced at Marc and found him watching in silence, his every muscle tense, his breath apparently frozen in his lungs.

Blackwell looked our way and sighed, then his focus shifted to my dad. “Of course. I’m sorry for the trouble, but I do thank you for the escort.”

I might have been the only one who saw the almost imperceptible ease of tension in my father’s shoulders. But then again, my mother probably saw it, too.

Marc stood when our Alpha motioned for him and Vic. They would drive Blackwell and his two toms to the airport in their rental car, then ride back with my oldest brother, Michael, who would be landing in a couple of hours, back from a business trip.

Michael had been out of town for the past three days, and he knew nothing about the thunderbirds or the damage they’d done, because he was out of touch while his plane was in the air. So my father had left him a voice mail telling him where to meet Vic and Marc, and that they’d explain on the way home.

Several minutes later, I watched through the front window as the four younger toms hastily escorted the elderly Alpha down the steps and into the rental car, where he squeezed into the roomy backseat between his own men. Vic drove down the quarter-mile driveway and out of sight, and though the thunderbirds launched dramatic—and frankly, scary—dives toward the car, they made no physical contact. Probably because the car would have emerged the clear victor over feather and bone in any kamikaze mission.

Moments after the rumble of the car’s engine faded, the birds came swooping back into sight, then over the house, where they no doubt perched on the roofline, waiting for some foolish cat to come out alone.

But—as badly as we hated being prisoners in our own home—that wasn’t going to happen.

Dinner was miserable, even with my mother’s chili and homemade corn bread muffins. Jace sat across the table from me, staring into his bowl, aimlessly stirring its contents. I wanted to say something to him. To apologize for getting Brett involved, or lend him a tear-proof shoulder. After all, I’d just lost my own brother. But memories of the last time we’d grieved together stood out in my mind like a big, flashing “danger” sign, so I settled for meaningful looks of sympathy every time our gazes met, wishing I knew what to say.

I forced down two bowls of chili to encourage Kaci to eat, though neither of us had any appetite. In spite of a house full of guests, there were several empty chairs, and my gaze was drawn to them over and over as I ate. Marc and Vic wouldn’t be back for several hours. Manx was still tending Owen in his room, and Jake and Charlie were gone for good.

After supper, Kaci went to help with the baby and some of the guys invited me to share a bottle of whiskey and a game of spades. But I was restless and out of patience, so I excused myself and headed to the basement. I couldn’t take any more communal mourning. And the current of rage running beneath our common grief? Riding that was like sitting on a drum of gasoline, holding a lit sparkler. Eventually one of those tiny flames would fall in the right place, and my whole world would explode.

Part of me felt like that had already happened.

“You’re distressed,” Kai said as my left fist slammed into the big punching bag.

“No, I’m pissed off.” I threw another punch, concentrating more on power than on form, and my shoulder ached in protest. I bounced on the balls of my feet, as I’d been taught, both fists held ready, though my broken right arm would not see active duty.

“Does that help?”

“Yes.” But that was a lie. Usually, hitting something put me in an instant good mood, but punching one-handed only made me feel awkward and infuriatingly powerless.

Hopefully our unwelcome guest was suffering similar frustrations. The thunderbird stood with his own broken arm cradled to his bare and still-bloody chest. His good hand—fully human for the moment—clutched a steel bar at the front of the cage, through which he watched me vent my grief, anger, and frustration on the equipment in our homemade gym.

Upstairs, I could hardly breathe without wanting to kill someone, just from inhaling all the tension. But like the office, the basement was practically soundproof, by virtue of being underground. The small, high windows and the door at the top of the stairs were the only weaknesses in the sonic armor, and you’d have to be very close to them to overhear anything clearly. So my solitude would have been nearly complete, if not for the human-form bird studying me as if I were the circus oddity.